"MICAH CLARKE\n\nHIS STATEMENT AS MADE TO HIS THREE GRANDCHILDREN JOSEPH, GERVAS, AND\nREUBEN DURING THE HARD WINTER OF 1734\n\n\nBy Arthur Conan Doyle\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n\nCHAPTER.\n\nI. OF CORNET JOSEPH CLARKE OF THE IRONSIDES.\n\nII. OF MY GOING TO SCHOOL AND OF MY COMING THENCE.\n\nIII. OF TWO FRIENDS OF MY YOUTH.\n\nIV. OF THE STRANGE FISH THAT WE CAUGHT AT SPITHEAD.\n\nV. OF THE MAN WITH THE DROOPING LIDS.\n\nVI. OF THE LETTER THAT CAME FROM THE LOWLANDS.\n\nVII. OF THE HORSEMAN WHO RODE FROM THE WEST.\n\nVIII. OF OUR START FOR THE WARS.\n\nIX. OF A PASSAGE OF ARMS AT THE BLUE BOAR.\n\nX. OF OUR PERILOUS ADVENTURE ON THE PLAIN.\n\nXI. OF THE LONELY MAN AND THE GOLD CHEST.\n\nXII. OF CERTAIN PASSAGES UPON THE MOOR.\n\nXIII. OF SIR GERVAS JEROME, KNIGHT BANNERET OF THE COUNTY OF SURREY.\n\nXIV. OF THE STIFF-LEGGED PARSON AND HIS FLOCK.\n\nXV. OF OUR BRUSH WITH THE KING'S DRAGOONS.\n\nXVI. OF OUR COMING TO TAUNTON.\n\nXVII. OF THE GATHERING IN THE MARKET-SQUARE.\n\nXVIII. OF MASTER STEPHEN TIMEWELL, MAYOR OF TAUNTON.\n\nXIX. OF A BRAWL IN THE NIGHT.\n\nXX. OF THE MUSTER OF THE MEN OF THE WEST.\n\nXXI. OF MY HAND-GRIPS WITH THE BRANDENBURGER.\n\nXXII. OF THE NEWS FROM HAVANT.\n\nXXIII. OF THE SNARE ON THE WESTON ROAD.\n\nXXIV. OF THE WELCOME THAT MET ME AT BADMINTON.\n\nXXV. OF STRANGE DOINGS IN THE BOTELER DUNGEON.\n\nXXVI. OF THE STRIFE IN THE COUNCIL.\n\nXXVII OF THE AFFAIR NEAR KEYNSHAM BRIDGE.\n\nXXVIII OF THE FIGHT IN WELLS CATHEDRAL.\n\nXXIX. OF THE GREAT CRY FROM THE LONELY HOUSE.\n\nXXX OF THE SWORDSMAN WITH THE BROWN JACKET.\n\nXXXI. OF THE MAID OF THE MARSH AND THE BUBBLE WHICH ROSE FROM THE\n          BOG.\n\nXXXII. OF THE ONFALL AT SEDGEMOOR.\n\nXXXIII. OF MY PERILOUS ADVENTURE AT THE MILL.\n\nXXXIV. OF THE COMING OF SOLOMON SPRENT.\n\nXXXV. OF THE DEVIL IN WIG AND GOWN.\n\nXXXVI. OF THE END OF IT ALL.\n\n          APPENDIX\n\n\n\n\n\nChapter I. Of Cornet Joseph Clarke of the Ironsides\n\nIt may be, my dear grandchildren, that at one time or another I\nhave told you nearly all the incidents which have occurred during my\nadventurous life. To your father and to your mother, at least, I know\nthat none of them are unfamiliar. Yet when I consider that time wears\non, and that a grey head is apt to contain a failing memory, I am\nprompted to use these long winter evenings in putting it all before\nyou from the beginning, that you may have it as one clear story in your\nminds, and pass it on as such to those who come after you. For now that\nthe house of Brunswick is firmly established upon the throne and that\npeace prevails in the land, it will become less easy for you every\nyear to understand how men felt when Englishmen were in arms against\nEnglishmen, and when he who should have been the shield and the\nprotector of his subjects had no thought but to force upon them what\nthey most abhorred and detested.\n\nMy story is one which you may well treasure up in your memories, and\ntell again to others, for it is not likely that in this whole county of\nHampshire, or even perhaps in all England, there is another left alive\nwho is so well able to speak from his own knowledge of these events,\nor who has played a more forward part in them. All that I know I shall\nendeavour soberly and in due order to put before you. I shall try to\nmake these dead men quicken into life for your behoof, and to call back\nout of the mists of the past those scenes which were brisk enough in\nthe acting, though they read so dully and so heavily in the pages of the\nworthy men who have set themselves to record them. Perchance my words,\ntoo, might, in the ears of strangers, seem to be but an old man's\ngossip. To you, however, who know that these eyes which are looking at\nyou looked also at the things which I describe, and that this hand has\nstruck in for a good cause, it will, I know, be different. Bear in mind\nas you listen that it was your quarrel as well as our own in which\nwe fought, and that if now you grow up to be free men in a free land,\nprivileged to think or to pray as your consciences shall direct, you may\nthank God that you are reaping the harvest which your fathers sowed in\nblood and suffering when the Stuarts were on the throne.\n\nI was born then in the year 1664, at Havant, which is a flourishing\nvillage a few miles from Portsmouth off the main London road, and there\nit was that I spent the greater part of my youth. It is now as it was\nthen, a pleasant, healthy spot, with a hundred or more brick cottages\nscattered along in a single irregular street, each with its little\ngarden in front, and maybe a fruit tree or two at the back. In the\nmiddle of the village stood the old church with the square tower, and\nthe great sun-dial like a wrinkle upon its grey weather-blotched face.\nOn the outskirts the Presbyterians had their chapel; but when the Act of\nUniformity was passed, their good minister, Master Breckinridge, whose\ndiscourses had often crowded his rude benches while the comfortable pews\nof the church were empty, was cast into gaol, and his flock dispersed.\nAs to the Independents, of whom my father was one, they also were under\nthe ban of the law, but they attended conventicle at Emsworth, whither\nwe would trudge, rain or shine, on every Sabbath morning. These meetings\nwere broken up more than once, but the congregation was composed of such\nharmless folk, so well beloved and respected by their neighbours, that\nthe peace officers came after a time to ignore them, and to let them\nworship in their own fashion. There were Papists, too, amongst us, who\nwere compelled to go as far as Portsmouth for their Mass. Thus, you see,\nsmall as was our village, we were a fair miniature of the whole country,\nfor we had our sects and our factions, which were all the more bitter\nfor being confined in so narrow a compass.\n\nMy father, Joseph Clarke, was better known over the countryside by the\nname of Ironside Joe, for he had served in his youth in the Yaxley\ntroop of Oliver Cromwell's famous regiment of horse, and had preached\nso lustily and fought so stoutly that old Noll himself called him out\nof the ranks after the fight at Dunbar, and raised him to a cornetcy.\nIt chanced, however, that having some little time later fallen into an\nargument with one of his troopers concerning the mystery of the Trinity,\nthe man, who was a half-crazy zealot, smote my father across the face, a\nfavour which he returned by a thrust from his broadsword, which sent his\nadversary to test in person the truth of his beliefs. In most armies\nit would have been conceded that my father was within his rights\nin punishing promptly so rank an act of mutiny, but the soldiers of\nCromwell had so high a notion of their own importance and privileges,\nthat they resented this summary justice upon their companion. A\ncourt-martial sat upon my father, and it is likely that he would have\nbeen offered up as a sacrifice to appease the angry soldiery, had not\nthe Lord Protector interfered, and limited the punishment to dismissal\nfrom the army. Cornet Clarke was accordingly stripped of his buff\ncoat and steel cap, and wandered down to Havant, where he settled into\nbusiness as a leather merchant and tanner, thereby depriving Parliament\nof as trusty a soldier as ever drew blade in its service. Finding\nthat he prospered in trade, he took as wife Mary Shepstone, a young\nChurchwoman, and I, Micah Clarke, was the first pledge of their union.\n\nMy father, as I remember him first, was tall and straight, with a great\nspread of shoulder and a mighty chest. His face was craggy and stern,\nwith large harsh features, shaggy over-hanging brows, high-bridged\nfleshy nose, and a full-lipped mouth which tightened and set when he\nwas angry. His grey eyes were piercing and soldier-like, yet I have seen\nthem lighten up into a kindly and merry twinkle. His voice was the most\ntremendous and awe-inspiring that I have ever listened to. I can well\nbelieve what I have heard, that when he chanted the Hundredth Psalm as\nhe rode down among the blue bonnets at Dunbar, the sound of him rose\nabove the blare of trumpets and the crash of guns, like the deep roll of\na breaking wave. Yet though he possessed every quality which was\nneeded to raise him to distinction as an officer, he had thrown off his\nmilitary habits when he returned to civil life. As he prospered and grew\nrich he might well have worn a sword, but instead he would ever bear a\nsmall copy of the Scriptures bound to his girdle, where other men hung\ntheir weapons. He was sober and measured in his speech, and it was\nseldom, even in the bosom of his own family, that he would speak of the\nscenes which he had taken part in, or of the great men, Fleetwood and\nHarrison, Blake and Ireton, Desborough and Lambert, some of whom had\nbeen simple troopers like himself when the troubles broke out. He was\nfrugal in his eating, backward in drinking, and allowed himself no\npleasures save three pipes a day of Oronooko tobacco, which he kept ever\nin a brown jar by the great wooden chair on the left-hand side of the\nmantelshelf.\n\nYet for all his self-restraint the old leaven would at times begin to\nwork in him, and bring on fits of what his enemies would call fanaticism\nand his friends piety, though it must be confessed that this piety\nwas prone to take a fierce and fiery shape. As I look back, one or two\ninstances of that stand out so hard and clear in my recollection that\nthey might be scenes which I had seen of late in the playhouse, instead\nof memories of my childhood more than threescore years ago, when the\nsecond Charles was on the throne.\n\nThe first of these occurred when I was so young that I can remember\nneither what went before nor what immediately after it. It stuck in my\ninfant mind when other things slipped through it. We were all in the\nhouse one sultry summer evening, when there came a rattle of kettledrums\nand a clatter of hoofs, which brought my mother and my father to the\ndoor, she with me in her arms that I might have the better view. It was\na regiment of horse on their way from Chichester to Portsmouth, with\ncolours flying and band playing, making the bravest show that ever my\nyouthful eyes had rested upon. With what wonder and admiration did I\ngaze at the sleek prancing steeds, the steel morions, the plumed hats\nof the officers, the scarfs and bandoliers. Never, I thought, had such\na gallant company assembled, and I clapped my hands and cried out in my\ndelight. My father smiled gravely, and took me from my mother's arms.\n'Nay, lad,' he said, 'thou art a soldier's son, and should have more\njudgment than to commend such a rabble as this. Canst thou not, child as\nthou art, see that their arms are ill-found, their stirrup-irons rusted,\nand their ranks without order or cohesion? Neither have they thrown out\na troop in advance, as should even in times of peace be done, and their\nrear is straggling from here to Bedhampton. Yea,' he continued, suddenly\nshaking his long arm at the troopers, and calling out to them, 'ye are\ncorn ripe for the sickle and waiting only for the reapers!' Several of\nthem reined up at this sudden out-flame. 'Hit the crop-eared rascal over\nthe pate, Jack!' cried one to another, wheeling his horse round; but\nthere was that in my father's face which caused him to fall back into\nthe ranks again with his purpose unfulfilled. The regiment jingled on\ndown the road, and my mother laid her thin hands upon my father's arm,\nand lulled with her pretty coaxing ways the sleeping devil which had\nstirred within him.\n\nOn another occasion which I can remember, about my seventh or eighth\nyear, his wrath burst out with more dangerous effect. I was playing\nabout him as he worked in the tanning-yard one spring afternoon, when\nin through the open doorway strutted two stately gentlemen, with\ngold facings to their coats and smart cockades at the side of their\nthree-cornered hats. They were, as I afterwards understood, officers of\nthe fleet who were passing through Havant, and seeing us at work in the\nyard, designed to ask us some question as to their route. The younger of\nthe pair accosted my father and began his speech by a great clatter of\nwords which were all High Dutch to me, though I now see that they were a\nstring of such oaths as are common in the mouth of a sailor; though why\nthe very men who are in most danger of appearing before the Almighty\nshould go out of their way to insult Him, hath ever been a mystery to\nme. My father in a rough stern voice bade him speak with more reverence\nof sacred things, on which the pair of them gave tongue together,\nswearing tenfold worse than before, and calling my father a canting\nrogue and a smug-faced Presbytery Jack. What more they might have said I\nknow not, for my father picked up the great roller wherewith he smoothed\nthe leather, and dashing at them he brought it down on the side of one\nof their heads with such a swashing blow, that had it not been for his\nstiff hat the man would never have uttered oath again. As it was, he\ndropped like a log upon the stones of the yard, while his companion\nwhipped out his rapier and made a vicious thrust; but my father, who was\nas active as he was strong, sprung aside, and bringing his cudgel down\nupon the outstretched arm of the officer, cracked it like the stem of\na tobacco-pipe. This affair made no little stir, for it occurred at\nthe time when those arch-liars, Oates, Bedloe, and Carstairs, were\ndisturbing the public mind by their rumours of plots, and a rising of\nsome sort was expected throughout the country. Within a few days all\nHampshire was ringing with an account of the malcontent tanner of\nHavant, who had broken the head and the arm of two of his Majesty's\nservants. An inquiry showed, however, that there was no treasonable\nmeaning in the matter, and the officers having confessed that the first\nwords came from them, the Justices contented themselves with imposing a\nfine upon my father, and binding him over to keep the peace for a period\nof six months.\n\nI tell you these incidents that you may have an idea of the fierce and\nearnest religion which filled not only your own ancestor, but most of\nthose men who were trained in the parliamentary armies. In many ways\nthey were more like those fanatic Saracens, who believe in conversion by\nthe sword, than the followers of a Christian creed. Yet they have this\ngreat merit, that their own lives were for the most part clean and\ncommendable, for they rigidly adhered themselves to those laws which\nthey would gladly have forced at the sword's point upon others. It is\ntrue that among so many there were some whose piety was a shell for\ntheir ambition, and others who practised in secret what they denounced\nin public, but no cause however good is free from such hypocritical\nparasites. That the greater part of the saints, as they termed\nthemselves, were men of sober and God-fearing lives, may be shown by the\nfact that, after the disbanding of the army of the Commonwealth, the old\nsoldiers flocked into trade throughout the country, and made their mark\nwherever they went by their industry and worth. There is many a wealthy\nbusiness house now in England which can trace its rise to the thrift and\nhonesty of some simple pikeman of Ireton or Cromwell.\n\nBut that I may help you to understand the character of your\ngreat-grandfather, I shall give an incident which shows how fervent and\nreal were the emotions which prompted the violent moods which I have\ndescribed. I was about twelve at the time, my brothers Hosea and Ephraim\nwere respectively nine and seven, while little Ruth could scarce have\nbeen more than four. It chanced that a few days before a wandering\npreacher of the Independents had put up at our house, and his religious\nministrations had left my father moody and excitable. One night I had\ngone to bed as usual, and was sound asleep with my two brothers beside\nme, when we were roused and ordered to come downstairs. Huddling on our\nclothes we followed him into the kitchen, where my mother was sitting\npale and scared with Ruth upon her knee.\n\n'Gather round me, my children,' he said, in a deep reverent voice, 'that\nwe may all appear before the throne together. The kingdom of the Lord is\nat hand-oh, be ye ready to receive Him! This very night, my loved ones,\nye shall see Him in His splendour, with the angels and the archangels in\ntheir might and their glory. At the third hour shall He come-that very\nthird hour which is now drawing upon us.'\n\n'Dear Joe,' said my mother, in soothing tones, 'thou art scaring thyself\nand the children to no avail. If the Son of Man be indeed coming, what\nmatters it whether we be abed or afoot?'\n\n'Peace, woman,' he answered sternly; 'has He not said that He will come\nlike a thief in the night, and that it is for us to await Him? Join\nwith me, then, in prayerful outpourings that we may be found as those in\nbridal array. Let us offer up thanks that He has graciously vouchsafed\nto warn us through the words of His servant. Oh, great Lord, look down\nupon this small flock and lead it to the sheep fold! Mix not the\nlittle wheat with the great world of chaff. Oh, merciful Father! look\ngraciously upon my wife, and forgive her the sin of Erastianism, she\nbeing but a woman and little fitted to cast off the bonds of antichrist\nwherein she was born. And these too, my little ones, Micah and Hosea,\nEphraim and Ruth, all named after Thy faithful servants of old, oh let\nthem stand upon Thy right hand this night!' Thus he prayed on in a wild\nrush of burning, pleading words, writhing prostrate upon the floor\nin the vehemence of his supplication, while we, poor trembling mites,\nhuddled round our mother's skirts and gazed with terror at the contorted\nfigure seen by the dim light of the simple oil lamp. On a sudden the\nclang of the new church clock told that the hour had come. My father\nsprang from the floor, and rushing to the casement, stared up with wild\nexpectant eyes at the starry heavens. Whether he conjured up some vision\nin his excited brain, or whether the rush of feeling on finding that his\nexpectations were in vain, was too much for him, it is certain that\nhe threw his long arms upwards, uttered a hoarse scream, and tumbled\nbackwards with foaming lips and twitching limbs upon the ground. For an\nhour or more my poor mother and I did what we could to soothe him, while\nthe children whimpered in a corner, until at last he staggered slowly to\nhis feet, and in brief broken words ordered us to our rooms. From that\ntime I have never heard him allude to the matter, nor did he ever give\nus any reason why he should so confidently have expected the second\ncoming upon that particular night. I have learned since, however,\nthat the preacher who visited us was what was called in those days a\nfifth-monarchy man, and that this particular sect was very liable to\nthese premonitions. I have no doubt that something which he had said had\nput the thought into my father's head, and that the fiery nature of the\nman had done the rest.\n\nSo much for your great-grandfather, Ironside Joe. I have preferred to\nput these passages before you, for on the principle that actions speak\nlouder than words, I find that in describing a man's character it is\nbetter to give examples of his ways than to speak in broad and general\nterms. Had I said that he was fierce in ins religion and subject to\nstrange fits of piety, the words might have made little impression\nupon you; but when I tell you of his attack upon the officers in the\ntanning-yard, and his summoning us down in the dead of the night to\nawait the second coming, you can judge for yourselves the lengths to\nwhich his belief would carry him. For the rest, he was an excellent man\nof business, fair and even generous in his dealings, respected by all\nand loved by few, for his nature was too self-contained to admit of much\naffection. To us he was a stern and rigid father, punishing us heavily\nfor whatever he regarded as amiss in our conduct. He bad a store of such\nproverbs as 'Give a child its will and a whelp its fill, and neither\nwill strive,' or 'Children are certain cares and uncertain comforts,'\nwherewith he would temper my mother's more kindly impulses. He could not\nbear that we should play trick-track upon the green, or dance with the\nother children upon the Saturday night.\n\nAs to my mother, dear soul, it was her calm, peaceful influence which\nkept my father within bounds, and softened his austere rule. Seldom\nindeed, even in his darkest moods, did the touch of her gentle hand and\nthe sound of her voice fail to soothe his fiery spirit. She came of a\nChurch stock, and held to her religion with a quiet grip which was proof\nagainst every attempt to turn her from it. I imagine that at one time\nher husband had argued much with her upon Arminianism and the sin of\nsimony, but finding his exhortations useless, he had abandoned the\nsubject save on very rare occasions. In spite of her Episcopacy,\nhowever, she remained a staunch Whig, and never allowed her loyalty to\nthe throne to cloud her judgment as to the doings of the monarch who sat\nupon it.\n\nWomen were good housekeepers fitly years ago, but she was conspicuous\namong the best. To see her spotless cuffs and snowy kirtle one would\nscarce credit how hard she laboured. It was only the well ordered house\nand the dustless rooms which proclaimed her constant industry. She\nmade salves and eyewaters, powders and confects, cordials and persico,\norangeflower water and cherry brandy, each in its due season, and all of\nthe best. She was wise, too, in herbs and simples. The villagers and the\nfarm labourers would rather any day have her advice upon their ailments\nthan that of Dr. Jackson of Purbrook, who never mixed a draught under\na silver crown. Over the whole countryside there was no woman more\ndeservedly respected and more esteemed both by those above her and by\nthose beneath.\n\nSuch were my parents as I remember them in my childhood. As to myself, I\nshall let my story explain the growth of my own nature. My brothers and\nmy sister were all brownfaced, sturdy little country children, with no\nvery marked traits save a love of mischief controlled by the fear of\ntheir father. These, with Martha the serving-maid, formed our whole\nhousehold during those boyish years when the pliant soul of the child\nis hardening into the settled character of the man. How these influences\naffected me I shall leave for a future sitting, and if I weary you by\nrecording them, you must remember that I am telling these things rather\nfor your profit than for your amusement; that it may assist you in your\njourney through life to know how another has picked out the path before\nyou.\n\n\n\nChapter II. Of my going to school and of my coming thence.\n\n\nWith the home influences which I have described, it may be readily\nimagined that my young mind turned very much upon the subject of\nreligion, the more so as my father and mother took different views upon\nit. The old Puritan soldier held that the bible alone contained all\nthings essential to salvation, and that though it might be advisable\nthat those who were gifted with wisdom or eloquence should expound the\nScriptures to their brethren, it was by no means necessary, but rather\nhurtful and degrading, that any organised body of ministers or of\nbishops should claim special prerogatives, or take the place of\nmediators between the creature and the Creator. For the wealthy\ndignitaries of the Church, rolling in their carriages to their\ncathedrals, in order to preach the doctrines of their Master, who wore\nHis sandals out in tramping over the countryside, he professed the most\nbitter contempt; nor was he more lenient to those poorer members of the\nclergy who winked at the vices of their patrons that they might secure\na seat at their table, and who would sit through a long evening of\nprofanity rather than bid good-bye to the cheesecakes and the wine\nflask. That such men represented religious truth was abhorrent to\nhis mind, nor would he even give his adhesion to that form of church\ngovernment dear to the Presbyterians, where a general council of the\nministers directed the affairs of their church. Every man was, in his\nopinion, equal in the eyes of the Almighty, and none had a right to\nclaim any precedence over his neighbour in matters of religion. The book\nwas written for all, and all were equally able to read it, provided that\ntheir minds were enlightened by the Holy Spirit.\n\nMy mother, on the other hand, held that the very essence of a church\nwas that it should have a hierarchy and a graduated government within\nitself, with the king at the apex, the archbishops beneath him, the\nbishops under their control, and so down through the ministry to the\ncommon folk. Such was, in her opinion, the Church as established in the\nbeginning, and no religion without these characteristics could lay any\nclaim to being the true one. Ritual was to her of as great importance\nas morality, and if every tradesman and farmer were allowed to invent\nprayers, and change the service as the fancy seized him, it would be\nimpossible to preserve the purity of the Christian creed. She agreed\nthat religion was based upon the Bible, but the Bible was a book which\ncontained much that was obscure, and unless that obscurity were\ncleared away by a duly elected and consecrated servant of God, a\nlineal descendant of the Disciples, all human wisdom might not serve to\ninterpret it aright. That was my mother's position, and neither argument\nnor entreaty could move her from it. The only question of belief on\nwhich my two parents were equally ardent was their mutual dislike\nand distrust of the Roman Catholic forms of worship, and in this the\nChurchwoman was every whit as decided as the fanatical Independent.\n\nIt may seem strange to you in these days of tolerance, that the\nadherents of this venerable creed should have met with such universal\nill-will from successive generations of Englishmen. We recognise now\nthat there are no more useful or loyal citizens in the state than our\nCatholic brethren, and Mr. Alexander Pope or any other leading Papist is\nno more looked down upon for his religion than was Mr. William Penn\nfor his Quakerism in the reign of King James. We can scarce credit how\nnoblemen like Lord Stafford, ecclesiastics like Archbishop Plunkett,\nand commoners like Langhorne and Pickering, were dragged to death on\nthe testimony of the vilest of the vile, without a voice being raised in\ntheir behalf; or how it could be considered a patriotic act on the part\nof an English Protestant to carry a flail loaded with lead beneath his\ncloak as a menace against his harmless neighbours who differed from\nhim on points of doctrine. It was a long madness which has now happily\npassed off, or at least shows itself in a milder and rarer form.\n\nFoolish as it appears to us, there were some solid reasons to account\nfor it. You have read doubtless how, a century before I was born, the\ngreat kingdom of Spain waxed and prospered. Her ships covered every\nsea. Her troops were victorious wherever they appeared. In letters, in\nlearning, in all the arts of war and peace they were the foremost nation\nin Europe. You have heard also of the ill-blood which existed between\nthis great nation and ourselves; how our adventurers harried their\npossessions across the Atlantic, while they retorted by burning such\nof our seamen as they could catch by their devilish Inquisition, and by\nthreatening our coasts both from Cadiz and from their provinces in the\nNetherlands. At last so hot became the quarrel that the other nations\nstood off, as I have seen the folk clear a space for the sword-players\nat Hockley-in-the-Hole, so that the Spanish giant and tough little\nEngland were left face to face to fight the matter out. Throughout all\nthat business it was as the emissary of the Pope, and as the avenger of\nthe dishonoured Roman Church, that King Philip professed to come. It\nis true that Lord Howard and many another gentleman of the old religion\nfought stoutly against the Dons, but the people could never forget that\nthe reformed faith had been the flag under which they had conquered, and\nthat the blessing of the Pontiff had rested with their opponents. Then\ncame the cruel and foolish attempt of Mary to force upon them a creed\nfor which they had no sympathy, and at the heels of it another great\nRoman Catholic power menaced our liberty from the Continent. The growing\nstrength of France promoted a corresponding distrust of Papistry in\nEngland, which reached a head when, at about the time of which I write,\nLouis XIV. threatened us with invasion at the very moment when, by\nthe revocation of the Edict of Nantes, he showed his intolerant spirit\ntowards the faith which we held dear. The narrow Protestantism of\nEngland was less a religious sentiment than a patriotic reply to\nthe aggressive bigotry of her enemies. Our Catholic countrymen were\nunpopular, not so much because they believed in Transubstantiation, as\nbecause they were unjustly suspected of sympathising with the Emperor or\nwith the King of France. Now that our military successes have secured us\nagainst all fear of attack, we have happily lost that bitter religious\nhatred but for which Oates and Dangerfield would have lied in vain.\n\nIn the days when I was young, special causes had inflamed this dislike\nand made it all the more bitter because there was a spice of fear\nmingled with it. As long as the Catholics were only an obscure faction\nthey might be ignored, but when, towards the close of the reign of the\nsecond Charles, it appeared to be absolutely certain that a Catholic\ndynasty was about to fill the throne, and that Catholicism was to be the\ncourt religion and the stepping-stone to preferment, it was felt that\na day of vengeance might be at hand for those who had trampled upon\nit when it was defenceless. There was alarm and uneasiness amongst all\nclasses. The Church of England, which depends upon the monarch as an\narch depends upon the keystone; the nobility, whose estates and coffers\nhad been enriched by the plunder of the abbeys; the mob, whose ideas of\nPapistry were mixed up with thumbscrews and Fox's Martyrology, were all\nequally disturbed. Nor was the prospect a hopeful one for their cause.\nCharles was a very lukewarm Protestant, and indeed showed upon his\ndeathbed that he was no Protestant at all. There was no longer any\nchance of his having legitimate offspring. The Duke of York, his younger\nbrother, was therefore heir to the throne, and he was known to be an\naustere and narrow Papist, while his spouse, Mary of Modena, was\nas bigoted as himself. Should they have children, there could be\nno question but that they would be brought up in the faith of their\nparents, and that a line of Catholic monarchs would occupy the throne\nof England. To the Church, as represented by my mother, and to\nNonconformity, in the person of my father, this was an equally\nintolerable prospect.\n\nI have been telling you all this old history because you will find, as\nI go on, that this state of things caused in the end such a seething and\nfermenting throughout the nation that even I, a simple village lad, was\ndragged into the whirl and had my whole life influenced by it. If I did\nnot make the course of events clear to you, you would hardly understand\nthe influences which had such an effect upon my whole history. In the\nmeantime, I wish you to remember that when King James II. ascended the\nthrone he did so amid a sullen silence on the part of a large class of\nhis subjects, and that both my father and my mother were among those who\nwere zealous for a Protestant succession.\n\nMy childhood was, as I have already said, a gloomy one. Now and again\nwhen there chanced to be a fair at Portsdown Hill, or when a passing\nraree showman set up his booth in the village, my dear mother would\nslip a penny or two from her housekeeping money into my hand, and with\na warning finger upon her lip would send me off to see the sights. These\ntreats were, however, rare events, and made such a mark upon my mind,\nthat when I was sixteen years of age I could have checked off upon my\nfingers all that I had ever seen. There was William Harker the strong\nman, who lifted Farmer Alcott's roan mare; and there was Tubby Lawson\nthe dwarf, who could fit himself into a pickle jar--these two I well\nremember from the wonder wherewith they struck my youthful soul. Then\nthere was the show of the playing dolls, and that of the enchanted\nisland and Mynheer Munster from the Lowlands, who could turn himself\nround upon a tight-rope while playing most sweetly upon a virginal.\nLast, but far the best in my estimation, was the grand play at the\nPortsdown Fair, entitled 'The true and ancient story of Maudlin, the\nmerchant's daughter of Bristol, and of her lover Antonio. How they were\ncast away on the shores of Barbary, where the mermaids are seen floating\nupon the sea and singing in the rocks, foretelling their danger.' This\nlittle piece gave me keener pleasure than ever in after years I received\nfrom the grandest comedies of Mr. Congreve and of Mr. Dryden, though\nacted by Kynaston, Betterton, and the whole strength of the King's own\ncompany. At Chichester once I remember that I paid a penny to see the\nleft shoe of the youngest sister of Potiphar's wife, but as it looked\nmuch like any other old shoe, and was just about the size to have fitted\nthe show-woman, I have often feared that my penny fell into the hands of\nrogues.\n\nThere were other shows, however, which I might see for nothing, and yet\nwere more real and every whit as interesting as any for which I\npaid. Now and again upon a holiday I was permitted to walk down to\nPortsmouth--once I was even taken in front of my father upon his pad\nnag, and there I wandered with him through the streets with wondering\neyes, marvelling over the strange sights around me. The walls and the\nmoats, the gates and the sentinels, the long High Street with the great\ngovernment buildings, and the constant rattle of drums and blare of\ntrumpets; they made my little heart beat quicker beneath my sagathy\nstuff jacket. Here was the house in which some thirty years before the\nproud Duke of Buckingham had been struck down by the assassin's dagger.\nThere, too, was the Governor's dwelling, and I remember that even as I\nlooked he came riding up to it, red-faced and choleric, with a nose such\nas a Governor should have, and his breast all slashed with gold. 'Is he\nnot a fine man?' I said, looking up at my father. He laughed and drew\nhis hat down over his brows. 'It is the first time that I have seen Sir\nRalph Lingard's face,' said he, 'but I saw his back at Preston fight.\nAh, lad, proud as he looks, if he did but see old Noll coming in through\nthe door he would not think it beneath him to climb out through the\nwindow!' The clank of steel or the sight of a buff-coat would always\nserve to stir up the old Roundhead bitterness in my father's breast.\n\nBut there were other sights in Portsmouth besides the red-coats and\ntheir Governor. The yard was the second in the kingdom, after Chatham,\nand there was ever some new war-ship ready upon the slips. Then there\nwas a squadron of King's ships, and sometimes the whole fleet at\nSpithead, when the streets would be full of sailors, with their faces as\nbrown as mahogany and pigtails as stiff and hard as their cutlasses. To\nwatch their rolling gait, and to hear their strange, quaint talk,\nand their tales of the Dutch wars, was a rare treat to me; and I have\nsometimes when I was alone fastened myself on to a group of them, and\npassed the day in wandering from tavern to tavern. It chanced one day,\nhowever, that one of them insisted upon my sharing his glass of Canary\nwine, and afterwards out of roguishness persuaded me to take a second,\nwith the result that I was sent home speechless in the carrier's cart,\nand was never again allowed to go into Portsmouth alone. My father was\nless shocked at the incident than I should have expected, and reminded\nmy mother that Noah had been overtaken in a similar manner. He also\nnarrated how a certain field-chaplain Grant, of Desborough's regiment,\nhaving after a hot and dusty day drunk sundry flagons of mum, had\nthereafter sung certain ungodly songs, and danced in a manner unbecoming\nto his sacred profession. Also, how he had afterwards explained that\nsuch backslidings were not to be regarded us faults of the individual,\nbut rather as actual obsessions of the evil one, who contrived in this\nmanner to give scandal to the faithful, and selected the most godly for\nhis evil purpose. This ingenious defence of the field-chaplain was the\nsaving of my back, for my father, who was a believer in Solomon's axiom,\nhad a stout ash stick and a strong arm for whatever seemed to him to be\na falling away from the true path.\n\nFrom the day that I first learned my letters from the horn-book at my\nmother's knee I was always hungry to increase my knowledge, and never a\npiece of print came in my way that I did not eagerly master. My father\npushed the sectarian hatred of learning to such a length that he was\naverse to having any worldly books within his doors. (Note A, Appendix)\nI was dependent therefore for my supply upon one or two of my friends in\nthe village, who lent me a volume at a time from their small libraries.\nThese I would carry inside my shirt, and would only dare to produce when\nI could slip away into the fields, and lie hid among the long grass, or\nat night when the rushlight was still burning, and my father's snoring\nassured me that there was no danger of his detecting me. In this way\nI worked up from Don Bellianis of Greece and the 'Seven Champions,'\nthrough Tarleton's 'Jests' and other such books, until I could take\npleasure in the poetry of Waller and of Herrick, or in the plays of\nMassinger and Shakespeare. How sweet were the hours when I could lay\naside all thought of freewill and of predestination, to lie with my\nheels in the air among the scented clover, and listen to old Chaucer\ntelling the sweet story of Grisel the patient, or to weep for the chaste\nDesdemona, and mourn over the untimely end of her gallant spouse. There\nwere times as I rose up with my mind full of the noble poetry, and\nglanced over the fair slope of the countryside, with the gleaming sea\nbeyond it, and the purple outline of the Isle of Wight upon the horizon;\nwhen it would be borne in upon me that the Being who created all this,\nand who gave man the power of pouring out these beautiful thoughts, was\nnot the possession of one sect or another, or of this nation or that,\nbut was the kindly Father of every one of the little children whom\nHe had let loose on this fair playground. It grieved me then, and it\ngrieves me now, that a man of such sincerity and lofty purpose as your\ngreat grandfather should have been so tied down by iron doctrines, and\nshould imagine his Creator to be so niggard of His mercy as to withhold\nit from nine-and-ninety in the hundred. Well, a man is as he is trained,\nand if my father bore a narrow mind upon his broad shoulders, he has at\nleast the credit that he was ready to do and to suffer all things\nfor what he conceived to be the truth. If you, my dears, have more\nenlightened views, take heed that they bring you to lead a more\nenlightened life.\n\nWhen I was fourteen years of age, a yellow-haired, brown-faced lad, I\nwas packed off to a small private school at Petersfield, and there I\nremained for a year, returning home for the last Saturday in each month.\nI took with me only a scanty outfit of schoolbooks, with Lilly's 'Latin\nGrammar,' and Rosse's 'View of all the Religions in the World from the\nCreation down to our own Times,' which was shoved into my hands by my\ngood mother as a parting present. With this small stock of letters I\nmight have fared badly, had it not happened that my master, Mr. Thomas\nChillingfoot, had himself a good library, and took a pleasure in\nlending his books to any of his scholars who showed a desire to improve\nthemselves. Under this good old man's care I not only picked up some\nsmattering of Latin and Greek, but I found means to read good English\ntranslations of many of the classics, and to acquire a knowledge of the\nhistory of my own and other countries. I was rapidly growing in mind as\nwell as in body, when my school career was cut short by no less an event\nthan my summary and ignominious expulsion. How this unlooked-for ending\nto my studies came about I must now set before you.\n\nPetersfield had always been a great stronghold of the Church, having\nhardly a Nonconformist within its bounds. The reason of this was that\nmost of the house property was owned by zealous Churchmen, who refused\nto allow any one who differed from the Established Church to settle\nthere. The Vicar, whose name was Pinfold, possessed in this manner great\npower in the town, and as he was a man with a high inflamed countenance\nand a pompous manner, he inspired no little awe among the quiet\ninhabitants. I can see him now with his beaked nose, his rounded\nwaistcoat, and his bandy legs, which looked as if they had given way\nbeneath the load of learning which they were compelled to carry. Walking\nslowly with right hand stiffly extended, tapping the pavement at every\nstep with his metal-headed stick, he would pause as each person passed\nhim, and wait to see that he was given the salute which he thought due\nto his dignity. This courtesy he never dreamed of returning, save in\nthe case of some of his richer parishioners; but if by chance it were\nomitted, he would hurry after the culprit, and, shaking his stick in his\nface, insist upon his doffing his cap to him. We youngsters, if we met\nhim on our walks, would scuttle by him like a brood of chickens passing\nan old turkey cock, and even our worthy master showed a disposition to\nturn down a side-street when the portly figure of the Vicar was seen\nrolling in our direction. This proud priest made a point of knowing the\nhistory of every one within his parish, and having learnt that I was the\nson of an Independent, he spoke severely to Mr. Chillingfoot upon the\nindiscretion which he had shown in admitting me to his school. Indeed,\nnothing but my mother's good name for orthodoxy prevented him from\ninsisting upon my dismissal.\n\nAt the other end of the village there was a large day-school. A constant\nfeud prevailed between the scholars who attended it and the lads who\nstudied under our master. No one could tell how the war broke out, but\nfor many years there had been a standing quarrel between the two, which\nresulted in skirmishes, sallies, and ambuscades, with now and then a\npitched battle. No great harm was done in these encounters, for the\nweapons were usually snowballs in winter and pine-cones or clods of\nearth in the summer. Even when the contest got closer and we came to\nfisticuffs, a few bruises and a little blood was the worst that could\ncome of it. Our opponents were more numerous than we, but we had the\nadvantage of being always together and of having a secure asylum upon\nwhich to retreat, while they, living in scattered houses all over the\nparish, had no common rallying-point. A stream, crossed by two bridges,\nran through the centre of the town, and this was the boundary which\nseparated our territories from those of our enemies. The boy who crossed\nthe bridge found himself in hostile country.\n\nIt chanced that in the first conflict which occurred after my arrival at\nthe school I distinguished myself by singling out the most redoubtable\nof our foemen, and smiting him such a blow that he was knocked helpless\nand was carried off by our party as a prisoner. This feat of arms\nestablished my good name as a warrior, so I came at last to be regarded\nas the leader of our forces, and to be looked up to by bigger boys than\nmyself. This promotion tickled my fancy so much, that I set to work to\nprove that I deserved it by devising fresh and ingenious schemes for the\ndefeat of our enemies.\n\nOne winter's evening news reached us that our rivals were about to make\na raid upon us under cover of night, and that they proposed coming by\nthe little used plank bridge, so as to escape our notice. This bridge\nlay almost out of the town, and consisted of a single broad piece of\nwood without a rail, erected for the good of the town clerk, who lived,\njust opposite to it. We proposed to hide ourselves amongst the bushes on\nour side of the stream, and make an unexpected attack upon the invaders\nas they crossed. As we started, however, I bethought me of an ingenious\nstratagem which I had read of as being practised in the German wars, and\nhaving expounded it to the great delight of my companions, we took Mr.\nChillingfoot's saw, and set off for the seat of action.\n\nOn reaching the bridge all was quiet and still. It was quite dark and\nvery cold, for Christmas was approaching. There were no signs of our\nopponents. We exchanged a few whispers as to who should do the daring\ndeed, but as the others shrank from it, and as I was too proud to\npropose what I dare not execute, I gripped the saw, and sitting\nastraddle upon the plank set to work upon the very centre of it.\n\nMy purpose was to weaken it in such a way that, though it would bear the\nweight of one, it would collapse when the main body of our foemen were\nupon it, and so precipitate them into the ice-cold stream. The water was\nbut a couple of feet deep at the place, so that there was nothing for\nthem but a fright and a ducking. So cool a reception ought to deter\nthem from ever invading us again, and confirm my reputation as a daring\nleader. Reuben Lockarby, my lieutenant, son of old John Lockarby of the\nWheatsheaf, marshalled our forces behind the hedgerow, whilst I sawed\nvigorously at the plank until I had nearly severed it across. I had no\ncompunction about the destruction of the bridge, for I knew enough of\ncarpentry to see that a skilful joiner could in an hour's work make\nit stronger than ever by putting a prop beneath the point where I had\ndivided it. When at last I felt by the yielding of the plank that I had\ndone enough, and that the least strain would snap it, I crawled quietly\noff, and taking up my position with my schoolfellows, awaited the coming\nof the enemy.\n\nI had scarce concealed myself when we heard the steps of some one\napproaching down the footpath which led to the bridge. We crouched\nbehind the cover, convinced that the sound must come from some scout\nwhom our foemen had sent on in front--a big boy evidently, for his step\nwas heavy and slow, with a clinking noise mingling with it, of which we\ncould make nothing. Nearer came the sound and nearer, until a shadowy\nfigure loomed out of the darkness upon the other side, and after pausing\nand peering for a moment, came straight for the bridge. It was only as\nhe was setting foot upon the plank and beginning gingerly to pick his\nway across it, that we discerned the outlines of the familiar form, and\nrealised the dreadful truth that the stranger whom we had taken for the\nadvance guard of our enemy was in truth none other than Vicar Pinfold,\nand that it was the rhythmic pat of his stick which we heard mingling\nwith his footfalls. Fascinated by the sight, we lay bereft of all power\nto warn him--a line of staring eyeballs. One step, two steps, three\nsteps did the haughty Churchman take, when there was a rending crack,\nand he vanished with a mighty splash into the swift-flowing stream. He\nmust have fallen upon his back, for we could see the curved outline\nof his portly figure standing out above the surface as he struggled\ndesperately to regain his feet. At last he managed to get erect, and\ncame spluttering for the bank with such a mixture of godly ejaculations\nand of profane oaths that, even in our terror, we could not keep from\nlaughter. Rising from under his feet like a covey of wild-fowl, we\nscurried off across the fields and so back to the school, where, as you\nmay imagine, we said nothing to our good master of what had occurred.\n\nThe matter was too serious, however, to be hushed up. The sudden chill\nset up some manner of disturbance in the bottle of sack which the Vicar\nhad just been drinking with the town clerk, and an attack of gout set in\nwhich laid him on his back for a fortnight. Meanwhile an examination of\nthe bridge had shown that it had been sawn across, and an inquiry traced\nthe matter to Mr. Chillingfoot's boarders. To save a wholesale expulsion\nof the school from the town, I was forced to acknowledge myself as both\nthe inventor and perpetrator of the deed. Chillingfoot was entirely in\nthe power of the Vicar, so he was forced to read me a long homily\nin public--which he balanced by an affectionate leave-taking in\nprivate--and to expel me solemnly from the school. I never saw my old\nmaster again, for he died not many years afterwards; but I hear that his\nsecond son William is still carrying on the business, which is larger\nand more prosperous than of old. His eldest son turned Quaker and went\nout to Penn's settlement, where he is reported to have been slain by the\nsavages.\n\nThis adventure shocked my dear mother, but it found great favour in the\neyes of my father, who laughed until the whole village resounded\nwith his stentorian merriment. It reminded him, he said, of a similar\nstratagem executed at Market Drayton by that God-fearing soldier Colonel\nPride, whereby a captain and three troopers of Lunsford's own regiment\nof horse had been drowned, and many others precipitated into a river, to\nthe great glory of the true Church and to the satisfaction of the\nchosen people. Even of the Church folk many were secretly glad at the\nmisfortune which had overtaken the Vicar, for his pretensions and his\npride had made him hated throughout the district.\n\nBy this time I had grown into a sturdy, broad-shouldered lad, and every\nmonth added to my strength and my stature. When I was sixteen I could\ncarry a bag of wheat or a cask of beer against any man in the village,\nand I could throw the fifteen-pound putting-stone to a distance of\nthirty-six feet, which was four feet further than could Ted Dawson, the\nblacksmith. Once when my father was unable to carry a bale of skins out\nof the yard, I whipped it up and bare it away upon my shoulders. The\nold man would often look gravely at me from under his heavy thatched\neyebrows, and shake his grizzled head as he sat in his arm-chair puffing\nhis pipe. 'You grow too big for the nest, lad,' he would say. 'I doubt\nsome of these days you'll find your wings and away!' In my heart I\nlonged that the time would come, for I was weary of the quiet life of\nthe village, and was anxious to see the great world of which I had heard\nand read so much. I could not look southward without my spirit stirring\nwithin me as my eyes fell upon those dark waves, the white crests of\nwhich are like a fluttering signal ever waving to an English youth and\nbeckoning him to some unknown but glorious goal.\n\n\n\nChapter III. Of Two Friends of my Youth\n\n\nI fear, my children, that you will think that the prologue is over long\nfor the play; but the foundations must be laid before the building is\nerected, and a statement of this sort is a sorry and a barren thing\nunless you have a knowledge of the folk concerned. Be patient, then,\nwhile I speak to you of the old friends of my youth, some of whom you\nmay hear more of hereafter, while others remained behind in the country\nhamlet, and yet left traces of our early intercourse upon my character\nwhich might still be discerned there.\n\nForemost for good amongst all whom I knew was Zachary Palmer, the\nvillage carpenter, a man whose aged and labour-warped body contained the\nsimplest and purest of spirits. Yet his simplicity was by no means the\nresult of ignorance, for from the teachings of Plato to those of Hobbes\nthere were few systems ever thought out by man which he had not studied\nand weighed. Books were far dearer in my boyhood than they are now,\nand carpenters were less well paid, but old Palmer had neither wife nor\nchild, and spent little on food or raiment. Thus it came about that on\nthe shelf over his bed he had a more choice collection of books--few as\nthey were in number--than the squire or the parson, and these books he\nhad read until he not only understood them himself, but could impart\nthem to others.\n\nThis white-bearded and venerable village philosopher would sit by his\ncabin door upon a summer evening, and was never so pleased as when\nsome of the young fellows would slip away from their bowls and their\nquoit-playing in order to lie in the grass at his feet, and ask him\nquestions about the great men of old, their words and their deeds. But\nof all the youths I and Reuben Lockarby, the innkeeper's son, were his\ntwo favourites, for we would come the earliest and stop the latest to\nhear the old man talk. No father could have loved his children better\nthan he did us, and he would spare no pains to get at our callow\nthoughts, and to throw light upon whatever perplexed or troubled us.\nLike all growing things, we had run our heads against the problem of\nthe universe. We had peeped and pryed with our boyish eyes into those\nprofound depths in which the keenest-sighted of the human race had seen\nno bottom. Yet when we looked around us in our own village world, and\nsaw the bitterness and rancour which pervaded every sect, we could not\nbut think that a tree which bore such fruit must have something amiss\nwith it. This was one of the thoughts unspoken to our parents which\nwe carried to good old Zachary, and on which he had much to say which\ncheered and comforted us.\n\n'These janglings and wranglings,' said he, 'are but on the surface,\nand spring from the infinite variety of the human mind, which will ever\nadapt a creed to suit its own turn of thought. It is the solid core that\nunderlies every Christian creed which is of importance. Could you\nbut live among the Romans or the Greeks, in the days before this new\ndoctrine was preached, you would then know the change that it has\nwrought in the world. How this or that text should be construed is a\nmatter of no moment, however warm men may get over it. What is of the\nvery greatest moment is, that every man should have a good and solid\nreason for living a simple, cleanly life. This the Christian creed has\ngiven us.'\n\n'I would not have you be virtuous out of fear,' he said upon another\noccasion. 'The experience of a long life has taught me, however, that\nsin is always punished in this world, whatever may come in the next.\nThere is always some penalty in health, in comfort, or in peace of\nmind to be paid for every wrong. It is with nations as it is with\nindividuals. A book of history is a book of sermons. See how the\nluxurious Babylonians were destroyed by the frugal Persians, and how\nthese same Persians when they learned the vices of prosperity were put\nto the sword by the Greeks. Read on and mark how the sensual Greeks were\ntrodden down by the more robust and hardier Romans, and finally how the\nRomans, having lost their manly virtues, were subdued by the nations\nof the north. Vice and destruction came ever hand in hand. Thus did\nProvidence use each in turn as a scourge wherewith to chastise the\nfollies of the other. These things do not come by chance. They are part\nof a great system which is at work in your own lives. The longer you\nlive the more you will see that sin and sadness are never far apart, and\nthat no true prosperity can exist away from virtue.'\n\nA very different teacher was the sea-dog Solomon Sprent, who lived in\nthe second last cottage on the left-hand side of the main street of the\nvillage. He was one of the old tarpaulin breed, who had fought under\nthe red cross ensign against Frenchman, Don, Dutchman, and Moor, until a\nround shot carried off his foot and put an end to his battles for ever.\nIn person he was thin, and hard, and brown, as lithe and active as a\ncat, with a short body and very long arms, each ending in a great hand\nwhich was ever half closed as though shutting on a rope. From head to\nfoot he was covered with the most marvellous tattooings, done in blue,\nred, and green, beginning with the Creation upon his neck and winding up\nwith the Ascension upon his left ankle. Never have I seen such a walking\nwork of art. He was wont to say that had he been owned and his body cast\nup upon some savage land, the natives might have learned the whole of\nthe blessed gospel from a contemplation of his carcass. Yet with sorrow\nI must say that the seaman's religion appeared to have all worked into\nhis skin, so that very little was left for inner use. It had broken out\nupon the surface, like the spotted fever, but his system was clear of\nit elsewhere. He could swear in eleven languages and three-and-twenty\ndialects, nor did he ever let his great powers rust for want of\npractice. He would swear when he was happy or when he was sad, when he\nwas angry or when he was loving, but this swearing was so mere a trick\nof speech, without malice or bitterness, that even my father could\nhardly deal harshly with the sinner. As time passed, however, the old\nman grew more sober and more thoughtful, until in his latter days he\nwent back to the simple beliefs of his childhood, and learned to fight\nthe devil with the same steady courage with which he had faced the\nenemies of his country.\n\nOld Solomon was a never-failing source of amusement and of interest to\nmy friend Lockarby and myself. On gala days he would have us in to dine\nwith him, when he would regale us with lobscouse and salmagundi, or\nperhaps with an outland dish, a pillaw or olla podrida, or fish broiled\nafter the fashion of the Azores, for he had a famous trick of cooking,\nand could produce the delicacies of all nations. And all the time that\nwe were with him he would tell us the most marvellous stories of Rupert,\nunder whom he served; how he would shout from the poop to his squadron\nto wheel to the right, or to charge, or to halt, as the case might be,\nas if he were still with his regiment of horse. Of Blake, too, he had\nmany stories to tell. But even the name of Blake was not so dear to our\nold sailor as was that of Sir Christopher Mings. Solomon had at one time\nbeen his coxswain, and could talk by the hour of those gallant deeds\nwhich had distinguished him from the day that he entered the navy as a\ncabin boy until he fell upon his own quarter-deck, a full admiral of the\nred, and was borne by his weeping ship's company to his grave in Chatham\nchurchyard. 'If so be as there's a jasper sea up aloft,' said the old\nseaman, 'I'll wager that Sir Christopher will see that the English flag\nhas proper respect paid to it upon it, and that we are not fooled by\nforeigners. I've served under him in this world, and I ask nothing\nbetter than to be his coxswain in the next--if so be as he should chance\nto have a vacancy for such.' These remembrances would always end in the\nbrewing of an extra bowl of punch, and the drinking of a solemn bumper\nto the memory of the departed hero.\n\nStirring as were Solomon Sprent's accounts of his old commanders, their\neffect upon us was not so great as when, about his second or third\nglass, the floodgates of his memory would be opened, and he would pour\nout long tales of the lands which he had visited, and the peoples which\nhe had seen. Leaning forward in our seats with our chins resting upon\nour hands, we two youngsters would sit for hours, with our eyes fixed\nupon the old adventurer, drinking in his words, while he, pleased at the\ninterest which he excited, would puff slowly at his pipe and reel off\nstory after story of what he had seen or done. In those days, my dears,\nthere was no Defoe to tell us the wonders of the world, no _Spectator_\nto lie upon our breakfast table, no Gulliver to satisfy our love of\nadventure by telling us of such adventures as never were. Not once in\na month did a common newsletter fall into our hands. Personal hazards,\ntherefore, were of more value then than they are now, and the talk of a\nman like old Solomon was a library in itself. To us it was all real. His\nhusky tones and ill-chosen words were as the voice of an angel, and our\neager minds filled in the details and supplied all that was wanting in\nhis narratives. In one evening we have engaged a Sallee rover off the\nPillars of Hercules; we have coasted down the shores of the African\ncontinent, and seen the great breakers of the Spanish Main foaming upon\nthe yellow sand; we have passed the black ivory merchants with their\nhuman cargoes; we have faced the terrible storms which blow ever around\nthe Cape de Boa Esperanza; and finally, we have sailed away out over the\ngreat ocean beyond, amid the palm-clad coral islands, with the knowledge\nthat the realms of Prester John lie somewhere behind the golden haze\nwhich shimmers upon the horizon. After such a flight as that we would\nfeel, as we came back to the Hampshire village and the dull realities\nof country life, like wild birds who had been snared by the fowler and\nclapped into narrow cages. Then it was that the words of my father, 'You\nwill find your wings some day and fly away,' would come back to me, and\nset up such a restlessness as all the wise words of Zachary Palmer could\nnot allay.\n\n\nChapter IV. Of the Strange Fish that we Caught at Spithead\n\nOne evening in the month of May 1685, about the end of the first week\nof the month, my friend Reuben Lockarby and I borrowed Ned Marley's\npleasure boat, and went a-fishing out of Langston Bay. At that time I\nwas close on one-and-twenty years of age, while my companion was one\nyear younger. A great intimacy had sprung up between us, founded on\nmutual esteem, for he being a little undergrown man was proud of my\nstrength and stature, while my melancholy and somewhat heavy spirit took\na pleasure in the energy and joviality which never deserted him, and\nin the wit which gleamed as bright and as innocent as summer lightning\nthrough all that he said. In person he was short and broad, round-faced,\nruddy-cheeked, and in truth a little inclined to be fat, though he would\nnever confess to more than a pleasing plumpness, which was held, he\nsaid, to be the acme of manly beauty amongst the ancients. The stern\ntest of common danger and mutual hardship entitle me to say that no\nman could have desired a stauncher or more trusty comrade. As he was\ndestined to be with me in the sequel, it was but fitting that he should\nhave been at my side on that May evening which was the starting-point of\nour adventures.\n\nWe pulled out beyond the Warner Sands to a place half-way between them\nand the Nab, where we usually found bass in plenty. There we cast the\nheavy stone which served us as an anchor overboard, and proceeded to\nset our lines. The sun sinking slowly behind a fog-bank had slashed the\nwhole western sky with scarlet streaks, against which the wooded slopes\nof the Isle of Wight stood out vaporous and purple. A fresh breeze was\nblowing from the south-east, flecking the long green waves with crests\nof foam, and filling our eyes and lips with the smack of the salt spray.\nOver near St. Helen's Point a King's ship was making her way down the\nchannel, while a single large brig was tacking about a quarter of a mile\nor less from where we lay. So near were we that we could catch a glimpse\nof the figures upon her deck as she heeled over to the breeze, and could\nbear the creaking of her yards and the flapping of her weather-stained\ncanvas as she prepared to go about.\n\n'Look ye, Micah,' said my companion, looking up from his fishing-line.\n'That is a most weak-minded ship--a ship which will make no way in the\nworld. See how she hangs in the wind, neither keeping on her course nor\ntacking. She is a trimmer of the seas--the Lord Halifax of the ocean.'\n\n'Why, there is something amiss with her,' I replied, staring across with\nhand-shaded eyes. 'She yaws about as though there were no one at the\nhelm. Her main-yard goes aback! Now it is forward again! The folk on her\ndeck seem to me to be either fighting or dancing. Up with the anchor,\nReuben, and let us pull to her.'\n\n'Up with the anchor and let us get out of her way,' he answered, still\ngazing at the stranger. 'Why will you ever run that meddlesome head of\nyours into danger's way? She flies Dutch colours, but who can say whence\nshe really comes? A pretty thing if we were snapped up by a buccaneer\nand sold in the Plantations!'\n\n'A buccaneer in the Solent!' cried I derisively. 'We shall be seeing the\nblack flag in Emsworth Creek next. But hark! What is that?'\n\nThe crack of a musket sounded from aboard the brig. Then came a moment's\nsilence and another musket shot rang out, followed by a chorus of shouts\nand cries. Simultaneously the yards swung round into position, the sails\ncaught the breeze once more, and the vessel darted away on a course\nwhich would take her past Bembridge Point out to the English Channel. As\nshe flew along her helm was put hard down, a puff of smoke shot out\nfrom her quarter, and a cannon ball came hopping and splashing over\nthe waves, passing within a hundred yards of where we lay. With this\nfarewell greeting she came up into the wind again and continued her\ncourse to the southward.\n\n'Heart o' grace!' ejaculated Reuben in loose lipped astonishment. 'The\nmurdering villains!'\n\n'I would to the Lord that King's ship would snap them up!' cried I\nsavagely, for the attack was so unprovoked that it stirred my bile.\n'What could the rogues have meant? They are surely drunk or mad!'\n\n'Pull at the anchor, man, pull at the anchor!' my companion shouted,\nspringing up from the seat. 'I understand it! Pull at the anchor!'\n\n'What then?' I asked, helping him to haul the great stone up, hand over\nhand, until it came dripping over the side.\n\n'They were not firing at us, lad. They were aiming at some one in the\nwater between us and them. Pull, Micah! Put your back into it! Some poor\nfellow may he drowning.'\n\n'Why, I declare!' said I, looking over my shoulder as I rowed, 'there\nis his head upon the crest of a wave. Easy, or we shall be over him! Two\nmore strokes and be ready to seize him! Keep up, friend! There's help at\nhand!'\n\n'Take help to those who need help' said a voice out of the sea. 'Zounds,\nman, keep a guard on your oar! I fear a pat from it very much more than\nI do the water.'\n\nThese words were delivered in so calm and self-possessed a tone that all\nconcern for the swimmer was set at rest. Drawing in our oars we faced\nround to have a look at him. The drift of the boat had brought us so\nclose that he could have grasped the gunwale had he been so minded.\n\n'Sapperment!' he cried in a peevish voice; 'to think of my brother Nonus\nserving me such a trick! What would our blessed mother have said could\nshe have seen it? My whole kit gone, to say nothing of my venture in\nthe voyage! And now I have kicked off a pair of new jack boots that\ncost sixteen rix-dollars at Vanseddar's at Amsterdam. I can't swim in\njack-boots, nor can I walk without them.'\n\n'Won't you come in out of the wet, sir?' asked Reuben, who could scarce\nkeep serious at the stranger's appearance and address. A pair of long\narms shot out of the water, and in a moment, with a lithe, snake-like\nmotion, the man wound himself into the boat and coiled his great length\nupon the stern-sheets. Very lanky he was and very thin, with a craggy\nhard face, clean-shaven and sunburned, with a thousand little wrinkles\nintersecting it in every direction. He had lost his hat, and his short\nwiry hair, slightly flecked with grey, stood up in a bristle all over\nhis head. It was hard to guess at his age, but he could scarce have been\nunder his fiftieth year, though the ease with which he had boarded our\nboat proved that his strength and energy were unimpaired. Of all his\ncharacteristics, however, nothing attracted my attention so much as his\neyes, which were almost covered by their drooping lids, and yet looked\nout through the thin slits which remained with marvellous brightness and\nkeenness. A passing glance might give the idea that he was languid and\nhalf asleep, but a closer one would reveal those glittering, shifting\nlines of light, and warn the prudent man not to trust too much to his\nfirst impressions.\n\n'I could swim to Portsmouth,' he remarked, rummaging in the pockets of\nhis sodden jacket; 'I could swim well-nigh anywhere. I once swam from\nGran on the Danube to Buda, while a hundred thousand Janissaries\ndanced with rage on the nether bank. I did, by the keys of St. Peter!\nWessenburg's Pandours would tell you whether Decimus Saxon could\nswim. Take my advice, young men, and always carry your tobacco in a\nwater-tight metal box.'\n\nAs he spoke he drew a flat box from his pocket, and several wooden\ntubes, which he screwed together to form a long pipe. This he stuffed\nwith tobacco, and having lit it by means of a flint and steel with a\npiece of touch-paper from the inside of his box, he curled his legs\nunder him in Eastern fashion, and settled down to enjoy a smoke. There\nwas something so peculiar about the whole incident, and so preposterous\nabout the man's appearance and actions, that we both broke into a roar\nof laughter, which lasted until for very exhaustion we were compelled\nto stop. He neither joined in our merriment nor expressed offence at\nit, but continued to suck away at his long wooden tube with a perfectly\nstolid and impassive face, save that the half-covered eyes glinted\nrapidly backwards and forwards from one to the other of us.\n\n'You will excuse our laughter, sir,' I said at last; 'my friend and I\nare unused to such adventures, and are merry at the happy ending of it.\nMay we ask whom it is that we have picked up?'\n\n'Decimus Saxon is my name,' the stranger answered; 'I am the tenth child\nof a worthy father, as the Latin implies. There are but nine betwixt me\nand an inheritance. Who knows? Small-pox might do it, or the plague!'\n\n'We heard a shot aboard of the brig,' said Reuben.\n\n'That was my brother Nonus shooting at me,' the stranger observed,\nshaking his head sadly.\n\n'But there was a second shot.'\n\n'Ah, that was me shooting at my brother Nonus.'\n\n'Good lack!' I cried. 'I trust that thou hast done him no hurt.'\n\n'But a flesh wound, at the most,' he answered. 'I thought it best to\ncome away, however, lest the affair grow into a quarrel. I am sure that\nit was he who trained the nine-pounder on me when I was in the water.\nIt came near enough to part my hair. He was always a good shot with a\nfalconet or a mortar-piece. He could not have been hurt, however, to get\ndown from the poop to the main-deck in the time.'\n\nThere was a pause after this, while the stranger drew a long knife from\nhis belt, and cleaned out his pipe with it. Reuben and I took up our\noars, and having pulled up our tangled fishing-lines, which had been\nstreaming behind the boat, we proceeded to pull in towards the land.\n\n'The question now is,' said the stranger, 'where we are to go to?'\n\n'We are going down Langston Bay,' I answered.\n\n'Oh, we are, are we?' he cried, in a mocking voice; 'you are sure of it\neh? You are certain we are not going to France? We have a mast and sail\nthere, I see, and water in the beaker. All we want are a few fish,\nwhich I hear are plentiful in these waters, and we might make a push for\nBarfleur.'\n\n'We are going down Langston Bay,' I repeated coldly.\n\n'You see might is right upon the waters,' he explained, with a smile\nwhich broke his whole face up into crinkles. 'I am an old soldier, a\ntough fighting man, and you are two raw lads. I have a knife, and you\nare unarmed. D'ye see the line of argument? The question now is, Where\nare we to go?'\n\nI faced round upon him with the oar in my hand. 'You boasted that you\ncould swim to Portsmouth,' said I, 'and so you shall. Into the water\nwith you, you sea-viper, or I'll push you in as sure as my name is Micah\nClarke.'\n\n'Throw your knife down, or I'll drive the boat hook through you,' cried\nReuben, pushing it forward to within a few inches of the man's throat.\n\n'Sink me, but this is most commendable!' he said, sheathing his weapon,\nand laughing softly to himself. 'I love to draw spirit out of the young\nfellows. I am the steel, d'ye see, which knocks the valour out of your\nflint. A notable simile, and one in every way worthy of that most witty\nof mankind, Samuel Butler. This,' he continued, tapping a protuberance\nwhich I had remarked over his chest, 'is not a natural deformity, but is\na copy of that inestimable \"Hudibras,\" which combines the light touch\nof Horace with the broader mirth of Catullus. Heh! what think you of the\ncriticism?'\n\n'Give up that knife,' said I sternly.\n\n'Certainly,' he replied, handing it over to me with a polite bow. 'Is\nthere any other reasonable matter in which I can oblige ye? I will\ngive up anything to do ye pleasure-save only my good name and soldierly\nrepute, or this same copy of \"Hudibras,\" which, together with a Latin\ntreatise upon the usages of war, written by a Fleming and printed in\nLiege in the Lowlands, I do ever bear in my bosom.'\n\nI sat down beside him with the knife in my hand. 'You pull both oars,'\nI said to Reuben; 'I'll keep guard over the fellow and see that he plays\nus no trick. I believe that you are right, and that he is nothing better\nthan a pirate. He shall be given over to the justices when we get to\nHavant.'\n\nI thought that our passenger's coolness deserted him for a moment, and\nthat a look of annoyance passed over his face.\n\n'Wait a bit!' he said; 'your name, I gather is Clarke, and your home is\nHavant. Are you a kinsman of Joseph Clarke, the old Roundhead of that\ntown?'\n\n'He is my father,' I answered.\n\n'Hark to that, now!' he cried, with a throb of laughter; 'I have a\ntrick of falling on my feet. Look at this, lad! Look at this!' He drew\na packet of letters from his inside pocket, wrapped in a bit of tarred\ncloth, and opening it he picked one out and placed it upon my knee.\n'Read!' said he, pointing at it with his long thin finger.\n\nIt was inscribed in large plain characters, 'To Joseph Clarke, leather\nmerchant of Havant, by the hand of Master Decimus Saxon, part-owner of\nthe ship _Providence_, from Amsterdam to Portsmouth.' At each side it\nwas sealed with a massive red seal, and was additionally secured with a\nbroad band of silk.\n\n'I have three-and-twenty of them to deliver in the neighbourhood,' he\nremarked. 'That shows what folk think of Decimus Saxon. Three-and-twenty\nlives and liberties are in my hands. Ah, lad, invoices and bills of\nlading are not done up in that fashion. It is not a cargo of Flemish\nskins that is coming for the old man. The skins have good English hearts\nin them; ay, and English swords in their fists to strike out for freedom\nand for conscience. I risk my life in carrying this letter to your\nfather; and you, his son, threaten to hand me over to the justices! For\nshame! For shame! I blush for you!'\n\n'I don't know what you are hinting at,' I answered. 'You must speak\nplainer if I am to understand you.'\n\n'Can we trust him?' he asked, jerking his head in the direction of\nReuben.\n\n'As myself.'\n\n'How very charming!' said he, with something between a smile and\na sneer. 'David and Jonathan--or, to be more classical and less\nscriptural, Damon and Pythias--eh?' These papers, then, are from the\nfaithful abroad, the exiles in Holland, ye understand, who are thinking\nof making a move and of coming over to see King James in his own country\nwith their swords strapped on their thighs. The letters are to those\nfrom whom they expect sympathy, and notify when and where they will make\na landing. Now, my dear lad, you will perceive that instead of my being\nin your power, you are so completely in mine that it needs but a word\nfrom me to destroy your whole family. Decimus Saxon is staunch, though,\nand that word shall never be spoken.'\n\n'If all this be true,' said I, 'and if your mission is indeed as you\nhave said, why did you even now propose to make for France?'\n\n'Aptly asked, and yet the answer is clear enough,' he replied; 'sweet\nand ingenuous as are your faces, I could not read upon them that ye\nwould prove to be Whigs and friends of the good old cause. Ye might have\ntaken me to where excisemen or others would have wanted to pry and peep,\nand so endangered my commission. Better a voyage to France in an open\nboat than that.'\n\n'I will take you to my father,' said I, after a few moments' thought.\n'You can deliver your letter and make good your story to him. If you\nare indeed a true man, you will meet with a warm welcome; but should you\nprove, as I shrewdly suspect, to be a rogue, you need expect no mercy.'\n\n'Bless the youngster! he speaks like the Lord High Chancellor of\nEngland! What is it the old man says?\n\n          \"He could not ope\n           His mouth, but out there fell a trope.\"\n\nBut it should be a threat, which is the ware in which you are fond of\ndealing.\n\n          \"He could not let\n           A minute pass without a threat.\"\n\nHow's that, eh? Waller himself could not have capped the couplet\nneater.'\n\nAll this time Reuben had been swinging away at his oars, and we had made\nour way into Langston Bay, down the sheltered waters of which we were\nrapidly shooting. Sitting in the sheets, I turned over in my mind\nall that this waif had said. I had glanced over his shoulder at the\naddresses of some of the letters--Steadman of Basingstoke, Wintle\nof Alresford, Fortescue of Bognor, all well-known leaders of the\nDissenters. If they were what he represented them to be, it was no\nexaggeration to say that he held the fortunes and fates of these men\nentirely in his hands. Government would be only too glad to have a valid\nreason for striking hard at the men whom they feared. On the whole it\nwas well to tread carefully in the matter, so I restored our prisoner's\nknife to him, and treated him with increased consideration. It was\nwell-nigh dark when we beached the boat, and entirely so before we\nreached Havant, which was fortunate, as the bootless and hatless state\nof our dripping companion could not have failed to set tongues wagging,\nand perhaps to excite the inquiries of the authorities. As it was, we\nscarce met a soul before reaching my father's door.\n\n\n\nChapter V. Of the Man with the Drooping Lids\n\nMy mother and my father were sitting in their high-backed chairs on\neither side of the empty fireplace when we arrived, he smoking his\nevening pipe of Oronooko, and she working at her embroidery. The moment\nthat I opened the door the man whom I had brought stepped briskly in,\nand bowing to the old people began to make glib excuses for the lateness\nof his visit, and to explain the manner in which we had picked him up. I\ncould not help smiling at the utter amazement expressed upon my mother's\nface as she gazed at him, for the loss of his jack-boots exposed a pair\nof interminable spindle-shanks which were in ludicrous contrast to the\nbaggy low country knee-breeches which surmounted them. His tunic was\nmade of coarse sad-coloured kersey stuff with flat new gilded brass\nbuttons, beneath which was a whitish callamanca vest edged with silver.\nRound the neck of his coat was a broad white collar after the Dutch\nfashion, out of which his long scraggy throat shot upwards with his\nround head and bristle of hair balanced upon the top of it, like the\nturnip on a stick at which we used to throw at the fairs. In this guise\nhe stood blinking and winking in the glare of light, and pattering out\nhis excuses with as many bows and scrapes as Sir Peter Witling in the\nplay. I was in the act of following him into the room, when Reuben\nplucked at my sleeve to detain me.\n\n'Nay, I won't come in with you, Micah,' said he; 'there's mischief\nlikely to come of all this. My father may grumble over his beer jugs,\nbut he's a Churchman and a Tantivy for all that. I'd best keep out of\nit.'\n\n'You are right,' I answered. 'There is no need for you to meddle in the\nbusiness. Be mum as to all that you have heard.'\n\n'Mum as a mouse,' said he, and pressing my hand turned away into the\ndarkness. When I returned to the sitting-room I found that my mother had\nhurried into the kitchen, where the crackling of sticks showed that she\nwas busy in building a fire. Decimus Saxon was seated at the edge of\nthe iron-bound oak chest at the side of my father, and was watching him\nkeenly with his little twinkling eyes, while the old man was fixing\nhis horn glasses and breaking the seals of the packet which his strange\nvisitor had just handed to him.\n\nI saw that when my father looked at the signature at the end of the\nlong, closely written letter he gave a whiff of surprise and sat\nmotionless for a moment or so staring at it. Then he turned to the\ncommencement and read it very carefully through, after which he turned\nit over and read it again. Clearly it brought no unwelcome news, for his\neyes sparkled with joy when he looked up from his reading, and more than\nonce he laughed aloud. Finally he asked the man Saxon how it had come\ninto his possession, and whether he was aware of the contents.\n\n'Why, as to that,' said the messenger, 'it was handed to me by no less\na person than Dicky Rumbold himself, and in the presence of others whom\nit's not for me to name. As to the contents, your own sense will tell\nyou that I would scarce risk my neck by bearing a message without I\nknew what the message was. I am no chicken at the trade, sir. Cartels,\n_pronunciamientos_, challenges, flags of truce, and proposals for\nwaffenstillstands, as the Deutschers call it--they've all gone through\nmy hands, and never one, gone awry.'\n\n'Indeed!' quoth my father. 'You are yourself one of the faithful?'\n\n'I trust that I am one of those who are on the narrow and thorny track,'\nsaid he, speaking through his nose, as was the habit of the extreme\nsectaries.\n\n'A track upon which no prelate can guide us,' said my father.\n\n'Where man is nought and the Lord is all,' rejoined Saxon.\n\n'Good! good!' cried my father. 'Micah, you shall take this worthy man\nto my room, and see that he hath dry linen, and my second-best suit of\nUtrecht velvet. It may serve until his own are dried. My boots, too,\nmay perchance be useful--my riding ones of untanned leather. A hat with\nsilver braiding hangs above them in the cupboard. See that he lacks for\nnothing which the house can furnish. Supper will be ready when he hath\nchanged his attire. I beg that you will go at once, good Master Saxon,\nlest you take a chill.'\n\n'There is but one thing that we have omitted,' said our visitor,\nsolemnly rising up from his chair and clasping his long nervous hands\ntogether. 'Let us delay no longer to send up a word of praise to the\nAlmighty for His manifold blessings, and for the mercy wherewith He\nplucked me and my letters out of the deep, even as Jonah was saved from\nthe violence of the wicked ones who hurled him overboard, and it may be\nfired falconets at him, though we are not so informed in Holy Writ. Let\nus pray, my friends!' Then in a high-toned chanting voice he offered up\na long prayer of thanksgiving, winding up with a petition for grace and\nenlightenment for the house and all its inmates. Having concluded by a\nsonorous amen, he at last suffered himself to be led upstairs; while\nmy mother, who had slipped in and listened with much edification to his\nwords, hurried away to prepare him a bumper of green usquebaugh with ten\ndrops of Daffy's Elixir therein, which was her sovereign recipe against\nthe effects of a soaking. There was no event in life, from a christening\nto a marriage, but had some appropriate food or drink in my mother's\nvocabulary, and no ailment for which she had not some pleasant cure in\nher well-stocked cupboards.\n\nMaster Decimus Saxon in my father's black Utrecht velvet and untanned\nriding boots looked a very different man to the bedraggled castaway who\nhad crawled like a conger eel into our fishing-boat. It seemed as if he\nhad cast off his manner with his raiment, for he behaved to my mother\nduring supper with an air of demure gallantry which sat upon him better\nthan the pert and flippant carriage which he had shown towards us in the\nboat. Truth to say, if he was now more reserved, there was a very good\nreason for it, for he played such havoc amongst the eatables that there\nwas little time for talk. At last, after passing from the round of cold\nbeef to a capon pasty, and topping up with a two-pound perch, washed\ndown by a great jug of ale, he smiled upon us all and told us that his\nfleshly necessities were satisfied for the nonce. 'It is my rule,' he\nremarked, 'to obey the wise precept which advises a man to rise from\ntable feeling that he could yet eat as much as he has partaken of.'\n\n'I gather from your words, sir, that you have yourself seen hard\nservice,' my father remarked when the board had been cleared and my\nmother had retired for the night.\n\n'I am an old fighting man,' our visitor answered, screwing his pipe\ntogether, 'a lean old dog of the hold-fast breed. This body of mine\nbears the mark of many a cut and slash received for the most part in\nthe service of the Protestant faith, though some few were caught for the\nsake of Christendom in general when warring against the Turk. There is\nblood of mine, sir, Spotted all over the map of Europe. Some of it, I\nconfess, was spilled in no public cause, but for the protection of mine\nown honour in the private duello or holmgang, as it was called among the\nnations of the north. It is necessary that a cavaliero of fortune, being\nfor the greater part a stranger in a strange land, should be somewhat\nnice in matters of the sort, since he stands, as it were, as the\nrepresentative of his country, whose good name should be more dear to\nhim than his own.'\n\n'Your weapon on such occasions was, I suppose, the sword?' my father\nasked, shifting uneasily in his seat, as he would do when his old\ninstincts were waking up.\n\n'Broadsword, rapier, Toledo, spontoon, battle-axe, pike or half-pike,\nmorgenstiern, and halbert. I speak with all due modesty, but with\nbacksword, sword and dagger, sword and buckler, single falchion, case of\nfalchions, or any other such exercise, I will hold mine own against any\nman that ever wore neat's leather, save only my elder brother Quartus.'\n\n'By my faith,' said my father with his eyes shining, 'were I twenty\nyears younger I should have at you! My backsword play hath been thought\nwell of by stout men of war. God forgive me that my heart should still\nturn to such vanities.'\n\n'I have heard godly men speak well of it,' remarked Saxon. 'Master\nRichard Rumbold himself spake of your deeds of arms to the Duke of\nArgyle. Was there not a Scotsman, one Storr or Stour?'\n\n'Ay, ay! Storr of Drumlithie. I cut him nigh to the saddle-bow in a\nskirmish on the eve of Dunbar. So Dicky Rumbold had not forgotten it,\neh? He was a hard one both at praying and at fighting. We have ridden\nknee to knee in the field, and we have sought truth together in the\nchamber. So, Dick will be in harness once again! He could not be still\nif a blow were to be struck for the trampled faith. If the tide of war\nset in this direction, I too--who knows? who knows?'\n\n'And here is a stout man-at-arms,' said Saxon, passing his hand down my\narm.' He hath thew and sinew, and can use proud words too upon occasion,\nas I have good cause to know, even in our short acquaintance. Might it\nnot be that he too should strike in this quarrel?'\n\n'We shall discuss it,' my father answered, looking thoughtfully at me\nfrom under his heavy brows. 'But I pray you, friend Saxon, to give us\nsome further account upon these matters. My son Micah, as I understand,\nhath picked you out of the waves. How came you there?'\n\nDecimus Saxon puffed at his pipe for a minute or more in silence, as one\nwho is marshalling facts each in its due order.\n\n'It came about in this wise,' he said at last. 'When John of Poland\nchased the Turk from the gates of Vienna, peace broke out in the\nPrincipalities, and many a wandering cavaliero like myself found his\noccupation gone. There was no war waging save only some petty Italian\nskirmish, in which a soldier could scarce expect to reap either dollars\nor repute, so I wandered across the Continent, much cast down at the\nstrange peace which prevailed in every quarter. At last, however, on\nreaching the Lowlands, I chanced to hear that the _Providence_, owned\nand commanded by my two brothers, Nonus and Quartus, was about to start\nfrom Amsterdam for an adventure to the Guinea coast. I proposed to them\nthat I should join them, and was accordingly taken into partnership on\ncondition that I paid one-third of the cost of the cargo. While waiting\nat the port I chanced to come across some of the exiles, who, having\nheard of my devotion to the Protestant cause, brought me to the Duke and\nto Master Rumbold, who committed these letters to my charge. This makes\nit clear how they came into my possession.'\n\n'But not how you and they came into the water,' my father suggested.\n\n'Why, that was but the veriest chance,' the adventurer answered with\nsome little confusion of manner. 'It was the _fortuna belli_, or more\nproperly _pacis_. I had asked my brothers to put into Portsmouth that I\nmight get rid of these letters, on which they replied in a boorish and\nunmannerly fashion that they were still waiting for the thousand guineas\nwhich represented my share of the venture. To this I answered with\nbrotherly familiarity that it was a small thing, and should be paid\nfor out of the profits of our enterprise. Their reply was I that I had\npromised to pay the money down, and that money down they must have. I\nthen proceeded to prove, both by the Aristotelian and by the Platonic\nor deductive method, that having no guineas in my possession it was\nimpossible for me to produce a thousand of them, at the same time\npointing out that the association of an honest man in the business was\nin itself an ample return for the money, since their own reputations had\nbeen somewhat blown on. I further offered in the same frank and friendly\nspirit to meet either of them with sword or with pistol, a proposal\nwhich should have satisfied any honour-loving Cavaliero. Their base\nmercantile souls prompted them, however, to catch up two muskets, one of\nwhich Nonus discharged at me, and it is likely that Quartus would have\nfollowed suit had I not plucked the gun from his hand and unloaded it to\nprevent further mischief. In unloading it I fear that one of the slugs\nblew a hole in brother Nonus. Seeing that there was a chance of further\ndisagreements aboard the vessel, I at once decided to leave her, in\ndoing which I was forced to kick off my beautiful jack-boots, which were\nsaid by Vanseddars himself to be he finest pair that ever went out of\nhis shop, square-toed, double-soled--alas! alas!'\n\n'Strange that you should have been picked up by the son of the very man\nto whom you had a letter.'\n\n'The working of Providence,' Saxon answered. 'I have two-and-twenty\nother letters which must all be delivered by hand. If you will permit me\nto use your house for a while, I shall make it my headquarters.'\n\n'Use it as though it were your own,' said my father.\n\n'Your most grateful servant, sir,' he cried, jumping up and bowing\nwith his hand over his heart. 'This is indeed a haven of rest after the\nungodly and profane company of my brothers. Shall we then put up a hymn,\nand retire from the business of the day?'\n\nMy father willingly agreed, and we sang 'Oh, happy land!' after which\nour visitor followed me to his room, bearing with him the unfinished\nbottle of usquebaugh which my mother had left on the table. He took it\nwith him, he explained, as a precaution against Persian ague, contracted\nwhile battling against the Ottoman, and liable to recur at strange\nmoments. I left him in our best spare bedroom, and returned to my\nfather, who was still seated, heavy with thought, in his old corner.\n\n'What think you of my find, Dad?' I asked.\n\n'A man of parts and of piety,' he answered; 'but in truth he has brought\nme news so much after my heart, that he could not be unwelcome were he\nthe Pope of Rome.'\n\n'What news, then?'\n\n'This, this!' he cried joyously, plucking the letter out of his bosom.\n'I will read it to you, lad. Nay, perhaps I had best sleep the night\nupon it, and read it to-morrow when our heads are clearer. May the Lord\nguide my path, and confound the tyrant! Pray for light, boy, for my life\nand yours may be equally at stake.'\n\n\n\n\nChapter VI. Of the Letter that came from the Lowlands\n\nIn the morning I was up betimes, and went forthwith, after the country\nfashion, to our quest's room to see if there was aught in which I could\nserve him. On pushing at his door, I found that it was fastened, which\nsurprised me the more as I knew that there was neither key nor bolt upon\nthe inside. On my pressing against it, however, it began to yield, and\nI could then see that a heavy chest which was used to stand near the\nwindow had been pulled round in order to shut out any intrusion. This\nprecaution, taken under my father's roof, as though he were in a den of\nthieves, angered me, and I gave a butt with my shoulder which cleared\nthe box out of the way, and enabled me to enter the room.\n\nThe man Saxon was sitting up in bed, staring about him as though he\nwere not very certain for the moment where he was. He had tied a white\nkerchief round his head by way of night bonnet, and his hard-visaged,\nclean-shaven face, looking out through this, together with his bony\nfigure, gave him some resemblance to a gigantic old woman. The bottle\nof usquebaugh stood empty by his bedside. Clearly his fears had been\nrealised, and he had had an attack of the Persian ague.\n\n'Ah, my young friend!' he said at last. 'Is it, then, the custom of this\npart of the country to carry your visitor's rooms by storm or escalado\nin the early hours of the morning?'\n\n'Is it the custom,' I answered sternly, 'to barricade up your door when\nyou are sleeping under the roof-tree of an honest man? What did you\nfear, that you should take such a precaution?'\n\n'Nay, you are indeed a spitfire,' he replied, sinking back upon the\npillow, and drawing the clothes round him, 'a feuerkopf as the Germans\ncall it, or sometimes tollkopf, which in its literal significance\nmeaneth a fool's head. Your father was, as I have heard, a strong and a\nfierce man when the blood of youth ran in his veins; but you, I should\njudge, are in no way behind him. Know, then, that the bearer of papers\nof import, _documenta preciosa sed periculosa_, is bound to leave\nnought to chance, but to guard in every way the charge which hath been\ncommitted to him. True it is that I am in the house of an honest man,\nbut I know not who may come or who may go during the hours of the night.\nIndeed, for the matter of that--but enough is said. I shall be with you\nanon.'\n\n'Your clothes are dry and are ready for you,' I remarked.\n\n'Enough! enough!' he answered. 'I have no quarrel with the suit which\nyour father has lent me. It may be that I have been used to better, but\nthey will serve my turn. The camp is not the court.'\n\nIt was evident to me that my father's suit was infinitely better, both\nin texture and material, than that which our visitor had brought\nwith him. As he had withdrawn his head, however, entirely beneath the\nbedclothes, there was nothing more to be said, so I descended to the\nlower room, where I found toy father busily engaged fastening a new\nbuckle to his sword-belt while my mother and the maid were preparing the\nmorning meal.\n\n'Come into the yard with me, Micah,' quoth my father; 'I would have\na word with you.' The workmen had not yet come to their work, so we\nstrolled out into the sweet morning air, and seated ourselves on the low\nstone bankment on which the skins are dressed.\n\n'I have been out here this morning trying my hand at the broadsword\nexercise, 'said he; 'I find that I am as quick as ever on a thrust, but\nmy cuts are sadly stiff. I might be of use at a pinch, but, alas! I\nam not the same swordsman who led the left troop of the finest horse\nregiment that ever followed a kettledrum. The Lord hath given, and the\nLord hath taken away! Yet, if I am old and worn, there is the fruit of\nmy loins to stand in my place and to wield the same sword in the same\ncause. You shall go in my place, Micah.'\n\n'Go! Go whither?'\n\n'Hush, lad, and listen! Let not your mother know too much, for the\nhearts of women are soft. When Abraham offered up his eldest born, I\ntrow that he said little to Sarah on the matter. Here is the letter.\nKnow you who this Dicky Rumbold is?'\n\n'Surely I have heard you speak of him as an old companion of yours.'\n\n'The same--a staunch man and true. So faithful was he--faithful even to\nslaying--that when the army of the righteous dispersed, he did not lay\naside his zeal with his buff-coat. He took to business as a maltster at\nHoddesdon, and in his house was planned the famous Rye House Plot, in\nwhich so many good men were involved.'\n\n'Was it not a foul assassination plot?' I asked.\n\n'Nay, nay, be not led away by terms! It is a vile invention of the\nmalignants that these men planned assassination. What they would do they\npurposed doing in broad daylight, thirty of them against fifty of the\nRoyal Guard, when Charles and James passed on their way to Newmarket. If\nthe royal brothers got pistol-bullet or sword-stab, it would be in open\nfight, and at the risk of their attackers. It was give and take, and no\nmurder.'\n\nHe paused and looked inquiringly at me; but I could not truthfully\nsay that I was satisfied, for an attack upon the lives of unarmed and\nunsuspecting men, even though surrounded by a bodyguard, could not, to\nmy mind, be justified.\n\n'When the plot failed,' my father continued, 'Rumbold had to fly for his\nlife, but he succeeded in giving his pursuers the slip and in making his\nway to the Lowlands. There he found that many enemies of the Government\nhad gathered together. Repeated messages from England, especially from\nthe western counties and from London, assured them that if they would\nbut attempt an invasion they might rely upon help both in men and in\nmoney. They were, however, at fault for some time for want of a leader\nof sufficient weight to carry through so large a project; but now\nat last they have one, who is the best that could have been singled\nout--none other than the well-beloved Protestant chieftain James, Duke\nof Monnmouth, son of Charles II.'\n\n'Illegitimate son,' I remarked.\n\n'That may or may not be. There are those who say that Lucy Walters was\na lawful wife. Bastard or no, he holds the sound principles of the true\nChurch, and he is beloved by the people. Let him appear in the West, and\nsoldiers will rise up like the flowers in the spring time.'\n\nHe paused, and led me away to the farther end of the yard, for the\nworkmen had begun to arrive and to cluster round the dipping trough.\n\n'Monmouth is coming over,' he continued, 'and he expects every brave\nProtestant man to rally to his standard. The Duke of Argyle is to\ncommand a separate expedition, which will set the Highlands of Scotland\nin a blaze. Between them they hope to bring the persecutor of the\nfaithful on his knees. But I hear the voice of the man Saxon, and I must\nnot let him say that I have treated him in a churlish fashion. Here is\nthe letter, lad. Read it with care, and remember that when brave men are\nstriving for their rights it is fitting that one of the old rebel house\nof Clarke should be among them.'\n\nI took the letter, and wandering off into the fields, I settled myself\nunder a convenient tree, and set myself to read it. This yellow sheet\nwhich I now hold in my hand is the very one which was brought by Decimus\nSaxon, and read by me that bright May morning under the hawthorn shade.\nI give it to you as it stands;\n\n\n'To my friend and companion in the cause of the Lord, Joseph\nClarke.--Know, friend, that aid and delivery is coming upon Israel,\nand that the wicked king and those who uphold him shall be smitten and\nentirely cast down, until their place in the land shall know them no\nmore. Hasten, then, to testify to thy own faith, that in the day of\ntrouble ye be not found wanting.\n\n'It has chanced from time to time that many of the suffering Church,\nboth from our own land and from among the Scots, have assembled in this\ngood Lutheran town of Amsterdam, until enough are gathered together to\ntake a good work in hand. For amongst our own folk there are my\nLord Grey of Wark, Wade, Dare of Taunton, Ayloffe, Holmes, Hollis,\nGoodenough, and others whom thou shalt know. Of the Scots there are the\nDuke of Argyle, who has suffered sorely for the Covenant, Sir Patrick\nHume, Fletcher of Saltoun, Sir John Cochrane, Dr. Ferguson, Major\nElphinstone, and others. To these we would fain have added Locke and old\nHal Ludlow, but they are, as those of the Laodicean Church, neither cold\nnor warm.\n\n'It has now come to pass, however, that Monmouth, who has long lived in\ndalliance with the Midianitish woman known by the name of Wentworth, has\nat last turned him to higher things, and has consented to make a bid for\nthe crown. It was found that the Scots preferred to follow a chieftain\nof their own, and it has therefore been determined that Argyle--M'Callum\nMore, as the breechless savages of Inverary call him--shall command a\nseparate expedition landing upon the western coast of Scotland. There\nhe hopes to raise five thousand Campbells, and to be joined by all the\nCovenanters and Western Whigs, men who would make troops of the old\nbreed had they but God-fearing officers with an experience of the chance\nof fields and the usages of war. With such a following he should be able\nto hold Glasgow, and to draw away the King's force to the north. Ayloffe\nand I go with Argyle. It is likely that our feet may be upon Scottish\nground before thy eyes read these words.\n\n'The stronger expedition starts with Monmouth, and lands at a fitting\nplace in the West, where we are assured that we have many friends. I\ncannot name the spot lest this letter miscarry, but thou shalt hear\nanon. I have written to all good men along the coast, bidding them to\nbe prepared to support the rising. The King is weak, and hated by the\ngreater part of his subjects. It doth but need one good stroke to bring\nhis crown in the dust. Monmouth will start in a few weeks, when his\nequipment is finished and the weather favourable. If thou canst come,\nmine old comrade, I know well that thou wilt need no bidding of mine to\nbring thee to our banner. Should perchance a peaceful life and waning\nstrength forbid thy attendance, I trust that thou wilt wrestle for us\nin prayer, even as the holy prophet of old; and perchance, since I hear\nthat thou hast prospered according to the things of this world, thou\nmayst be able to fit out a pikeman or two, or to send a gift towards the\nmilitary chest, which will be none too plentifully lined. We trust\nnot to gold, but to steel and to our own good cause, yet gold will be\nwelcome none the less. Should we fall, we fall like men and Christians.\nShould we succeed, we shall see how the perjured James, the persecutor\nof the saints with the heart like a nether millstone, the man who smiled\nwhen the thumbs of the faithful were wrenched out of their sockets at\nEdinburgh--we shall see how manfully he can bear adversity when it falls\nto his lot. May the hand of the Almighty be over us!\n\n'I know little of the bearer of this, save that he professes to be of\nthe elect. Shouldst thou go to Monmouth's camp, see that thou take him\nwith thee, for I hear that he hath had good experience in the German,\nSwedish, and Otttoman wars.--Yours in the faith of Christ, Richard\nRumbold.\n\n'Present my services to thy spouse. Let her read Timothy chapter two,\nninth to fifteenth verses.'\n\n\nThis long letter I read very carefully, and then putting it in my pocket\nreturned indoors to my breakfast. My father looked at me, as I entered,\nwith questioning eyes, but I had no answer to return him, for my own\nmind was clouded and uncertain.\n\nThat day Decimus Saxon left us, intending to make a round of the country\nand to deliver his letters, but promising to be back again ere long. We\nhad a small mishap ere he went, for as we were talking of his journey\nmy brother Hosea must needs start playing with my father's powder-flask,\nwhich in some way went off with a sudden fluff, spattering the walls\nwith fragments of metal. So unexpected and loud was the explosion,\nthat both my father and I sprang to our feet; but Saxon, whose back\nwas turned to my brother, sat four-square in his chair without a glance\nbehind him or a shade of change in his rugged face. As luck would have\nit, no one was injured, not even Hosea, but the incident made me think\nmore highly of our new acquaintance. As he started off down the village\nstreet, his long stringy figure and strange gnarled visage, with my\nfather's silver-braided hat cocked over his eye, attracted rather\nmore attention than I cared to see, considering the importance of the\nmissives which he bore, and the certainty of their discovery should he\nbe arrested as a masterless man. Fortunately, however, the curiosity\nof the country folk did but lead them to cluster round their doors and\nwindows, staring open-eyed, while he, pleased at the attention which\nhe excited, strode along with his head in the air and a cudgel of\nmine twirling in his hand. He had left golden opinions behind him. My\nfather's good wishes had been won by his piety and by the sacrifices\nwhich he claimed to have made for the faith. My mother he had taught how\nwimples are worn amongst the Serbs, and had also demonstrated to her a\nnew method of curing marigolds in use in some parts of Lithuania. For\nmyself, I confess that I retained a vague distrust of the man, and\nwas determined to avoid putting faith in him more than was needful. At\npresent, however, we had no choice hut to treat him as an ambassador\nfrom friends.\n\nAnd I? What was I to do? Should I follow my father's wishes, and draw\nmy maiden sword on behalf of the insurgents, or should I stand aside and\nsee how events shaped themselves? It was more fitting that I should\ngo than he. But, on the other hand, I was no keen religious zealot.\nPapistry, Church, Dissent, I believed that there was good in all of\nthem, but that not one was worth the spilling of human blood. James\nmight be a perjurer and a villain, but he was, as far as I could see,\nthe rightful king of England, and no tales of secret marriages or black\nboxes could alter the fact that his rival was apparently an illegitimate\nson, and as such ineligible to the throne. Who could say what evil act\nupon the part of a monarch justified his people in setting him aside?\nWho was the judge in such a case? Yet, on the other hand, the man had\nnotoriously broken his own pledges, and that surely should absolve\nhis subjects from their allegiance. It was a weighty question for a\ncountry-bred lad to have to settle, and yet settled it must be, and that\nspeedily. I took up my hat and wandered away down the village street,\nturning the matter over in my head.\n\nBut it was no easy thing for me to think seriously of anything in the\nhamlet; for I was in some way, my dear children, though I say it myself,\na favourite with the young and with the old, so that I could not walk\nten paces without some greeting or address. There were my own brothers\ntrailing behind me, Baker Mitford's children tugging at my skirts, and\nthe millwright's two little maidens one on either hand. Then, when I had\npersuaded these young rompers to leave me, out came Dame Fullarton the\nwidow, with a sad tale about how her grindstone had fallen out of its\nframe, and neither she nor her household could lift it in again. That\nmatter I set straight and proceeded on my way; but I could not pass the\nsign of the Wheatsheaf without John Lockarby, Reuben's father, plunging\nout at me and insisting upon my coming in with him for a morning cup.\n\n'The best glass of mead in the countryside, and brewed under my own\nroof,' said he proudly, as he poured it into the flagon. 'Why, bless\nyou, master Micah, a man with a frame like yours wants store o' good\nmalt to keep it up wi'.'\n\n'And malt like this is worthy of a good frame to contain it,' quoth\nReuben, who was at work among the flasks.\n\n'What think ye, Micah?' said the landlord. 'There was the Squire o'\nMilton over here yester morning wi' Johnny Ferneley o' the Bank side,\nand they will have it that there's a man in Fareham who could wrestle\nyou, the best of three, and find your own grip, for a good round stake.'\n\n'Tut! tut!' I answered; 'you would have me like a prize mastiff, showing\nmy teeth to the whole countryside. What matter if the man can throw me,\nor I him?'\n\n'What matter? Why, the honour of Havant,' quoth he. 'Is that no matter?\nBut you are right,' he continued, draining off his horn. 'What is all\nthis village life with its small successes to such as you? You are as\nmuch out of your place as a vintage wine at a harvest supper. The whole\nof broad England, and not the streets of Havant, is the fit stage for\na man of your kidney. What have you to do with the beating of skins and\nthe tanning of leather?'\n\n'My father would have you go forth as a knight-errant, Micah,' said\nReuben, laughing. 'You might chance to get your own skin beaten and your\nown leather tanned.'\n\n'Who ever knew so long a tongue in so short a body?' cried the\ninnkeeper. 'But in good sooth, Master Micah, I am in sober earnest when\nI say that you are indeed wasting the years of your youth, when life is\nsparkling and clear, and that you will regret it when you have come to\nthe flat and flavourless dregs of old age.'\n\n'There spoke the brewer,' said Reuben; 'but indeed, Micah, my father is\nright, for all that he hath such a hops-and-water manner of putting it.'\n\n'I will think over it,' I answered, and with a nod to the kindly couple\nproceeded on my way.\n\nZachariah Palmer was planing a plank as I passed. Looking up he bade me\ngood-morrow.\n\n'I have a book for you, lad,' he said.\n\n'I have but now finished the \"Comus,\"' I answered, for he had lent me\nJohn Milton's poem. 'But what is this new book, daddy?'\n\n'It is by the learned Locke, and treateth of states and statecraft. It\nis but a small thing, but if wisdom could show in the scales it would\nweigh down many a library. You shall have it when I have finished it,\nto-morrow mayhap or the day after. A good man is Master Locke. Is he not\nat this moment a wanderer in the Lowlands, rather than bow his knee to\nwhat his conscience approved not of?'\n\n'There are many good men among the exiles, are there not?' said I.\n\n'The pick of the country,' he answered. 'Ill fares the land that drives\nthe highest and bravest of its citizens away from it. The day is coming,\nI fear, when every man will have to choose betwixt his beliefs and his\nfreedom. I am an old man, Micah boy, but I may live long enough to see\nstrange things in this once Protestant kingdom.'\n\n'But if these exiles had their way,' I objected, 'they would place\nMonmouth upon the throne, and so unjustly alter the succession.'\n\n'Nay, nay,' old Zachary answered, laying down his plane. 'If they use\nMonmouth's name, it is but to strengthen their cause, and to show that\nthey have a leader of repute. Were James driven from the throne, the\nCommons of England in Parliament assembled would be called upon to\nname his successor. There are men at Monmouth's back who would not stir\nunless this were so.'\n\n'Then, daddy,' said I, 'since I can trust you, and since you will tell\nme what you do really think, would it be well, if Monmouth's standard be\nraised, that I should join it?'\n\nThe carpenter stroked his white beard and pondered for a while. 'It is a\npregnant question,' he said at last, 'and yet methinks that there is but\none answer to it, especially for your father's son. Should an end be put\nto James's rule, it is not too late to preserve the nation in its old\nfaith; but if the disease is allowed to spread, it may be that even the\ntyrant's removal would not prevent his evil seed from sprouting. I hold,\ntherefore, that should the exiles make such an attempt, it is the duty\nof every man who values liberty of conscience to rally round them. And\nyou, my son, the pride of the village, what better use could you make\nof your strength than to devote it to helping to relieve your country\nof this insupportable yoke? It is treasonable and dangerous\ncounsel--counsel which might lead to a short shrift and a bloody\ndeath--but, as the Lord liveth, if you were child of mine I should say\nthe same.'\n\nSo spoke the old carpenter with a voice which trembled with earnestness,\nand went to work upon his plank once more, while I, with a few words of\ngratitude, went on my way pondering over what he had said to me. I had\nnot gone far, however, before the hoarse voice of Solomon Sprent broke\nin upon my meditations.\n\n'Hoy there! Ahoy!' he bellowed, though his mouth was but a few yards\nfrom my ear. 'Would ye come across my hawse without slacking weigh? Clew\nup, d'ye see, clew up!'\n\n'Why, Captain,' I said, 'I did not see you. I was lost in thought.'\n\n'All adrift and without look-outs,' quoth he, pushing his way through\nthe break in the garden hedge. 'Odd's niggars, man! friends are not\nso plentiful, d'ye see, that ye need pass 'em by without a dip o' the\nensign. So help me, if I had had a barker I'd have fired a shot across\nyour bows.'\n\n'No offence, Captain,' said I, for the veteran appeared to be nettled;\n'I have much to think of this morning.'\n\n'And so have I, mate,' he answered, in a softer voice. 'What think ye of\nmy rig, eh?' He turned himself slowly round in the sunlight as he spoke,\nand I perceived that he was dressed with unusual care. He had a blue\nsuit of broadcloth trimmed with eight rows of buttons, and breeches of\nthe same material with great bunches of ribbon at the knee. His vest\nwas of lighter blue picked out with anchors in silver, and edged with\na finger's-breadth of lace. His boot was so wide that he might have had\nhis foot in a bucket, and he wore a cutlass at his side suspended from a\nbuff belt, which passed over his right shoulder.\n\n'I've had a new coat o' paint all over,' said he, with a wink.\n'Carramba! the old ship is water-tight yet. What would ye say, now, were\nI about to sling my hawser over a little scow, and take her in tow?'\n\n'A cow!' I cried.\n\n'A cow! what d'ye take me for? A wench, man, and as tight a little craft\nas ever sailed into the port of wedlock.'\n\n'I have heard no better news for many a long day,' said I; 'I did not\neven know that you were betrothed. When thou is the wedding to be?'\n\n'Go slow, friend--go slow, and heave your lead-line! You have got out\nof your channel, and are in shoal water. I never said as how I was\nbetrothed.'\n\n'What then?' I asked.\n\n'I am getting up anchor now, to run down to her and summon her. Look\nye, lad,' he continued, plucking off his cap and scratching his\nragged locks; 'I've had to do wi' wenches enow from the Levant to the\nAntilles--wenches such as a sailorman meets, who are all paint and\npocket. It's but the heaving of a hand grenade, and they strike their\ncolours. This is a craft of another guess build, and unless I steer wi'\ncare she may put one in between wind and water before I so much as\nknow that I am engaged. What think ye, heh? Should I lay myself boldly\nalongside, d'ye see, and ply her with small arms, or should I work\nmyself clear and try a long range action? I am none of your slippery,\ngrease-tongued, long-shore lawyers, but if so be as she's willing for a\nmate, I'll stand by her in wind and weather while my planks hold out.'\n\n'I can scarce give advice in such a case,' said I, 'for my experience is\nless than yours. I should say though that you had best speak to her from\nyour heart, in plain sailor language.'\n\n'Aye, aye, she can take it or leave it. Phoebe Dawson it is, the sister\nof the blacksmith. Let us work back and have a drop of the right Nants\nbefore we go. I have an anker newly come, which never paid the King a\ngroat.'\n\n'Nay, you had best leave it alone,' I answered.\n\n'Say you so? Well, mayhap you are right. Throw off your moorings, then,\nand clap on sail, for we must go.'\n\n'But I am not concerned,' said I.\n\n'Not concerned! Not--' he was too much overcome to go on, and could\nbut look at me with a face full of reproach. 'I thought better of you,\nMicah. Would you let this crazy old hulk go into action, and not stand\nby to fire a broadside?'\n\n'What would you have me do then?'\n\n'Why, I would have you help me as the occasion may arise. If I start\nto board her, I would have you work across the bows so as to rake\nher. Should I range, up on the larboard quarter, do you lie, on the\nstarboard. If I get crippled, do you draw her fire until I refit. What,\nman, you would not desert me!'\n\nThe old seaman's tropes and maritime conceits were not always\nintelligible to me, but it was clear that he had set his heart upon my\naccompanying him, which I was equally determined not to do. At last\nby much reasoning I made him understand that my presence would be more\nhindrance than help, and would probably be fatal to his chances of\nsuccess.\n\n'Well, well,' he grumbled at last, 'I've been concerned in no such\nexpedition before. An' it be the custom for single ships to engage, I'll\nstand to it alone. You shall come with me as consort, though, and stand\nto and fro in the offing, or sink me if I stir a step.'\n\nMy mind was full of my father's plans and of the courses which lay\nbefore me. There seemed to be no choice, however, as old Solomon was\nin dead earnest, but to lay the matter aside for the moment and see the\nupshot of this adventure.\n\n'Mind, Solomon,' said I, 'I don't cross the threshold.'\n\n'Aye, aye, mate. You can please yourself. We have to beat up against the\nwind all the way. She's on the look-out, for I hailed her yesternight,\nand let her know as how I should bear down on her about seven bells of\nthe morning watch.'\n\nI was thinking as we trudged down the road that Phoebe would need to be\nlearned in sea terms to make out the old man's meaning, when he pulled\nup short and clapped his hands to his pockets.\n\n'Zounds!' he cried, 'I have forgot to bring a pistol.'\n\n'In Heaven's name!' I said in amazement, 'what could you want with a\npistol?'\n\n'Why, to make signals with,' said he. 'Odds me that I should have forgot\nit! How is one's consort to know what is going forward when the flagship\ncarries no artillery? Had the lass been kind I should have fired one\ngun, that you might know it.'\n\n'Why,' I answered, 'if you come not out I shall judge that all is well.\nIf things go amiss I shall see you soon.'\n\n'Aye--or stay! I'll hoist a white jack at the port-hole. A white jack\nmeans that she hath hauled down her colours. Nombre de Dios, when I\nwas a powder-boy in the old ship _Lion_, the day that we engaged the\n_Spiritus Sanctus_ of two tier o' guns--the first time that ever I heard\nthe screech of ball--my heart never thumped as it does now. What say ye\nif we run back with a fair wind and broach that anker of Nants?'\n\n'Nay, stand to it, man,' said I; for by this time, we had come to the\nivy-clad cottage behind which was the village smithy. 'What, Solomon!\nan English seaman never feared a foe, either with petticoats or without\nthem.'\n\n'No, curse me if he did!' quoth Solomon, squaring his shoulders, 'never\na one, Don, Devil, or Dutchman; so here goes for her!' So saying he made\nhis way into the cottage, leaving me standing by the garden wicket, half\namused and half annoyed at this interruption to my musings.\n\nAs it proved, the sailor had no very great difficulty with his suit, and\nsoon managed to capture his prize, to use his own language. I heard from\nthe garden the growling of his gruff voice, and a good deal of shrill\nlaughter ending in a small squeak, which meant, I suppose, that he was\ncoming to close quarters. Then there was silence for a little while, and\nat last I saw a white kerchief waving from the window, and perceived,\nmoreover, that it was Phoebe herself who was fluttering it. Well, she\nwas a smart, kindly-hearted lass, and I was glad in my heart that the\nold seaman should have such a one to look after him.\n\nHere, then, was one good friend settled down finally for life. Another\nwarned me that I was wasting my best years in the hamlet. A third, the\nmost respected of all, advised me openly to throw in my lot with the\ninsurgents, should the occasion arise. If I refused, I should have\nthe shame of seeing my aged father setting off for the wars, whilst\nI lingered at home. And why should I refuse? Had it not long been the\nsecret wish of my heart to see something of the great world, and what\nfairer chance could present itself? My wishes, my friend's advice, and\nmy father's hopes all pointed in the one direction.\n\n'Father,' said I, when I returned home, 'I am ready to go where you\nwill.'\n\n'May the Lord be glorified!' he cried solemnly. 'May He watch over\nyour young life, and keep your heart steadfast to the cause which is\nassuredly His!'\n\nAnd so, my dear grandsons, the great resolution was taken, and I found\nmyself committed to one side in the national quarrel.\n\n\n\nChapter VII. Of the Horseman who rode from the West\n\nMy father set to work forthwith preparing for our equipment, furnishing\nSaxon out as well as myself on the most liberal scale, for he was\ndetermined that the wealth of his age should be as devoted to the cause\nas was the strength of his youth. These arrangements had to be carried\nout with the most extreme caution, for there were many Prelatists in\nthe village, and in the present disturbed state of the public mind any\nactivity on the part of so well known a man would have at once attracted\nattention. So carefully did the wary old soldier manage matters,\nhowever, that we soon found ourselves in a position to start at an\nhour's notice, without any of our neighbours being a whit the wiser.\n\nHis first move was to purchase through an agent two suitable horses at\nChichester fair, which were conveyed to the stables of a trusty Whig\nfarmer living near Portchester, who was ordered to keep them until\nthey were called for. Of these animals one was a mottled grey, of great\nmettle and power, standing seventeen and a half hands high, and well up\nto my weight, for in those days, my dears, I had not laid on flesh, and\nweighed a little under sixteen stone for all my height and strength.\nA critic might have said that Covenant, for so I named my steed, was a\ntrifle heavy about the head and neck, but I found him a trusty, willing\nbrute, with great power and endurance. Saxon, who when fully accoutred\ncould scarce have weighed more than twelve stone, had a light bay\nSpanish jennet, of great speed and spirit. This mare he named Chloe,\n'after a godly maiden of his acquaintance,' though, as my father\nremarked, there was a somewhat ungodly and heathenish smack about the\nappellation. These horses and their harness were bought and held ready\nwithout my father appearing in the matter in any way.\n\nThis important point having been settled, there was the further question\nof arms to be discussed, which gave rise to much weighty controversy\nbetween Decimus Saxon and my father, each citing many instances from\ntheir own experiences where the presence or absence of some taslet\nor arm-guard had been of the deepest import to the wearer. Your\ngreat-grandfather had set his heart upon my wearing the breastplate\nwhich still bore the dints of the Scottish spears at Dunbar, but on\ntrying it on we found it was too small for me. I confess that this was a\nsurprise, for when I looked back at the awe with which I had regarded\nmy father's huge proportions, it was marvellous to me to have\nthis convincing proof that I had outgrown him. By ripping down the\nside-leather and piercing holes through which a lace could be passed, my\nmother managed to arrange it so that I could wear it without discomfort.\nA pair of taslets or thigh-pieces, with guards for the upper arm and\ngauntlets, were all borrowed from the old Parliamentary equipment,\ntogether with the heavy straight sword and pair of horse pistols which\nformed the usual weapons of a cavalier. My father had chosen me a\nhead-piece in Portsmouth, fluted, with good barrets, padded inside with\nsoft leather, very light and yet very strong. When fully equipped,\nboth Saxon and my father agreed that I had all that was requisite for\na well-appointed soldier. Saxon had purchased a buff-coat, a steel cap,\nand a pair of jack-boots, so that with the rapier and pistols which my\nfather had presented him with, he was ready to take the field at any\ntime.\n\nThere would, we hoped, be no great difficulty in our reaching Monmouth's\nforces when the hour came. In those troublous times the main roads were\nso infested by highwaymen and footpads, that it was usual for travellers\nto carry weapons and even armour for their protection. There was no\nreason therefore why our appearance should excite suspicion. Should\nquestions be asked, Saxon had a long story prepared, to the effect that\nwe were travelling to join Henry Somerset, Duke of Beaufort, to whose\nhousehold we belonged. This invention he explained to me, with many\npoints of corroboration which I was to furnish, but when I said\npositively that I should rather be hanged as a rebel than speak a\nfalsehood, he looked at me open-eyed, and shook his head as one much\nshocked. A few weeks of campaigning, he said, would soon cure me of my\nsqueamishness. For himself, no more truthful child had ever carried a\nhorn-book, but he had learned to lie upon the Danube, and looked upon\nit as a necessary part of the soldier's upbringing. 'For what are all\nstratagems, ambuscades, and outfalls but lying upon a large scale?' he\nargued. 'What is an adroit commander but one who hath a facility for\ndisguising the truth? When, at the battle of Senlac, William the Norman\nordered his men to feign flight in order that they might break his\nenemy's array, a wile much practised both by the Scythians of old and by\nthe Croats of our own day, pray what is it but the acting of a lie? Or\nwhen Hannibal, having tied torches to the horns of great droves of oxen,\ncaused the Roman Consuls to imagine that his army was in retreat, was it\nnot a deception or infraction of the truth?--a point well brought out\nby a soldier of repute in the treatise \"An in bello dolo uti liceat;\nan apud hostes falsiloquio uti liceat.\" And so if, after these great\nmodels, I in order to gain mine ends do announce that we are bound to\nBeaufort when we are in truth making for Monmouth, is it not in accord\nwith the usages of war and the customs of great commanders?' All which\nspecious argument I made no attempt to answer, beyond repeating that he\nmight avail himself of the usage, but that he must not look to me for\ncorroboration. On the other hand, I promised to hold my speech and to\nsay nothing which might hamper him, with which pledge he was forced to\nbe contented.\n\nAnd now at last, my patient listeners, I shall be able to carry you out\nof the humble life of the village, and to cease my gossip of the men who\nwere old when I was young, and who are now lying this many a year in\nthe Bedhampton churchyard. You shall come with me now, and you shall see\nEngland as it was in those days, and you shall hear of how we set forth\nto the wars, and of all the adventures which overtook us. And if what\nI tell you should ever chance to differ from what you have read in the\nbook of Mr. Coke or of Mr. Oldmixon, or of any one else who has set\nthese matters down in print, do ye bear in mind that I am telling of\nwhat I saw with these very eyes, and that I have helped to make history,\nwhich is a higher thing than to write it.\n\nIt was, then, towards nightfall upon the twelfth day of June 1685 that\nthe news reached our part of the country that Monmouth had landed the\nday before at Lyme, a small seaport on the boundary between Dorsetshire\nand Devonshire. A great beacon blaze upon Portsdown Hill was the first\nnews that we had of it, and then came a rattling and a drumming\nfrom Portsmouth, where the troops were assembled under arms. Mounted\nmessengers clattered through the village street with their heads low on\ntheir horses' necks, for the great tidings must be carried to London,\nthat the Governor of Portsmouth might know how to act. (Note B,\nAppendix.) We were standing at our doorway in the gloaming, watching\nthe coming and the going, and the line of beacon fires which were\nlengthening away to the eastward, when a little man galloped up to the\ndoor and pulled his panting horse up.\n\n'Is Joseph Clarke here?' he asked.\n\n'I am he,' said my father.\n\n'Are these men true?' he whispered, pointing with his whip at Saxon and\nmyself. 'Then the trysting-place is Taunton. Pass it on to all whom ye\nknow. Give my horse a bait and a drink, I beg of ye, for I must get on\nmy way.'\n\nMy young brother Hosea looked to the tired creature, while we brought\nthe rider inside and drew him a stoup of beer. A wiry, sharp-faced man\nhe was, with a birth-mark upon his temple. His face and clothes were\ncaked with dust, and his limbs were so stiff from the saddle that he\ncould scarce put one foot before another.\n\n'One horse hath died under me,' he said, 'and this can scarce last\nanother twenty miles. I must be in London by morning, for we hope that\nDanvers and Wildman may be able to raise the city. Yester-evening I left\nMonmouth's camp. His blue flag floats over Lyme.'\n\n'What force hath he?' my father asked anxiously.\n\n'He hath but brought over leaders. The force must come from you folk at\nhome. He has with him Lord Grey of Wark, with Wade, the German Buyse,\nand eighty or a hundred more. Alas! that two who came are already lost\nto us. It is an evil, evil omen.'\n\n'What is amiss, then?'\n\n'Dare, the goldsmith of Taunton, hath been slain by Fletcher of Saltoun\nin some child's quarrel about a horse. The peasants cried out for the\nblood of the Scot, and he was forced to fly aboard the ships. A sad\nmishap it is, for he was a skilful leader and a veteran soldier.'\n\n'Aye, aye,' cried Saxon impatiently, 'there will be some more skilful\nleaders and veteran soldiers in the West presently to take his place.\nBut if he knew the usages of war, how came it that he should fight upon\na private quarrel at such a time?' He drew a flat brown book from\nhis bosom, and ran his long thin finger down the table of contents.\n'Subisectio nona'--'here is the very case set forth, \"An in hello\npublico provocatus ad duellum privatae amicitiae causa declinare\npossit,\" in which the learned Fleming layeth it down that a man's\nprivate honour must give way to the good of the cause. Did it not happen\nin my own case that, on the eve of the raising of the Anlagerung of\nVienna, we stranger officers having been invited to the tent of the\nGeneral, it chanced that a red-headed Irisher, one O'Daffy, an ancient\nin the regiment of Pappenheimer, did claim precedence of me on the\nground of superiority of blood? On this I drew my glove across his face,\nnot, mark ye, in anger, but as showing that I differed in some degree\nfrom his opinion. At which dissent he did at once offer to sustain his\ncontention, but I, having read this subsection to him, did make it clear\nto him that we could not in honour settle the point until the Turk was\nchased from the city. So after the onfall--'\n\n'Nay, sir, I may hear the narrative some future day,' said the\nmessenger, staggering to his feet. 'I hope to find a relay at\nChichester, and time presses. Work for the cause now, or be slaves for\never. Farewell!' He clambered into his saddle, and we heard the clatter\nof his hoofs dying away down the London road.\n\n'The time hath come for you to go, Micah,' said my father solemnly.'\nNay, wife, do not weep, but rather hearten the lad on his way by a\nblithe word and a merry face. I need not tell you to fight manfully\nand fearlessly in this quarrel. Should the tide of war set in this\ndirection, you may find your old father riding by your side. Let us now\nbow down and implore the favour of the Almighty upon this expedition.'\n\nWe all knelt down in the low-roofed, heavy-raftered room while the old\nman offered up an earnest, strenuous prayer for our success. Even now,\nas I speak to ye, that group rises up before mine eyes. I see once\nagain your ancestor's stern, rugged face, with his brows knitted and\nhis corded hands writhed together in the fervour of his supplication. My\nmother kneels beside him with the tears trickling down her sweet, placid\nface, stifling her sobs lest the sound of them make my leave-taking more\nbitter. The children are in the sleeping-room upstairs, and we hear the\npatter of their bare feet upon the floor. The man Saxon sprawls across\none of the oaken chairs, half kneeling, half reclining, with his long\nlegs trailing out behind, and his face buried in his hands. All round\nin the flickering light of the hanging lamp I see the objects which have\nbeen so familiar to me from childhood--the settle by the fireplace,\nthe high-back stiff-elbowed chairs, the stuffed fox above the door, the\npicture of Christian viewing the Promised Land from the summit of the\nDelectable Mountains--all small trifles in themselves, but making up\namong them the marvellous thing we call home, the all-powerful lodestone\nwhich draws the wanderer's heart from the farther end of the earth.\nShould I ever see it again save in my dreams--I, who was leaving this\nsheltered cove to plunge into the heart of the storm?\n\nThe prayer finished, we all rose with the exception of Saxon, who\nremained with his face buried in his hands for a minute or so before\nstarting to his feet. I shrewdly suspect that he had been fast asleep,\nthough he explained that he had paused to offer up an additional\nsupplication. My father placed his hands upon my head and invoked the\nblessing of Heaven upon me. He then drew my companion aside, and I\nheard the jingling of coin, from which I judge that he was giving him\nsomething wherewith to start upon his travels. My mother clasped me to\nher heart, and slipped a small square of paper into my hand, saying that\nI was to look at it at my leisure, and that I should make her happy if\nI would but conform to the instructions contained in it. This I promised\nto do, and tearing myself away I set off down the darkened village\nstreet, with my long-limbed companion striding by my side.\n\nIt was close upon one in the morning, and all the country folk had been\nlong abed. Passing the Wheatsheaf and the house of old Solomon, I could\nnot but wonder what they would think of my martial garb were they afoot.\nI had scarce time to form the same thought before Zachary Palmer's\ncottage when his door flew open, and the carpenter came running out with\nhis white hair streaming in the fresh night breeze.\n\n'I have been awaiting you, Micah,' he cried. 'I had heard that Monmouth\nwas up, and I knew that you would not lose a night ere starting. God\nbless you, lad, God bless you! Strong of arm and soft of heart, tender\nto the weak and stern to the oppressor, you have the prayers and the\nlove of all who know you.' I pressed his extended hands, and the last\nI saw of my native hamlet was the shadowy figure of the carpenter as he\nwaved his good wishes to me through the darkness.\n\nWe made our way across the fields to the house of Whittier, the Whig\nfarmer, where Saxon got into his war harness. We found our horses ready\nsaddled and bridled, for my father had at the first alarm sent a message\nacross that we should need them. By two in the morning we were breasting\nPortsdown Hill, armed, mounted, and fairly started on our journey to the\nrebel camp.\n\n\nChapter VIII. Of our Start for the Wars\n\nAll along the ridge of Portsdown Hill we had the lights of Portsmouth\nand of the harbour ships twinkling beneath us on the left, while on\nthe right the Forest of Bere was ablaze with the signal fires which\nproclaimed the landing of the invader. One great beacon throbbed upon\nthe summit of Butser, while beyond that, as far as eye could reach,\ntwinkling sparks of light showed how the tidings were being carried\nnorth into Berkshire and eastward into Sussex. Of these fires, some were\ncomposed of faggots piled into heaps, and others of tar barrels set upon\npoles. We passed one of these last just opposite to Portchester, and the\nwatchers around it, hearing the tramp of our horses and the clank of\nour arms, set up a loud huzza, thinking doubtless that we were King's\nofficers bound for the West.\n\nMaster Decimus Saxon had flung to the winds the precise demeanour which\nhe had assumed in the presence of my father, and rattled away with many\na jest and scrap of rhyme or song as we galloped through the darkness.\n\n'Gadzooks!' said he frankly, 'it is good to be able to speak freely\nwithout being expected to tag every sentence with a hallelujah or an\namen.'\n\n'You were ever the leader in those pious exercises,' I remarked drily.\n\n'Aye, indeed. You have nicked it there! If a thing must be done, then\ntake a lead in it, whatever it may be. A plaguy good precept, which has\nstood me in excellent stead before now. I cannot bear in mind whether I\ntold you how I was at one time taken prisoner by the Turks and conveyed\nto Stamboul. There were a hundred of us or more, but the others either\nperished under the bastinado, or are to this day chained to an oar in\nthe Imperial Ottoman galleys, where they are like to remain until they\ndie under the lash, or until some Venetian or Genoese bullet finds its\nway into their wretched carcasses. I alone came off with my freedom.'\n\n'And pray, how did you make your escape?' I asked.\n\n'By the use of the wit wherewith Providence hath endowed me,' he\nanswered complacently; 'for, seeing that their accursed religion is the\nblind side of these infidels, I did set myself to work upon it. To this\nend I observed the fashion in which our guard performed their morning\nand evening exercises, and having transformed my doublet into a praying\ncloth, I did imitate them, save only that I prayed at greater length and\nwith more fervour.'\n\n'What!' I cried in horror. 'You did pretend to be a Mussulman?'\n\n'Nay, there was no pretence. I became a Mussulman. That, however,\nbetwixt ourselves, as it might not stand me in very good stead with some\nReverend Aminadab Fount-of-Grace in the rebel camp, who is no admirer of\nMahmoud.'\n\nI was so astounded at the impudence of this confession, coming from the\nmouth of one who had been leading the exercises of a pious Christian\nfamily, that I was fairly bereft of speech. Decimus Saxon whistled a few\nbars of a sprightly tune, and then continued--\n\n'My perseverance in these exercises soon led to my being singled out\nfrom among the other prisoners, until I so prevailed upon my gaolers\nthat the doors were opened for me, and I was allowed out on condition\nof presenting myself at the prison gates once a day. What use, think ye,\ndid I make of my freedom?'\n\n'Nay, you are capable of anything,' said I.\n\n'I set off forthwith to their chief mosque--that of St. Sophia. When the\ndoors opened and the muezzin called, I was ever the first to hurry into\ndevotions and the last to leave them. Did I see a Mussulman strike his\nhead upon the pavement, I would strike mine twice. Did I see him bend\nand bow, I was ready to prostrate myself. In this way ere long the piety\nof the converted Giaour became the talk of the city, and I was provided\nwith a hut in which to make my sacred meditations. Here I might have\ndone well, and indeed I had well-nigh made up my mind to set up as\na prophet and write an extra chapter to the Koran, when some foolish\ntrifle made the faithful suspicious of my honesty. It was but some\nnonsense of a wench being found in my hut by some who came to consult\nme upon a point of faith, but it was enough to set their heathen tongues\nwagging; so I thought it wisest to give them the slip in a Levantine\ncoaster and leave the Koran uncompleted. It is perhaps as well, for it\nwould be a sore trial to have to give up Christian women and pork, for\ntheir garlic-breathing houris and accursed kybobs of sheep's flesh.'\n\nWe had passed through Fareham and Botley during this conversation, and\nwere now making our way down the Bishopstoke road. The soil changes\nabout here from chalk to sand, so that our horses' hoofs did but make\na dull subdued rattle, which was no bar to our talk--or rather to my\ncompanion's, for I did little more than listen. In truth, my mind was so\nfull of anticipations of what was before us, and of thoughts of the\nhome behind, that I was in no humour for sprightly chatter. The sky was\nsomewhat clouded, but the moon glinted out between the rifts, showing\nus the long road which wound away in front of us. On either side were\nscattered houses with gardens sloping down toward the road. The heavy,\nsickly scent of strawberries was in the air.\n\n'Hast ever slain a man in anger?' asked Saxon, as we galloped along.\n\n'Never,' I answered.\n\n'Ha! You will find that when you hear the clink of steel against steel,\nand see your foeman's eyes, you will straightway forget all rules,\nmaxims, and precepts of the fence which your father or others may have\ntaught you.'\n\n'I have learned little of the sort,' said I. My father did but teach\nme to strike an honest downright blow. This sword can shear through a\nsquare inch of iron bar.'\n\n'Scanderbeg's sword must have Scanderbeg's arm,' he remarked. 'I\nhave observed that it is a fine piece of steel. One of the real old\ntext-compellers and psalm-expounders which the faithful drew in the days\nof yore, when they would:\n\n          \"Prove their religion orthodox,\n           By Apostolic blows and knocks.\"\n\nYou have not fenced much, then?'\n\n'Scarce at all,' said I.\n\n'It is as well. With an old and tried swordsman like myself, knowledge\nof the use of his weapon is everything; but with a young Hotspur of your\ntemper, strength and energy go for much. I have oft remarked that those\nwho are most skilled at the shooting of the popinjay, the cleaving of\nthe Turk's head, and other such sports, are ever laggards in the field.\nHad the popinjay a crossbow as well, and an arrow on the string, or\nhad the Turk a fist as well as a head, our young gallant's nerves would\nscarce be as steady over the business. I make no doubt, Master Clarke,\nthat we shall make trusty comrades. What saith old Butler?\n\n          \"Never did trusty squire with knight,\n           Or knight with squire ere jump more right.\"\n\nI have scarce dared to quote \"Hudibras\" for these weeks past, lest I\nshould set the Covenant fermenting in the old man's veins.'\n\n'If we are indeed to be comrades,' said I sternly, 'you must learn to\nspeak with more reverence and less flippancy of my father, who would\nassuredly never have harboured you had he heard the tale which you have\ntold me even now.'\n\n'Belike not,' the adventurer answered, chuckling to himself. 'It is a\nlong stride from a mosque to a conventicle. But be not so hot-headed,\nmy friend. You lack that repose of character which will come to you,\nno doubt, in your more mature years. What, man! within five minutes of\nseeing me you would have smitten me on the head with an oar, and ever\nsince you have been like a bandog at my heels, ready to hark if I do but\nset my foot over what you regard as the straight line. Remember that you\ngo now among men who fight on small occasion of quarrel. A word awry may\nmean a rapier thrust.'\n\n'Do you bear the same in mind,' I answered hotly; 'my temper is\npeaceful, but covert threats and veiled menace I shall not abide.'\n\n'Odd's mercy!' he cried. 'I see that you will start carving me anon, and\ntake me to Monmouth's camp in sections. Nay, nay, we shall have fighting\nenow without falling out among ourselves. What houses are those on the\nleft?'\n\n'The village of Swathling,' I replied. 'The lights of Bishopstoke lie to\nthe right, in the hollow.'\n\n'Then we are fifteen miles on our way, and methinks there is already\nsome faint flush of dawn in the east. Hullo, what have we here? Beds\nmust be scarce if folks sleep on the highways.'\n\nA dark blur which I had remarked upon the roadway in front of us had\nresolved itself as we approached into the figure of a man, stretched\nat full length, with his face downwards, and his head resting upon his\ncrossed arms.\n\n'Some reveler, mayhap, from the village inn,' I remarked.\n\n'There's blood in the air,' said Saxon, raising up his beak-like nose\nlike a vulture which scents carrion. 'Methinks he sleeps the sleep which\nknows no waking.'\n\nHe sprang down from his saddle, and turned the figure over upon his\nback. The cold pale light of the early dawn shimmering upon his staring\neyes and colourless face showed that the old soldier's instinct was\ncorrect, and that he had indeed drawn his last breath.\n\n'Here's a pretty piece of work,' said Saxon, kneeling by the dead man's\nside and passing his hands over his pockets. 'Footpads, doubtless. Not a\nstiver in his pockets, nor as much as a sleeve-link to help pay for the\nburial.'\n\n'How was he slain!' I asked in horror, looking down at the poor vacant\nface, the empty house from which the tenant had departed.\n\n'A stab from behind and a tap on the head from the butt of a pistol.\nHe cannot have been dead long, and yet every groat is gone. A man of\nposition, too, I should judge from his dress--broadcloth coat by the\nfeel, satin breeches, and silver buckles on his shoes. The rogues must\nhave had some plunder with him. Could we but run across them, Clarke, it\nwould be a great and grand thing.'\n\n'It would indeed,' said I heartily. 'What greater privilege than to\nexecute justice upon such cowardly murderers!'\n\n'Pooh! pooh!' he cried. 'Justice is a slippery dame, and hath a\ntwo-edged sword in her hand. We may have enough of justice in our\ncharacter as rebels to give us a surfeit of it. I would fain overtake\nthese robbers that we may relieve them of their _spolia opima_, together\nwith any other wealth which they may have unlawfully amassed. My learned\nfriend the Fleming layeth it down that it is no robbery to rob a robber.\nBut where shall we conceal this body?'\n\n'Wherefore should we conceal it?' I asked.\n\n'Why, man, unused to war or the precautions of a warrior, you must yet\nsee that should this body be found here, there will be a hue and cry\nthrough the country, and that strangers like ourselves will be arrested\non suspicion. Should we clear ourselves, which is no very easy matter,\nthe justice will at least want to know whence we come and whither we\ngo, which may lead to inquiries that may bode us little good. I shall\ntherefore take the liberty, mine unknown and silent friend, of dragging\nyou into yon bushes, where for a day or two at least you are like to lie\nunobserved, and so bring no harm upon honest men.'\n\n'For God's sake do not treat it so unkindly,' I cried, springing down\nfrom my horse and laying my hand upon my companion's arm. 'There is no\nneed to trail it in so unseemly a fashion. If it must be moved hence, I\nshall carry it with all due reverence. 'So saying, I picked the body up\nin my arms, and bearing it to a wayside clump of yellow gorse bushes, I\nlaid it solemnly down and drew the branches over it to conceal it.\n\n'You have the thews of an ox and the heart of a woman, 'muttered my\ncompanion. 'By the Mass, that old white-headed psalm-singer was right;\nfor if my memory serves me, he said words to that effect. A few handfuls\nof dust will hide the stains. Now we may jog upon our way without any\nfear of being called upon to answer for another man's sins. Let me but\nget my girth tightened and we may soon be out of danger's way.'\n\n'I have had to do,' said Saxon, as we rode onwards, 'with many gentry\nof this sort, with Albanian brigands, the banditti of Piedmont, the\nLanzknechte and Freiritter of the Rhine, Algerine picaroons, and other\nsuch folk. Yet I cannot call to mind one who hath ever been able to\nretire in his old age on a sufficient competence. It is but a precarious\ntrade, and must end sooner or later in a dance on nothing in a tight\ncravat, with some kind friend tugging at your legs to ease you of any\nbreath that you might have left.'\n\n'Nor does that end all,' I remarked.\n\n'No. There is Tophet behind and the flames of hell. So our good friends\nthe parsons tell us. Well, if a man is to make no money in this world,\nbe hanged at the end of it, and finally burn for ever, he hath assuredly\nwandered on to a thorny track. If, on the other hand, one could always\nlay one's hands on a well-lined purse, as those rogues have done\nto-night, one might be content to risk something in the world to come.'\n\n'But what can the well-filled purse do for them?' said I. 'What will\nthe few score pieces which these bloodthirsty wretches have filched from\nthis poor creature avail them when their own hour of death comes round?'\n\n'True,' said Saxon dryly; 'they may, however, prove useful in the\nmeantime. This you say is Bishopstoke. What are the lights over yonder?'\n\n'They come, I think, from Bishop's Waltham,' I answered.\n\n'We must press on, for I would fain be in Salisbury before it is broad\nday. There we shall put our horses up until evening and have some rest,\nfor there is nothing gained by man or beast coming jaded to the wars.\nAll this day the western roads will be crowded with couriers, and mayhap\npatrolled by cavalry as well, so that we cannot show our faces upon it\nwithout a risk of being stopped and examined. Now if we lie by all day,\nand push on at dusk, keeping off the main road and making our way across\nSalisbury Plain and the Somersetshire downs, we shall be less likely to\ncome to harm.'\n\n'But what if Monmouth be engaged before we come up to him?' I asked.\n\n'Then we shall have missed a chance of getting our throats cut. Why,\nman, supposing that he has been routed and entirely dispersed, would\nit not be a merry conceit for us to appear upon the scene as two loyal\nyeomen, who had ridden all the way from Hampshire to strike in against\nthe King's enemies? We might chance to get some reward in money or in\nland for our zeal. Nay, frown not, for I was but jesting. Breathe our\nhorses by walking them up this hill. My jennet is as fresh as when we\nstarted, but those great limbs of thine are telling upon the grey.'\n\nThe patch of light in the east had increased and broadened, and the sky\nwas mottled with little pink feathers of cloud. As we passed over\nthe low hills by Chandler's Ford and Romsey we could see the smoke of\nSouthampton to the south-east, and the broad dark expanse of the New\nForest with the haze of morning hanging over it. A few horsemen passed\nus, pricking along, too much engrossed in their own errand to inquire\nours. A couple of carts and a long string of pack-horses, laden\nprincipally with bales of wool, came straggling along a byroad, and\nthe drivers waved their broad hats to us and wished us God-speed. At\nDunbridge the folk were just stirring, and paused in taking down the\ncottage shutters to come to the garden railings and watch us pass. As we\nentered Dean, the great red sun pushed its rosy rim over the edge of the\nhorizon, and the air was filled with the buzz of insects and the sweet\nscent of the morning. We dismounted at this latter village, and had a\ncup of ale while resting and watering the horses. The landlord could\ntell us nothing about the insurgents, and indeed seemed to care very\nlittle about the matter one way or the other. 'As long as brandy pays a\nduty of six shillings and eightpence a gallon, and freight and leakage\ncomes to half a crown, while I am expected to sell it at twelve\nshillings, it matters little to me who is King of England. Give me a\nking that will prevent the hop-blight and I am his man.' Those were the\nlandlord's politics, and I dare say a good many more were of his way of\nthinking.\n\nFrom Dean to Salisbury is all straight road with moor, morass, and\nfenland on either side, broken only by the single hamlet of Aldersbury,\njust over the Wiltshire border. Our horses, refreshed by the short rest,\nstepped out gallantly, and the brisk motion, with the sunlight and the\nbeauty of the morning, combined to raise our spirits and cheer us after\nthe depression of the long ride through the darkness, and the incident\nof the murdered traveller. Wild duck, widgeon, and snipe flapped up from\neither side of the road at the sound of the horses' hoofs, and once a\nherd of red deer sprang to their feet from among the ferns and scampered\naway in the direction of the forest. Once, too, when passing a dense\nclump of trees, we saw a shadowy white creature half hidden by the\ntrunks, which must, I fancy, have been one of those wild cattle of\nwhich I have heard the peasants speak, who dwell in the recesses of\nthe southern woods, and are so fierce and intractable that none dare\napproach them. The breadth of the view, the keenness of the air, and the\nnovelty of the sense of having great work to do, all combined to send a\nflush of life through my veins such as the quiet village existence\nhad never been able to give. My more experienced companion felt the\ninfluence too, for he lifted up a cracked voice and broke into a droning\nchant, which he assured me was an Eastern ode which had been taught him\nby the second sister of the Hospodar of Wallachia.\n\n'Anent Monmouth,' he remarked, coming back suddenly to the realities of\nour position. 'It is unlikely that he can take the field for some days,\nthough much depends upon his striking a blow soon, and so raising the\ncourage of his followers before the King's troops can come down upon\nhim. He has, mark ye, not only his troops to find, but their weapons,\nwhich is like to prove a more difficult matter. Suppose he can raise\nfive thousand men--and he cannot stir with less--he will not have one\nmusket in five, so the rest must do as they can with pikes and bills, or\nsuch other rude arms as they can find. All this takes time, and though\nthere may be skirmishes, there can scarce be any engagement of import\nbefore we arrive.'\n\n'He will have been landed three or four days ere we reach him,' said I.\n\n'Hardly time for him with his small staff of officers to enrol his men\nand divide them into regiments. I scarce expect to find him at Taunton,\nthough we were so directed. Hast ever heard whether there are any rich\nPapists in those parts?'\n\n'I know not,' I replied.\n\n'If so there might be plate chests and silver chargers, to say nothing\nof my lady's jewels and other such trifles to reward a faithful soldier.\nWhat would war be without plunder! A bottle without the wine--a shell\nwithout the oyster. See the house yonder that peeps through the trees.\nI warrant there is a store of all good things under that roof, which you\nand I might have for the asking, did we but ask with our swords in our\ngrip. You are my witness that your father did give and not lend me this\nhorse.'\n\n'Why say you that, then?'\n\n'Lest he claim a half of whatever booty I may chance to gain. What saith\nmy learned Fleming under the heading \"an qui militi equum praebuit,\npraedae ab eo captae particeps esse debeat?\" which signifieth \"whether\nhe who lendeth a horse hath a claim on the plunder of him who borroweth\nit.\" In this discourse he cites a case wherein a Spanish commander\nhaving lent a steed to one of his captains, and the said captain having\ncaptured the general of the enemy, the commander did sue him for a\nhalf share of the twenty thousand crowns which formed the ransom of the\nprisoner. A like case is noted by the famous Petrinus Bellus in his book\n\"De Re Militari,\" much read by leaders of repute.' (Note C. Appendix.)\n\n'I can promise you,' I answered, 'that no such claim shall ever be made\nby my father upon you. See yonder, over the brow of the hill, how the\nsun shines upon the high cathedral tower, which points upwards with its\ngreat stone finger to the road that every man must travel.'\n\n'There is good store of silver and plate in these same churches,' quoth\nmy companion. 'I remember that at Leipsic, when I was serving my first\ncampaign, I got a candlestick, which I was forced to sell to a Jew\nbroker for a fourth of its value; yet even at his price it sufficed to\nfill my haversack with broad pieces.'\n\nIt chanced that Saxon's mare had gained a stride or two upon mine whilst\nhe spoke, so that I was able to get a good view of him without turning\nmy head. I had scarce had light during our ride to see how his harness\nsat upon him, but now I was amazed on looking at him to mark the change\nwhich it had wrought in the man. In his civil dress his lankiness and\nlength of limb gave him an awkward appearance, but on horse-back, with\nhis lean, gaunt face looking out from his steel cap, his breastplate\nand buff jacket filling out his figure, and his high boots of untanned\nleather reaching to the centre of his thighs, he looked the veteran\nman-at-arms which he purported to be. The ease with which he sat his\nhorse, the high, bold expression upon his face, and the great length of\nhis arms, all marked him as one who could give a good account of himself\nin a fray. In his words alone I could have placed little trust, but\nthere was that in his bearing which assured even a novice like myself\nthat he was indeed a trained man of war.\n\n'That is the Avon which glitters amongst the trees,' I remarked. 'We are\nabout three miles from Salisbury town.'\n\n'It is a noble spire,' said he, glancing at the great stone spire in\nfront of us. 'The men of old would seem to have spent all their days in\npiling stones upon stones. And yet we read of tough battles and shrewd\nblows struck, showing that they had some time for soldierly relaxation,\nand were not always at this mason work.'\n\n'The Church was rich in those days,' I answered, shaking my bridle, for\nCovenant was beginning to show signs of laziness. 'But here comes one\nwho might perhaps tell us something of the war.'\n\nA horseman who bore traces of having ridden long and hard was rapidly\napproaching us. Both rider and steed were grey with dust and splashed\nwith mire, yet he galloped with loosened rein and bent body, as one to\nwhom every extra stride is of value.\n\n'What ho, friend!' cried Saxon, reining his mare across the road so as\nto bar the man's passage. 'What news from the West?'\n\n'I must not tarry,' the messenger gasped, slackening his speed for an\ninstant. 'I bear papers of import from Gregory Alford, Mayor of Lyme, to\nIns Majesty's Council. The rebels make great head, and gather together\nlike bees in the swarming time. There are some thousands in arms\nalready, and all Devonshire is on the move. The rebel horse under Lord\nGrey hath been beaten back from Bridport by the red militia of Dorset,\nbut every prickeared Whig from the Channel to the Severn is making his\nway to Monmouth.' With this brief summary of the news he pushed his way\npast us and clattered on in a cloud of dust upon his mission.\n\n'The broth is fairly on the fire, then,' quoth Decimus Saxon, as we rode\nonwards. 'Now that skins have been slit the rebels may draw their swords\nand fling away their scabbards, for it's either victory for them or\ntheir quarters will be dangling in every market town of the county. Heh,\nlad? we throw a main for a brave stake.'\n\n'Marked ye that Lord Grey had met with a check,' said I.\n\n'Pshaw! it is of no import. A cavalry skirmish at the most, for it is\nimpossible that Monmouth could have brought his main forces to Bridport;\nnor would he if he could, for it is out of his track. It was one of\nthose three-shots-and-a-gallop affrays, where each side runs away and\neach claims the victory. But here we are in the streets of Salisbury.\nNow leave the talking to me, or your wrong-headed truthfulness may lay\nus by the heels before our time.'\n\nPassing down the broad High Street we dismounted in front of the Blue\nBoar inn, and handed our tired horses over to the ostler, to whom\nSaxon, in a loud voice, and with many rough military oaths, gave strict\ninjunctions as to their treatment. He then clanked into the inn parlour,\nand throwing himself into one chair with his feet upon another, he\nsummoned the landlord up before him, and explained our needs in a tone\nand manner which should give him a due sense of our quality.\n\n'Of your best, and at once,' quoth he. 'Have your largest double-couched\nchamber ready with your softest lavender-scented sheets, for we have had\na weary ride and must rest. And hark ye, landlord, no palming off your\nstale, musty goods as fresh, or of your washy French wines for the true\nHainault vintage. I would have you to understand that my friend here and\nI are men who meet with some consideration in the world, though we\ncare not to speak our names to every underling. Deserve well of us,\ntherefore, or it may be the worse for you.'\n\nThis speech, combined with my companion's haughty manner and fierce\nface, had such an effect upon the landlord that he straightway sent\nus in the breakfast which had been prepared for three officers of the\nBlues, who were waiting for it in the next apartment. This kept them\nfasting for another half-hour, and we could hear their oaths and\ncomplaints through the partition while we were devouring their capon and\nvenison pie. Having eaten a hearty meal and washed it down with a bottle\nof Burgundy we sought our room, and throwing our tired limbs upon the\nbed, were soon in a deep slumber.\n\n\n\nChapter IX. Of a Passage of Arms at the Blue Boar\n\nI had slept several hours when I was suddenly aroused by a prodigious\ncrash, followed by the clash of arms and shrill cries from the lower\nfloor. Springing to my feet I found that the bed upon which my comrade\nhad lain was vacant, and that the door of the apartment was opened. As\nthe uproar still continued, and as I seemed to discern his voice in the\nmidst of it, I caught up my sword, and without waiting to put on either\nhead-piece, steel-breast, or arm-plates, I hurried to the scene of the\ncommotion.\n\nThe hall and passage were filled with silly maids and staring drawers,\nattracted, like myself, by the uproar. Through these I pushed my way\ninto the apartment where we had breakfasted in the morning, which was\na scene of the wildest disorder. The round table in the centre had\nbeen tilted over upon its side, and three broken bottles of wine, with\napples, pears, nuts, and the fragments of the dishes containing them,\nwere littered over the floor. A couple of packs of cards and a dice-box\nlay amongst the scattered feast. Close by the door stood Decimus Saxon,\nwith his drawn rapier in his hand and a second one beneath his feet,\nwhile facing him there was a young officer in a blue uniform, whose face\nwas reddened with shame and anger, and who looked wildly about the room\nas though in search of some weapon to replace that of which he had been\ndeprived. He might have served Cibber or Gibbons as a model for a statue\nof impotent rage. Two other officers dressed in the same blue uniform\nstood by their comrade, and as I observed that they had laid their hands\nupon the hilts of their swords, I took my place by Saxon's side, and\nstood ready to strike in should the occasion arise.\n\n'What would the maitre d'armes say--the maitre d'escrime?' cried my\ncompanion. 'Methinks he should lose his place for not teaching you to\nmake a better show. Out on him! Is this the way that he teaches the\nofficers of his Majesty's guard to use their weapons?'\n\n'This raillery, sir,' said the elder of the three, a squat, brown,\nheavy-faced man, 'is not undeserved, and yet might perchance be\ndispensed with. I am free to say that our friend attacked you somewhat\nhastily, and that a little more deference should have been shown by so\nyoung a soldier to a cavalier of your experience.'\n\nThe other officer, who was a fine-looking, noble-featured man, expressed\nhimself in much the same manner. 'If this apology will serve,' said he,\n'I am prepared to join in it. If, however, more is required, I shall be\nhappy to take the quarrel upon myself.'\n\n'Nay, nay, take your bradawl!' Saxon answered good-humouredly, kicking\nthe sword towards his youthful opponent. 'But, mark you! when you would\nlunge, direct your point upwards rather than down, for otherwise you\nmust throw your wrist open to your antagonist, who can scarce fail to\ndisarm you. In quarte, tierce, or saccoon the same holds good.'\n\nThe youth sheathed his sword, but was so overcome by his own easy defeat\nand the contemptuous way in which his opponent had dismissed him, that\nhe turned and hurried out of the room. Meanwhile Decimus Saxon and the\ntwo officers set to work getting the table upon its legs and restoring\nthe room to some sort of order, in which I did what I could to assist\nthem.\n\n'I held three queens for the first time to-day,' grumbled the soldier of\nfortune. 'I was about to declare them when this young bantam flew at my\nthroat. He hath likewise been the cause of our losing three flasks of\nmost excellent muscadine. When he hath drunk as much bad wine as I have\nbeen forced to do, he will not be so hasty in wasting the good.'\n\n'He is a hot-headed youngster,' the older officer replied, 'and a little\nsolitary reflection added to the lesson which you have taught him may\nbring him profit. As for the muscadine, that loss will soon be repaired,\nthe more gladly as your friend here will help us to drink it.'\n\n'I was roused by the crash of weapons,' said I, 'and I scarce know now\nwhat has occurred.'\n\n'Why, a mere tavern brawl, which your friend's skill and judgment\nprevented from becoming serious. I prythee take the rush-bottomed chair,\nand do you, Jack, order the wine. If our comrade hath spilled the last\nit is for us to furnish this, and the best the cellars contain. We have\nbeen having a hand at basset, which Mr. Saxon here playeth as skilfully\nas he wields the small-sword. It chanced that the luck ran against young\nHorsford, which doubtless made him prone to be quick in taking offence.\nYour friend in conversation, when discoursing of his experiences in\nforeign countries, remarked that the French household troops were to\nhis mind brought to a higher state of discipline than any of our own\nregiments, on which Horsford fired up, and after a hot word or two they\nfound themselves, as you have seen, at drawn bilbo. The boy hath seen no\nservice, and is therefore over-eager to give proof of his valour.'\n\n'Wherein,' said the tall officer, 'he showed a want of thought towards\nme, for had the words been offensive it was for me, who am a senior\ncaptain and brevet-major, to take it up, and not for a slip of a cornet,\nwho scarce knows enough to put his troop through the exercise.'\n\n'You say right, Ogilvy,' said the other, resuming his seat by the table\nand wiping the cards which had been splashed by the wine.' Had the\ncomparison been made by an officer of Louis's guard for the purpose\nof contumely and braggadocio, it would then indeed have become us to\nventure a passado. But when spoken by an Englishman of ripe experience\nit becomes a matter of instructive criticism, which should profit rather\nthan annoy.'\n\n'True, Ambrose,' the other answered. 'Without such criticism a force\nwould become stagnant, and could never hope to keep level with those\ncontinental armies, which are ever striving amongst themselves for\nincreased efficacy.'\n\nSo pleased was I at these sensible remarks on the part of the strangers,\nthat I was right glad to have the opportunity of making their closer\nacquaintance over a flask of excellent wine. My father's prejudices\nhad led me to believe that a King's officer was ever a compound of the\ncoxcomb and the bully, but I found on testing it that this idea, like\nmost others which a man takes upon trust, had very little foundation\nupon truth. As a matter of fact, had they been dressed in less warlike\ngarb and deprived of their swords and jack-boots, they would have passed\nas particularly mild-mannered men, for their conversation ran in the\nlearned channels, and they discussed Boyle's researches in chemistry and\nthe ponderation of air with much gravity and show of knowledge. At\nthe same time, their brisk bearing and manly carriage showed that in\ncultivating the scholar they hail not sacrificed the soldier.\n\n'May I ask, sir,' said one of them, addressing Saxon, 'whether in\nyour wide experiences you have ever met with any of those sages and\nphilosophers who have conferred such honour and fame upon France and\nGermany?'\n\nMy companion looked ill at ease, as one who feels that he has been taken\noff his ground. 'There was indeed one such at Nurnberg,' he answered,\n'one Gervinus or Gervanus, who, the folk said, could turn an ingot of\niron into an ingot of gold as easily as I turn this tobacco into ashes.\nOld Pappenheimer shut him up with a ton of metal, and threatened to put\nthe thumbikins upon him unless he changed it into gold pieces. I can\nvouch for it that there was not a yellow boy there, for I was captain of\nthe guard and searched the whole dungeon through. To my sorrow I say it,\nfor I had myself added a small iron brazier to the heap, thinking that\nif there should be any such change it would be as well that I should\nhave some small share in the experiment.'\n\n'Alchemy, transmutation of metals, and the like have been set aside by\ntrue science,' remarked the taller officer. 'Even old Sir Thomas Browne\nof Norwich, who is ever ready to plead the cause of the ancients, can\nfind nothing to say in favour of it. From Trismegistus downwards through\nAlbertus Magnus, Aquinas, Raymond Lullius, Basil Valentine, Paracelsus,\nand the rest, there is not one who has left more than a cloud of words\nbehind him.'\n\n'Nor did the rogue I mention,' said Saxon. 'There was another,\nVan Helstatt, who was a man of learning, and cast horoscopes in\nconsideration of some small fee or honorarium. I have never met so wise\na man, for he would talk of the planets and constellations as though he\nkept them all in his own backyard. He made no more of a comet than if it\nwere a mouldy china orange, and he explained their nature to us, saying\nthat they were but common stars which had had a hole knocked in them, so\nthat their insides or viscera protruded. He was indeed a philosopher!'\n\n'And did you ever put his skill to the test?' asked one of the officers,\nwith a smile.\n\n'Not I, forsooth, for I have ever kept myself clear of black magic or\ndiablerie of the sort. My comrade Pierce Scotton, who was an Oberst\nin the Imperial cavalry brigade, did pay him a rose noble to have his\nfuture expounded. If I remember aright, the stars said that he was\nover-fond of wine and women--he had a wicked eye and a nose like a\ncarbuncle. 'They foretold also that he would attain a marshal's baton\nand die at a ripe age, which might well have come true had he not been\nunhorsed a month later at Ober-Graustock, and slain by the hoofs of his\nown troop. Neither the planets nor even the experienced farrier of\nthe regiment could have told that the brute would have foundered so\ncompletely.'\n\nThe officers laughed heartily at my companion's views, and rose from\ntheir chairs, for the bottle was empty and the evening beginning to\ndraw in. 'We have work to do here,' said the one addressed as Ogilvy.\n'Besides, we must find this foolish boy of ours, and tell him that it is\nno disgrace to be disarmed by so expert a swordsman. We have to prepare\nthe quarters for the regiment, who will be up to join Churchill's\nforces not later than to-night. Ye are yourselves bound for the West, I\nunderstand?'\n\n'We belong to the Duke of Beaufort's household,' said Saxon.\n\n'Indeed! I thought ye might belong to Portman's yellow regiment of\nmilitia. I trust that the Duke will muster every man he can, and make\nplay until the royal forces come up.'\n\n'How many will Churchill bring?' asked my companion carelessly.\n\n'Eight hundred horse at the most, but my Lord Feversham will follow\nafter with close on four thousand foot.'\n\n'We may meet on the field of battle, if not before,' said I, and we bade\nour friendly enemies a very cordial adieu.\n\n'A skilful equivoque that last of yours, Master Micah,' quoth Decimus\nSaxon, 'though smacking of double dealing in a truth-lover like\nyourself. If we meet them in battle I trust that it may be with\nchevaux-de-frise of pikes and morgenstierns before us, and a litter of\ncaltrops in front of them, for Monmouth has no cavalry that could stand\nfor a moment against the Royal Guards.'\n\n'How came you to make their acquaintance?' I asked.\n\n'I slept a few hours, but I have learned in camps to do with little\nrest. Finding you in sound slumber, and hearing the rattle of the\ndice-box below, I came softly down and found means to join their\nparty--whereby I am a richer man by fifteen guineas, and might have\nhad more had that young fool not lugged out at me, or had the talk not\nturned afterwards upon such unseemly subjects as the laws of chemistry\nand the like. Prythee, what have the Horse Guards Blue to do with the\nlaws of chemistry? Wessenburg of the Pandours would, even at his own\nmess table, suffer much free talk--more perhaps than fits in with the\ndignity of a leader. Had his officers ventured upon such matter as\nthis, however, there would have been a drum-head court-martial, or a\ncashiering at the least.'\n\nWithout stopping to dispute either Master Saxon's judgment or that of\nWessenburg of the Pandours, I proposed that we should order an evening\nmeal, and should employ the remaining hour or two of daylight in looking\nover the city. The principal sight is of course the noble cathedral,\nwhich is built in such exact proportion that one would fail to\nunderstand its great size did one not actually enter it and pace round\nthe long dim aisles. So solemn were its sweeping arches and the long\nshafts of coloured light which shone through the stained-glass windows,\nthrowing strange shadows amongst the pillars, that even my companion,\nalbeit not readily impressed, was silent and subdued. It was a great\nprayer in stone.\n\nOn our way back to the inn we passed the town lock-up, with a railed\nspace in front of it, in which three great black-muzzled bloodhounds\nwere stalking about, with fierce crimsoned eyes and red tongues lolling\nout of their mouths. They were used, a bystander told us, for the\nhunting down of criminals upon Salisbury Plain, which had been a refuge\nfor rogues and thieves, until this means had been adopted for following\nthem to their hiding-places. It was well-nigh dark before we returned to\nthe hostel, and entirely so by the time that we had eaten our suppers,\npaid our reckoning, and got ready for the road.\n\nBefore we set off I bethought me of the paper which my mother had\nslipped into my hand on parting, and drawing it from my pouch I read\nit by the rushlight in our chamber. It still bore the splotches of the\ntears which she had dropped on it, poor soul, and ran in this wise:--\n\n'Instructions from Mistress Mary Clarke to her son Micah, on the twelfth\nday of June in the year of our Lord sixteen hundred and eighty-five.\n\n'On occasion of his going forth, like David of old, to do battle\nwith the Goliath of Papistry, which hath overshadowed and thrown into\ndisrepute that true and reverent regard for ritual which should exist in\nthe real Church of England, as ordained by law.\n\n'Let these points be observed by him, namely, to wit:\n\n'1. Change your hosen when the occasion serves. You have two pairs in\nyour saddle-bag, and can buy more, for the wool work is good in the\nWest.\n\n'2. A hare's foot suspended round the neck driveth away colic.\n\n'3. Say the Lord's Prayer night and morning. Also read the scriptures,\nespecially Job, the Psalms, and the Gospel according to St. Matthew.\n\n'4. Daffy's elixir possesses extraordinary powers in purifying the blood\nand working off all phlegms, humours, vapours, or rheums. The dose is\nfive drops. A small phial of it will be found in the barrel of your left\npistol, with wadding around it lest it come to harm.\n\n'5. Ten golden pieces are sewn into the hem of your under doublet. Touch\nthem not, save as a last resource.\n\n'6. Fight stoutly for the Lord, and yet I pray you, Micah, be not too\nforward in battle, but let others do their turn also.\n\nPress not into the heart of the fray, and yet flinch not from the\nstandard of the Protestant faith.\n\n'And oh, Micah, my own bright boy, come back safe to your mother, or my\nvery heart will break!\n\n'And the deponent will ever pray.'\n\n\nThe sudden gush of tenderness in the last few lines made the tears\nspring to my eyes, and yet I could scarce forbear from smiling at the\nwhole composition, for my dear mother had little time to cultivate the\ngraces of style, and it was evidently her thought that in order to make\nher instructions binding it was needful to express them in some sort of\nlegal form. I had little time to think over her advice, however, for I\nhad scarce finished reading it before the voice of Decimus Saxon, and\nthe clink of the horses' hoofs upon the cobble-stones of the yard,\ninformed me that all was ready for our departure.\n\n\n\n\nChapter X. Of our Perilous Adventure on the Plain\n\nWe were not half a mile from the town before the roll of kettledrums and\nthe blare of bugles swelling up musically through the darkness announced\nthe arrival of the regiment of horse which our friends at the inn had\nbeen expecting.\n\n'It is as well, perhaps,' said Saxon, 'that we gave them the slip,\nfor that young springald might have smelled a rat and played us some\nill-turn. Have you chanced to see my silken kerchief?'\n\n'Not I,' I answered.\n\n'Nay, then, it must have fallen from my bosom during our ruffle. I\ncan ill afford to leave it, for I travel light in such matters. Eight\nhundred men, quoth the major, and three thousand to follow. Should I\nmeet this same Oglethorpe or Ogilvy when the little business is over,\nI shall read him a lesson on thinking less of chemistry and more of\nthe need of preserving military precautions. It is well always to be\ncourteous to strangers and to give them information, but it is well also\nthat the information should be false.'\n\n'As his may have been,' I suggested.\n\n'Nay, nay, the words came too glibly from his tongue. So ho, Chloe, so\nho! She is full of oats and would fain gallop, but it is so plaguy dark\nthat we can scarce see where we are going.'\n\nWe had been trotting down the broad high-road shimmering vaguely white\nin the gloom, with the shadowy trees dancing past us on either side,\nscarce outlined against the dark background of cloud. We were now coming\nupon the eastern edge of the great plain, which extends forty miles one\nway and twenty the other, over the greater part of Wiltshire and past\nthe boundaries of Somersetshire. The main road to the West skirts this\nwilderness, but we had agreed to follow a less important track,\nwhich would lead us to our goal, though in a more tedious manner. Its\ninsignificance would, we hoped, prevent it from being guarded by the\nKing's horse. We had come to the point where this byroad branches off\nfrom the main highway when we heard the clatter of horses' hoofs behind\nus.\n\n'Here comes some one who is not afraid to gallop,' I remarked.\n\n'Halt here in the shadow!' cried Saxon, in a short, quick whisper. 'Have\nyour blade loose in the scabbard. He must have a set errand who rides so\nfast o' nights.'\n\nLooking down the road we could make out through the darkness a shadowy\nblur which soon resolved itself into man and horse. The rider was\nwell-nigh abreast of us before he was aware of our presence, when he\npulled up his steed in a strange, awkward fashion, and faced round in\nour direction.\n\n'Is Micah Clarke there?' he said, in a voice which was strangely\nfamiliar to my ears.\n\n'I am Micah Clarke,' said I.\n\n'And I am Reuben Lockarby,' cried our pursuer, in a mock heroic voice.\n'Ah, Micah lad, I'd embrace you were it not that I should assuredly fall\nout of the saddle if I attempted it, and perchance drag you along. That\nsudden pull up well-nigh landed me on the roadway. I have been sliding\noff and clambering on ever since I bade goodbye to Havant. Sure, such a\nhorse for slipping from under one was never bestridden by man.'\n\n'Good Heavens, Reuben!' I cried in amazement, 'what brings you all this\nway from home?'\n\n'The very same cause which brings you, Micah, and also Don Decimo Saxon,\nlate of the Solent, whom methinks I see in the shadow behind you. How\nfares it, oh illustrious one?'\n\n'It is you, then, young cock of the woods!' growled Saxon, in no very\noverjoyed voice.\n\n'No less a person,' said Reuben. 'And now, my gay cavalieros, round with\nyour horses and trot on your way, for there is no time to be lost. We\nought all to be at Taunton to-morrow.'\n\n'But, my dear Reuben,' said I, 'it cannot be that you are coming with us\nto join Monmouth. What would your father say? This is no holiday jaunt,\nbut one that may have a sad and stern ending. At the best, victory can\nonly come through much bloodshed and danger. At the worst, we are as\nlike to wind up upon a scaffold as not.'\n\n'Forwards, lads, forwards!' cried he, spurring on his horse, 'it is all\narranged and settled. I am about to offer my august person, together\nwith a sword which I borrowed and a horse which I stole, to his most\nProtestant highness, James, Duke of Monmouth.'\n\n'But how comes it all?' I asked, as we rode on together. 'It warms my\nvery heart to see you, but you were never concerned either in religion\nor in politics. Whence, then, this sudden resolution?'\n\n'Well, truth to tell,' he replied, 'I am neither a king's man nor a\nduke's man, nor would I give a button which sat upon the throne. I do\nnot suppose that either one or the other would increase the custom of\nthe Wheatsheaf, or want Reuben Lockarby for a councillor. I am a Micah\nClarke man, though, from the crown of my head to the soles of my feet;\nand if he rides to the wars, may the plague strike me if I don't stick\nto his elbow!' He raised his hand excitedly as he spoke, and instantly\nlosing his balance, he shot into a dense clump of bushes by the roadside\nwhence his legs flapped helplessly in the darkness.\n\n'That makes the tenth,' said he, scrambling out and clambering into\nhis saddle once more. 'My father used to tell me not to sit a horse too\nclosely. \"A gentle rise and fall,\" said the old man. Egad, there is more\nfall than rise, and it is anything but gentle.'\n\n'Odd's truth!' exclaimed Saxon. 'How in the name of all the saints in\nthe calendar do you expect to keep your seat in the presence of an enemy\nif you lose it on a peaceful high-road?'\n\n'I can but try, my illustrious,' he answered, rearranging his ruffled\nclothing. 'Perchance the sudden and unexpected character of my movements\nmay disconcert the said enemy.'\n\n'Well, well, there may be more truth in that than you are aware of,'\nquoth Saxon, riding upon Lockarby's bridle arm, so that there was scarce\nroom for him to fall between us. 'I had sooner fight a man like that\nyoung fool at the inn, who knew a little of the use of his weapon, than\none like Micah here, or yourself, who know nothing. You can tell what\nthe one is after, but the other will invent a system of his own which\nwill serve his turn for the nonce. Ober-hauptmann Muller was reckoned to\nbe the finest player at the small-sword in the Kaiser's army, and could\nfor a wager snick any button from an opponent's vest without cutting the\ncloth. Yet was he slain in an encounter with Fahnfuhrer Zollner, who was\na cornet in our own Pandour corps, and who knew as much of the rapier as\nyou do of horsemanship. For the rapier, be it understood, is designed\nto thrust and not to cut, so that no man wielding it ever thinks of\nguarding a side-stroke. But Zollner, being a long-armed man, smote his\nantagonist across the face with his weapon as though it had been a\ncane, and then, ere he had time to recover himself, fairly pinked him.\nDoubtless if the matter were to do again, the Oberhauptmann would have\ngot his thrust in sooner, but as it was, no explanation or excuse could\nget over the fact that the man was dead.'\n\n'If want of knowledge maketh a dangerous swordsman,' quoth Reuben, 'then\nam I even more deadly than the unpronounceable gentleman whom you have\nmentioned. To continue my story, however, which I broke off in order to\nstep down from my horse, I found out early in the morning that ye were\ngone, and Zachary Palmer was able to tell me whither. I made up my mind,\ntherefore, that I would out into the world also. To this end I borrowed\na sword from Solomon Sprent, and my father having gone to Gosport,\nI helped myself to the best nag in his stables--for I have too much\nrespect for the old man to allow one of his flesh and blood to go\nill-provided to the wars. All day I have ridden, since early morning,\nbeing twice stopped on suspicion of being ill-affected, but having the\ngood luck to get away each time. I knew that I was close at your heels,\nfor I found them searching for you at the Salisbury Inn.'\n\nDecimus whistled. 'Searching for us?' said he.\n\n'Yes. It seems that they had some notion that ye were not what ye\nprofessed to be, so the inn was surrounded as I passed, but none knew\nwhich road ye had taken.'\n\n'Said I not so?' cried Saxon. 'That young viper hath stirred up the\nregiment against us. We must push on, for they may send a party on our\ntrack.'\n\n'We are off the main road now, 'I remarked; 'even should they pursue us,\nthey would be unlikely to follow this side track.'\n\n'Yet it would be wise to show them a clean pair of heels,' said Saxon,\nspurring his mare into a gallop. Lockarby and I followed his example,\nand we all three rode swiftly along the rough moorland track.\n\nWe passed through scattered belts of pinewood, where the wild cat howled\nand the owl screeched, and across broad stretches of fenland and moor,\nwhere the silence was only broken by the booming cry of the bittern or\nthe fluttering of wild duck far above our heads. The road was in parts\novergrown with brambles, and was so deeply rutted and so studded with\nsharp and dangerous hollows, that our horses came more than once upon\ntheir knees. In one place the wooden bridge which led over a stream had\nbroken down, and no attempt had been made to repair it, so that we were\ncompelled to ride our horses girth deep through the torrent. At first\nsome scattered lights had shown that we were in the neighbourhood of\nhuman habitations, but these became fewer as we advanced, until the last\ndied away and we found ourselves upon the desolate moor which stretched\naway in unbroken solitude to the shadowy horizon. The moon had broken\nthrough the clouds and now shone hazily through wreaths of mist,\nthrowing a dim light over the wild scene, and enabling us to keep to\nthe track, which was not fenced in in any way and could scarce be\ndistinguished from the plain around it.\n\nWe had slackened our pace under the impression that all fear of pursuit\nwas at an end, and Reuben was amazing us by an account of the excitement\nwhich had been caused in Havant by our disappearance, when through the\nstillness of the night a dull, muffled rat-tat-tat struck upon my ear.\nAt the same moment Saxon sprang from his horse and listened intently\nwith sidelong head.\n\n'Boot and saddle!' he cried, springing into his seat again. 'They are\nafter us as sure as fate. A dozen troopers by the sound. We must shake\nthem off, or goodbye to Monmouth.'\n\n'Give them their heads,' I answered, and striking spurs into our steeds,\nwe thundered on through the darkness. Covenant and Chloe were as fresh\nas could be wished, and soon settled down into a long springy gallop.\nOur friend's horse however, had been travelling all day, and its\nlong-drawn, laboured breathing showed that it could not hold out for\nlong. Through the clatter of our horses' hoofs I could still from time\nto time hear the ominous murmur from behind us.\n\n'This will never do, Reuben,' said I anxiously, as the weary creature\nstumbled, and the rider came perilously near to shooting over its head.\n\n'The old horse is nearly foundered,' he answered ruefully. 'We are off\nthe road now, and the rough ground is too much for her.'\n\n'Yes, we are off the track,' cried Saxon over his shoulder--for he led\nus by a few paces. 'Bear in mind that the Bluecoats have been on the\nmarch all day, so that their horses may also be blown. How in Himmel\ncame they to know which road we took?'\n\nAs if in answer to his ejaculation, there rose out of the still night\nbehind us a single, clear, bell-like note, swelling and increasing in\nvolume until it seemed to fill the whole air with its harmony.\n\n'A bloodhound!' cried Saxon.\n\nA second sharper, keener note, ending in an unmistakable howl, answered\nthe first.\n\n'Another of them,' said he. 'They have loosed the brutes that we saw\nnear the Cathedral. Gad! we little thought when we peered over the rails\nat them, a few hours ago, that they would so soon be on our own track.\nKeep a firm knee and a steady seat, for a slip now would be your last.'\n\n'Holy mother!' cried Reuben, 'I had steeled myself to die in battle--but\nto be dogsmeat! It is something outside the contract.'\n\n'They hold them in leash,' said Saxon, between his teeth, 'else they\nwould outstrip the horses and be lost in the darkness.\n\nCould we but come on running water we might put them off our track.'\n\n'My horse cannot hold on at this pace for more than a very few minutes,'\nReuben cried. 'If I break down, do ye go on, for ye must remember\nthat they are upon your track and not mine. They have found cause for\nsuspicion of the two strangers of the inn, but none of me.'\n\n'Nay, Reuben, we shall stand or fall together,' said I sadly, for at\nevery step his horse grew more and more feeble. 'In this darkness they\nwill make little distinction between persons.'\n\n'Keep a good heart,' shouted the old soldier, who was now leading us by\ntwenty yards or more. 'We can hear them because the wind blows from that\nway, but it's odds whether they have heard us. Methinks they slacken in\ntheir pursuit.'\n\n'The sound of their horses has indeed grown fainter,' said I joyfully.\n\n'So faint that I can hear it no longer,' my companion cried.\n\nWe reined up our panting steeds and strained our ears, but not a\nsound could we hear save the gentle murmur of the breeze amongst the\nwhin-bushes, and the melancholy cry of the night-jar. Behind us the\nbroad rolling plain, half light and half shadow, stretched away to\nthe dim horizon without sign of life or movement. 'We have either\noutstripped them completely, or else they have given up the chase,' said\nI. 'What ails the horses that they should tremble and snort?'\n\n'My poor beast is nearly done for,' Reuben remarked, leaning forward and\npassing his hand down the creature's reeking neck.\n\n'For all that we cannot rest,' said Saxon. 'We may not be out of danger\nyet. Another mile or two may shake us clear. But I like it not.'\n\n'Like not what?'\n\n'These horses and their terrors. The beasts can at times both see and\nhear more than we, as I could show by divers examples drawn from mine\nown experience on the Danube and in the Palatinate, were the time and\nplace more fitting. Let us on, then, before we rest.'\n\nThe weary horses responded bravely to the call, and struggled onwards\nover the broken ground for a considerable time. At last we were thinking\nof pulling up in good earnest, and of congratulating ourselves upon\nhaving tired out our pursuers, when of a sudden the bell-like baying\nbroke upon our ears far louder than it had been before--so loud, indeed,\nthat it was evident that the dogs were close upon our heels.\n\n'The accursed hounds!' cried Saxon, putting spurs to his horse and\nshooting ahead of us; 'I feared as much. They have freed them from the\nleash. There is no escape from the devils, but we can choose the spot\nwhere we shall make our stand.'\n\n'Come on, Reuben,' I shouted. 'We have only to reckon with the dogs now.\nTheir masters have let them loose, and turned back for Salisbury.'\n\n'Pray heaven they break their necks before they get there!' he cried.\n'They set dogs on us as though we were rats in a cock-pit. Yet they call\nEngland a Christian country! It's no use, Micah. Poor Dido can't stir\nanother step.'\n\nAs he spoke, the sharp fierce bay of the hounds rose again, clear and\nstern on the night air, swelling up from a low hoarse growl to a high\nangry yelp. There seemed to be a ring of exultation in their wild cry,\nas though they knew that their quarry was almost run to earth.\n\n'Not another step!' said Reuben Lockarby, pulling up and drawing his\nsword. 'If I must fight, I shall fight here.'\n\n'There could be no better place,' I replied. Two great jagged rocks rose\nbefore us, jutting abruptly out of the ground, and leaving a space of\ntwelve or fifteen feet between them. Through this gap we rode, and\nI shouted loudly for Saxon to join us. His horse, however, had been\nsteadily gaining upon ours, and at the renewed alarm had darted off\nagain, so that he was already some hundred yards from us. It was useless\nto summon him, even could he hear our voices, for the hounds would be\nupon us before he could return.\n\n'Never heed him,' I said hurriedly. 'Do you rein your steed behind\nthat rock, and I behind this. They will serve to break the force of the\nattack. Dismount not, but strike down, and strike hard.'\n\nOn either side in the shadow of the rock we waited in silence for our\nterrible pursuers. Looking back at it, my dear children, I cannot but\nthink that it was a great trial on such young soldiers as Reuben and\nmyself to be put, on the first occasion of drawing our swords, into such\na position. For I have found, and others have confirmed my opinion,\nthat of all dangers that a man is called upon to face, that arising from\nsavage and determined animals is the most unnerving. For with men there\nis ever the chance that some trait of weakness or of want of courage may\ngive you an advantage over them, but with fierce beasts there is no such\nhope. We knew that the creatures to whom we were opposed could never\nbe turned from our throats while there was breath in their bodies. One\nfeels in one's heart, too, that the combat is an unequal one, for your\nlife is precious at least to your friends, while their lives, what are\nthey? All this and a great deal more passed swiftly through our minds\nas we sat with drawn swords, soothing our trembling horses as best we\nmight, and waiting for the coming of the hounds.\n\nNor had we long to wait. Another long, deep, thunderous bay sounded\nin our ears, followed by a profound silence, broken only by the quick\nshivering breathing of the horses. Then suddenly, and noiselessly, a\ngreat tawny brute, with its black muzzle to the earth, and its overhung\ncheeks napping on either side, sprang into the band of moonlight between\nthe rocks, and on into the shadow beyond. It never paused or swerved for\nan instant, but pursued its course straight onwards without a glance\nto right or to left. Close behind it came a second, and behind that a\nthird, all of enormous size, and looking even larger and more terrible\nthan they were in the dim shifting light. Like the first, they took no\nnotice of our presence, but bounded on along the trail left by Decimus\nSaxon.\n\nThe first and second I let pass, for I hardly realised that they so\ncompletely overlooked us. When the third, however, sprang out into the\nmoonlight, I drew my right-hand pistol from its holster, and resting\nits long barrel across my left forearm, I fired at it as it passed. The\nbullet struck the mark, for the brute gave a fierce howl of rage and\npain, but true to the scent it never turned or swerved. Lockarby fired\nalso as it disappeared among the brushwood, but with no apparent effect.\nSo swiftly and so noiselessly did the great hounds pass, that they might\nhave been grim silent spirits of the night, the phantom dogs of Herne\nthe hunter, but for that one fierce yelp which followed my shot.\n\n'What brutes!' my companion ejaculated; 'what shall we do, Micah?'\n\n'They have clearly been laid on Saxon's trail,' said I. 'We must follow\nthem up, or they will be too many for him. Can you hear anything of our\npursuers?'\n\n'Nothing.'\n\n'They have given up the chase, then, and let the dogs loose as a last\nresource. Doubtless the creatures are trained to return to the town. But\nwe must push on, Reuben, if we are to help our companion.'\n\n'One more spurt, then, little Dido,' cried Reuben; 'can you muster\nstrength for one more? Nay, I have not the heart to put spurs to you. If\nyou can do it, I know you will.'\n\nThe brave mare snorted, as though she understood her riders words, and\nstretched her weary limbs into a gallop. So stoutly did she answer the\nappeal that, though I pressed Covenant to his topmost speed, she was\nnever more than a few strides behind him.\n\n'He took this direction,' said I, peering anxiously out into the\ndarkness. 'He can scarce have gone far, for he spoke of making a stand.\nOr, perhaps, finding that we are not with him, he may trust to the speed\nof his horse.'\n\n'What chance hath a horse of outstripping these brutes?' Reuben\nanswered. 'They must run him to earth, and he knows it. Hullo! what have\nwe here?'\n\nA dark dim form lay stretched in the moonlight in front of us. It was\nthe dead body of a hound--the one evidently at which I had fired.\n\n'There is one of them disposed of, 'I cried joyously; 'we have but two\nto settle with now.'\n\n'As I spoke we heard the crack of two pistol-shots some little distance\nto the left. Heading our steeds in that direction, we pressed on at the\ntop of our speed. Presently out of the darkness in front of us there\narose such a roaring and a yelping as sent the hearts into our mouths.\nIt was not a single cry, such as the hounds had uttered when they were\non the scent, but a continuous deep-mouthed uproar, so fierce and so\nprolonged, that we could not doubt that they had come to the end of\ntheir run.\n\n'Pray God that they have not got him down!' cried Reuben, in a faltering\nvoice.\n\nThe same thought had crossed my own mind, for I have heard a similar\nthough lesser din come from a pack of otter hounds when they had\novertaken their prey and were tearing it to pieces. Sick at heart, I\ndrew my sword with the determination that, if we were too late to save\nour companion, we should at least revenge him upon the four-footed\nfiends. Bursting through a thick belt of scrub and tangled gorse bushes,\nwe came upon a scene so unlike what we had expected that we pulled up\nour horses in astonishment.\n\nA circular clearing lay in front of us, brightly illuminated by the\nsilvery moonshine. In the centre of this rose a giant stone, one\nof those high dark columns which are found all over the plain, and\nespecially in the parts round Stonehenge. It could not have been less\nthan fifteen feet in height, and had doubtless been originally straight,\nbut wind and weather, or the crumbling of the soil, had gradually\nsuffered it to tilt over until it inclined at such an angle that an\nactive man might clamber up to the summit. On the top of this ancient\nstone, cross-legged and motionless, like some strange carved idol of\nformer days, sat Decimus Saxon, puffing sedately at the long pipe which\nwas ever his comfort in moments of difficulty. Beneath him, at the base\nof the monolith, as our learned men call them, the two great bloodhounds\nwere rearing and springing, clambering over each other's backs in their\nfrenzied and futile eagerness to reach the impassive figure perched\nabove them, while they gave vent to their rage and disappointment in the\nhideous uproar which had suggested such terrible thoughts to our mind.\n\nWe had little time, however, to gaze at this strange scene, for upon our\nappearance the hounds abandoned their helpless attempts to reach Saxon,\nand flew, with a fierce snarl of satisfaction, at Reuben and myself.\nOne great brute, with flaring eyes and yawning mouth, his white fangs\nglistening in the moonlight, sprang at my horse's neck; but I met him\nfair with a single sweeping cut, which shore away his muzzle, and left\nhim wallowing and writhing in a pool of blood. Reuben, meanwhile, had\nspurred his horse forward to meet his assailant; but the poor tired\nsteed flinched at the sight of the fierce hound, and pulled up suddenly,\nwith the result that her rider rolled headlong into the very jaws of the\nanimal. It might have gone ill with Reuben had he been left to his own\nresources. At the most he could only have kept the cruel teeth from\nhis throat for a very few moments; but seeing the mischance, I drew my\nremaining pistol, and springing from my horse, discharged it full into\nthe creature's flank while it struggled with my friend. With a last\nyell of rage and pain it brought its fierce jaws together in one wild\nimpotent snap, and then sank slowly over upon its side, while Reuben\ncrawled from beneath it, scared and bruised, but none the worse\notherwise for his perilous adventure.\n\n'I owe you one for that, Micah,' he said gratefully. 'I may live to do\nas much for you.'\n\n'And I owe ye both one,' said Saxon, who had scrambled down from his\nplace of refuge. 'I pay my debts, too, whether for good or evil. I might\nhave stayed up there until I had eaten my jack-boots, for all the chance\nI had of ever getting down again. Sancta Maria! but that was a shrewd\nblow of yours, Clarke! The brute's head flew in halves like a rotten\npumpkin. No wonder that they stuck to my track, for I have left both my\nspare girth and my kerchief behind me, which would serve to put them on\nChloe's scent as well as mine own.'\n\n'And where is Chloe?' I asked, wiping my sword.\n\n'Chloe had to look out for herself. I found the brutes gaining on me,\nyou see, and I let drive at them with my barkers; but with a horse\nflying at twenty mile an hour, what chance is there for a single slug\nfinding its way home?' Things looked black then, for I had no time to\nreload, and the rapier, though the king of weapons in the duello, is\nscarce strong enough to rely upon on an occasion like this. As luck\nwould have it, just as I was fairly puzzled, what should I come across\nbut this handy stone, which the good priests of old did erect, as far as\nI can see, for no other purpose than to provide worthy cavalieros with\nan escape from such ignoble and scurvy enemies. I had no time to spare\nin clambering up it, for I had to tear my heel out of the mouth of the\nforemost of them, and might have been dragged down by it had he not\nfound my spur too tough a morsel for his chewing. But surely one of my\nbullets must have readied its mark.' Lighting the touch-paper in his\ntobacco-box, he passed it over the body of the hound which had attacked\nme, and then of the other.\n\n'Why, this one is riddled like a sieve,' he cried. 'What do you load\nyour petronels with, good Master Clarke?'\n\n'With two leaden slugs.'\n\n'Yet two leaden slugs have made a score of holes at the least! And of\nall things in this world, here is the neck of a bottle stuck in the\nbrute's hide!'\n\n'Good heavens!' I exclaimed. 'I remember. My dear mother packed a bottle\nof Daffy's elixir in the barrel of my pistol.'\n\n'And you have shot it into the bloodhound!' roared Reuben. 'Ho! ho! When\nthey hear that tale at the tap of the Wheatsheaf, there will be some\nthroats dry with laughter. Saved my life by shooting a dog with a bottle\nof Daffy's elixir!'\n\n'And a bullet as well, Reuben, though I dare warrant the gossips will\nsoon contrive to leave that detail out. It is a mercy the pistol did not\nburst. But what do you propose to do now, Master Saxon?'\n\n'Why, to recover my mare if it can anywise be done,' said the\nadventurer.' Though on this vast moor, in the dark, she will be as\ndifficult to find as a Scotsman's breeches or a flavourless line in\n\"Hudibras.\"'\n\n'And Reuben Lockarby's steed can go no further,' I remarked. 'But do\nmine eyes deceive me, or is there a glimmer of light over yonder?'\n\n'A Will-o'-the-wisp,' said Saxon.\n\n          \"An _ignis fatuus_ that bewitches,\n           And leads men into pools and ditches.\"\n\nYet I confess that it burns steady and clear, as though it came from\nlamp, candle, rushlight, lanthorn, or other human agency.'\n\n'Where there is light there is life,' cried Reuben. 'Let us make for it,\nand see what chance of shelter we may find there.'\n\n'It cannot come from our dragoon friends,' remarked Decimus. 'A murrain\non them! how came they to guess our true character; or was it on the\nscore of some insult to the regiment that that young Fahnfuhrer has set\nthem on our track? If I have him at my sword's point again, he shall\nnot come off so free. Well, do ye lead your horses, and we shall explore\nthis light, since no better course is open to us.'\n\nPicking our way across the moor, we directed our course for the bright\npoint which twinkled in the distance; and as we advanced we hazarded\na thousand conjectures as to whence it could come. If it were a human\ndwelling, what sort of being could it be who, not content with living in\nthe heart of this wilderness, had chosen a spot so far removed from the\nordinary tracks which crossed it? The roadway was miles behind us, and\nit was probable that no one save those driven by such a necessity as\nthat which had overtaken us would ever find themselves in that desolate\nregion. No hermit could have desired an abode more completely isolated\nfrom all communion with his kind.\n\nAs we approached we saw that the light did indeed come from a small\ncottage, which was built in a hollow, so as to be invisible from any\nquarter save that from which we approached it. In front of this humble\ndwelling a small patch of ground had been cleared of shrub, and in the\ncentre of this little piece of sward our missing steed stood grazing at\nher leisure upon the scanty herbage. The same light which had attracted\nus had doubtless caught her eye, and drawn her towards it by hopes of\noats and of water. With a grunt of satisfaction Saxon resumed possession\nof his lost property, and leading her by the bridle, approached the door\nof the solitary cottage.\n\n\n\nChapter XI. Of the Lonely Man and the Gold Chest\n\nThe strong yellow glare which had attracted us across the moor found its\nway out through a single narrow slit alongside the door which served the\npurpose of a rude window. As we advanced towards it the light changed\nsuddenly to red, and that again to green, throwing a ghastly pallor over\nour faces, and especially heightening the cadaverous effect of Saxon's\naustere features. At the same time we became aware of a most subtle\nand noxious odour which poisoned the air all round the cottage.\nThis combination of portents in so lonely a spot worked upon the old\nman-at-arms' superstitious feelings to such an extent that he paused\nand looked back at us inquiringly. Both Reuben and I were determined,\nhowever, to carry the adventure through, so he contented himself with\nfalling a little behind us, and pattering to himself some exorcism\nappropriate to the occasion. Walking up to the door, I rapped upon it\nwith the hilt of my sword and announced that we were weary travellers\nwho were seeking a night's shelter.\n\nThe first result of my appeal was a sound as of some one bustling\nrapidly about, with the clinking of metal and noise of the turning of\nlocks. This died away into a hush, and I was about to knock once more\nwhen a crackling voice greeted us from the other side of the door.\n\n'There is little shelter here, gentlemen, and less provisions,' it said.\n'It is but six miles to Amesbury, where at the Cecil Arms ye shall find,\nI doubt not, all that is needful for man and for beast.'\n\n'Nay, nay, mine invisible friend,' quoth Saxon, who was much reassured\nby the sound of a human voice, 'this is surely but a scurvy reception.\nOne of our horses is completely foundered, and none of them are in\nvery good plight, so that we could no more make for the Cecil Arms at\nAmesbury than for the Gruner Mann at Lubeck. I prythee, therefore, that\nyou will allow us to pass the remainder of the night under your roof.'\n\nAt this appeal there was much creaking of locks and rasping of bolts,\nwhich ended in the door swinging slowly open, and disclosing the person\nwho had addressed us.\n\nBy the strong light which shone out from behind him we could see that\nhe was a man of venerable aspect, with snow-white hair and a countenance\nwhich bespoke a thoughtful and yet fiery nature. The high pensive brow\nand flowing beard smacked of the philosopher, but the keen sparkling\neye, the curved aquiline nose, and the lithe upright figure which the\nweight of years had been unable to bend, were all suggestive of the\nsoldier. His lofty bearing, and his rich though severe costume of black\nvelvet, were at strange variance with the humble nature of the abode\nwhich he had chosen for his dwelling-place.\n\n'Ho!' said he, looking keenly at us. 'Two of ye unused to war, and the\nother an old soldier. Ye have been pursued, I see!'\n\n'How did you know that, then?' asked Decimus Saxon.\n\n'Ah, my friend, I too have served in my time. My eyes are not so old but\nthat they can tell when horses have been spurred to the utmost, nor is\nit difficult to see that this young giant's sword hath been employed in\nsomething less innocent than toasting bacon. Your story, however, can\nkeep. Every true soldier thinks first of his horse, so I pray that you\nwill tether yours without, since I have neither ostler nor serving man\nto whom I may entrust them.'\n\nThe strange dwelling into which we presently entered had been prolonged\ninto the side of the little hill against which it had been built, so\nas to form a very long narrow hall. The ends of this great room, as we\nentered, were wrapped in shadow, but in the centre was a bright glare\nfrom a brazier full of coals, over which a brass pipkin was suspended.\nBeside the fire a long wooden table was plentifully covered with curved\nglass flasks, basins, tubings, and other instruments of which I knew\nneither the name nor the purpose. A long row of bottles containing\nvarious coloured liquids and powders were arranged along a shelf, whilst\nabove it another shelf bore a goodly array of brown volumes. For the\nrest there was a second rough-hewn table, a pair of cupboards, three or\nfour wooden settles, and several large screens pinned to the walls\nand covered all over with figures and symbols, of which I could make\nnothing. The vile smell which had greeted us outside was very much worse\nwithin the chamber, and arose apparently from the fumes of the boiling,\nbubbling contents of the brazen pot.\n\n'Ye behold in me,' said our host, bowing courteously to us, 'the last of\nan ancient family. I am Sir Jacob Clancing of Snellaby Hall.'\n\n'Smellaby it should be, methinks,' whispered Reuben, in a voice which\nfortunately did not reach the ears of the old knight.\n\n'I pray that ye be seated,' he continued, 'and that ye lay aside your\nplates and headpieces, and remove your boots. Consider this to be your\ninn, and behave as freely. Ye will hold me excused if for a moment I\nturn my attention from you to this operation on which I am engaged,\nwhich will not brook delay.'\n\nSaxon began forthwith to undo his buckles and to pull off his harness,\nwhile Reuben, throwing himself into a chair, appeared to be too weary\nto do more than unfasten his sword-belt. For my own part, I was glad\nto throw off my gear, but I kept my attention all the while upon the\nmovements of our host, whose graceful manners and learned appearance had\naroused my curiosity and admiration.\n\nHe approached the evil-smelling pot, and stirred it up with a face\nwhich indicated so much anxiety that it was clear that he had pushed his\ncourtesy to us so far as to risk the ruin of some important experiment.\nDipping his ladle into the compound, he scooped some up, and then poured\nit slowly back into the vessel, showing a yellow turbid fluid. The\nappearance of it evidently reassured him, for the look of anxiety\ncleared away from his features, and he uttered an exclamation of relief.\nTaking a handful of a whitish powder from a trencher at his side he\nthrew it into the pipkin, the contents of which began immediately to\nseethe and froth over into the fire, causing the flames to assume\nthe strange greenish hue which we had observed before entering. This\ntreatment had the effect of clearing the fluid, for the chemist was\nenabled to pour off into a bottle a quantity of perfectly watery\ntransparent liquid, while a brownish sediment remained in the vessel,\nand was emptied out upon a sheet of paper. This done, Sir Jacob Clancing\npushed aside all his bottles, and turned towards us with a smiling face\nand a lighter air.\n\n'We shall see what my poor larder can furnish forth,' said he.\n'Meanwhile, this odour may be offensive to your untrained nostrils, so\nwe shall away with it. He threw a few grains of some balsamic resin\ninto the brazier, which at once filled the chamber with a most agreeable\nperfume. He then laid a white cloth upon the table, and taking from a\ncupboard a dish of cold trout and a large meat pasty, he placed them\nupon it, and invited us to draw up our settles and set to work.\n\n'I would that I had more toothsome fare to offer ye,' said he. 'Were\nwe at Snellaby Hall, ye should not be put off in this scurvy fashion, I\npromise ye. This may serve, however, for hungry men, and I can still\nlay my hands upon a brace of bottles of the old Alicant.' So saying, he\nbrought a pair of flasks out from a recess, and having seen us served\nand our glasses filled, he seated himself in a high-backed oaken chair\nand presided with old-fashioned courtesy over our feast. As we supped, I\nexplained to him what our errand was, and narrated the adventures of the\nnight, without making mention of our destination.\n\n'You are bound for Monmouth's camp,' he said quietly, when I had\nfinished, looking me full in the face with his keen dark eyes. 'I know\nit, but ye need not fear lest I betray you, even were it in my power.\nWhat chance, think ye, hath the Duke against the King's forces?'\n\n'As much chance as a farmyard fowl against a spurred gamecock, did he\nrely only on those whom he hath with him,' Saxon answered. 'He hath\nreason to think, however, that all England is like a powder magazine,\nand he hopes to be the spark to set it alight.'\n\nThe old man shook his head sadly. 'The King hath great resources,' he\nremarked. 'Where is Monmouth to get his trained soldiers?'\n\n'There is the militia,' I suggested.\n\n'And there are many of the old parliamentary breed, who are not too far\ngone to strike a blow for their belief,' said Saxon. 'Do you but get\nhalf-a-dozen broad-brimmed, snuffle-nosed preachers into a camp, and the\nwhole Presbytery tribe will swarm round them like flies on a honey-pot.\nNo recruiting sergeants will ever raise such an army as did Noll's\npreachers in the eastern counties, where the promise of a seat by the\nthrone was thought of more value than a ten-pound bounty. I would I\ncould pay mine own debts with these same promises.'\n\n'I should judge from your speech, sir,' our host observed, 'that you are\nnot one of the sectaries. How comes it, then, that you are throwing the\nweight of your sword and your experience into the weaker scale?'\n\n'For the very reason that it is the weaker scale,' said the soldier of\nfortune. 'I should gladly have gone with my brother to the Guinea coast\nand had no say in the matter one way or the other, beyond delivering\nletters and such trifles. Since I must be doing something, I choose to\nfight for Protestantism and Monmouth. It is nothing to me whether James\nStuart or James Walters sits upon the throne, but the court and army of\nthe King are already made up. Now, since Monmouth hath both courtiers\nand soldiers to find, it may well happen that he may be glad of my\nservices and reward them with honourable preferment.'\n\n'Your logic is sound,' said our host, 'save only that you have omitted\nthe very great chance which you will incur of losing your head if the\nDuke's party are borne down by the odds against them.'\n\n'A man cannot throw a main without putting a stake on the board,' said\nSaxon.\n\n'And you, young sir,' the old man asked, 'what has caused you to take a\nhand in so dangerous a game?'\n\n'I come of a Roundhead stock,' I answered, 'and my folk have always\nfought for the liberty of the people and the humbling of tyranny. I come\nin the place of my father.'\n\n'And you, sir?' our questioner continued, looking at Reuben.\n\n'I have come to see something of the world, and to be with my friend and\ncompanion here,' he replied.\n\n'And I have stronger reasons than any of ye,' Sir Jacob cried, 'for\nappearing in arms against any man who bears the name of Stuart. Had I\nnot a mission here which cannot be neglected, I might myself be tempted\nto hie westward with ye, and put these grey hairs of mine once more into\nthe rough clasp of a steel headpiece. For where now is the noble castle\nof Snellaby, and where those glades and woods amidst which the Clancings\nhave grown up, and lived and died, ere ever Norman William set his\nfoot on English soil? A man of trade--a man who, by the sweat of his\nhalf-starved workers, had laid by ill-gotten wealth, is now the owner\nof all that fair property. Should I, the last of the Clancings, show\nmy face upon it, I might be handed over to the village beadle as a\ntrespasser, or scourged off it perhaps by the bowstrings of insolent\nhuntsmen.'\n\n'And how comes so sudden a reverse of fortune?' I asked.\n\n'Fill up your glasses!' cried the old man, suiting the action to the\nword. 'Here's a toast for you! Perdition to all faithless princes!\nHow came it about, ye ask? Why, when the troubles came upon the first\nCharles, I stood by him as though he had been mine own brother. At\nEdgehill, at Naseby, in twenty skirmishes and battles, I fought stoutly\nin his cause, maintaining a troop of horse at my own expense, formed\nfrom among my own gardeners, grooms, and attendants. Then the military\nchest ran low, and money must be had to carry on the contest. My silver\nchargers and candlesticks were thrown into the melting-pot, as were\nthose of many another cavalier. They went in metal and they came out\nas troopers and pikemen. So we tided over a few months until again the\npurse was empty, and again we filled it amongst us. This time it was the\nhome farm and the oak trees that went. Then came Marston Moor, and every\npenny and man was needed to repair that great disaster. I flinched not,\nbut gave everything. This boiler of soap, a prudent, fat-cheeked man,\nhad kept himself free from civil broils, and had long had a covetous eye\nupon the castle. It was his ambition, poor worm, to be a gentleman, as\nthough a gabled roof and a crumbling house could ever make him that. I\nlet him have his way, however, and threw the sum received, every guinea\nof it, into the King's coffers. And so I held out until the final ruin\nof Worcester, when I covered the retreat of the young prince, and may\nindeed say that save in the Isle of Man I was the last Royalist who\nupheld the authority of the crown. The Commonwealth had set a price upon\nmy head as a dangerous malignant, so I was forced to take my passage in\na Harwich ketch, and arrived in the Lowlands with nothing save my sword\nand a few broad pieces in my pocket.'\n\n'A cavalier might do well even then,' remarked Saxon. 'There are ever\nwars in Germany where a man is worth his hire. When the North Germans\nare not in arms against the Swedes or French, the South Germans are sure\nto be having a turn with the janissaries.'\n\n'I did indeed take arms for a time in the employ of the United\nProvinces, by which means I came face to face once more with mine old\nfoes, the Roundheads. Oliver had lent Reynolds's brigade to the French,\nand right glad was Louis to have the service of such seasoned troops.\n'Fore God, I stood on the counterscarp at Dunkirk, and I found myself,\nwhen I should have been helping the defence, actually cheering on the\nattack. My very heart rose when I saw the bull-dog fellows clambering up\nthe breach with their pikes at the trail, and never quavering in their\npsalm-tune, though the bullets sung around them as thick as bees in the\nhiving time. And when they did come to close hugs with the Flemings, I\ntell you they set up such a rough cry of soldierly joy that my pride\nin them as Englishmen overtopped my hatred of them as foes. However, my\nsoldiering was of no great duration, for peace was soon declared, and\nI then pursued the study of chemistry, for which I had a strong turn,\nfirst with Vorhaager of Leyden, and later with De Huy of Strasburg,\nthough I fear that these weighty names are but sounds to your ears.'\n\n'Truly,' said Saxon, 'there seemeth to be some fatal attraction in this\nsame chemistry, for we met two officers of the Blue Guards in Salisbury,\nwho, though they were stout soldierly men in other respects, had also a\nweakness in that direction.'\n\n'Ha!' cried Sir Jacob, with interest. 'To what school did they belong?'\n\n'Nay, I know nothing of the matter,' Saxon answered, 'save that they\ndenied that Gervinus of Nurnberg, whom I guarded in prison, or any other\nman, could transmute metals.'\n\n'For Gervinus I cannot answer,' said our host, 'but for the possibility\nof it I can pledge my knightly word. However, of that anon. The time\ncame at last when the second Charles was invited back to his throne,\nand all of us, from Jeffrey Hudson, the court dwarf, up to my Lord\nClarendon, were in high feather at the hope of regaining our own once\nmore. For my own claim, I let it stand for some time, thinking that it\nwould be a more graceful act for the King to help a poor cavalier who\nhad ruined himself for the sake of his family without solicitation on\nhis part. I waited and waited, but no word came, so at last I betook\nmyself to the levee and was duly presented to him. \"Ah,\" said he,\ngreeting me with the cordiality which he could assume so well, \"you\nare, if I mistake not, Sir Jasper Killigrew?\" \"Nay, your Majesty,\"\nI answered, \"I am Sir Jacob Clancing, formerly of Snellaby Hall, in\nStaffordshire;\" and with that I reminded him of Worcester fight and of\nmany passages which had occurred to us in common. \"Od's fish!\" he cried,\n\"how could I be so forgetful! And how are all at Snellaby?\" I then\nexplained to him that the Hall had passed out of my hands, and told him\nin a few words the state to which I had been reduced. His face clouded\nover and his manner chilled to me at once. \"They are all on to me for\nmoney and for places,\" he said, \"and truly the Commons are so niggardly\nto me that I can scarce be generous to others. However, Sir Jacob, we\nshall see what can be done for thee,\" and with that he dismissed me.\nThat same night the secretary of my Lord Clarendon came to me, and\nannounced with much form and show that, in consideration of my long\ndevotion and the losses which I had sustained, the King was graciously\npleased to make me a lottery cavalier.'\n\n'And pray, sir, what is a lottery cavalier?' I asked.\n\n'It is nothing else than a licensed keeper of a gambling-house. This\nwas his reward to me. I was to be allowed to have a den in the piazza\nof Covent Garden, and there to decoy the young sparks of the town and\nfleece them at ombre. To restore my own fortunes I was to ruin others.\nMy honour, my family, my reputation, they were all to weigh for\nnothing so long as I had the means of bubbling a few fools out of their\nguineas.'\n\n'I have heard that some of the lottery cavaliers did well,' remarked\nSaxon reflectively.\n\n'Well or ill, it way no employment for me. I waited upon the King and\nimplored that his bounty would take another form. His only reply was\nthat for one so poor I was strangely fastidious. For weeks I hung about\nthe court--I and other poor cavaliers like myself, watching the royal\nbrothers squandering upon their gaming and their harlots sums which\nwould have restored us to our patrimonies. I have seen Charles put upon\none turn of a card as much as would have satisfied the most exacting of\nus. In the parks of St. James, or in the Gallery at Whitehall, I still\nendeavoured to keep myself before his eyes, in the hope that some\nprovision would be made for me. At last I received a second message from\nhim. It was that unless I could dress more in the mode he could dispense\nwith my attendance. That was his message to the old broken soldier who\nhad sacrificed health, wealth, position, everything in the service of\nhis father and himself.'\n\n'Shameful!' we cried, all three.\n\n'Can you wonder, then, that I cursed the whole Stuart race,\nfalse-hearted, lecherous, and cruel? For the Hall, I could buy it back\nto-morrow if I chose, but why should I do so when I have no heir?'\n\n'Ho, you have prospered then!' said Decimus Saxon, with one of his\nshrewd sidelong looks. 'Perhaps you have yourself found out how to\nconvert pots and pans into gold in the way you have spoken of. But that\ncannot be, for I see iron and brass in this room which would hardly\nremain there could you convert it to gold.'\n\n'Gold has its uses, and iron has its uses,' said Sir Jacob oracularly.\n'The one can never supplant the other.'\n\n'Yet these officers,' I remarked, 'did declare to us that it was but a\nsuperstition of the vulgar.'\n\n'Then these officers did show that their knowledge was less than their\nprejudice. Alexander Setonius, a Scot, was first of the moderns to\nachieve it. In the month of March 1602 he did change a bar of lead into\ngold in the house of a certain Hansen, at Rotterdam, who hath testified\nto it. He then not only repeated the same process before three learned\nmen sent by the Kaiser Rudolph, but he taught Johann Wolfgang Dienheim\nof Freibourg, and Gustenhofer of Strasburg, which latter taught it to my\nown illustrious master--'\n\n'Who in turn taught it to you,' cried Saxon triumphantly. 'I have no\ngreat store of metal with me, good sir, but there are my head-piece,\nback and breast-plate, taslets and thigh-pieces, together with my\nsword, spurs, and the buckles of my harness. I pray you to use your most\nexcellent and praiseworthy art upon these, and I will promise within a\nfew days to bring round a mass of metal which shall be more worthy of\nyour skill.'\n\n'Nay, nay,' said the alchemist, smiling and shaking his head. 'It can\nindeed be done, but only slowly and in order, small pieces at a time,\nand with much expenditure of work and patience. For a man to enrich\nhimself at it he must labour hard and long; yet in the end I will not\ndeny that he may compass it. And now, since the flasks are empty and\nyour young comrade is nodding in his chair, it will perhaps be as well\nfor you to spend as much of the night as is left in repose.' He drew\nseveral blankets and rugs from a corner and scattered them over the\nfloor. 'It is a soldier's couch,' he remarked; 'but ye may sleep on\nworse before ye put Monmouth on the English throne. For myself, it is\nmy custom to sleep in an inside chamber, which is hollowed out of the\nhill.' With a few last words and precautions for our comfort he withdrew\nwith the lamp, passing through a door which had escaped our notice at\nthe further end of the apartment.\n\nReuben, having had no rest since he left Havant, had already dropped\nupon the rugs, and was fast asleep, with a saddle for a pillow. Saxon\nand I sat for a few minutes longer by the light of the burning brazier.\n\n'One might do worse than take to this same chemical business,' my\ncompanion remarked, knocking the ashes out of his pipe. 'See you yon\niron-bound chest in the corner?'\n\n'What of it?'\n\n'It is two thirds full of gold, which this worthy gentleman hath\nmanufactured.'\n\n'How know you that?' I asked incredulously.\n\n'When you did strike the door panel with the hilt of your sword, as\nthough you would drive it in, you may have heard some scuttling about,\nand the turning of a lock. Well, thanks to my inches, I was able to look\nthrough yon slit in the wall, and I saw our friend throw something into\nthe chest with a chink, and then lock it. It was but a glance at the\ncontents, yet I could swear that that dull yellow light could come from\nno metal but gold. Let us see if it be indeed locked.' Rising from his\nseat he walked over to the box and pulled vigorously at the lid.\n\n'Forbear, Saxon, forbear!' I cried angrily. 'What would our host say,\nshould he come upon you?'\n\n'Nay, then, he should not keep such things beneath his roof. With a\nchisel or a dagger now, this might be prized open.'\n\n'By Heaven!' I whispered, 'if you should attempt it I shall lay you on\nyour back.'\n\n'Well, well, young Anak! it was but a passing fancy to see the treasure\nagain. Now, if he were but well favoured to the King, this would be\nfair prize of war. Marked ye not that he claimed to have been the last\nRoyalist who drew sword in England? and he confessed that he had been\nproscribed as a malignant. Your father, godly as he is, would have\nlittle compunction in despoiling such an Amalekite. Besides, bethink\nyou, he can make more as easily as your good mother maketh cranberry\ndumplings.'\n\n'Enough said!' I answered sternly. 'It will not bear discussion. Get ye\nto your couch, lest I summon our host and tell him what manner of man he\nhath entertained.'\n\nWith many grumbles Saxon consented at last to curl his long limbs up\nupon a mat, whilst I lay by his side and remained awake until the mellow\nlight of morning streamed through the chinks between the ill-covered\nrafters. Truth to tell, I feared to sleep, lest the freebooting habits\nof the soldier of fortune should be too strong for him, and he should\ndisgrace us in the eyes of our kindly and generous entertainer. At last,\nhowever, his long-drawn breathing assured me that he was asleep, and I\nwas able to settle down to a few hours of welcome rest.\n\n\n\nChapter XII. Of certain Passages upon the Moor\n\nIn the morning, after a breakfast furnished by the remains of our\nsupper, we looked to our horses and prepared for our departure. Ere we\ncould mount, however, our kindly host came running out to us with a load\nof armour in his arms.\n\n'Come hither,' said he, beckoning to Reuben. 'It is not meet, lad, that\nyou should go bare-breasted against the enemy when your comrades are\ngirt with steel. I have here mine own old breastplate and head-piece,\nwhich should, methinks, fit you, for if you have more flesh than I, I am\na larger framework of a man. Ah, said I not so! Were't measured for you\nby Silas Thomson, the court armourer, it could not grip better. Now\non with the head-piece. A close fit again. You are now a cavalier whom\nMonmouth or any other leader might be proud to see ride beneath his\nbanner.'\n\nBoth helmet and body-plates were of the finest Milan steel, richly\ninlaid with silver and with gold, and carved all over in rare and\ncurious devices. So stern and soldierly was the effect, that the\nruddy, kindly visage of our friend staring out of such a panoply had an\nill-matched and somewhat ludicrous appearance.\n\n'Nay, nay,' cried the old cavalier, seeing a smile upon our features,\n'it is but right that so precious a jewel as a faithful heart should\nhave a fitting casket to protect it.'\n\n'I am truly beholden to you, sir,' said Reuben; 'I can scarce find words\nto express my thanks. Holy mother! I have a mind to ride straight back\nto Havant, to show them how stout a man-at-arms hath been reared amongst\nthem.'\n\n'It is steel of proof,' Sir Jacob remarked; 'a pistol-bullet might\nglance from it. And you,' he continued, turning to me, 'here is a small\ngift by which you shall remember this meeting. I did observe that you\ndid cast a wistful eye upon my bookshelf. It is Plutarch's lives of the\nancient worthies, done into English by the ingenious Mr. Latimer. Carry\nthis volume with you, and shape your life after the example of the giant\nmen whose deeds are here set forth. In your saddle-bag I place a small\nbut weighty packet, which I desire you to hand over to Monmouth upon\nthe day of your arrival in his camp. As to you, sir,' addressing Decimus\nSaxon, 'here is a slug of virgin gold for you, which may fashion into a\npin or such like ornament. You may wear it with a quiet conscience, for\nit is fairly given to you and not filched from your entertainer whilst\nhe slept.'\n\nSaxon and I shot a sharp glance of surprise at each other at this\nspeech, which showed that our words of the night before were not unknown\nto him. Sir Jacob, however, showed no signs of anger, but proceeded to\npoint out our road and to advise us as to our journey.\n\n'You must follow this sheep-track until you come on another and broader\npathway which makes for the West,' said he. 'It is little used, and\nthere is small chance of your falling in with any of your enemies upon\nit. This path will lead you between the villages of Fovant and Hindon,\nand soon to Mere, which is no great distance from Bruton, upon the\nSomersetshire border.'\n\nThanking our venerable host for his great kindness towards us we gave\nrein to our horses, and left him once more to the strange solitary\nexistence in which we had found him. So artfully had the site of\nhis cottage been chosen, that when we looked back to give him a last\ngreeting both he and his dwelling had disappeared already from our view,\nnor could we, among the many mounds and hollows, determine where the\ncottage lay which had given us such welcome shelter. In front of us and\non either side the great uneven dun-coloured plain stretched away to the\nhorizon, without a break in its barren gorse-covered surface. Over the\nwhole expanse there was no sign of life, save for an occasional rabbit\nwhich whisked into its burrow on hearing our approach, or a few thin and\nhungry sheep, who could scarce sustain life by feeding on the coarse and\nwiry grass which sprang from the unfruitful soil.\n\nThe pathway was so narrow that only one of us could ride upon it at a\ntime, but we presently abandoned it altogether, using it simply as a\nguide, and galloping along side by side over the rolling plain. We were\nall silent, Reuben meditating upon his new corslet, as I could see from\nhis frequent glances at it; while Saxon, with his eyes half closed, was\nbrooding over some matter of his own. For my own part, my thoughts ran\nupon the ignominy of the old soldier's designs upon the gold chest, and\nthe additional shame which rose from the knowledge that our host had in\nsome way divined his intention. No good could come of an alliance with a\nman so devoid of all feelings of honour or of gratitude. So strongly did\nI feel upon it that I at last broke the silence by pointing to a\ncross path, which turned away from the one which we were pursuing, and\nrecommending him to follow it, since he had proved that he was no fit\ncompany for honest men.\n\n'By the living rood!' he cried, laying his hand upon the hilt of his\nrapier,' have you taken leave of your senses? These are words such as no\nhonourable cavaliero can abide.'\n\n'They are none the less words of truth,' I answered.\n\nHis blade flashed out in an instant, while his mare bounded twice her\nlength under the sharp dig of his spurs.\n\n'We have here,' he cried, reining her round, with his fierce lean face\nall of a quiver with passion, 'an excellent level stretch on which to\ndiscuss the matter. Out with your bilbo and maintain your words.'\n\n'I shall not stir a hair's-breadth to attack you,' I answered. 'Why\nshould I, when I bear you no ill-will? If you come against me, however,\nI will assuredly beat you out of your saddle, for all your tricky sword\nplay.' I drew my broadsword as I spoke, and stood upon my guard, for I\nguessed that with so old a soldier the onset would be sharp and sudden.\n\n'By all the saints in heaven!' cried Reuben, 'which ever of ye strikes\nfirst at the other I'll snap this pistol at his head. None of your\njokes, Don Decimo, for by the Lord I'll let drive at you if you were my\nown mother's son. Put up your sword, for the trigger falls easy, and my\nfinger is a twitching.'\n\n'Curse you for a spoil-sport!' growled Saxon, sulkily sheathing his\nweapon. 'Nay, Clarke,' he added, after a few moments of reflection,\n'this is but child's play, that two camarados with a purpose in view\nshould fall out over such a trifle. I, who am old enough to be your\nfather, should have known better than to have drawn upon you, for a\nboy's tongue wags on impulse and without due thought. Do but say that\nyou have said more than you meant.'\n\n'My way of saying it may have been over plain and rough,' I answered,\nfor I saw that he did but want a little salve where my short words had\ngalled him. 'At the same time, our ways differ from your ways, and that\ndifference must be mended, or you can be no true comrade of ours.'\n\n'All right, Master Morality,' quoth he, 'I must e'en unlearn some of the\ntricks of my trade. Od's feet, man, if ye object to me, what the henker\nwould ye think of some whom I have known? However, let that pass. It\nis time that we were at the wars, for our good swords will not bide in\ntheir scabbards.\n\n          \"The trenchant blade, Toledo trusty,\n           For want of fighting was grown rusty,\n           And ate into itself for lack\n           Of somebody to hew and hack.\"\n\nYou cannot think a thought but old Samuel hath been before you.'\n\n'Surely we shall be at the end of this dreary plain presently,' Reuben\ncried. 'Its insipid flatness is enough to set the best of friends by the\nears. We might be in the deserts of Libya instead of his most graceless\nMajesty's county of Wiltshire.'\n\n'There is smoke over yonder, upon the side of that hill,' said Saxon,\npointing to the southward.\n\n'Methinks I see one straight line of houses there,' I observed, shading\nmy eyes with my hand. 'But it is distant, and the shimmer of the sun\ndisturbs the sight.'\n\n'It must be the hamlet of Hindon,' said Reuben. 'Oh, the heat of this\nsteel coat! I wonder if it were very un-soldierly to slip it off and tie\nit about Dido's neck. I shall be baked alive else, like a crab in its\nshell. How say you, illustrious, is it contravened by any of those\nthirty-nine articles of war which you bear about in your bosom?'\n\n'The bearing of the weight of your harness, young man,' Saxon answered\ngravely, 'is one of the exercises of war, and as such only attainable by\nsuch practice as you are now undergoing. You have many things to learn,\nand one of them is not to present petronels too readily at folk's heads\nwhen you are on horseback. The jerk of your charger's movement even now\nmight have drawn your trigger, and so deprived Monmouth of an old and\ntried soldier.'\n\n'There would be much weight in your contention,' my friend answered,\n'were it not that I now bethink me that I had forgot to recharge my\npistol since discharging it at that great yellow beast yesternight.'\n\nDecimus Saxon shook his head sadly. 'I doubt we shall never make a\nsoldier of you,' he remarked. 'You fall from your horse if the brute\ndoes bit change his step, you show a levity which will not jump with the\ngravity of the true soldado, you present empty petronels as a menace,\nand finally, you crave permission to tie your armour--armour which the\nCid himself might be proud to wear--around the neck of your horse. Yet\nyou have heart and mettle, I believe, else you would not be here.'\n\n'Gracias, Signor!' cried Reuben, with a bow which nearly unhorsed him;\n'the last remark makes up for all the rest, else had I been forced to\ncross blades with you, to maintain my soldierly repute.'\n\n'Touching that same incident last night,' said Saxon, 'of the chest\nfilled, as I surmise, with gold, which I was inclined to take as lawful\nplunder, I am now ready to admit that I may have shown an undue haste\nand precipitance, considering that the old man treated us fairly.'\n\n'Say no more of it,' I answered, 'if you will but guard against such\nimpulses for the future.'\n\n'They do not properly come from me,' he replied, 'but from Will\nSpotterbridge, who was a man of no character at all.'\n\n'And how comes he to be mixed up in the matter?' I asked curiously.\n\n'Why, marry, in this wise. My father married the daughter of this same\nWill Spotterbridge, and so weakened a good old stock by an unhealthy\nstrain. Will was a rake-hell of Fleet Street in the days of James, a\nchosen light of Alsatia, the home of bullies and of brawlers. His blood\nhath through his daughter been transmitted to the ten of us, though I\nrejoice to say that I, being the tenth, it had by that time lost much\nof its virulence, and indeed amounts to little more than a proper pride,\nand a laudable desire to prosper.'\n\n'How, then, has it affected the race?' I asked.\n\n'Why,' he answered, 'the Saxons of old were a round-faced, contented\ngeneration, with their ledgers in their hands for six days and their\nbibles on the seventh. If my father did but drink a cup of small beer\nmore than his wont, or did break out upon provocation into any fond\noath, as \"Od's niggers!\" or \"Heart alive!\" he would mourn over it as\nthough it were the seven deadly sins. Was this a man, think ye, in the\nordinary course of nature to beget ten long lanky children, nine of\nwhom might have been first cousins of Lucifer, and foster-brothers of\nBeelzebub?'\n\n'It was hard upon him,' remarked Reuben.\n\n'On him! Nay, the hardship was all with us. If he with his eyes\nopen chose to marry the daughter of an incarnate devil like Will\nSpotterbridge, because she chanced to be powdered and patched to his\nliking, what reason hath he for complaint? It is we, who have the blood\nof this Hector of the taverns grafted upon our own good honest stream,\nwho have most reason to lift up our voices.'\n\n'Faith, by the same chain of reasoning,' said Reuben, 'one of my\nancestors must have married a woman with a plaguy dry throat, for both\nmy father and I are much troubled with the complaint.'\n\n'You have assuredly inherited a plaguy pert tongue,' growled Saxon.\n'From what I have told you, you will see that our whole life is a\nconflict between our natural Saxon virtue and the ungodly impulses of\nthe Spotterbridge taint. That of which you have had cause to complain\nyesternight is but an example of the evil to which I am subjected.'\n\n'And your brothers and sisters?' I asked; 'how hath this circumstance\naffected them?' The road was bleak and long, so that the old soldier's\ngossip was a welcome break to the tedium of the journey.\n\n'They have all succumbed,' said Saxon, with a groan. 'Alas, alas! they\nwere a goodly company could they have turned their talents to better\nuses. Prima was our eldest born. She did well until she attained\nwomanhood. Secundus was a stout seaman, and owned his own vessel when\nhe was yet a young man. It was remarked, however, that he started on a\nvoyage in a schooner and came back in a brig, which gave rise to some\ninquiry. It may be, as he said, that he found it drifting about in the\nNorth Sea, and abandoned his own vessel in favour of it, but they hung\nhim before he could prove it. Tertia ran away with a north-country\ndrover, and hath been on the run ever since. Quartus and Nonus have been\nlong engaged in busying themselves over the rescue of the black folk\nfrom their own benighted and heathen country, conveying them over by the\nshipload to the plantations, where they may learn the beauties of the\nChristian religion. They are, however, men of violent temper and profane\nspeech, who cherish no affection for their younger brother. Quintus was\na lad of promise, but he found a hogshead of rumbo which was thrown up\nfrom a wreck, and he died soon afterwards. Sextus might have done well,\nfor he became clerk to Johnny Tranter the attorney; but he was of an\nenterprising turn, and he shifted the whole business, papers, cash, and\nall to the Lowlands, to the no small inconvenience of his employer, who\nhath never been able to lay hands either on one or the other from that\nday to this. Septimus died young. As to Octavius, Will Spotterbridge\nbroke out early in him, and he was slain in a quarrel over some dice,\nwhich were said by his enemies to be so weighted that the six must ever\ncome upwards. Let this moving recital be a warning to ye, if ye are\nfools enough to saddle yourselves with a wife, to see that she hath\nno vice in her, for a fair face is a sorry make-weight against a foul\nmind.'\n\nReuben and I could not but laugh over this frank family confession,\nwhich our companion delivered without a sign of shame or embarrassment.\n'Ye have paid a heavy price for your father's want of discretion,' I\nremarked. 'But what in the name of fate is this upon our left?'\n\n'A gibbet, by the look of it,' said Saxon, peering across at the gaunt\nframework of wood, which rose up from a little knoll. 'Let us ride past\nit, for it is little out of our way. They are rare things in England,\nthough by my faith there were more gallows than milestones when Turenne\nwas in the Palatinate. What between the spies and traitors who were bred\nby the war, the rascally Schwartzritter and Lanzknechte, the Bohemian\nvagabonds, and an occasional countryman who was put out of the way lest\nhe do something amiss, there was never such a brave time for the crows.'\n\nAs we approached this lonely gibbet we saw that a dried-up wisp of a\nthing which could hardly be recognised as having once been a human being\nwas dangling from the centre of it. This wretched relic of mortality\nwas secured to the cross-bar by an iron chain, and flapped drearily\nbackwards and forwards in the summer breeze. We had pulled up our\nhorses, and were gazing in silence at this sign-post of death, when what\nhad seemed to us to be a bundle of rags thrown down at the foot of the\ngallows began suddenly to move, and turned towards us the wizened face\nof an aged woman, so marked with evil passions and so malignant in its\nexpression that it inspired us with even more horror than the unclean\nthing which dangled above her head.\n\n'Gott in Himmel!' cried Saxon, 'it is ever thus! A gibbet draws witches\nas a magnet draws needles. All the hexerei of the country side will sit\nround one, like cats round a milk-pail. Beware of her! she hath the evil\neye!'\n\n'Poor soul! It is the evil stomach that she hath,' said Reuben, walking\nhis horse up to her. 'Whoever saw such a bag of bones! I warrant that\nshe is pining away for want of a crust of bread.'\n\nThe creature whined, and thrust out two skinny claws to grab the piece\nof silver which our friend had thrown down to her. Her fierce dark\neyes and beak-like nose, with the gaunt bones over which the yellow\nparchment-like skin was stretched tightly, gave her a fear-inspiring\naspect, like some foul bird of prey, or one of those vampires of whom\nthe story-tellers write.\n\n'What use is money in the wilderness?' I remarked; 'she cannot feed\nherself upon a silver piece.'\n\nShe tied the coin hurriedly into the corner of her rags, as though she\nfeared that I might try to wrest it from her. 'It will buy bread,' she\ncroaked.\n\n'But who is there to sell it, good mistress?' I asked.\n\n'They sell it at Fovant, and they sell it at Hindon,' she answered. 'I\nbide here o' days, but I travel at night.'\n\n'I warrant she does, and on a broomstick,' quoth Saxon; 'but tell us,\nmother, who is it who hangs above your head?'\n\n'It is he who slew my youngest born,' cried the old woman, casting a\nmalignant look at the mummy above her, and shaking a clenched hand at it\nwhich was hardly more fleshy than its own. 'It is he who slew my bonny\nboy. Out here upon the wide moor he met him, and he took his young life\nfrom him when no kind hand was near to stop the blow. On that ground\nthere my lad's blood was shed, and from that watering hath grown this\ngoodly gallows-tree with its fine ripe fruit upon it. And here, come\nrain, come shine, shall I, his mother, sit while two bones hang together\nof the man who slow my heart's darling.' She nestled down in her rags\nas she spoke, and leaning her chin upon her hands stared up with an\nintensity of hatred at the hideous remnant.\n\n'Come away, Reuben,' I cried, for the sight was enough to make one\nloathe one's kind. 'She is a ghoul, not a woman.'\n\n'Pah! it gives one a foul taste in the mouth,' quoth Saxon. 'Who is for\na fresh gallop over the Downs? Away with care and carrion!\n\n          \"Sir John got on his bonny brown steed,\n           To Monmouth for to ride--a.\n           A brave buff coat upon his back,\n           A broadsword by his side--a.\n           Ha, ha, young man, we rebels can\n           Pull down King James's pride--a!\"\n\nHark away, lads, with a loose rein and a bloody heel!'\n\nWe spurred our steeds and galloped from the unholy spot as fast as our\nbrave beasts could carry us. To all of us the air had a purer flavour\nand the heath a sweeter scent by contrast with the grim couple whom we\nhad left behind us. What a sweet world would this be, my children, were\nit not for man and his cruel ways!\n\nWhen we at last pulled up we had set some three or four miles between\nthe gibbet and ourselves. Right over against us, on the side of a gentle\nslope, stood a bright little village, with a red-roofed church rising up\nfrom amidst a clump of trees. To our eyes, after the dull sward of the\nplain, it was a glad sight to see the green spread of the branches and\nthe pleasant gardens which girt the hamlet round. All morning we had\nseen no sight of a human being, save the old hag upon the moor and a few\npeat-cutters in the distance. Our belts, too, were beginning to be loose\nupon us, and the remembrance of our breakfast more faint.\n\n'This,' said I, 'must be the village of Mere, which we were to pass\nbefore coming to Bruton. We shall soon be over the Somersetshire\nborder.'\n\n'I trust that we shall soon be over a dish of beefsteaks,' groaned\nReuben. 'I am well-nigh famished. So fair a village must needs have a\npassable inn, though I have not seen one yet upon my travels which would\ncompare with the old Wheatsheaf.'\n\n'Neither inn nor dinner for us just yet,' said Saxon. 'Look yonder to\nthe north, and tell me what you see.'\n\nOn the extreme horizon there was visible a long line of gleaming,\nglittering points, which shone and sparkled like a string of diamonds.\nThese brilliant specks were all in rapid motion, and yet kept their\npositions to each other.\n\n'What is it, then?' we both cried.\n\n'Horse upon the march,' quoth Saxon. 'It may be our friends of\nSalisbury, who have made a long day's journey; or, as I am inclined\nto think, it may be some other body of the King's horse. They are far\ndistant, and what we see is but the sun shining on their casques; yet\nthey are bound for this very village, if I mistake not. It would be\nwisest to avoid entering it, lest the rustics set them upon our track.\nLet us skirt it and push on for Bruton, where we may spare time for bite\nand sup.'\n\n'Alas, alas! for our dinners!' cried Reuben ruefully. 'I have fallen\naway until my body rattles about, inside this shell of armour, like a\npea in a pod. However, lads, it is all for the Protestant faith.'\n\n'One more good stretch to Bruton, and we may rest in peace,' said Saxon.\n'It is ill dining when a dragoon may be served up as a grace after meat.\nOur horses are still fresh, and we should be there in little over an\nhour.'\n\nWe pushed on our way accordingly, passing at a safe distance from Mere,\nwhich is the village where the second Charles did conceal himself after\nthe battle of Worcester. The road beyond was much crowded by peasants,\nwho were making their way out of Somersetshire, and by farmers' waggons,\nwhich were taking loads of food to the West, ready to turn a few guineas\neither from the King's men or from the rebels. We questioned many as to\nthe news from the war, but though we were now on the outskirts of the\ndisturbed country, we could gain no clear account of how matters stood,\nsave that all agreed that the rising was on the increase. The country\nthrough which we rode was a beautiful one, consisting of low swelling\nhills, well tilled and watered by numerous streamlets. Crossing over the\nriver Brue by a good stone bridge, we at last reached the small country\ntown for which we had been making, which lies embowered in the midst of\na broad expanse of fertile meadows, orchards, and sheep-walks. From the\nrising ground by the town we looked back over the plain without seeing\nany traces of the troopers. We learned, too, from an old woman of the\nplace, that though a troop of the Wiltshire Yeomanry had passed through\nthe day before, there were no soldiers quartered at present in the\nneighbourhood. Thus assured we rode boldly into the town, and soon found\nour way to the principal inn. I have some dim remembrance of an\nancient church upon an eminence, and of a quaint stone cross within the\nmarket-place, but assuredly, of all the recollections which I retain of\nBruton there is none so pleasing as that of the buxom landlady's face,\nand of the steaming dishes which she lost no time in setting before us.\n\n\n\nChapter XIII. Of Sir Gervas Jerome, Knight Banneret of the County of\nSurrey\n\nThe inn was very full of company, being occupied not only by many\nGovernment agents and couriers on their way to and from the seat of\nthe rising, but also by all the local gossips, who gathered there to\nexchange news and consume Dame Hobson the landlady's home-brewed. In\nspite, however, of this stress of custom and the consequent uproar, the\nhostess conducted us into her own private room, where we could consume\nher excellent cheer in peace and quietness. This favour was due, I\nthink, to a little sly manoeuvring and a few whispered words from Saxon,\nwho amongst other accomplishments which he had picked up during his\nchequered career had a pleasing knack of establishing friendly relations\nwith the fair sex, irrespective of age, size, or character. Gentle\nand simple, Church and Dissent, Whig and Tory, if they did but wear a\npetticoat our comrade never failed, in spite of his fifty years, to make\nhis way into their good graces by the help of his voluble tongue mid\nassured manner.\n\n'We are your grateful servants, mistress,' said he, when the smoking\njoint and the batter pudding had been placed upon the table. 'We have\nrobbed you of your room. Will you not honour us so far as to sit down\nwith us and share our repast?'\n\n'Nay, kind sir,' said the portly dame, much flattered by the proposal;\n'it is not for me to sit with gentles like yourselves.'\n\n'Beauty has a claim which persons of quality, and above all cavalieros\nof the sword, are the first to acknowledge,' cried Saxon, with his\nlittle twinkling eyes fixed in admiration upon her buxom countenance.\n'Nay, by my troth, you shall not leave us. I shall lock the door first.\nIf you will not eat, you shall at least drink a cup of Alicant with me.'\n\n'Nay, sir, it is too much honour,' cried Dame Hobson, with a simper. 'I\nshall go down into the cellars and bring a flask of the best.'\n\n'Nay, by my manhood, you shall not,' said Saxon, springing up from his\nseat. 'What are all these infernal lazy drawers here for if you are to\ndescend to menial offices?' Handing the widow to a chair he clanked away\ninto the tap-room, where we heard him swearing at the men-servants, and\ncursing them for a droning set of rascals who had taken advantage of\nthe angelic goodness of their mistress and her incomparable sweetness of\ntemper.\n\n'Here is the wine, fair mistress,' said he, returning presently with a\nbottle in either hand. 'Let me fill your glass. Ha! it flows clear and\nyellow like a prime vintage. These rogues can stir their limbs when they\nfind that there is a man to command them.'\n\n'Would that there were ever such,' said the widow meaningly, with a\nlanguishing look at our companion. 'Here is to you, sir--and to ye, too,\nyoung sirs,' she added, sipping at her wine. 'May there be a speedy end\nto the insurrection, for I judge, from your gallant equipment, that ye\nbe serving the King.'\n\n'His business takes us to the West,' said Reuben, 'and we have every\nreason to hope that there will be a speedy end to the insurrection.'\n\n'Aye, aye, though blood will be shed first,' she said, shaking her head.\n'They tell me that the rebels are as many as seven thousand, and that\nthey swear to give an' take no quarter, the murderous villains! Alas!\nhow any gentleman can fall to such bloody work when he might have a\nclean honourable occupation, such as innkeeping or the like, is more\nthan my poor mind can understand. There is a sad difference betwixt the\nman who lieth on the cold ground, not knowing how long it may be before\nhe is three feet deep in it, and he who passeth his nights upon a warm\nfeather bed, with mayhap a cellar beneath it stocked with even such\nwines as we are now drinking.' She again looked hard at Saxon as she\nspoke, while Reuben and I nudged each other beneath the table.\n\n'This business hath doubtless increased your trade, fair mistress,'\nquoth Saxon.\n\n'Aye, and in the way that payeth best,' said she. 'The few kilderkins of\nbeer which are drunk by the common folk make little difference one way\nor the other. But now, when we have lieutenants of counties, officers,\nmayors, and gentry spurring it for very life down the highways, I have\nsold more of my rare old wines in three days than ever I did before in\na calendar month. It is not ale, or strong waters, I promise you, that\nthose gentles drink, but Priniac, Languedoc, Tent, Muscadine, Chiante,\nand Tokay--never a flask under the half-guinea.'\n\n'So indeed!' quoth Saxon thoughtfully. 'A snug home and a steady\nincome.'\n\n'Would that my poor Peter had lived to share it with me,' said Dame\nHobson, laying down her glass, and rubbing her eyes with a corner of\nher kerchief. 'He was a good man, poor soul, though in very truth and\nbetween friends he did at last become as broad and as thick as one of\nhis own puncheons. All well, the heart is the thing! Marry come up! if a\nwoman were ever to wait until her own fancy came her way, there would be\nmore maids than mothers in the land.'\n\n'Prythee, good dame, how runs your own fancy?' asked Reuben\nmischievously.\n\n'Not in the direction of fat, young man,' she answered smartly, with a\nmerry glance at our plump companion.\n\n'She has hit you there, Reuben,' said I.\n\n'I would have no pert young springald,' she continued, 'but one who hath\nknowledge of the world, and ripe experience. Tall he should be, and of\nsinewy build, free of speech that he might lighten the weary hours, and\nhelp entertain the gentles when they crack a flagon of wine. Of business\nhabits he must be, too, forsooth, for is there not a busy hostel and two\nhundred good pounds a year to pass through his fingers? If Jane Hobson\nis to be led to the altar again it must be by such a man as this.'\n\nSaxon had listened with much attention to the widow's words, and had\njust opened his mouth to make some reply to her when a clattering and\nbustle outside announced the arrival of some traveller. Our\nhostess drank off her wine and pricked up her ears, but when a loud\nauthoritative voice was heard in the passage, demanding a private room\nand a draught of sack, her call to duty overcame her private concerns,\nand she bustled off with a few words of apology to take the measure of\nthe new-comer.\n\n'Body o' me, lads!' quoth Decimus Saxon the moment that she disappeared,\n'ye can see how the land lies. I have half a mind to let Monmouth carve\nhis own road, and to pitch my tent in this quiet English township.'\n\n'Your tent, indeed!' cried Reuben; 'it is a brave tent that is furnished\nwith cellars of such wine as we are drinking. And as to the quiet, my\nillustrious, if you take up your residence here I'll warrant that the\nquiet soon comes to an end.'\n\n'You have seen the woman,' said Saxon, with his brow all in a wrinkle\nwith thought. 'She hath much to commend her. A man must look to himself.\nTwo hundred pounds a year are not to be picked off the roadside every\nJune morning. It is not princely, but it is something for an old soldier\nof fortune who hath been in the wars for five-and-thirty years, and\nforesees the time when his limbs will grow stiff in his harness. What\nsayeth our learned Fleming--\"an mulier--\" but what in the name of the\ndevil have we here?'\n\nOur companion's ejaculation was called forth by a noise as of a slight\nscuffle outside the door, with a smothered 'Oh, sir!' and 'What will the\nmaids think?' The contest was terminated by the door being opened, and\nDame Hobson re-entering the room with her face in a glow, and a slim\nyoung man dressed in the height of fashion at her heels.\n\n'I am sure, good gentlemen,' said she, 'that ye will not object to this\nyoung nobleman drinking his wine in the same room with ye, since all the\nothers are filled with the townsfolk and commonalty.'\n\n'Faith! I must needs be mine own usher,' said the stranger, sticking his\ngold-laced cap under his left arm and laying his hand upon his heart,\nwhile he bowed until his forehead nearly struck the edge of the table.\n'Your very humble servant, gentlemen, Sir Gervas Jerome, knight banneret\nof his Majesty's county of Surrey, and at one time custos rotulorum of\nthe district of Beacham Ford.'\n\n'Welcome, sir,' quoth Reuben, with a merry twinkle in his eye. 'You have\nbefore you Don Decimo Saxon of the Spanish nobility, together with Sir\nMicah Clarke and Sir Reuben Lockarby, both of his Majesty's county of\nHampshire.'\n\n'Proud and glad to meet ye, gentlemen!' cried the newcomer, with a\nflourish. 'But what is this upon the table? Alicant? Fie, fie, it is a\ndrink for boys. Let us have some good sack with plenty of body in it.\nClaret for youth, say I, sack for maturity, and strong waters in old\nage. Fly, my sweetest, move those dainty feet of thine, for egad! my\nthroat is like leather. Od's 'oons, I drank deep last night, and yet\nit is clear that I could not have drunk enough, for I was as dry as a\nconcordance when I awoke.'\n\nSaxon sat silently at the table, looking so viciously at the stranger\nout of his half-closed glittering eyes that I feared that we should\nhave another such brawl as occurred at Salisbury, with perhaps a more\nunpleasant ending. Finally, however, his ill-humour at the gallant's\nfree and easy attention to our hostess spent itself in a few muttered\noaths, and he lit his long pipe, the never-failing remedy of a ruffled\nspirit. As to Reuben and myself, we watched our new companion half in\nwonder and half in amusement, for his appearance and manners were novel\nenough to raise the interest of inexperienced youngsters like ourselves.\n\nI have said that he was dressed in the height of fashion, and such\nindeed was the impression which a glance would give. His face was thin\nand aristocratic, with a well-marked nose, delicate features, and gay\ncareless expression. Some little paleness of the cheeks and darkness\nunder the eyes, the result of hard travel or dissipation, did but add a\nchastening grace to his appearance. His white periwig, velvet and silver\nriding coat, lavender vest and red satin knee-breeches were all of the\nbest style and cut, but when looked at closely, each and all of these\narticles of attire bore evidence of having seen better days. Beside the\ndust and stains of travel, there was a shininess or a fading of colour\nhere and there which scarce accorded with the costliness of their\nmaterial or the bearing of their wearer. His long riding-boots had a\ngaping seam in the side of one of them, whilst his toe was pushing\nits way through the end of the other. For the rest, he wore a handsome\nsilver-hilted rapier at his side, and had a frilled cambric shirt\nsomewhat the worse for wear and open at the front, as was the mode with\nthe gallants of those days. All the time he was speaking he mumbled a\ntoothpick, which together with his constant habit of pronouncing his\no's as a's made his conversation sound strange to our ears. (Note D\nAppendix) Whilst we were noting these peculiarities he was reclining\nupon Dame Hobson's best taffatta-covered settee, tranquilly combing his\nwig with a delicate ivory comb which he had taken from a small satin bag\nwhich hung upon the right of his sword-belt.\n\n'Lard preserve us from country inns!' he remarked. 'What with the boors\nthat swarm in every chamber, and the want of mirrors, and jasmine water,\nand other necessaries, blister me if one has not to do one's toilet\nin the common room. 'Oons! I'd as soon travel in the land of the Great\nMogul!'\n\n'When you shall come to be my age, young sir,' Saxon answered, 'you may\nknow better than to decry a comfortable country hostel.'\n\n'Very like, sir, very like!' the gallant answered, with a careless\nlaugh. 'For all that, being mine own age, I feel the wilds of Wiltshire\nand the inns of Bruton to be a sorry change after the Mall, and the fare\nof Pontack's or the Coca Tree. Ah, Lud! here comes the sack! Open it, my\npretty Hebe, and send a drawer with fresh glasses, for these gentlemen\nmust do me the honour of drinking with me. A pinch of snuff, sirs? Aye,\nye may well look hard at the box. A pretty little thing, sirs, from a\ncertain lady of title, who shall be nameless; though, if I were to say\nthat her title begins with a D and her name with a C, a gentleman of the\nCourt might hazard a guess.'\n\nOur hostess, having brought fresh glasses, withdrew, and Decimus\nSaxon soon found an opportunity for following her. Sir Gervas Jerome\ncontinued, however, to chatter freely to Reuben and myself over\nthe wine, rattling along as gaily and airily as though we were old\nacquaintances.\n\n'Sink me, if I have not frighted your comrade away!' he remarked, 'Or is\nit possible that he hath gone on the slot of the plump widow? Methought\nhe looked in no very good temper when I kissed her at the door. Yet it\nis a civility which I seldom refuse to anything which wears a cap. Your\nfriend's appearance smacked more of Mars than of Venus, though, indeed,\nthose who worship the god are wont to be on good terms with the goddess.\nA hardy old soldier, I should judge, from his feature and attire.'\n\n'One who hath seen much service abroad,' I answered.\n\n'Ha! ye are lucky to ride to the wars in the company of so accomplished\na cavalier. For I presume that it is to the wars that ye are riding,\nsince ye are all so armed and accoutred.'\n\n'We are indeed bound for the West,' I replied, with some reserve, for in\nSaxon's absence I did not care to be too loose-tongued.\n\n'And in what capacity?' he persisted. 'Will ye risk your crowns in\ndefence of King James's one, or will ye strike in, hit or miss, with\nthese rogues of Devon and Somerset? Stop my vital breath, if I would not\nas soon side with the clown as with the crown, with all due respect to\nyour own principles!'\n\n'You are a daring man,' said I, 'if you air your opinions thus in every\ninn parlour. Dost not know that a word of what you have said, whispered\nto the nearest justice of the peace, might mean your liberty, if not\nyour life?'\n\n'I don't care the rind of a rotten orange for life or liberty either,'\ncried our acquaintance, snapping his finger and thumb. 'Burn me if\nit wouldn't be a new sensation to bandy words with some heavy-chopped\ncountry justice, with the Popish plot still stuck in his gizzard, and\nbe thereafter consigned to a dungeon, like the hero in John Dryden's\nlatest. I have been round-housed many a time by the watch in the old\nHawkubite days; but this would be a more dramatic matter, with high\ntreason, block, and axe all looming in the background.'\n\n'And rack and pincers for a prologue,' said Reuben. 'This ambition is\nthe strangest that I have ever heard tell of.'\n\n'Anything for a change,' cried Sir Gervas, filling up a bumper. 'Here's\nto the maid that's next our heart, and here's to the heart that loves\nthe maids! War, wine, and women, 'twould be a dull world without them.\nBut you have not answered my question.'\n\n'Why truly, sir,' said I, 'frank as you have been with us, I can scarce\nbe equally so with you, without the permission of the gentleman who has\njust left the room. He is the leader of our party. Pleasant as our short\nintercourse has been, these are parlous times, and hasty confidences are\napt to lead to repentance.'\n\n'A Daniel come to judgment!' cried our new acquaintance. 'What ancient,\nancient words from so young a head! You are, I'll warrant, five years\nyounger than a scatterbrain like myself, and yet you talk like the seven\nwise men of Greece. Wilt take me as a valet?'\n\n'A valet!' I exclaimed.\n\n'Aye, a valet, a man-servant. I have been waited upon so long that it is\nmy turn to wait now, and I would not wish a more likely master. By the\nLard! I must, in applying for a place, give an account of my character\nand a list of my accomplishments. So my rascals ever did with me, though\nin good truth I seldom listened to their recital. Honesty--there I\nscore a trick. Sober--Ananias himself could scarce say that I am\nthat. Trustworthy--indifferently so. Steady--hum! about as much so\nas Garraway's weathercock. Hang it, man, I am choke full of good\nresolutions, but a sparkling glass or a roguish eye will deflect me, as\nthe mariners say of the compass. So much for my weaknesses. Now let me\nsee what qualifications I can produce. A steady nerve, save only when I\nhave my morning qualms, and a cheerful heart; I score two on that. I\ncan dance saraband, minuet, or corranto; fence, ride, and sing French\nchansons. Good Lard! who ever heard a valet urge such accomplishments? I\ncan play the best game of piquet in London. So said Sir George Etherege\nwhen I won a cool thousand off him at the Groom Parter. But that won't\nadvance me much, either. What is there, then, to commend me? Why, marry,\nI can brew a bowl of punch, and I can broil a devilled fowl. It is not\nmuch, but I can do it well.'\n\n'Truly, good sir,' I said, with a smile, 'neither of these\naccomplishments is like to prove of much use to us on our present\nerrand. You do, however, but jest, no doubt, when you talk of descending\nto such a position.'\n\n'Not a whit! not a whit!' he replied earnestly. '\"To such base uses do\nwe come,\" as Will Shakespeare has it. If you would be able to say that\nyou have in your service Sir Gervas Jerome, knight banneret, and sole\nowner of Beacham Ford Park, with a rent-roll of four thousand good\npounds a year, he is now up for sale, and will be knocked down to the\nbidder who pleases him best. Say but the word, and we'll have another\nflagon of sack to clinch the bargain.'\n\n'But,' said I, 'if you are indeed owner of this fair property, why\nshould you descend to so menial an occupation?'\n\n'The Jews, the Jews, oh most astute and yet most slow-witted master! The\nten tribes have been upon me, and I have been harried and wasted, bound,\nravished, and despoiled. Never was Agag, king of Amalek, more completely\nin the hands of the chosen, and the sole difference is that they have\nhewed into pieces mine estate instead of myself.'\n\n'Have you lost all, then?' Reuben asked, open-eyed.\n\n'Why no--not all--by no means all!' he answered, with a merry laugh; 'I\nhave a gold Jacobus and a guinea or two in my purse. 'Twill serve for\na flask or so yet. There is my silver-hilted rapier, my rings, my gold\nsnuff-box, and my watch by Tompion at the sign of the Three Crowns.\nIt was never bought under a hundred, I'll warrant. Then there are such\nrelics of grandeur as you see upon my person, though they begin to\nlook as frail and worn as a waiting-woman's virtue. In this bag, too,\nI retain the means for preserving that niceness and elegance of person\nwhich made me, though I say it, as well groomed a man as ever set foot\nin St. James's Park. Here are French scissors, eyebrow brush, toothpick\ncase, patch-box, powder-bag, comb, puff, and my pair of red-heeled\nshoes. What could a man wish for more? These, with a dry throat, a\ncheerful heart, and a ready hand, are my whole stock in trade.'\n\nReuben and I could not forbear from laughing at the curious inventory of\narticles which Sir Gervas had saved from the wreck of his fortunes. He\nupon seeing our mirth was so tickled at his own misfortunes, that he\nlaughed in a high treble key until the whole house resounded with his\nmerriment. 'By the Mass,' he cried at last, 'I have never had so much\nhonest amusement out of my prosperity as hath been caused in me by my\ndownfall. Fill up your glasses!'\n\n'We have still some distance to travel this evening, and must not drink\nmore,' I observed, for prudence told me that it was dangerous work for\ntwo sober country lads to keep pace with an experienced toper.\n\n'So!' said he in surprise. 'I should have thought that would be a\n\"raison de plus,\" as the French say. But I wish your long-legged friend\nwould come back, even if he were intent upon slitting my weazand for my\nattention to the widow. He is not a man to flinch from his liquor, I'll\nwarrant. Curse this Wiltshire dust that clings to my periwig!'\n\n'Until my comrade returns, Sir Gervas,' said I, 'you might, since the\nsubject does not appear to be a painful one to you, let us know how\nthese evil times, which you bear with such philosophy, came upon you.'\n\n'The old story!' he answered, flicking away a few grains of snuff with\nhis deeply-laced cambric handkerchief. 'The old, old story! My father, a\ngood, easy country baronet, finding the family purse somewhat full, must\nneeds carry me up to town to make a man of me. There as a young lad I\nwas presented at Court, and being a slim active youngster with a pert\ntongue and assured manner, I caught the notice of the Queen, who made\nme one of her pages of honour. This post I held until I grew out of\nit, when I withdrew from town, but egad! I found I must get back to it\nagain, for Beacham Ford Park was as dull as a monastery after the life\nwhich I had been living. In town I stayed then with such boon companions\nas Tommy Lawson, my Lord Halifax, Sir Jasper Lemarck, little Geordie\nChichester, aye, and old Sidney Godolphin of the Treasury; for with all\nhis staid ways and long-winded budgets he could drain a cup with the\nbest of us, and was as keen on a main of cocks as on a committee of ways\nand means. Well, it was rare sport while it lasted, and sink me if\nI wouldn't do the same again if I had my time once more. It is like\nsliding down a greased plank though, for at first a man goes slow\nenough, and thinks he can pull himself up, but presently he goes faster\nand faster, until he comes with a crash on to the rocks of ruin at the\nbottom.'\n\n'And did you run through four thousand pounds a year?' I exclaimed.\n\n'Od's bodikins, man, you speak as if this paltry sum were all the\nwealth of the Indies. Why, from Ormonde or Buckingham, with their twenty\nthousand, down to ranting Dicky Talbot, there was not one of my set who\ncould not have bought me out. Yet I must have my coach and four, my town\nhouse, my liveried servants, and my stable full of horses. To be in the\nmode I must have my poet, and throw him a handful of guineas for his\ndedication. Well, poor devil, he is one who will miss me. I warrant his\nheart was as heavy as his verses when he found me gone, though perchance\nhe has turned a few guineas by this time by writing a satire upon me.\nIt would have a ready sale among my friends. Gad's life! I wonder how\nmy levees get on, and whom all my suitors have fastened on to now. There\nthey were morning after morning, the French pimp, the English bully, the\nneedy man o' letters, the neglected inventor--I never thought to have\ngot rid of them, but indeed I have shaken them off very effectually now.\nWhen the honey-pot is broken it is farewell to the flies.'\n\n'And your noble friends?' I asked. 'Did none of them stand by you in\nyour adversity?'\n\n'Well, well, I have nought to complain of!' exclaimed Sir Gervas. 'They\nwere brave-hearted boys for the most part. I might have had their names\non my bills as long as their fingers could hold a pen, but slit me if I\nlike bleeding my own companions. They might have found a place for me,\ntoo, had I consented to play second-fiddle where I had been used to lead\nthe band. I' faith, I care not what I turn my hand to amongst strangers,\nbut I would fain leave my memory sweet in town.'\n\n'As to what you proposed, of serving us as a valet,' said I, 'it is not\nto be thought of. We are, in spite of my friend's waggishness, but two\nplain blunt countrymen, and have no more need of a valet than one of\nthose poets which you have spoken of. On the other hand, if you should\ncare to attach yourself to our party, we shall take you where you\nwill see service which shall be more to your taste than the curling of\nperiwigs or the brushing of eyebrows.'\n\n'Nay, nay, my friend. Speak not with unseemly levity of the mysteries\nof the toilet,' he cried. 'Ye would yourselves be none the worse for\na touch of mine ivory comb, and a closer acquaintance with the famous\nskin-purifying wash of Murphy which I am myself in the habit of using.'\n\n'I am beholden to you, sir,' said Reuben, 'but the famous spring water\nwash by Providence is quite good enough for the purpose.'\n\n'And Dame Nature hath placed a wig of her own upon me,' I added, 'which\nI should be very loth to change.'\n\n'Goths! Perfect Goths!' cried the exquisite, throwing up his white\nhands. 'But here comes a heavy tread and the clink of armour in the\npassage. 'Tis our friend the knight of the wrathful countenance, if I\nmistake not.'\n\nIt was indeed Saxon, who strode into the room to tell us that our horses\nwere at the door, and that all was ready for our departure. Taking\nhim aside I explained to him in a whisper what had passed between the\nstranger and ourselves, with the circumstances which had led me to\nsuggest that he should join our party. The old soldier frowned at the\nnews.\n\n'What have we to do with such a coxcomb?' he said. 'We have hard fare\nand harder blows before us. He is not fit for the work.'\n\n'You said yourself that Monmouth will be weak in horse,' I answered.\n'Here is a well-appointed cavalier, who is to all appearance a desperate\nman and ready for anything. Why should we not enrol him?'\n\n'I fear,' said Saxon, 'that his body may prove to be like the bran of\na fine cushion, of value only for what it has around it. However, it is\nperhaps for the best. The handle to his name may make him welcome in the\ncamp, for from what I hear there is some dissatisfaction at the way in\nwhich the gentry stand aloof from the enterprise.'\n\n'I had feared,' I remarked, still speaking in a whisper, 'that we were\nabout to lose one of our party instead of gaining one in this Bruton\ninn.'\n\n'I have thought better of it,' he answered, with a smile. 'Nay, I'll\ntell you of it anon. Well, Sir Gervas Jerome,' he added aloud, turning\nto our new associate, 'I hear that you are coming with us. For a day you\nmust be content to follow without question or remark. Is that agreed!'\n\n'With all my heart,' cried Sir Gervas.\n\n'Then here's a bumper to our better acquaintance,' cried Saxon, raising\nhis glass.\n\n'I pledge ye all,' quoth the gallant. 'Here's to a fair fight, and may\nthe best men win.'\n\n'Donnerblitz, man!' said Saxon. 'I believe there's mettle in you for all\nyour gay plumes. I do conceive a liking for you. Give me your hand!'\n\nThe soldier of fortune's great brown grip enclosed the delicate hand\nof our new friend in a pledge of comradeship. Then, having paid our\nreckoning and bade a cordial adieu to Dame Hobson, who glanced methought\nsomewhat reproachfully or expectantly at Saxon, we sprang on our steeds\nand continued our journey amidst a crowd of staring villagers, who\nhuzzaed lustily as we rode out from amongst them.\n\n\n\nChapter XIV. Of the Stiff-legged Parson and his Flock\n\nOur road lay through Castle Carey and Somerton, which are small towns\nlying in the midst of a most beautiful pastoral country, well wooded and\nwatered by many streams. The valleys along the centre of which the road\nlies are rich and luxuriant, sheltered from the winds by long rolling\nhills, which are themselves highly cultivated. Here and there we passed\nthe ivy-clad turret of an old castle or the peaked gables of a rambling\ncountry house, protruding from amongst the trees and marking the country\nseat of some family of repute. More than once, when these mansions were\nnot far from the road, we were able to perceive the unrepaired dints and\nfractures on the walls received during the stormy period of the civil\ntroubles. Fairfax it seems had been down that way, and had left abundant\ntraces of his visit. I have no doubt that my father would have had much\nto say of these signs of Puritan wrath had he been riding at our side.\n\nThe road was crowded with peasants who were travelling in two strong\ncurrents, the one setting from east to west, and the other from west to\neast. The latter consisted principally of aged people and of children,\nwho were being sent out of harm's way to reside in the less disturbed\ncounties until the troubles should be over. Many of these poor folk were\npushing barrows in front of them, in which a few bedclothes and some\ncracked utensils represented the whole of their worldly goods. Others\nmore prosperous had small carts, drawn by the wild shaggy colts which\nare bred on the Somerset moors. What with the spirit of the half-tamed\nbeasts and the feebleness of the drivers, accidents were not uncommon,\nand we passed several unhappy groups who had been tumbled with their\nproperty into a ditch, or who were standing in anxious debate round a\ncracked shaft or a broken axle.\n\nThe countrymen who were making for the West were upon the other hand\nmen in the prime of life, with little or no baggage. Their brown faces,\nheavy boots, and smockfrocks proclaimed most of them to be mere hinds,\nthough here and there we overtook men who, by their top-boots and\ncorduroys, may have been small farmers or yeomen. These fellows walked\nin gangs, and were armed for the most part with stout oak cudgels,\nwhich were carried as an aid to their journey, but which in the hands of\npowerful men might become formidable weapons. From time to time one\nof these travellers would strike up a psalm tune, when all the others\nwithin earshot would join in, until the melody rippled away down the\nroad. As we passed some scowled angrily at us, while others whispered\ntogether and shook their heads, in evident doubt as to our character and\naims. Now and again among the people we marked the tall broad-brimmed\nhat and Geneva mantle which were the badges of the Puritan clergy.\n\n'We are in Monmouth's country at last,' said Saxon to me, for Reuben\nLockarby and Sir Gervas Jerome had ridden on ahead. 'This is the raw\nmaterial which we shall have to lick into soldiership.'\n\n'And no bad material either,' I replied, taking note of the sturdy\nfigures and bold hearty faces of the men. 'Think ye that they are bound\nfor Monmouth's camp, then?'\n\n'Aye, are they. See you yon long-limbed parson on the left--him with the\npent-house hat. Markest thou not the stiffness wherewith he moves his\nleft leg!'\n\n'Why, yes; he is travel-worn doubtless.'\n\n'Ho! ho!' laughed my companion. 'I have seen such a stiffness before\nnow. The man hath a straight sword within he leg of his breeches. A\nregular Parliamentary tuck, I'll warrant. When he is on safe ground he\nwill produce it, aye, and use it too, but until he is out of all danger\nof falling in with the King's horse he is shy of strapping it to his\nbelt. He is one of the old breed by his cut, who:\n\n          \"Call fire and sword and desolation,\n           A godly thorough reformation.\"\n\nOld Samuel hath them to a penstroke! There is another ahead of him\nthere, with the head of a scythe inside his smock. Can you not see the\noutline? I warrant there is not one of the rascals but hath a pike-head\nor sickle-blade concealed somewhere about him. I begin to feel the\nbreath of war once more, and to grow younger with it. Hark ye, lad! I am\nglad that I did not tarry at the inn.'\n\n'You seemed to be in two minds about it,' said I.\n\n'Aye, aye. She was a fine woman, and the quarters were comfortable. I do\nnot gainsay it. But marriage, d'ye see, is a citadel that it is plaguy\neasy to find one's way into, but once in old Tilly himself could not\nbring one out again with credit, I have known such a device on the\nDanube, where at the first onfall the Mamelukes have abandoned the\nbreach for the very purpose of ensnaring the Imperial troops in the\nnarrow streets beyond, from which few ever returned. Old birds are not\ncaught with such wiles. I did succeed in gaining the ear of one of the\ngossips, and asking him what he could tell me of the good dame and her\ninn. It seemeth that she is somewhat of a shrew upon occasion, and that\nher tongue had more to do with her husband's death than the dropsy which\nthe leech put it down to. Again, a new inn hath been started in the\nvillage, which is well-managed, and is like to draw the custom from\nher. It is, too, as you have said, a dull sleepy spot. All these reasons\nweighed with me, and I decided that it would be best to raise my siege\nof the widow, and to retreat whilst I could yet do so with the credit\nand honours of war.'\n\n''Tis best so,' said I; 'you could not have settled down to a life of\ntoping and ease. But our new comrade, what think you of him?'\n\n'Faith!' Saxon answered, 'we shall extend into a troop of horse if we\nadd to our number every gallant who is in want of a job. As to this Sir\nGervas, however, I think, as I said at the inn, that he hath more mettle\nin him than one would judge at first sight. These young sprigs of the\ngentry will always fight, but I doubt if he is hardened enough or\nhath constancy enough for such a campaign as this is like to be. His\nappearance, too, will be against him in the eyes of the saints; and\nthough Monmouth is a man of easy virtue, the saints are like to have the\nchief voice in his councils. Now do but look at him as he reins up that\nshowy grey stallion and gazes back at us. Mark his riding-hat tilted\nover his eye, his open bosom, his whip dangling from his button-hole,\nhis hand on his hip, and as many oaths in his mouth as there are ribbons\nto his doublet. Above all, mark the air with which he looks down upon\nthe peasants beside him. He will have to change his style if he is to\nfight by the side of the fanatics. But hark! I am much mistaken if they\nhave not already got themselves into trouble.'\n\nOur friends had pulled up their horses to await our coming. They had\nscarce halted, however, before the stream of peasants who had been\nmoving along abreast of them slackened their pace, and gathered round\nthem with a deep ominous murmur and threatening gestures. Other\nrustics, seeing that there was something afoot, hurried up to help their\ncompanions. Saxon and I put spurs to our horses, and pushing through the\nthrong, which was becoming every instant larger and more menacing, made\nour way to the aid of our friends, who were hemmed in on every side by\nthe rabble. Reuben had laid his hand upon the hilt of his sword, while\nSir Gervas was placidly chewing his toothpick and looking down at the\nangry mob with an air of amused contempt.\n\n'A flask or two of scent amongst them would not be amiss,' he remarked;\n'I would I had a casting bottle.'\n\n'Stand on your guard, but do not draw,' cried Saxon. 'What the henker\nhath come over the chaw-bacons? They mean mischief. How now, friends,\nwhy this uproar?'\n\nThis question instead of allaying the tumult appeared to make it tenfold\nworse. All round us twenty deep were savage faces and angry eyes,\nwith the glint here and there of a weapon half drawn from its place of\nconcealment. The uproar, which had been a mere hoarse growl, began to\ntake shape and form. 'Down with the Papists!' was the cry. 'Down with\nthe Prelatists!' 'Smite the Erastian butchers!' 'Smite the Philistine\nhorsemen!' 'Down with them!'\n\nA stone or two had already whistled past our ears, and we had been\nforced in self-defence to draw our swords, when the tall minister whom\nwe had already observed shoved his way through the crowd, and by dint of\nhis lofty stature and commanding voice prevailed upon them to be silent.\n\n'How say ye,' he asked, turning upon us, 'fight ye for Baal or for the\nLord? He who is not with us is against us.'\n\n'Which is the side of Baal, most reverend sir, and which of the Lord?'\nasked Sir Gervas Jerome. 'Methinks if you were to speak plain English\ninstead of Hebrew we might come to an understanding sooner.'\n\n'This is no time for light words,' the minister cried, with a flush of\nanger upon his face. 'If ye would keep your skins whole, tell me, are ye\nfor the bloody usurper James Stuart, or are ye for his most Protestant\nMajesty King Monmouth?'\n\n'What! He hath come to the title already!' exclaimed Saxon. 'Know then\nthat we are four unworthy vessels upon our way to offer our services to\nthe Protestant cause.'\n\n'He lies, good Master Pettigrue, he lies most foully,' shouted a burly\nfellow from the edge of the crowd. 'Who ever saw a good Protestant in\nsuch a Punchinello dress as yonder? Is not Amalekite written upon his\nraiment? Is he not attired as becometh the bridegroom of the harlot of\nRome? Why then should we not smite him?'\n\n'I thank you, my worthy friend,' said Sir Gervas, whose attire had moved\nthis champion's wrath. 'If I were nearer I should give you some return\nfor the notice which you have taken of me.'\n\n'What proof have we that ye are not in the pay of the usurper, and on\nyour way to oppress the faithful?' asked the Puritan divine.\n\n'I tell you, man,' said Saxon impatiently, 'that we have travelled all\nthe way from Hampshire to fight against James Stuart. We will ride with\nye to Monmouth's camp, and what better proof could ye desire than that?'\n\n'It may be that ye do but seek an opportunity of escaping from our\nbondage,' the minister observed, after conferring with one or two of the\nleading peasants. 'It is our opinion, therefore, that before coming\nwith us ye must deliver unto us your swords, pistols, and other carnal\nweapons.'\n\n'Nay, good sir, that cannot be,' our leader answered. 'A cavalier may\nnot with honour surrender his blade or his liberty in the manner ye\ndemand. Keep close to my bridle-arm, Clarke, and strike home at any\nrogue who lays hands on you.'\n\nA hum of anger rose from the crowd, and a score of sticks and\nscythe-blades were raised against us, when the minister again interposed\nand silenced his noisy following.\n\n'Did I hear aright?' he asked. 'Is your name Clarke?'\n\n'It is,' I answered.\n\n'Your Christian name?'\n\n'Micah.'\n\n'Living at?'\n\n'Havant.'\n\nThe clergyman conferred for a few moments with a grizzly-bearded,\nharsh-faced man dressed in black buckram who stood at his elbow.\n\n'If you are really Micah Clarke of Havant,' quoth he, 'you will be able\nto tell us the name of an old soldier, skilled in the German wars, who\nwas to have come with ye to the camp of the faithful.'\n\n'Why, this is he,' I answered; 'Decimus Saxon is his name.'\n\n'Aye, aye, Master Pettigrue,' cried the old man. 'The very name given by\nDicky Rumbold. He said that either the old Roundhead Clarke or his son\nwould go with him. But who are these?'\n\n'This is Master Reuben Lockarby, also of Havant, and Sir Gervas Jerome\nof Surrey,' I replied. 'They are both here as volunteers desiring to\nserve under the Duke of Monmouth.'\n\n'Right glad I am to see ye, then,' said the stalwart minister heartily.\n'Friends, I can answer for these gentlemen that they favour the honest\nfolk and the old cause.'\n\nAt these words the rage of the mob turned in an instant into the most\nextravagant adulation and delight. They crowded round us, patting our\nriding-boots, pulling at the skirts of our dress, pressing our hands and\ncalling down blessings upon our heads, until their pastor succeeded\nat last in rescuing us from their attentions and in persuading them to\nresume their journey. We walked our horses in the midst of them whilst\nthe clergyman strode along betwixt Saxon and myself. He was, as Reuben\nremarked, well fitted to be an intermediary between us, for he was\ntaller though not so broad as I was, and broader though not so tall as\nthe adventurer. His face was long, thin, and hollow-cheeked, with a pair\nof great thatched eyebrows and deep sunken melancholy eyes, which lit up\nupon occasion with a sudden quick flash of fiery enthusiasm.\n\n'Joshua Pettigrue is my name, gentlemen,' said he; 'I am an unworthy\nworker in the Lord's vineyard, testifying with voice and with arm to His\nholy covenant. These are my faithful flock, whom I am bringing westward\nthat they may be ready for the reaping when it pleases the Almighty to\ngather them in.'\n\n'And why have you not brought them into some show of order or\nformation?' asked Saxon. 'They are straggling along the road like a line\nof geese upon a common when Michaelmas is nigh. Have you no fears? Is\nit not written that your calamity cometh suddenly--suddenly shall you be\nbroken down without remedy?'\n\n'Aye, friend, but is it not also written, \"Trust in the Lord with all\nthine heart, and lean not unto thine own understanding!\" Mark ye, if I\nwere to draw up my men in military fashion it would invite attention and\nattack from any of James Stuart's horse who may come our way. It is my\ndesire to bring my flock to the camp and obtain pieces for them before\nexposing them to so unequal a contest.'\n\n'Truly, sir, it is a wise resolution,' said Saxon grimly, 'for if a\ntroop of horse came down upon these good people the pastor would find\nhimself without his flock.'\n\n'Nay, that could never be!' cried Master Pettigrue with fervour. 'Say\nrather that pastor, flock, and all would find their way along the thorny\ntrack of martyrdom to the new Jerusalem. Know, friend, that I have come\nfrom Monmouth in order to conduct these men to his standard. I received\nfrom him, or rather from Master Ferguson, instructions to be on the\nlookout for ye and for several others of the faithful we expect to join\nus from the East. By what route came ye?'\n\n'Over Salisbury Plain and so through Bruton.'\n\n'And saw ye or met ye any of our people upon the way?'\n\n'None,' Saxon answered. 'We left the Blue Guards at Salisbury, however,\nand we saw either them or some other horse regiment near this side of\nthe Plain at the village of Mere.'\n\n'Ah, there is a gathering of the eagles,' cried Master Joshua Pettigrue,\nshaking his head. 'They are men of fine raiment, with war-horses and\nchariots and trappings, like the Assyrians of old, yet shall the angel\nof the Lord breathe upon them in the night. Yea, He shall cut them off\nutterly in His wrath, and they shall be destroyed.'\n\n'Amen! Amen!' cried as many of the peasants as were within earshot.\n\n'They have elevated their horn, Master Pettigrue,' said the\ngrizzly-haired Puritan. 'They have set up their candlestick on high--the\ncandlestick of a perverse ritual and of an idolatrous service. Shall it\nnot be dashed down by the hands of the righteous?'\n\n'Lo, this same candle waxed big and burned sooty, even as an offence to\nthe nostrils, in the days of our fathers,' cried a burly red-faced man,\nwhose dress proclaimed him to be one of the yeoman class. 'So was it\nwhen Old Noll did get his snuffing shears to work upon it. It is a wick\nwhich can only be trimmed by the sword of the faithful.' A grim laugh\nfrom the whole party proclaimed their appreciation of the pious waggery\nof their companion.\n\n'Ah, Brother Sandcroft,' cried the pastor, 'there is much sweetness and\nmanna hidden in thy conversation. But the way is long and dreary. Shall\nwe not lighten it by a song of praise? Where is Brother Thistlethwaite,\nwhose voice is as the cymbal, the tabor, and the dulcimer?'\n\n'Lo, most pious Master Pettigrue,' said Saxon, 'I have myself at times\nventured to lift up my voice before the Lord.' Without any further\napology he broke out in stentorian tones into the following hymn, the\nrefrain of which was caught up by pastor and congregation.\n\n          The Lord He is a morion\n           That guards me from all wound;\n          The Lord He is a coat of mail\n           That circles me all round.\n          Who then fears to draw the sword,\n           And fight the battle of the Lord?\n\n          The Lord He is the buckler true\n           That swings on my left arm;\n          The Lord He is the plate of proof\n           That shieldeth me from harm.\n          Who then fears to draw the sword,\n           And fight the battle of the Lord?\n\n          Who then dreads the violent,\n           Or fears the man of pride?\n          Or shall I flee from two or three\n           If He be by my side?\n          Who then fears to draw the sword,\n           And fight the battle of the Lord!\n\n          My faith is like a citadel\n           Girt round with moat and wall,\n          No mine, or sap, or breach, or gap\n           Can ere prevail at all.\n          Who then fears to draw the sword,\n           And fight the battle of the Lord?\n\nSaxon ceased, but the Reverend Joshua Pettigrue waved his long arms and\nrepeated the refrain, which was taken up again and again by the long\ncolumn of marching peasants.\n\n'It is a godly hymn,' said our companion, who had, to my disgust and\nto the evident astonishment of Reuben and Sir Gervas, resumed the\nsnuffling, whining voice which he had used in the presence of my father.\n'It hath availed much on the field of battle.'\n\n'Truly,' returned the clergyman, 'if your comrades are of as sweet\na savour as yourself, ye will be worth a brigade of pikes to the\nfaithful,' a sentiment which raised a murmur of assent from the Puritans\naround. 'Since, sir,' he continued, 'you have had much experience in the\nwiles of war, I shall be glad to hand over to you the command of this\nsmall body of the faithful, until such time as we reach the army.'\n\n'It is time, too, in good faith, that ye had a soldier at your head,'\nDecimus Saxon answered quietly. 'My eyes deceive me strangely if I\ndo not see the gleam of sword and cuirass upon the brow of yonder\ndeclivity. Methinks our pious exercises have brought the enemy upon us.'\n\n\n\nChapter XV. Of our Brush with the King's Dragoons\n\nSome little distance from us a branch road ran into that along which we\nand our motley assemblage of companions-in-arms were travelling. This\nroad curved down the side of a well-wooded hill, and then over the level\nfor a quarter of a mile or so before opening on the other. Just at the\nbrow of the rising ground there stood a thick bristle of trees, amid the\ntrunks of which there came and went a bright shimmer of sparkling steel,\nwhich proclaimed the presence of armed men. Farther back, where the road\ntook a sudden turn and ran along the ridge of the hill, several horsemen\ncould be plainly seen outlined against the evening sky. So peaceful,\nhowever, was the long sweep of countryside, mellowed by the golden light\nof the setting sun, with a score of village steeples and manor-houses\npeeping out from amongst the woods, that it was hard to think that the\nthundercloud of war was really lowering over that fair valley, and that\nat any instant the lightning might break from it.\n\nThe country folk, however, appeared to have no difficulty at all in\nunderstanding the danger to which they were exposed. The fugitives from\nthe West gave a yell of consternation, and ran wildly down the road or\nwhipped up their beasts of burden in the endeavour to place as safe a\ndistance as possible between themselves and the threatened attack. The\nchorus of shrill cries and shouts, with the cracking of whips, creaking\nof wheels, and the occasional crash when some cart load of goods came to\ngrief, made up a most deafening uproar, above which our leader's voice\nresounded in sharp, eager exhortation and command. When, however, the\nloud brazen shriek from a bugle broke from the wood, and the head of\na troop of horse began to descend the slope, the panic became greater\nstill, and it was difficult for us to preserve any order at all amidst\nthe wild rush of the terrified fugitives.\n\n'Stop that cart, Clarke,' cried Saxon vehemently, pointing with his\nsword to an old waggon, piled high with furniture and bedding, which was\nlumbering along drawn by two raw-boned colts. At the same moment I saw\nhim drive his horse into the crowd and catch at the reins of another\nsimilar one.\n\nGiving Covenant's bridle a shake I was soon abreast of the cart which\nhe had indicated, and managed to bring the furious young horses to a\nstand-still.\n\n'Bring it up!' cried our leader, working with the coolness which only a\nlong apprenticeship to war can give. 'Now, friends, cut the traces!'\nA dozen knives were at work in a moment, and the kicking, struggling\nanimals scampered off, leaving their burdens behind them. Saxon sprang\noff his horse and set the example in dragging the waggon across the\nroadway, while some of the peasants, under the direction of Reuben\nLockarby and of Master Joshua Pettigrue, arranged a couple of other\ncarts to block the way fifty yards further down. The latter precaution\nwas to guard against the chance of the royal horse riding through\nthe fields and attacking us from behind. So speedily was the scheme\nconceived and carried out, that within a very few minutes of the first\nalarm we found ourselves protected front and rear by a lofty barricade,\nwhile within this improvised fortress was a garrison of a hundred and\nfifty men.\n\n'What firearms have we amongst us?' asked Saxon hurriedly.\n\n'A dozen pistols at the most,' replied the elderly Puritan, who was\naddressed by his companions as Hope-above Williams. 'John Rodway,\nthe coachman, hath his blunderbuss. There are also two godly men from\nHungerford, who are keepers of game, and who have brought their pieces\nwith them.'\n\n'They are here, sir,' cried another, pointing to two stout, bearded\nfellows, who were ramming charges into their long-barrelled muskets.\n'Their names are Wat and Nat Millman.'\n\n'Two who can hit their mark are worth a battalion who shoot wide,' our\nleader remarked, 'Get under the waggon, my friends, and rest your pieces\nupon the spokes. Never draw trigger until the sons of Belial are within\nthree pikes' length of ye.'\n\n'My brother and I,' quoth one of them, 'can hit a running doe at two\nhundred paces. Our lives are in the hands of the Lord, but two, at\nleast, of these hired butchers we shall send before us.'\n\n'As gladly as ever we slew stoat or wild-cat,' cried the other, slipping\nunder the waggon. 'We are keeping the Lord's preserves now, brother Wat,\nand truly these are some of the vermin that infest them.'\n\n'Let all who have pistols line the waggon,' said Saxon, tying his mare\nto the hedge--an example which we all followed. 'Clarke, do you take\ncharge upon the right with Sir Gervas, while Lockarby assists Master\nPettigrue upon the left. Ye others shall stand behind with stones.\nShould they break through our barricades, slash at the horses with your\nscythes. Once down, the riders are no match for ye.'\n\nA low sullen murmur of determined resolution rose from the peasants,\nmingled with pious ejaculations and little scraps of hymn or of prayer.\nThey had all produced from under their smocks rustic weapons of some\nsort. Ten or twelve had petronels, which, from their antique look and\nrusty condition, threatened to be more dangerous to their possessors\nthan to the enemy. Others had sickles, scythe-blades, flails,\nhalf-pikes, or hammers, while the remainder carried long knives and\noaken clubs. Simple as were these weapons, history has proved that in\nthe hands of men who are deeply stirred by religious fanaticism they are\nby no means to be despised. One had but to look at the stern, set faces\nof our followers, and the gleam of exultation and expectancy which shone\nfrom their eyes, to see that they were not the men to quail, either from\nsuperior numbers or equipment.\n\n'By the Mass!' whispered Sir Gervas, 'it is magnificent! An hour of this\nis worth a year in the Mall. The old Puritan bull is fairly at bay. Let\nus see what sort of sport the bull-pups make in the baiting of him! I'll\nlay five pieces to four on the chaw-bacons!'\n\n'Nay, it's no matter for idle betting,' said I shortly, for his\nlight-hearted chatter annoyed me at so solemn a moment.\n\n'Five to four on the soldiers, then!' he persisted. 'It is too good a\nmatch not to have a stake on it one way or the other.'\n\n'Our lives are the stake,' said I.\n\n'Faith, I had forgot it!' he replied, still mumbling his toothpick. '\"To\nbe or not to be?\" as Will of Stratford says. Kynaston was great on the\npassage. But here is the bell that rings the curtain up.'\n\nWhilst we had been making our dispositions the troop of horse--for there\nappeared to be but one--had trotted down the cross-road, and had drawn\nup across the main highway. They numbered, as far as I could judge,\nabout ninety troopers, and it was evident from their three-cornered\nhats, steel plates, red sleeves, and bandoliers, that they were dragoons\nof the regular army. The main body halted a quarter of a mile from us,\nwhile three officers rode to the front and held a short consultation,\nwhich ended in one of them setting spurs to his horse and cantering down\nin our direction. A bugler followed a few paces behind him, waving a\nwhite kerchief and blowing an occasional blast upon his trumpet.\n\n'Here comes an envoy,' cried Saxon, who was standing up in the waggon.\n'Now, my brethren, we have neither kettle-drum nor tinkling brass, but\nwe have the instrument wherewith Providence hath endowed us. Let us show\nthe redcoats that we know how to use it.\n\n          \"Who then dreads the violent,\n           Or fears the man of pride?\n           Or shall I flee from two or three\n           If He be by my side?\"'\n\nSeven score voices broke in, in a hoarse roar, upon the chorus--\n\n          'Who then fears to draw the sword,\n           And fight the battle of the Lord?'\n\nI could well believe at that moment that the Spartans had found the lame\nsinger Tyrtaeus the most successful of their generals, for the sound of\ntheir own voices increased the confidence of the country folk, while the\nmartial words of the old hymn roused the dogged spirit in their breasts.\nSo high did their courage run that they broke off their song with a\nloud warlike shout, waving their weapons above their heads, and ready I\nverily believe to march out from their barricades and make straight for\nthe horsemen. In the midst of this clamour and turmoil the young dragoon\nofficer, a handsome, olive-faced lad, rode fearlessly up to the barrier,\nand pulling up his beautiful roan steed, held up his hand with an\nimperious gesture which demanded silence.\n\n'Who is the leader of this conventicle?' he asked.\n\n'Address your message to me, sir,' said our leader from the top of\nthe waggon, 'but understand that your white flag will only protect you\nwhilst you use such language as may come from one courteous adversary to\nanother. Say your say or retire.'\n\n'Courtesy and honour,' said the officer, with a sneer, 'are not extended\nto rebels who are in arms against their lawful sovereign. If you are the\nleader of this rabble, I warn you if they are not dispersed within five\nminutes by this watch'--he pulled out an elegant gold time-piece--'we\nshall ride down upon them and cut them to pieces.'\n\n'The Lord can protect His own,' Saxon answered, amid a fierce hum of\napproval from the crowd. 'Is this all thy message?'\n\n'It is all, and you will find it enough, you Presbyterian traitor,'\ncried the dragoon cornet. 'Listen to me, misguided fools,' he continued,\nstanding up upon his stirrups and speaking to the peasants at the\nother side of the waggon. 'What chance have ye with your whittles and\ncheese-scrapers? Ye may yet save your skins if ye will but deliver up\nyour leaders, throw down what ye are pleased to call your arms, and\ntrust to the King's mercy.'\n\n'This exceedeth the limitations of your privileges,' said Saxon, drawing\na pistol from his belt and cocking it. 'If you say another word to\nseduce these people from their allegiance, I fire.'\n\n'Hope not to benefit Monmouth,' cried the young officer, disregarding\nthe threat, and still addressing his words to the peasants. 'The whole\nroyal army is drawing round him and--'\n\n'Have a care!' shouted our leader, in a deep harsh voice.\n\n'His head within a month shall roll upon the scaffold.'\n\n'But you shall never live to see it,' said Saxon, and stooping over\nhe fired straight at the cornet's head. At the flash of the pistol the\ntrumpeter wheeled round and galloped for his life, while the roan horse\nturned and followed with its master still seated firmly in the saddle.\n\n'Verily you have missed the Midianite!' cried Hope-above Williams.\n\n'He is dead,' said our leader, pouring a fresh charge into his pistol.\n'It is the law of war, Clarke,' he added, looking round at me. 'He hath\nchosen to break it, and must pay forfeit.'\n\nAs he spoke I saw the young officer lean gradually over in his saddle,\nuntil, when about half-way back to his friends, he lost his balance and\nfell heavily in the roadway, turning over two or three times with\nthe force of his fall, and lying at last still and motionless, a\ndust-coloured heap. A loud yell of rage broke from the troopers at\nthe sight, which was answered by a shout of defiance from the Puritan\npeasantry.\n\n'Down on your faces!' cried Saxon; 'they are about to fire.'\n\nThe crackle of musketry and a storm of bullets, pinging on the hard\nground, or cutting twigs from the hedges on either side of us, lent\nemphasis to our leader's order. Many of the peasants crouched behind the\nfeather beds and tables which had been pulled out of the cart. Some lay\nin the waggon itself, and some sheltered themselves behind or underneath\nit. Others again lined the ditches on either side or lay flat upon the\nroadway, while a few showed their belief in the workings of Providence\nby standing upright without flinching from the bullets. Amongst these\nlatter were Saxon and Sir Gervas, the former to set an example to his\nraw troops, and the latter out of pure laziness and indifference.\nReuben and I sat together in the ditch, and I can assure you, my dear\ngrandchildren, that we felt very much inclined to bob our heads when we\nheard the bullets piping all around them. If any soldier ever told you\nthat he did not the first time that he was under fire, then that soldier\nis not a man to trust. After sitting rigid and silent, however, as if\nwe had both stiff necks, for a very few minutes, the feeling passed\ncompletely away, and from that day to this it has never returned to me.\nYou see familiarity breeds contempt with bullets as with other things,\nand though it is no easy matter to come to like them, like the King of\nSweden or my Lord Cutts, it is not so very hard to become indifferent to\nthem.\n\nThe cornet's death did not remain long unavenged. A little old man with\na sickle, who had been standing near Sir Gervas, gave a sudden sharp\ncry, and springing up into the air with a loud 'Glory to God!' fell flat\nupon his face dead. A bullet had struck him just over the right eye.\nAlmost at the same moment one of the peasants in the waggon was shot\nthrough the chest, and sat up coughing blood all over the wheel. I saw\nMaster Joshua Pettigrue catch him in his long arms, and settle some\nbedding under his head, so that he lay breathing heavily and pattering\nforth prayers. The minister showed himself a man that day, for amid the\nfierce carbine fire he walked boldly up and down, with a drawn rapier in\nhis left hand--for he was a left-handed man--and his Bible in the other.\n'This is what you are dying for, dear brothers,' he cried continually,\nholding the brown volume up in the air; 'are ye not ready to die for\nthis?' And every time he asked the question a low eager murmur of assent\nrose from the ditches, the waggon, and the road.\n\n'They aim like yokels at a Wappenschaw,' said Saxon, seating himself\non the side of the waggon. 'Like all young soldiers they fire too high.\nWhen I was an adjutant it was my custom to press down the barrels of the\nmuskets until my eye told me that they were level. These rogues think\nthat they have done their part if they do but let the gun off, though\nthey are as like to hit the plovers above us as ourselves.'\n\n'Five of the faithful have fallen,' said Hope-above Williams. 'Shall we\nnot sally forth and do battle with the children of Antichrist? Are we to\nlie here like so many popinjays at a fair for the troopers to practise\nupon?'\n\n'There is a stone barn over yonder on the hill-side,' I remarked. 'If\nwe who have horses, and a few others, were to keep the dragoons in\nplay, the people might be able to reach it, and so be sheltered from the\nfire.'\n\n'At least let my brother and me have a shot or two back at them,' cried\none of the marksmen beside the wheel.\n\nTo all our entreaties and suggestions, however, our leader only replied\nby a shake of the head, and continued to swing his long legs over the\nside of the waggon with his eyes fixed intently upon the horsemen, many\nof whom had dismounted and were leaning their carbines over the cruppers\nof their chargers.\n\n'This cannot go on, sir,' said the pastor, in a low earnest voice; 'two\nmore men have just been hit.'\n\n'If fifty more men are hit we must wait until they charge,' Saxon\nanswered. 'What would you do, man? If you leave this shelter you will\nbe cut off and utterly destroyed. When you have seen as much of war as\nI have done, you will learn to put up quietly with what is not to be\navoided. I remember on such another occasion when the rearguard or\nnachhut of the Imperial troops was followed by Croats, who were in\nthe pay of the Grand Turk, I lost half my company before the mercenary\nrenegades came to close fighting. Ha, my brave boys, they are mounting!\nWe shall not have to wait long now.'\n\nThe dragoons were indeed climbing into their saddles again, and forming\nacross the road, with the evident intention of charging down upon us.\nAt the same time about thirty men detached themselves from the main body\nand trotted away into the fields upon our right. Saxon growled a hearty\noath under his breath as he observed them.\n\n'They have some knowledge of warfare after all,' said he. 'They mean to\ncharge us flank and front. Master Joshua, see that your scythesmen\nline the quickset hedge upon the right. Stand well up, my brothers, and\nflinch not from the horses. You men with the sickles, lie in the ditch\nthere, and cut at the legs of the brutes. A line of stone throwers\nbehind that. A heavy stone is as sure as a bullet at close quarters. If\nye would see your wives and children again, make that hedge good against\nthe horsemen. Now for the front attack. Let the men who carry petronels\ncome into the waggon. Two of yours, Clarke, and two of yours, Lockarby.\nI can spare one also. That makes five. Now here are ten others of a sort\nand three muskets. Twenty shots in all. Have you no pistols, Sir Gervas?\n\n'No, but I can get a pair,' said our companion, and springing upon his\nhorse he forced his way through the ditch, past the barrier, and so down\nthe road in the direction of the dragoons.\n\nThe movement was so sudden and so unexpected that there was a dead\nsilence for a few seconds, which was broken by a general howl of hatred\nand execration from the peasants. 'Shoot upon him! Shoot down the false\nAmalekite!' they shrieked. 'He hath gone to join his kind! He hath\ndelivered us up into the hands of the enemy! Judas! Judas!' As to the\nhorsemen, who were still forming up for a charge and waiting for the\nflanking party to get into position, they sat still and silent, not\nknowing what to make of the gaily-dressed cavalier who was speeding\ntowards them.\n\nWe were not left long in doubt, however. He had no sooner reached the\nspot where the cornet had fallen than he sprang from his horse and\nhelped himself to the dead man's pistols, and to the belt which\ncontained his powder and ball. Mounting at his leisure, amid a shower of\nbullets which puffed up the white dust all around him, he rode onwards\ntowards the dragoons and discharged one of his pistols at them. Wheeling\nround he politely raised his cap, and galloped back to us, none the\nworse for his adventure, though a ball had grazed his horse's fetlock\nand another had left a hole in the skirt of his riding-coat. The\npeasants raised a shout of jubilation as he rode in, and from that day\nforward our friend was permitted to wear his gay trappings and to bear\nhimself as he would, without being suspected of having mounted the\nlivery of Satan or of being wanting in zeal for the cause of the saints.\n\n'They are coming,' cried Saxon. 'Let no man draw trigger until he sees\nme shoot. If any does, I shall send a bullet through him, though it was\nmy last shot and the troopers were amongst us.'\n\nAs our leader uttered this threat and looked grimly round upon us with\nan evident intention of executing it, a shrill blare of a bugle burst\nfrom the horsemen in front of us, and was answered by those upon our\nflank. At the signal both bodies set spurs to their horses and dashed\ndown upon us at the top of their speed. Those in the field were delayed\nfor a few moments, and thrown into some disorder, by finding that the\nground immediately in front of them was soft and boggy, but having\nmade their way through it they re-formed upon the other side and rode\ngallantly at the hedge. Our own opponents, having a clear course before\nthem, never slackened for an instant, but came thundering down with a\njingling of harness and a tempest of oaths upon our rude barricades.\n\nAh, my children! when a man in his age tries to describe such things as\nthese, and to make others see what he has seen, it is only then that he\nunderstands what a small stock of language a plain man keeps by him for\nhis ordinary use in the world, and how unfit it is to meet any call\nupon it. For though at this very moment I can myself see that white\nSomersetshire road, with the wild whirling charge of the horsemen, the\nred angry faces of the men, and the gaping nostrils of the horses all\nwreathed and framed in clouds of dust, I cannot hope to make it clear\nto your young eyes, which never have looked, and, I trust, never shall\nlook, upon such a scene. When, too, I think of the sound, a mere rattle\nand jingle at first, but growing in strength and volume with every step,\nuntil it came upon us with a thunderous rush and roar which gave the\nimpression of irresistible power, I feel that that too is beyond the\npower of my feeble words to express. To inexperienced soldiers like\nourselves it seemed impossible that our frail defence and our feeble\nweapons could check for an instant the impetus and weight of the\ndragoons. To right and left I saw white set faces, open-eyed and rigid,\nunflinching, with a stubbornness which rose less from hope than from\ndespair. All round rose exclamations and prayers. 'Lord, save Thy\npeople!' 'Mercy, Lord, mercy!' 'Be with us this day!' 'Receive our\nsouls, O merciful Father!' Saxon lay across the waggon with his eyes\nglinting like diamonds and his petronel presented at the full length\nof his rigid arm. Following his example we all took aim as steadily as\npossible at the first rank of the enemy. Our only hope of safety lay\nin making that one discharge so deadly that our opponents should be too\nmuch shaken to continue their attack.\n\nWould the man never fire? They could not be more than ten paces from us.\nI could see the buckles of the men's plates and the powder charges in\ntheir bandoliers. One more stride yet, and at last our leader's pistol\nflashed and we poured in a close volley, supported by a shower of heavy\nstones from the sturdy peasants behind. I could hear them splintering\nagainst casque and cuirass like hail upon a casement. The cloud of smoke\nveiling for an instant the line of galloping steeds and gallant riders\ndrifted slowly aside to show a very different scene. A dozen men and\nhorses were rolling in one wild blood-spurting heap, the unwounded\nfalling over those whom our balls and stones had brought down.\nStruggling, snorting chargers, iron-shod feet, staggering figures rising\nand falling, wild, hatless, bewildered men half stunned by a fall, and\nnot knowing which way to turn--that was the foreground of the picture,\nwhile behind them the remainder of the troop were riding furiously back,\nwounded and hale, all driven by the one desire of getting to a place of\nsafety where they might rally their shattered formation. A great shout\nof praise and thanksgiving rose from the delighted peasants, and\nsurging over the barricade they struck down or secured the few uninjured\ntroopers who had boon unable or unwilling to join their companions in\ntheir flight. The carbines, swords, and bandoliers were eagerly pounced\nupon by the victors, some of whom had served in the militia, and knew\nwell how to handle the weapons which they had won.\n\nThe victory, however, was by no means completed. The flanking squadron\nhad ridden boldly at the hedge, and a dozen or more had forced their way\nthrough, in spite of the showers of stones and the desperate thrusts of\nthe pikemen and scythemen. Once amongst the peasants, the long swords\nand the armour of the dragoons gave them a great advantage, and though\nthe sickles brought several of the horses to the ground the soldiers\ncontinued to lay about them freely, and to beat back the fierce but\nill-armed resistance of their opponents. A dragoon sergeant, a man of\ngreat resolution and of prodigious strength, appeared to be the leader\nof the party, and encouraged his followers both by word and example.\nA stab from a half-pike brought his horse to the ground, but he\nsprang from the saddle as it fell, and avenged its death by a sweeping\nback-handed cut from his broadsword. Waving his hat in his left hand he\ncontinued to rally his men, and to strike down every Puritan who came\nagainst him, until a blow from a hatchet brought him on his knees and\na flail stroke broke his sword close by the hilt. At the fall of their\nleader his comrades turned and fled through the hedge, but the gallant\nfellow, wounded and bleeding, still showed fight, and would assuredly\nhave been knocked upon the head for his pains had I not picked him up\nand thrown him into the waggon, where he had the good sense to lie quiet\nuntil the skirmish was at an end. Of the dozen who broke through, not\nmore than four escaped, and several others lay dead or wounded upon the\nother side of the hedge, impaled by scythe-blades or knocked off\ntheir horses by stones. Altogether nine of the dragoons were slain\nand fourteen wounded, while we retained seven unscathed prisoners, ten\nhorses fit for service, and a score or so of carbines, with good store\nof match, powder, and ball. The remainder of the troop fired a\nsingle, straggling, irregular volley, and then galloped away down the\ncross-road, disappearing amongst the trees from which they had emerged.\n\nAll this, however, had not been accomplished without severe loss upon\nour side. Three men had been killed and six wounded, one of them\nvery seriously, by the musketry fire. Five had been cut down when\nthe flanking party broke their way in, and only one of these could be\nexpected to recover. In addition to this, one man had lost his life\nthrough the bursting of an ancient petronel, and another had his arm\nbroken by the kick of a horse. Our total losses, therefore, were eight\nkilled and the same wounded, which could not but be regarded as a very\nmoderate number when we consider the fierceness of the skirmish, and the\nsuperiority of our enemy both in discipline and in equipment.\n\nSo elated were the peasants by their victory, that those who had secured\nhorses were clamorous to be allowed to follow the dragoons, the more so\nas Sir Gervas Jerome and Reuben were both eager to lead them. Decimus\nSaxon refused, however, to listen to any such scheme, nor did he show\nmore favour to the Reverend Joshua Pettigrue's proposal, that he should\nin his capacity as pastor mount immediately upon the waggon, and improve\nthe occasion by a few words of healing and unction.\n\n'It is true, good Master Pettigrue, that we owe much praise and much\noutpouring, and much sweet and holy contending, for this blessing which\nhath come upon Israel,' said he, 'but the time hath not yet arrived.\nThere is an hour for prayer and an hour for labour. Hark ye, friend'--to\none of the prisoners--'to what regiment do you belong?'\n\n'It is not for me to reply to your questions,' the man answered sulkily.\n\nNay, then, we'll try if a string round your scalp and a few twists of a\ndrumstick will make you find your tongue,' said Saxon, pushing his face\nup to that of the prisoner, and staring into his eyes with so savage an\nexpression that the man shrank away affrighted.\n\n'It is a troop of the second dragoon regiment,' he said.\n\n'Where is the regiment itself?'\n\n'We left it on the Ilchester and Langport road.'\n\n'You hear,' said our leader. 'We have not a moment to spare, or we may\nhave the whole crew about our ears. Put our dead and wounded in the\ncarts, and we can harness two of these chargers to them. We shall not be\nin safety until we are in Taunton town.'\n\nEven Master Joshua saw that the matter was too pressing to permit of\nany spiritual exercises. The wounded men were lifted into the waggon and\nlaid upon the bedding, while our dead were placed in the cart which had\ndefended our rear. The peasants who owned these, far from making any\nobjection to this disposal of their property, assisted us in every way,\ntightening girths and buckling traces. Within an hour of the ending of\nthe skirmish we found ourselves pursuing our way once more, and looking\nback through the twilight at the scattered black dots upon the white\nroad, where the bodies of the dragoons marked the scene of our victory.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XVI. Of our Coming to Taunton\n\nThe purple shadows of evening had fallen over the countryside, and the\nsun had sunk behind the distant Quantock and Brendon Hills, as our rude\ncolumn of rustic infantry plodded through Curry Rivell, Wrantage, and\nHenlade. At every wayside cottage and red-tiled farmhouse the people\nswarmed out us we passed, with jugs full of milk or beer, shaking hands\nwith our yokels, and pressing food and drink upon them. In the little\nvillages old and young came buzzing to greet us, and cheered long and\nloud for King Monmouth and the Protestant cause. The stay-at-homes were\nmostly elderly folks and children, but here and there a young labourer,\nwhom hesitation or duties had kept back, was so carried away by our\nmartial appearance, and by the visible trophies of our victory, that he\nsnatched up a weapon and joined our ranks.\n\nThe skirmish had reduced our numbers, but it had done much to turn our\nrabble of peasants into a real military force. The leadership of Saxon,\nand his stern, short words of praise or of censure had done even more.\nThe men kept some sort of formation, and stepped together briskly in a\ncompact body. The old soldier and I rode at the head of the column, with\nMaster Pettigrue still walking between us. Then came the cartful of\nour dead, whom we were carrying with us to insure their decent burial.\nBehind this walked two score of scythe and sickle men, with their rude\nweapons over their shoulders, preceding the waggon in which the wounded\nwere carried. This was followed by the main body of the peasants,\nand the rear was brought up by ten or twelve men under the command of\nLockarby and Sir Gervas, mounted upon captured chargers, and wearing the\nbreastplates, swords, and carbines of the dragoons.\n\nI observed that Saxon rode with his chin upon his shoulder, casting\ncontinual uneasy glances behind him, and halting at every piece of\nrising ground to make sure that there were no pursuers at our heels. It\nwas not until, after many weary miles of marching, the lights of Taunton\ncould be seen twinkling far off in the valley beneath us that he at last\nheaved a deep sigh of relief, and expressed his belief that all danger\nwas over.\n\n'I am not prone to be fearful upon small occasion,' he remarked, 'but\nhampered as we are with wounded men and prisoners, it might have puzzled\nPetrinus himself to know what we should have done had the cavalry\novertaken us. I can now, Master Pettigrue, smoke my pipe in peace,\nwithout pricking up my ears at every chance rumble of a wheel or shout\nof a village roisterer.'\n\n'Even had they pursued us,' said the minister stoutly, 'as long as the\nhand of the Lord shall shield us, why should we fear them?'\n\n'Aye, aye!' Saxon answered impatiently, 'but the devil prevaileth at\ntimes. Were not the chosen people themselves overthrown and led into\ncaptivity? How say you, Clarke?'\n\n'One such skirmish is enough for a day,' I remarked. 'Faith! if instead\nof charging us they had continued that carbine fire, we must either have\ncome forth or been shot where we lay.'\n\n'For that reason I forbade our friends with the muskets to answer it,'\nsaid Saxon. 'Our silence led them to think that we had but a pistol or\ntwo among us, and so brought them to charge us. Thus our volley became\nthe more terrifying since it was unexpected. I'll wager there was not a\nman amongst them who did not feel that he had been led into a trap. Mark\nyou how the rogues wheeled and fled with one accord, as though it had\nbeen part of their daily drill!'\n\n'The peasants stood to it like men,' I remarked.\n\n'There is nothing like a tincture of Calvinism for stiffening a line of\nbattle,' said Saxon. 'Look at the Swede when he is at home. What more\nhonest, simple-hearted fellow could you find, with no single soldierly\nvirtue, save that he could put away more spruce beer than you would care\nto pay for. Yet if you do but cram him with a few strong, homely texts,\nplace a pike in his hand, and give him a Gustavus to lead him, there is\nno infantry in the world that can stand against him. On the other hand,\nI have seen young Turks, untrained to arms, strike in on behalf of the\nKoran as lustily as these brave fellows behind us did for the Bible\nwhich Master Pettigrue held up in front of them.'\n\n'I trust, sir,' said the minister gravely, 'that you do not, by\nthese remarks, intend to institute any comparison between our sacred\nscriptures and the writings of the impostor Mahomet, or to infer that\nthere is any similarity between the devil-inspired fury of the infidel\nSaracens and the Christian fortitude of the struggling faithful!'\n\n'By no means,' Saxon answered, grinning at me over the minister's head.\n'I was but showing how closely the Evil One can imitate the workings of\nthe Spirit.'\n\n'Too true, Master Saxon, too true!' the clergyman answered sadly. 'Amid\nthe conflict and discord it is hard to pick out the true path. But\nI marvel much that amidst the snares and temptations that beset a\nsoldier's life you have kept yourself unsullied, with your heart still\nset upon the true faith.'\n\n'It was through no strength of mine own,' said Saxon piously.\n\n'In very truth, such men as you are much needed in Monmouth's army,'\nMaster Joshua exclaimed. 'They have there several, as I understand, from\nHolland, Brandenburg, and Scotland, who have been trained in arms, but\nwho care so little for the cause which we uphold that they curse and\nswear in a manner that affrights the peasants, and threatens to call\ndown a judgment upon the army. Others there are who cling close to the\ntrue faith, and have been born again among the righteous; but alas! they\nhave had no experience of camps and fields. Our blessed Master can work\nby means of weak instruments, yet the fact remains that a man may be\na chosen light in a pulpit, and yet be of little avail in an onslaught\nsuch as we have seen this day. I can myself arrange my discourse to the\nsatisfaction of my flock, so that they grieve when the sand is run out;\n(Note E. Appendix) but I am aware that this power would stand me in\nlittle stead when it came to the raising of barricades and the use of\ncarnal weapons. In this way it comes about, in the army of the faithful,\nthat those who are fit to lead are hateful to the people, while those to\nwhose words the people will hearken know little of war. Now we have this\nday seen that you are ready of head and of hand, of much experience of\nbattle, and yet of demure and sober life, full of yearnings after the\nword, and strivings against Apollyon. I therefore repeat that you shall\nbe as a very Joshua amongst them, or as a Samson, destined to tear\ndown the twin pillars of Prelacy and Popery, so as to bury this corrupt\ngovernment in its fall.'\n\nDecimus Saxon's only reply to this eulogy was one of those groans which\nwere supposed, among the zealots, to be the symbol of intense inner\nconflict and emotion. So austere and holy was his expression, so solemn\nhis demeanour, and so frequent the upturnings of his eyes, clasping\nof his hands, and other signs which marked the extreme sectary, that\nI could not but marvel at the depths and completeness of the hypocrisy\nwhich had cast so complete a cloak over his rapacious self. For very\nmischief's sake I could not refrain from reminding him that there was\none at least who valued his professions at their real value.\n\n'Have you told the worthy minister,' said I, 'of your captivity amongst\nthe Mussulmans, and of the noble way in which you did uphold the\nChristian faith at Stamboul?'\n\n'Nay,' cried our companion, 'I would fain hear the tale. I marvel much\nthat one so faithful and unbending as thyself was ever let loose by the\nunclean and bloodthirsty followers of Mahomet.'\n\n'It does not become me to tell the tale,' Saxon answered with great\npresence of mind, casting at the same time a most venomous sidelong\nglance at me. 'It is for my comrades in misfortune and not for me to\ndescribe what I endured for the faith. I have little doubt, Master\nPettigrue, that you would have done as much had you been there. The town\nof Taunton lies very quiet beneath us, and there are few lights for so\nearly an hour, seeing that it has not yet gone ten. It is clear that\nMonmouth's forces have not reached it yet, else had there been some show\nof camp-fires in the valley; for though it is warm enough to lie out in\nthe open, the men must have fires to cook their victual.'\n\n'The army could scarce have come so far,' said the pastor. 'They have,\nI hear, been much delayed by the want of arms and by the need of\ndiscipline. Bethink ye, it was on the eleventh day of the month that\nMonmouth landed at Lyme, and it is now but the night of the fourteenth.\nThere was much to be done in the time.'\n\n'Four whole days!' growled the old soldier. 'Yet I expected no better,\nseeing that they have, so far as I can hear, no tried soldiers amongst\nthem. By my sword, Tilly or Wallenstein would not have taken four days\nto come from Lyme to Taunton, though all James Stuart's cavalry barred\nthe way. Great enterprises are not pushed through in this halting\nfashion. The blow should be sharp and sudden. But tell me, worthy sir,\nall that you know about the matter, for we have heard little upon the\nroad save rumour and surmise. Was there not some fashion of onfall at\nBridport?'\n\n'There was indeed some shedding of blood at that place. The first two\ndays were consumed, as I understand, in the enrolling of the faithful\nand the search for arms wherewith to equip them. You may well shake your\nhead, for the hours were precious. At last five hundred men were broken\ninto some sort of order, and marched along the coast under command of\nLord Grey of Wark and Wade the lawyer. At Bridport they were opposed\nby the red Dorset militia and part of Portman's yellow coats. If all\nbe true that is said, neither side had much to boast of. Grey and his\ncavalry never tightened bridle until they were back in Lyme once more,\nthough it is said their flight had more to do with the hard mouths\nof their horses than with the soft hearts of the riders. Wade and his\nfootmen did bravely, and had the best of it against the King's troops.\nThere was much outcry against Grey in the camp, but Monmouth can\nscarce afford to be severe upon the only nobleman who hath joined his\nstandard.'\n\n'Pshaw!' cried Saxon peevishly. 'There was no great stock of noblemen in\nCromwell's army, I trow, and yet they held their own against the King,\nwho had as many lords by him as there are haws in a thicket. If ye have\nthe people on your side, why should ye crave for these bewigged fine\ngentlemen, whose white hands and delicate rapiers are of as much service\nas so many ladies' bodkins?'\n\n'Faith!' said I, 'if all the fops are as careless for their lives as our\nfriend Sir Gervas, I could wish no better comrades in the field.'\n\n'In good sooth, yes!' cried Master Pettigrue heartily. 'What though he\nbe clothed in a Joseph's coat of many colours, and hath strange turns\nof speech! No man could have fought more stoutly or shown a bolder front\nagainst the enemies of Israel. Surely the youth hath good in his heart,\nand will become a seat of grace and a vessel of the Spirit, though\nat present he be entangled in the net of worldly follies and carnal\nvanities.'\n\n'It is to be hoped so,' quoth Saxon devoutly. 'And what else can you\ntell us of the revolt, worthy sir?'\n\n'Very little, save that the peasants have flocked in in such numbers\nthat many have had to be turned away for want of arms. Every tithing-man\nin Somersetshire is searching for axes and scythes. There is not\na blacksmith but is at his forge from morn to night at work upon\npike-heads. There are six thousand men of a sort in the camp, but\nnot one in five carries a musket. They have advanced, I hear, upon\nAxminster, where they must meet the Duke of Albemarle, who hath set out\nfrom Exeter with four thousand of the train bands.'\n\n'Then we shall be too late, after all,' I exclaimed.\n\n'You will have enough of battles before Monmouth exchanges his\nriding-hat for a crown, and his laced roquelaure for the royal purple,'\nquoth Saxon. 'Should our worthy friend here be correctly informed and\nsuch an engagement take place, it will but be the prologue to the play.\nWhen Feversham and Churchill come up with the King's own troops, it is\nthen that Monmouth takes the last spring, that lands him either on the\nthrone or the scaffold.'\n\nWhilst this conversation had been proceeding we had been walking our\nhorses down the winding track which leads along the eastern slope of\nTaunton Deane. For some time past we had been able to see in the valley\nbeneath us the lights of Taunton town and the long silver strip of\nthe river Tone. The moon was shining brightly in a cloudless heaven,\nthrowing a still and peaceful radiance over the fairest and richest of\nEnglish valleys. Lordly manorial houses, pinnacled towers, clusters of\nnestling thatch-roofed cottages, broad silent stretches of cornland,\ndark groves with the glint of lamp-lit windows shining from their\nrecesses--it all lay around us like the shadowy, voiceless landscapes\nwhich stretch before us in our dreams. So calm and so beautiful was the\nscene that we reined up our horses at the bend of the pathway, the tired\nand footsore peasants came to a halt, while even the wounded raised\nthemselves in the waggon in order to feast their eyes upon this land of\npromise. Suddenly, in the stillness, a strong fervent voice was heard\ncalling upon the source of all life to guard and preserve that which\nHe had created. It was Joshua Pettigrue, who had flung himself upon his\nknees, and who, while asking for future guidance, was returning thanks\nfor the safe deliverance which his flock had experienced from the many\nperils which had beset them upon their journey. I would, my children,\nthat I had one of those magic crystals of which we have read, that I\nmight show you that scene. The dark figures of the horsemen, the grave,\nearnest bearing of the rustics as they knelt in prayer or leaned upon\ntheir rude weapons, the half-cowed, half-sneering expression of the\ncaptive dragoons, the line of white pain-drawn faces that peeped\nover the side of the waggon, and the chorus of groans, cries, and\nejaculations which broke in upon the steady earnest voice of the pastor.\nAbove us the brilliant heavens, beneath us the beautiful sloping valley,\nstretching away in the white moonlight as far as the eye could reach.\nCould I but paint such a scene with the brush of a Verrio or Laguerre, I\nshould have no need to describe it in these halting and feeble words.\n\nMaster Pettigrue had concluded his thanksgiving, and was in the act of\nrising to his feet, when the musical peal of a bell rose up from the\nsleeping town before us. For a minute or more it rose and fell in its\nsweet clear cadence. Then a second with a deeper, harsher note joined\nin, and then a third, until he air was filled with the merry jangling.\nAt the same time a buzz of shouting or huzzaing could be heard, which\nincreased and spread until it swelled into a mighty uproar. Lights\nflashed in the windows, drums beat, and the whole place was astir. These\nsudden signs of rejoicing coming at the heels of the minister's prayer\nwere seized upon as a happy omen by the superstitious peasants, who set\nup a glad cry, and pushing onwards were soon within the outskirts of the\ntown.\n\nThe footpaths and causeway were black with throngs of the townsfolk,\nmen, women, and children, many of whom were bearing torches and\nlanthorns, all flocking in the same direction. Following them we found\nourselves in the market-place, where crowds of apprentice lads were\npiling up faggots for a bonfire, while others were broaching two or\nthree great puncheons of ale. The cause of this sudden outbreak of\nrejoicing was, we learned, that news had just come in that Albemarle's\nDevonshire militia had partly deserted and partly been defeated at\nAxminster that very morning. On hearing of our own successful skirmish\nthe joy of the people became more tumultuous than ever. They rushed in\namongst us, pouring blessings on our heads, in their strange burring\nwest-country speech, and embracing our horses as well as ourselves.\nPreparations were soon made for our weary companions. A long empty wool\nwarehouse, thickly littered with straw, was put at their disposal, with\na tub of ale and a plentiful supply of cold meats and wheaten bread.\nFor our own part we made our way down East Street through the clamorous\nhand-shaking crowd to the White Hart Inn, where after a hasty meal we\nwere right glad to seek our couches. Late into the night, however, our\nslumbers were disturbed by the rejoicings of the mob, who, having burned\nthe effigies of Lord Sunderland and of Gregory Alford, Mayor of Lyme,\ncontinued to sing west-country songs and Puritan hymns into the small\nhours of the morning.\n\n\n\nChapter XVII. Of the Gathering in the Market-square\n\nThe fair town in which we now found ourselves was, although Monmouth\nhad not yet reached it, the real centre of the rebellion. It was a\nprosperous place, with a great woollen and kersey trade, which gave\noccupation to as many as seven thousand inhabitants. It stood high,\ntherefore, amongst English boroughs, being inferior only to Bristol,\nNorwich, Bath, Exeter, York, Worcester, and Nottingham amongst the\ncountry towns. Taunton had long been famous not only for its own\nresources and for the spirit of its inhabitants, but also for the\nbeautiful and highly cultivated country which spread around it, and gave\nrise to a gallant breed of yeomen. From time immemorial the town had\nbeen a rallying-point for the party of liberty, and for many years it\nhad leaned to the side of Republicanism in politics and of Puritanism\nin religion. No place in the kingdom had fought more stoutly for\nthe Parliament, and though it had been twice besieged by Goring, the\nburghers, headed by the brave Robert Blake, had fought so desperately,\nthat the Royalists had been compelled each time to retire discomfited.\nOn the second occasion the garrison had been reduced to dog's-flesh and\nhorse-flesh, but no word of surrender had come either from them or\ntheir heroic commander, who was the same Blake under whom the old seaman\nSolomon Sprent had fought against the Dutch. After the Restoration the\nPrivy Council had shown their recollection of the part played by the\nSomersetshire town, by issuing a special order that the battlements\nwhich fenced round the maiden stronghold should be destroyed. Thus,\nat the time of which I speak, nothing but a line of ruins and a few\nunsightly mounds represented the massive line of wall which had been\nso bravely defended by the last generation of townsmen. There were not\nwanting, however, many other relics of those stormy times. The houses on\nthe outskirts were still scarred and splintered from the effects of\nthe bombs and grenades of the Cavaliers. Indeed, the whole town bore a\ngrimly martial appearance, as though she were a veteran among boroughs\nwho had served in the past, and was not averse to seeing the flash of\nguns and hearing the screech of shot once more.\n\nCharles's Council might destroy the battlements which his soldiers had\nbeen unable to take, but no royal edict could do away with the resolute\nspirit and strong opinions of the burghers. Many of them, born and bred\namidst the clash of civil strife, had been fired from their infancy by\nthe tales of the old war, and by reminiscences of the great assault when\nLunsford's babe-eaters were hurled down the main breach by the strong\narms of their fathers. In this way there was bred in Taunton a fiercer\nand more soldierly spirit than is usual in an English country town, and\nthis flame was fanned by the unwearied ministerings of a chosen band\nof Nonconformist clergymen, amongst whom Joseph Alleine was the most\nconspicuous. No better focus for a revolt could have been chosen, for\nno city valued so highly those liberties and that creed which was in\njeopardy.\n\nA large body of the burghers had already set out to join the rebel army,\nbut a good number had remained behind to guard the city, and these were\nreinforced by gangs of peasants, like the one to which we had attached\nourselves, who had trooped in from the surrounding country, and now\ndivided their time between listening to their favourite preachers and\nlearning to step in line and to handle their weapons. In yard, street,\nand market-square there was marching and drilling, night, morning, and\nnoon. As we rode out after breakfast the whole town was ringing with the\nshouting of orders and the clatter of arms. Our own friends of yesterday\nmarched into the market-place at the moment we entered it, and no sooner\ndid they catch sight of us than they plucked off their hats and cheered\nlustily, nor would they desist until we cantered over to them and took\nour places at their head.\n\n'They have vowed that none other should lead them,' said the minister,\nstanding by Saxon's stirrup.\n\n'I could not wish to lead stouter fellows,' said he. 'Let them deploy\ninto double line in front of the town-hall. So, so, smartly there, rear\nrank!' he shouted, facing his horse towards them. 'Now swing round into\nposition. Keep your ground, left flank, and let the others pivot upon\nyou. So--as hard and as straight as an Andrea Ferrara. I prythee,\nfriend, do not carry your pike as though it were a hoe, though I trust\nyou will do some weeding in the Lord's vineyard with it. And you, sir,\nyour musquetoon should be sloped upon your shoulder, and not borne under\nyour arm like a dandy's cane. Did ever an unhappy soldier find himself\ncalled upon to make order among so motley a crew! Even my good friend\nthe Fleming cannot so avail here, nor does Petrinus, in his \"De re\nmilitari,\" lay down any injunctions as to the method of drilling a man\nwho is armed with a sickle or a scythe.'\n\n'Shoulder scythe, port scythe, present scythe--mow!' whispered Reuben to\nSir Gervas, and the pair began to laugh, heedless of the angry frowns of\nSaxon.\n\n'Let us divide them,' he said, 'into three companies of eighty men. Or\nstay--how many musketeers have we in all? Five-and-fifty. Let them stand\nforward, and form the first line or company. Sir Gervas Jerome, you have\nofficered the militia of your county, and have doubtless some knowledge\nof the manual exercise. If I am commandant of this force I hand over the\ncaptaincy of this company to you. It shall be the first line in battle,\na position which I know you will not be averse to.'\n\n'Gad, they'll have to powder their heads,' said Sir Gervas, with\ndecision.\n\n'You shall have the entire ordering of them,' Saxon answered. 'Let the\nfirst company take six paces to the front--so! Now let the pikemen stand\nout. Eighty-seven, a serviceable company! Lockarby, do you take these\nmen in hand, and never forget that the German wars have proved that the\nbest of horse has no more chance against steady pikemen than the waves\nagainst a crag. Take the captaincy of the second company, and ride at\ntheir head.'\n\n'Faith! If they don't fight better than their captain rides,' whispered\nReuben, 'it will be an evil business. I trust they will be firmer in the\nfield than I am in the saddle.'\n\n'The third company of scythesmen I commit to your charge, Captain Micah\nClarke,' continued Saxon. 'Good Master Joshua Pettigrue will be our\nfield-chaplain. Shall not his voice and his presence be to us as\nmanna in the wilderness, and as springs of water in dry places? The\nunder-officers I see that you have yourselves chosen, and your captains\nshall have power to add to the number from those who smite boldly and\nspare not. Now one thing I have to say to you, and I speak it that all\nmay hear, and that none may hereafter complain that the rules he serves\nunder were not made clear to him. For I tell you now that when the\nevening bugle calls, and the helm and pike are laid aside, I am as you\nand you as I, fellow-workers in the same field, and drinkers from the\nsame wells of life. Lo, I will pray with you, or preach with you, or\nhearken with you, or expound to you, or do aught that may become a\nbrother pilgrim upon the weary road. But hark you, friends! when we are\nin arms and the good work is to be done, on the march, in the field, or\non parade, then let your bearing be strict, soldierly, and scrupulous,\nquick to hear and alert to obey, for I shall have no sluggards or\nlaggards, and if there be any such my hand shall be heavy upon them,\nyea, even to the cutting of them off. I say there shall be no mercy for\nsuch,' here he paused and surveyed his force with a set face and his\neyelids drawn low over his glinting, shifting eyes. 'If, then,' he\ncontinued, 'there is any man among you who fears to serve under a hard\ndiscipline, let him stand forth now, and let him betake him to some\neasier leader, for I say to you that whilst I command this corps,\nSaxon's regiment of Wiltshire foot shall be worthy to testify in this\ngreat and soul-raising cause.'\n\nThe Colonel stopped and sat silent upon his mare. The long lines of\nrustic faces looked up, some stolidly, some admiringly, some with an\nexpression of fear at his stern, gaunt face and baneful eyes. None\nmoved, however, so he continued.\n\n'Worthy Master Timewell, the Mayor of this fair town of Taunton, who\nhas been a tower of strength to the faithful during these long and\nspirit-trying times, is about to inspect us when the others shall have\nassembled. Captains, to your companies then! Close up there on the\nmusqueteers, with three paces between each line. Scythesmen, take ground\nto your left. Let the under-officers stand on the flanks and rear. So!\n'tis smartly done for a first venture, though a good adjutant with a\nprugel after the Imperial fashion might find work to do.'\n\nWhilst we were thus rapidly and effectively organising ourselves into a\nregiment, other bodies of peasantry more or less disciplined had marched\ninto the market-square, and had taken up their position there. Those\non our right had come from Frome and Radstock, in the north of\nSomersetshire, and were a mere rabble armed with flails, hammers, and\nother such weapons, with no common sign of order or cohesion save the\ngreen boughs which waved in their hat-bands. The body upon our left, who\nbore a banner amongst them announcing that they were men of Dorset, were\nfewer in number but better equipped, having a front rank, like our own,\nentirely armed with muskets.\n\nThe good townsmen of Taunton, with their wives and their daughters,\nhad meanwhile been assembling on the balconies and at the windows which\noverlooked the square, whence they might have a view of the pageant. The\ngrave, square-bearded, broadclothed burghers, and their portly dames in\nvelvet and three-piled taffeta, looked down from every post of vantage,\nwhile here and there a pretty, timid face peeping out from a Puritan\ncoif made good the old claim, that Taunton excelled in beautiful women\nas well as in gallant men. The side-walks were crowded with the commoner\nfolk--old white-bearded wool-workers, stern-faced matrons, country\nlasses with their shawls over their heads, and swarms of children, who\ncried out with their treble voices for King Monmouth and the Protestant\nsuccession.\n\n'By my faith!' said Sir Gervas, reining back his steed until he was\nabreast of me, 'our square-toed friends need not be in such post-haste\nto get to heaven when they have so many angels among them on earth.\nGad's wounds, are they not beautiful? Never a patch or a diamond amongst\nthem, and yet what would not our faded belles of the Mall or the Piazza\ngive for their innocence and freshness?'\n\n'Nay, for Heaven's sake do not smile and bow at them,' said I. 'These\ncourtesies may pass in London, but they may be misunderstood among\nsimple Somerset maidens and their hot-headed, hard-handed kinsfolk.'\n\nI had hardly spoken before the folding-doors of the town-hall were\nthrown open, and a procession of the city fathers emerged into the\nmarket-place. Two trumpeters in parti-coloured jerkins preceded them,\nwho blew a flourish upon their instruments as they advanced. Behind came\nthe aldermen and councilmen, grave and reverend elders, clad in their\nsweeping gowns of black silk, trimmed and tippeted with costly furs.\nIn rear of these walked a pursy little red-faced man, the town clerk,\nbearing a staff of office in his hand, while the line of dignitaries\nwas closed by the tall and stately figure of Stephen Timewell, Mayor of\nTaunton.\n\nThere was much in this magistrate's appearance to attract attention, for\nall the characteristics of the Puritan party to which he belonged were\nembodied and exaggerated in his person. Of great height he was and very\nthin, with a long-drawn, heavy eyelidded expression, which spoke of\nfasts and vigils. The bent shoulders and the head sunk upon the breast\nproclaimed the advances of age, but his bright steel-grey eyes and the\nanimation of his eager face showed how the enthusiasm of religion\ncould rise superior to bodily weakness. A peaked, straggling grey beard\ndescended half-way to his waist, and his long snow-white hairs fluttered\nout from under a velvet skull-cap. The latter was drawn tightly down\nupon his head, so as to make his ears protrude in an unnatural manner\non either side, a custom which had earned for his party the title of\n'prickeared,' so often applied to them by their opponents. His attire\nwas of studious plainness and sombre in colour, consisting of his black\nmantle, dark velvet breeches, and silk hosen, with velvet bows upon his\nshoes instead of the silver buckles then in vogue. A broad chain of gold\naround his neck formed the badge of his office. In front of him strutted\nthe fat red-vested town clerk, one hand upon his hip, the other extended\nand bearing his wand of office, looking pompously to right and left,\nand occasionally bowing as though the plaudits were entirely on his own\nbehalf. This little man had tied a huge broadsword to his girdle, which\nclanked along the cobble stones when he walked and occasionally inserted\nitself between his legs, when he would gravely cock his foot over it\nagain and walk on without any abatement of his dignity. At last, finding\nthese interruptions become rather too frequent, he depressed the hilt of\nhis great sword in order to elevate the point, and so strutted onwards\nlike a bantam cock with a tingle straight feather in its tail.\n\nHaving passed round the front and rear of the various bodies, and\ninspected them with a minuteness and attention which showed that his\nyears had not dulled his soldier's faculties, the Mayor faced round with\nthe evident intention of addressing us. His clerk instantly darted in\nfront of him, and waving his arms began to shout 'Silence, good people!\nSilence for his most worshipful the Mayor of Taunton! Silence for\nthe worthy Master Stephen Timewell!' until in the midst of his\ngesticulations and cries he got entangled once more with his overgrown\nweapon, and went sprawling on his hands and knees in the kennel.\n\n'Silence yourself, Master Tetheridge,' said the chief magistrate\nseverely. 'If your sword and your tongue were both clipped, it would be\nas well for yourself and us. Shall I not speak a few words in season\nto these good people but you must interrupt with your discordant\nbellowings?'\n\nThe busybody gathered himself together and slunk behind the group of\ncouncilmen, while the Mayor slowly ascended the steps of the market\ncross. From this position he addressed us, speaking in a high piping\nvoice which gathered strength as he proceeded, until it was audible at\nthe remotest corners of the square.\n\n'Friends in the faith,' he said, 'I thank the Lord that I have been\nspared in my old age to look down upon this goodly assembly. For we of\nTaunton have ever kept the flame of the Covenant burning amongst us,\nobscured it may be at times by time-servers and Laodiceans, but none the\nless burning in the hearts of our people. All round us, however,\nthere was a worse than Egyptian darkness, where Popery and Prelacy,\nArminianism, Erastianism, and Simony might rage and riot unchecked and\nunconfined. But what do I see now? Do I see the faithful cowering\nin their hiding-places and straining their ears for the sound of the\nhorsehoof's of their oppressors? Do I see a time-serving generation,\nwith lies on their lips and truth buried in their hearts? No! I see\nbefore me godly men, not from this fair city only, but from the broad\ncountry round, and from Dorset, and from Wiltshire, and some even as I\nhear from Hampshire, all ready and eager to do mighty work in the cause\nof the Lord. And when I see these faithful men, and when I think that\nevery broad piece in the strong boxes of my townsmen is ready to support\nthem, and when I know that the persecuted remnant throughout the country\nis wrestling hard in prayer for us, then a voice speaks within me and\ntells me that we shall tear down the idols of Dagon, and build up in\nthis England of ours such a temple of the true faith that not Popery,\nnor Prelacy, nor idolatry, nor any other device of the Evil One shall\never prevail against it.'\n\nA deep irrepressible hum of approval burst from the close ranks of\nthe insurgent infantry, with a clang of arms as musquetoon or pike was\ngrounded upon the stone pavement.\n\nSaxon half-turned his fierce face, raising an impatient hand, and the\nhoarse murmur died away among our men, though our less-disciplined\ncompanions to right and left continued to wave their green boughs and to\nclatter their arms. The Taunton men opposite stood grim and silent, but\ntheir set faces and bent brows showed that their townsman's oratory had\nstirred the deep fanatic spirit which distinguished them.\n\n'In my hands,' continued the Mayor, drawing a roll of paper from his\nbosom, 'is the proclamation which our royal leader hath sent in advance\nof him. In his great goodness and self-abnegation he had, in his early\ndeclaration given forth at Lyme, declared that he should leave the\nchoice of a monarch to the Commons of England, but having found that\nhis enemies did most scandalously and basely make use of this his\nself-denial, and did assert that he had so little confidence in his own\ncause that he dared not take publicly the title which is due to him, he\nhath determined that this should have an end. Know, therefore, that it\nis hereby proclaimed that James, Duke of Monmouth, is now and henceforth\nrightful King of England; that James Stuart, the Papist and fratricide,\nis a wicked usurper, upon whose head, dead or alive, a price of five\nthousand guineas is affixed; and that the assembly now sitting at\nWestminster, and calling itself the Commons of England, is an illegal\nassembly, and its acts are null and void in the sight of the law. God\nbless King Monmouth and the Protestant religion!'\n\nThe trumpeters struck up a flourish and the people huzzaed, but the\nMayor raised his thin white hands as a signal for silence. 'A messenger\nhath reached me this morning from the King,' he continued. 'He sends a\ngreeting to all his faithful Protestant subjects, and having halted at\nAxminster to rest after his victory, he will advance presently and be\nwith ye in two days at the latest.\n\n'Ye will grieve to hear that good Alderman Rider was struck down in the\nthick of the fray. He hath died like a man and a Christian, leaving all\nhis worldly goods, together with his cloth-works and household property,\nto the carrying on of the war. Of the other slain there are not more\nthan ten of Taunton birth. Two gallant young brothers have been cut off,\nOliver and Ephraim Hollis, whose poor mother--'\n\n'Grieve not for me, good Master Timewell,' cried a female voice from the\ncrowd. 'I have three others as stout, who shall all be offered in the\nsame quarrel.'\n\n'You are a worthy woman, Mistress Hollis,' the Mayor answered, 'and your\nchildren shall not be lost to you. The next name upon my list is Jesse\nTrefail, then come Joseph Millar, and Aminadab Holt--'\n\nAn elderly musqueteer in the first line of the Taunton foot pulled his\nhat down over his brows and cried out in a loud steady voice, 'The Lord\nhath given and the Lord hath taken away. Blessed be the name of the\nLord.'\n\n'It is your only son, Master Holt,' said the Mayor, 'but the Lord also\nsacrificed His only Son that you and I might drink the waters of eternal\nlife. The others are Path of Light Regan, James Fletcher, Salvation\nSmith, and Robert Johnstone.'\n\nThe old Puritan gravely rolled up his papers, and having stood for a\nfew moments with his hands folded across his breast in silent prayer, he\ndescended from the market cross, and moved off, followed by the aldermen\nand councilmen. The crowd began likewise to disperse in sedate and sober\nfashion, with grave earnest faces and downcast eyes. A large number of\nthe countryfolk, however, more curious or less devout than the citizens,\ngathered round our regiment to see the men who had beaten off the\ndragoons.\n\n'See the mon wi' a face like a gerfalcon,' cried one, pointing to Saxon;\n''tis he that slew the Philistine officer yestreen, an' brought the\nfaithful off victorious.'\n\n'Mark ye yon other one,' cried an old dame, 'him wi' the white face an'\nthe clothes like a prince. He's one o' the Quality, what's come a' the\nway froe Lunnon to testify to the Protestant creed. He's a main pious\ngentleman, he is, an' if he had bided in the wicked city they'd ha' had\nhis head off, like they did the good Lord Roossell, or put him in chains\nwi' the worthy Maister Baxter.'\n\n'Marry come up, gossip,' cried a third. 'The girt mun on the grey horse\nis the soldier for me. He has the smooth cheeks o' a wench, an' limbs\nlike Goliath o' Gath. I'll war'nt he could pick up my old gaffer Jones\nan' awa' wi' him at his saddle-bow, as easy as Towser does a rotten! But\nhere's good Maister Tetheridge, the clerk, and on great business too,\nfor he's a mun that spares ne time ne trooble in the great cause.'\n\n'Room, good people, room! 'cried the little clerk, bustling up with an\nair of authority. 'Hinder not the high officials of the Corporation in\nthe discharge of their functions. Neither should ye hamper the flanks\nof fighting men, seeing that you thereby prevent that deploying and\nextending of the line which is now advocated by many high commanders.\nI prythee, who commands this cohort, or legion rather, seeing that you\nhave auxiliary horse attached to it?'\n\n''Tis a regiment, sirrah,' said Saxon sternly. 'Colonel Saxon's regiment\nof Wiltshire foot, which I have the honour to command.'\n\n'I beg your Colonelship's pardon, 'cried the clerk nervously, edging\naway from the swarthy-faced soldier. 'I have heard speak of your\nColonelship, and of your doings in the German wars. I have myself\ntrailed a pike in my youth and have broken a head or two, aye, and a\nheart or two also, when I wore buff and bandolier.'\n\n'Discharge your message,' said our Colonel shortly.\n\n''Tis from his most worshipful the Mayor, and is addressed to yourself\nand to your captains, who are doubtless these tall cavaliers whom I see\non either side of me. Pretty fellows, by my faith! but you and I know\nwell, Colonel, that a little trick of fence will set the smallest of us\non a level with the brawniest. Now I warrant that you and I, being\nold soldiers, could, back to back, make it good against these three\ngallants.'\n\n'Speak, fellow,' snarled Saxon, and reaching out a long sinewy arm he\nseized the loquacious clerk by the lappet of his gown, and shook him\nuntil his long sword clattered again.\n\n'How, Colonel, how?' cried Master Tetheridge, while his vest seemed to\nacquire a deeper tint from the sudden pallor of his face. 'Would you\nlay an angry hand upon the Mayor's representative? I wear a bilbo by my\nside, as you can see. I am also somewhat quick and choleric, and warn\nyou therefore not to do aught which I might perchance construe into a\npersonal slight. As to my message, it was that his most worshipful\nthe Mayor did desire to have word with you and your captains in the\ntown-hall.'\n\n'We shall be there anon,' said Saxon, and turning to the regiment he set\nhimself to explain some of the simpler movements and exercises, teaching\nhis officers as well as his men, for though Sir Gervas knew something of\nthe manual, Lockarby and I brought little but our good-will to the task.\nWhen the order to dismiss was at last given, our companies marched back\nto their barracks in the wool warehouse, while we handed over our horses\nto the grooms from the White Hart, and set off to pay our respects to\nthe Mayor.\n\n\n\nChapter XVIII. Of Master Stephen Timewell, Mayor of Taunton\n\nWithin the town-hall all was bustle and turmoil. At one side behind a\nlow table covered with green baize sat two scriveners with great rolls\nof paper in front of them. A long line of citizens passed slowly before\nthem, each in turn putting down a roll or bag of coins which was duly\nnoted by the receivers. A square iron-bound chest stood by their side,\ninto which the money was thrown, and we noted as we passed that it was\nhalf full of gold pieces. We could not but mark that many of the givers\nwere men whose threadbare doublets and pinched faces showed that the\nwealth which they were dashing down so readily must have been hoarded up\nfor such a purpose, at the cost of scanty fare and hard living. Most of\nthem accompanied their gift by a few words of prayer, or by some pithy\ntext anent the treasure which rusteth not, or the lending to the Lord.\nThe town clerk stood by the table giving forth the vouchers for each\nsum, and the constant clack of his tongue filled the hall, as he read\naloud the names and amounts, with his own remarks between.\n\n'Abraham Willis,' he shouted as we entered; 'put him down twenty-six\npounds and ten shillings. You shall receive ten per centum upon this\nearth, Master Willis, and I warrant that it shall not be forgotten\nhereafter. John Standish, two pounds. William Simons, two guineas.\nStand-fast Healing, forty-five pounds. That is a rare blow which you\nhave struck into the ribs of Prelacy, good Master Healing. Solomon\nWarren, five guineas. James White, five shillings--the widow's mite,\nJames! Thomas Bakewell, ten pounds. Nay, Master Bakewell, surely out of\nthree farms on the banks of Tone, and grazing land in the fattest part\nof Athelney, you can spare more than this for the good cause. We shall\ndoubtless see you again. Alderman Smithson, ninety pounds. Aha! There is\na slap for the scarlet woman! A few more such and her throne shall be a\nducking-stool. We shall break her down, worthy Master Smithson, even as\nJehu, the son of Nimshi, broke down the house of Baal.' So he babbled on\nwith praise, precept, and rebuke, though the grave and solemn burghers\ntook little notice of his empty clamour.\n\nAt the other side of the hall were several long wooden drinking-troughs,\nwhich were used for the storing of pikes and scythes. Special messengers\nand tithing-men had been sent out to scour the country for arms, who,\nas they returned, placed their prizes here under the care of the\narmourer-general. Besides the common weapons of the peasants there was a\npuncheon half full of pistols and petronels, together with a good number\nof muskets, screw-guns, snaphances, birding-pieces, and carbines, with\na dozen bell-mouthed brass blunderbusses, and a few old-fashioned\nwall-pieces, such as sakers and culverins taken from the manor-houses of\nthe county. From the walls and the lumber-rooms of these old dwellings\nmany other arms had been brought to light which were doubtless esteemed\nas things of price by our forefathers, but which would seem strange to\nyour eyes in these days, when a musket may be fired once in every two\nminutes, and will carry a ball to a distance of four hundred paces.\nThere were halberds, battle-axes, morning stars, brown bills, maces, and\nancient coats of chain mail, which might even now save a man from sword\nstroke or pike thrust.\n\nIn the midst of the coming and the going stood Master Timewell, the\nMayor, ordering all things like a skilful and provident commander. I\ncould understand the trust and love which his townsmen had for him, as\nI watched him labouring with all the wisdom of an old man and the\nblithesomeness of a young one. He was hard at work as we approached in\ntrying the lock of a falconet; but perceiving us, he came forward and\nsaluted us with much kindliness.\n\n'I have heard much of ye,' said he; 'how ye caused the faithful to\ngather to a head, and so beat off the horsemen of the usurper. It will\nnot be the last time, I trust, that ye shall see their backs. I hear,\nColonel Saxon, that ye have seen much service abroad.'\n\n'I have been the humble tool of Providence in much good work,'\nsaid Saxon, with a bow. 'I have fought with the Swedes against the\nBrandenburgers, and again with the Brandenburgers against the Swedes, my\ntime and conditions with the latter having been duly carried out. I\nhave afterwards in the Bavarian service fought against Swedes and\nBrandenburgers combined, besides having undergone the great wars on the\nDanube against the Turk, and two campaigns with the Messieurs in the\nPalatinate, which latter might be better termed holiday-making than\nfighting.'\n\n'A soldierly record in very truth,' cried the Mayor, stroking his white\nbeard. 'I hear that you are also powerfully borne onwards in prayer and\nsong. You are, I perceive, one of the old breed of '44, Colonel--the men\nwho were in the saddle all day, and on their knees half the night. When\nshall we see the like of them again? A few such broken wrecks as I are\nleft, with the fire of our youth all burned out and nought left but the\nashes of lethargy and lukewarmness.'\n\n'Nay, nay,' said Saxon, 'your position and present business will scarce\njump with the modesty of your words. But here are young men who will\nfind the fire if their elders bring the brains. This is Captain Micah\nClarke, and Captain Lockarby, and Captain the Honourable Sir Gervas\nJerome, who have all come far to draw their swords for the downtrodden\nfaith.'\n\n'Taunton welcomes ye, young sirs,' said the Mayor, looking a\ntrifle askance, as I thought, at the baronet, who had drawn out his\npocket-mirror, and was engaged in the brushing of his eyebrows. 'I trust\nthat during your stay in this town ye will all four take up your abode\nwith me. 'Tis a homely roof and simple fare, but a soldier's wants are\nfew. And now, Colonel, I would fain have your advice as to these three\ndrakes, whether if rehooped they may be deemed fit for service; and also\nas to these demi-cannons, which were used in the old Parliamentary days,\nand may yet have a word to say in the people's cause.'\n\nThe old soldier and the Puritan instantly plunged into a deep\nand learned disquisition upon the merits of wall-pieces, drakes,\ndemi-culverins, sakers, minions, mortar-pieces, falcons, and\npattereroes, concerning all which pieces of ordnance Saxon had strong\nopinions to offer, fortified by many personal hazards and experiences.\nHe then dwelt upon the merits of fire-arrows and fire-pikes in the\nattack or defence of places of strength, and had finally begun to\ndescant upon sconces, 'directis lateribus,' and upon works, semilunar,\nrectilineal, horizontal, or orbicular, with so many references to his\nImperial Majesty's lines at Gran, that it seemed that his discourse\nwould never find an end. We slipped away at last, leaving him still\ndiscussing the effects produced by the Austrian grenadoes upon a\nBavarian brigade of pikes at the battle of Ober-Graustock.\n\n'Curse me if I like accepting this old fellow's offer,' said Sir Gervas,\nin an undertone. 'I have heard of these Puritan households. Much grace\nto little sack, and texts flying about as hard and as jagged as flint\nstones. To bed at sundown, and a sermon ready if ye do but look kindly\nat the waiting-wench or hum the refrain of a ditty.'\n\n'His home may be larger, but it could scarce be stricter than that of my\nown father,' I remarked.\n\n'I'll warrant that,' cried Reuben. 'When we have been a morris-dancing,\nor having a Saturday night game of \"kiss-in-the-ring,\" or\n\"parson-has-lost-his-coat,\" I have seen Ironside Joe stride past us, and\ncast a glance at us which hath frozen the smile upon our lips. I warrant\nthat he would have aided Colonel Pride to shoot the bears and hack down\nthe maypoles.'\n\n''Twere fratricide for such a man to shoot a bear,' quoth Sir Gervas,\n'with all respect, friend Clarke, for your honoured progenitor.'\n\n'No more than for you to shoot at a popinjay,' I answered, laughing;\n'but as to the Mayor's offer, we can but go to meat with him now, and\nshould it prove irksome it will be easy for you to plead some excuse,\nand so get honourably quit of it. But bear in mind, Sir Gervas, that\nsuch households are in very truth different to any with which you are\nacquainted, so curb your tongue or offence may come of it. Should I cry\n\"hem!\" or cough, it will be a sign to you that you had best beware.'\n\n'Agreed, young Solomon!' cried he. 'It is, indeed, well to have a pilot\nlike yourself who knows these godly waters. For my own part, I should\nnever know how near I was to the shoals. But our friends have finished\nthe battle of Ober what's its name, and are coming towards us. I trust,\nworthy Mr. Mayor, that your difficulties have been resolved?'\n\n'They are, sir,' replied the Puritan. 'I have been much edified by your\nColonel's discourse, and I have little doubt that by serving under him\nye will profit much by his ripe experience.'\n\n'Very like, sir, very like,' said Sir Gervas carelessly.\n\n'But it is nigh one o'clock,' the Mayor continued, 'our frail flesh\ncries aloud for meat and drink. I beg that ye will do me the favour to\naccompany me to my humble dwelling, where we shall find the household\nboard already dressed.'\n\nWith these words he led the way out of the hall and paced slowly down\nFore Street, the people falling back to right and to left as he passed,\nand raising their caps to do him reverence. Here and there, as he\npointed out to us, arrangements had been made for barring the road with\nstrong chains to prevent any sudden rush of cavalry. In places, too, at\nthe corner of a house, a hole had been knocked in the masonry through\nwhich peeped the dark muzzle of a carronade or wall-piece. These\nprecautions were the more necessary as several bodies of the Royal\nHorse, besides the one which we had repulsed, were known to be within\nthe Deane, and the town, deprived of its ramparts, was open to an\nincursion from any daring commander.\n\nThe chief magistrate's house was a squat square-faced stone building\nwithin a court which opened on to East Street. The peaked oak door,\nspangled with broad iron nails, had a gloomy and surly aspect, but\nthe hall within was lightful and airy, with a bright polished cedar\nplanking, and high panelling of some dark-grained wood which gave forth\na pleasant smell as of violets. A broad night of steps rose up from the\nfarther end of the hall, down which as we entered a young sweet-faced\nmaid came tripping, with an old dame behind her, who bore in her hands a\npile of fresh napery. At the sight of us the elder one retreated up the\nstairs again, whilst the younger came flying down three steps at a\ntime, threw her arms round the old Mayor's neck, and kissed him fondly,\nlooking hard into his face the while, as a mother gazes into that of a\nchild with whom she fears that aught may have gone amiss.\n\n'Weary again, daddy, weary again,' she said, shaking her head anxiously,\nwith a small white hand upon each of his shoulders. 'Indeed, and indeed,\nthy spirit is greater than thy strength.'\n\n'Nay, nay, lass,' said he, passing his hand fondly over her rich brown\nhair. The workman must toil until the hour of rest is rung. This,\ngentlemen, is my granddaughter Ruth, the sole relic of my family and the\nlight of mine old age. The whole grove hath been cut down, and only the\noldest oak and the youngest sapling left. These cavaliers, little one,\nhave come from afar to serve the cause, and they have done us the honour\nto accept of our poor hospitality.'\n\n'Ye are come in good time, gentlemen,' she answered, looking us straight\nin the eyes with a kindly smile as a sister might greet her brothers.\n'The household is gathered round the table and the meal is ready.'\n\n'But not more ready than we,' cried the stout old burgher. 'Do thou\nconduct our guests to their places, whilst I seek my room and doff these\nrobes of office, with my chain and tippet, ere I break my fast.'\n\nFollowing our fair guide we passed into a very large and lofty room, the\nwalls of which were wainscoted with carved oak, and hung at either end\nwith tapestry. The floor was tesselated after the French fashion, and\nplentifully strewn with skins and rugs. At one end of the apartment\nstood a great white marble fireplace, like a small room in itself,\nfitted up, as was the ancient custom, with an iron stand in the centre,\nand with broad stone benches in the recess on either side. Lines of\nhooks above the chimneypiece had been used, as I surmise, to support\narms, for the wealthy merchants of England were wont to keep enough in\ntheir houses to at least equip their apprentices and craftsmen. They\nhad now, however, been removed, nor was there any token of the troublous\ntimes save a single heap of pikes and halberds piled together in a\ncorner.\n\nDown the centre of this room there ran a long and massive table, which\nwas surrounded by thirty or forty people, the greater part of whom were\nmen. They were on their feet as we entered, and a grave-faced man at the\nfarther end was drawling forth an interminable grace, which began as a\nthanksgiving for food, but wandered away into questions of Church and\nState, and finally ended in a supplication for Israel now in arms to do\nbattle for the Lord. While this was proceeding we stood in a group\nby the door with our caps doffed, and spent our time in observing the\ncompany more closely than we could have done with courtesy had their\neyes not been cast down and their thoughts elsewhere.\n\nThey were of all ages, from greybeards down to lads scarce out of their\nteens, all with the same solemn and austere expression of countenance,\nand clad in the same homely and sombre garb. Save their wide white\ncollars and cuffs, not a string of any colour lessened the sad severity\nof their attire. Their black coats and doublets were cut straight and\nclose, and their cordovan leather shoes, which in the days of our youth\nwere usually the seat of some little ornament, were uniformly square\ntoed and tied with sad-coloured ribbon. Most of them wore plain\nsword-belts of untanned hide, but the weapons themselves, with their\nbroad felt hats and black cloaks, were laid under the benches or placed\nupon the settles which lined the walls. They stood with their hands\nclasped and their heads bent, listening to the untimely address, and\noccasionally by some groan or exclamation testifying that the preacher's\nwords had moved them.\n\nThe overgrown grace came at last to an end, when the company sat\nsilently down, and proceeded without pause or ceremony to attack the\ngreat joints which smoked before them. Our young hostess led us to the\nend of the table, where a high carded chair with a black cushion upon it\nmarked the position of the master of the house. Mistress Timewell seated\nherself upon the right of the Mayor's place, with Sir Gervas beside her,\nwhile the post of honour upon the left was assigned to Saxon. On my left\nsat Lockarby, whose eyes I observed had been fixed in undisguised and\nall-absorbing admiration upon the Puritan maiden from the first moment\nthat he had seen her. The table was of no great breadth, so that we\ncould talk across in spite of the clatter of plates and dishes, the\nbustle of servants, and the deep murmur of voices.\n\n'This is my father's household,' said our hostess, addressing herself to\nSaxon. 'There is not one of them who is not in his employ. He hath many\napprentices in the wool trade. We sit down forty to meat every day in\nthe year.'\n\n'And to right good fare, too,' quoth Saxon, glancing down the table.\n'Salmon, ribs of beef, loin of mutton, veal, pasties--what could man\nwish for more? Plenty of good home-brewed, too, to wash it down. If\nworthy Master Timewell can arrange that the army be victualled after the\nsame fashion, I for one shell be beholden to him. A cup of dirty water\nand a charred morsel cooked on a ramrod over the camp fire are like to\ntake the place of these toothsome dainties.'\n\n'Is it not best to have faith?' said the Puritan maiden. 'Shall not the\nAlmighty feed His soldiers even as Elisha was fed in the wilderness and\nHagar in the desert?'\n\n'Aye,' exclaimed a lanky-haired, swarthy young man who sat upon the\nright of Sir Gervas, 'he will provide for us, even as the stream of\nwater gushed forth out of dry places, even as the quails and the manna\nlay thick upon barren soil.'\n\n'So I trust, young sir,' quoth Saxon, 'but we must none the less arrange\na victual-train, with a staff of wains, duly numbered, and an intendant\nover each, after the German fashion. Such things should not be left to\nchance.'\n\nPretty Mistress Timewell glanced up with a half startled look at this\nremark, as though shocked at the want of faith implied in it. Her\nthoughts might have taken the form of words had not her father entered\nthe room at the moment, the whole company rising and bowing to him as he\nadvanced to his seat.\n\n'Be seated, friends,' said he, with a wave of his hand; 'we are a homely\nfolk, Colonel Saxon, and the old-time virtue of respect for our elders\nhas not entirely forsaken us. I trust, Ruth,' he continued, 'that thou\nhast seen to the wants of our guests.'\n\nWe all protested that we had never received such attention and\nhospitality.\n\n''Tis well, 'tis well,' said the good wool-worker. 'But your plates are\nclear and your glasses empty. William, look to it! A good workman\nis ever a good trencherman. If a 'prentice of mine cannot clean his\nplatter, I know that I shall get little from him with carder and teazel.\nThew and sinew need building up. A slice from that round of beef,\nWilliam! Touching that same battle of Ober-Graustock, Colonel, what part\nwas played in the fray by that regiment of Pandour horse, in which, as I\nunderstand, thou didst hold a commission?'\n\nThis was a question on which, as may be imagined, Saxon had much to say,\nand the pair were soon involved in a heated discussion, in which the\nexperiences of Roundway Down and Marston Moor were balanced against the\nresults of a score of unpronounceable fights in the Styrian Alps and\nalong the Danube. Stephen Timewell in his lusty youth had led first\na troop and then a regiment through the wars of the Parliament, from\nChalgrove Field to the final battle at Worcester, so that his warlike\npassages, though less varied and extensive than those of our companion,\nwere enough to enable him to form and hold strong opinions. These were\nin the main the same as those of the soldier of fortune, but when their\nideas differed upon any point, there arose forthwith such a cross-fire\nof military jargon, such speech of estacados and palisados, such\ncomparisons of light horse and heavy, of pikemen and musqueteers,\nof Lanzknechte, Leaguers, and on-falls, that the unused ear became\nbewildered with the babble. At last, on some question of fortification,\nthe Mayor drew his outworks with the spoons and knives, on which Saxon\nopened his parallels with lines of bread, and pushing them rapidly\nup with traverses and covered ways, he established himself upon the\nre-entering angle of the Mayor's redoubt. This opened up a fresh\nquestion as to counter-mines, with the result that the dispute raged\nwith renewed vigour.\n\nWhilst this friendly strife was proceeding between the elders, Sir\nGervas Jerome and Mistress Ruth had fallen into conversation at the\nother side of the table. I have seldom seen, my dear children, so\nbeautiful a face as that of this Puritan damsel; and it was beautiful\nwith that sort of modest and maidenly comeliness where the features\nderive their sweetness from the sweet soul which shines through them.\nThe perfectly-moulded body appeared to be but the outer expression of\nthe perfect spirit within. Her dark-brown hair swept back from a broad\nand white forehead, which surmounted a pair of well-marked eyebrows and\nlarge blue thoughtful eyes. The whole cast of her features was gentle\nand dove-like, yet there was a firmness in the mouth and delicate\nprominence of the chin which might indicate that in times of trouble and\ndanger the little maid would prove to be no unworthy descendant of the\nRoundhead soldier and Puritan magistrate. I doubt not that where more\nloud-tongued and assertive dames might be cowed, the Mayor's soft-voiced\ndaughter would begin to cast off her gentler disposition, and to show\nthe stronger nature which underlay it. It amused me much to listen to\nthe efforts which Sir Gervas made to converse with her, for the damsel\nand he lived so entirely in two different worlds, that it took all his\ngallantry and ready wit to keep on ground which would be intelligible to\nher.\n\n'No doubt you spend much of your time in reading, Mistress Ruth,' he\nremarked. 'It puzzles me to think what else you can do so far from\ntown?'\n\n'Town!' said she in surprise. 'What is Taunton but a town?'\n\n'Heaven forbid that I should deny it,' replied Sir Gervas, 'more\nespecially in the presence of so many worthy burghers, who have the name\nof being somewhat jealous of the honour of their native city. Yet the\nfact remains, fair mistress, that the town of London so far transcends\nall other towns that it is called, even as I called it just now, _the_\ntown.'\n\n'Is it so very large, then?' she cried, with pretty wonder. 'But new\nlouses are building in Taunton, outside the old walls, and beyond\nShuttern, and some even at the other side of the river. Perhaps in time\nit may be as large.'\n\n'If all the folks in Taunton were to be added to London,' said Sir\nGervas, 'no one there would observe that there had been any increase.'\n\n'Nay, there you are laughing at me. That is against all reason,' cried\nthe country maiden.\n\n'Your grandfather will bear out my words,' said Sir Gervas. 'But to\nreturn to your reading, I'll warrant that there is not a page of\nScudery and her \"Grand Cyrus\" which you have not read. You are familiar,\ndoubtless, with every sentiment in Cowley, or Waller, or Dryden?'\n\n'Who are these?' she asked. 'At what church do they preach?'\n\n'Faith!' cried the baronet, with a laugh, 'honest John preaches at the\nchurch of Will Unwin, commonly known as Will's, where many a time it\nis two in the morning before he comes to the end of his sermon. But why\nthis question? Do you think that no one may put pen to paper unless they\nhave also a right to wear a gown and climb up to a pulpit? I had thought\nthat all of your sex had read Dryden. Pray, what are your own favourite\nbooks?'\n\n'There is Alleine's \"Alarm to the Unconverted,\"' said she. 'It is a\nstirring work, and one which hath wrought much good. Hast thou not found\nit to fructify within thee?'\n\n'I have not read the book you name,' Sir Gervas confessed.\n\n'Not read it?' she cried, with raised eyebrows. 'Truly I had thought\nthat every one had read the \"Alarm.\" What dost thou think, then, of\n\"Faithful Contendings\"?'\n\n'I have not read it.'\n\n'Or of Baxter's Sermons?' she asked.\n\n'I have not read them.'\n\n'Of Bull's \"Spirit Cordial,\" then?'\n\n'I have not read it.'\n\nMistress Ruth Timewell stared at him in undisguised wonder. 'You may\nthink me ill-bred to say it, sir,' she remarked, 'but I cannot but\nmarvel where you have been, or what you have done all your life. Why,\nthe very children in the street have read these books.'\n\n'In truth, such works come little in our way in London,' Sir Gervas\nanswered. 'A play of George Etherege's, or a jingle of Sir John\nSuckling's is lighter, though mayhap less wholesome food for the mind.\nA man in London may keep pace with the world of letters without\nmuch reading, for what with the gossip of the coffee-houses and the\nnews-letters that fall in his way, and the babble of poets or wits\nat the assemblies, with mayhap an evening or two in the week at the\nplayhouse, with Vanbrugh or Farquhar, one can never part company for\nlong with the muses. Then, after the play, if a man is in no humour for\na turn of luck at the green table at the Groom Porter's, he may stroll\ndown to the Coca Tree if he be a Tory, or to St. James's if he be a\nWhig, and it is ten to one if the talk turn not upon the turning of\nalcaics, or the contest between blank verse or rhyme. Then one may,\nafter an arriere supper, drop into Will's or Slaughter's and find Old\nJohn, with Tickell and Congreve and the rest of them, hard at work\non the dramatic unities, or poetical justice, or some such matter. I\nconfess that my own tastes lay little in that line, for about that hour\nI was likely to be worse employed with wine-flask, dice-box, or--'\n\n'Hem! hem!' cried I warningly, for several of the Puritans were\nlistening with faces which expressed anything but approval.\n\n'What you say of London is of much interest to me,' said the Puritan\nmaiden, 'though these names and places have little meaning to my\nignorant ears. You did speak, however, of the playhouse. Surely no\nworthy man goes near those sinks of iniquity, the baited traps of the\nEvil One? Has not the good and sanctified Master Bull declared from\nthe pulpit that they are the gathering-place of the froward, the chosen\nhaunts of the perverse Assyrians, as dangerous to the soul as any\nof those Papal steeple-houses wherein the creature is sacrilegiously\nconfounded with the Creator?'\n\n'Well and truly spoken, Mistress Timewell,' cried the lean young\nPuritan upon the right, who had been an attentive listener to the whole\nconversation. 'There is more evil in such houses than even in the cities\nof the plain. I doubt not that the wrath of the Lord will descend\nupon them, and destroy them, and wreck them utterly, together with the\ndissolute men and abandoned women who frequent them.'\n\n'Your strong opinions, friend,' said Sir Gervas quietly, 'are borne out\ndoubtless by your full knowledge of the subject. How often, prythee,\nhave you been in these playhouses which you are so ready to decry?'\n\n'I thank the Lord that I have never been so far tempted from the\nstraight path as to set foot within one,' the Puritan answered, 'nor\nhave I ever been in that great sewer which is called London. I trust,\nhowever, that I with others of the faithful may find our way thither\nwith our tucks at our sides ere this business is finished, when we shall\nnot be content, I'll warrant, with shutting these homes of vice, as\nCromwell did, but we shall not leave one stone upon another, and shall\nsow the spot with salt, that it may be a hissing and a byword amongst\nthe people.'\n\n'You are right, John Derrick,' said the Mayor, who had overheard the\nlatter part of his remarks. 'Yet methinks that a lower tone and a more\nbackward manner would become you better when you are speaking with your\nmaster's guests. Touching these same playhouses, Colonel, when we have\ncarried the upper hand this time, we shall not allow the old tares to\ncheck the new wheat. We know what fruit these places have borne in the\ndays of Charles, the Gwynnes, the Palmers, and the whole base crew of\nfoul lecherous parasites. Have you ever been in London, Captain Clarke?'\n\n'Nay, sir; I am country born and bred.'\n\n'The better man you,' said our host. 'I have been there twice. The first\ntime was in the days of the Rump, when Lambert brought in his division\nto overawe the Commons. I was then quartered at the sign of the Four\nCrosses in Southwark, then kept by a worthy man, one John Dolman, with\nwhom I had much edifying speech concerning predestination. All was\nquiet and sober then, I promise you, and you might have walked from\nWestminster to the Tower in the dead of the night without hearing aught\nsave the murmur of prayer and the chanting of hymns. Not a ruffler or\na wench was in the streets after dark, nor any one save staid citizens\nupon their business, or the halberdiers of the watch. The second visit\nwhich I made was over this business of the levelling of the ramparts,\nwhen I and neighbour Foster, the glover, were sent at the head of a\ndeputation from this town to the Privy Council of Charles. Who could\nhave credited that a few years would have made such a change? Every evil\nthing that had been stamped underground had spawned and festered until\nits vermin brood flooded the streets, and the godly wore themselves\ndriven to shun the light of day. Apollyon had indeed triumphed for a\nwhile. A quiet man could not walk the highways without being elbowed\ninto the kennel by swaggering swashbucklers, or accosted by painted\nhussies. Padders and michers, laced cloaks, jingling spurs, slashed\nboots, tall plumes, bullies and pimps, oaths and blasphemies--I promise\nyou hell was waxing fat. Even in the solitude of one's coach one was not\nfree from the robber.'\n\n'How that, sir?' asked Reuben.\n\n'Why marry, in this wise. As I was the sufferer I have the best right\nto tell the tale. Ye must know that after our reception--which was\ncold enough, for we were about as welcome to the Privy Council as the\nhearth-tax man is to the village housewife--we were asked, more as\nI guess from derision than from courtesy, to the evening levee at\nBuckingham Palace. We would both fain have been excused from going but\nwe feared that our refusal might give undue offence, and so hinder the\nsuccess of our mission. My homespun garments ware somewhat rough for\nsuch an occasion, yet I determined to appear in them, with the addition\nof a new black baize waistcoat faced with silk, and a good periwig, for\nwhich I gave three pounds ten shillings in the Haymarket.'\n\nThe young Puritan opposite turned up his eyes and murmured something\nabout 'sacrificing to Dagon,' which fortunately for him was inaudible to\nthe high-spirited old man.\n\n'It was but a worldly vanity,' quoth the Mayor; 'for, with all\ndeference, Sir Gervas Jerome, a man's own hair arranged with some taste,\nand with perhaps a sprinkling of powder, is to my mind the fittest\nornament to his head. It is the contents and not the case which\navaileth. Having donned this frippery, good Master Foster and I hired\na calash and drove to the Palace. We were deep in grave and, I trust,\nprofitable converse speeding through the endless streets, when of a\nsudden I felt a sharp tug at my head, and my hat fluttered down on to my\nknees. I raised my hands, and lo! they came upon my bare pate. The wig\nhad vanished. We were rolling down Fleet Street at the moment, and there\nwas no one in the calash save neighbour Foster, who sat as astounded as\nI. We looked high and low, on the seats and beneath them, but not a sign\nof the periwig was there. It was gone utterly and without a trace.'\n\n'Whither then?' we asked with one voice.\n\n'That was the question which we set ourselves to solve. For a moment I\ndo assure ye that we bethought us that it might be a judgment upon us\nfor our attention to such carnal follies. Then it crossed my mind\nthat it might be the doing of some malicious sprite, as the Drummer of\nTedworth, or those who occasioned the disturbances no very long time\nsince at the old Gast House at Little Burton here in Somersetshire.\n(Note F. Appendix.) With this thought we hallooed to the coachman, and\ntold him what had occurred to us. The fellow came down from his\nperch, and having heard our story, he burst straightway into much foul\nlanguage, and walking round to the back of his calash, showed us that\na slit had been made in the leather wherewith it was fashioned. Through\nthis the thief had thrust his hand and had drawn my wig through the\nhole, resting the while on the crossbar of the coach. It was no uncommon\nthing, he said, and the wig-snatchers were a numerous body who waited\nbeside the peruke-maker's shops, and when they saw a customer come forth\nwith a purchase which was worth their pains they would follow him, and,\nshould he chance to drive, deprive him of it in this fashion. Be that as\nit may, I never saw my wig again, and had to purchase another before I\ncould venture into the royal presence.'\n\n'A strange adventure truly,' exclaimed Saxon. 'How fared it with you for\nthe remainder of the evening?'\n\n'But scurvily, for Charles's face, which was black enough at all\ntimes, was blackest of all to us; nor was his brother the Papist more\ncomplaisant. They had but brought us there that they might dazzle us\nwith their glitter and gee-gaws, in order that we might bear a fine\nreport of them back to the West with us. There were supple-backed\ncourtiers, and strutting nobles, and hussies with their shoulders bare,\nwho should for all their high birth have been sent to Bridewell as\nreadily as any poor girl who ever walked at the cart's tail. Then there\nwere the gentlemen of the chamber, with cinnamon and plum-coloured\ncoats, and a brave show of gold lace and silk and ostrich feather.\nNeighbour Foster and I felt as two crows might do who have wandered\namong the peacocks. Yet we bare in mind in whose image we were\nfashioned, and we carried ourselves, I trust, as independent English\nburghers. His Grace of Buckingham had his flout at us, and Rochester\nsneered, and the women simpered; but we stood four square, my friend\nand I, discussing, as I well remember, the most precious doctrines of\nelection and reprobation, without giving much heed either to those who\nmocked us, or to the gamesters upon our left, or to the dancers upon\nour right. So we stood throughout the evening, until, finding that they\ncould get little sport from us, my Lord Clarendon, the Chancellor, gave\nus the word to retire, which we did at our leisure after saluting the\nKing and the company.'\n\n'Nay, that I should never have done!' cried the young Puritan, who had\nlistened intently to his elder's narrative. 'Would it not have been\nmore fitting to have raised up your hands and called down vengeance upon\nthem, as the holy man of old did upon the wicked cities?'\n\n'More fitting, quotha!' said the Mayor impatiently. 'It is most fitting\nthat youth should be silent until his opinion is asked on such matters.\nGod's wrath comes with leaden feet, but it strikes with iron hands. In\nHis own good time He has judged when the cup of these men's iniquities\nis overflowing. It is not for us to instruct Him. Curses have, as the\nwise man said, a habit of coming home to roost. Bear that in mind,\nMaster John Derrick, and be not too liberal with them.'\n\nThe young apprentice, for such he was, bowed his head sullenly to the\nrebuke, whilst the Mayor, after a short pause, resumed his story.\n\n'Being a fine night,' said he, 'we chose to walk back to our lodgings;\nbut never shall I forget the wicked scenes wherewith we were encountered\non the way. Good Master Bunyan, of Elstow, might have added some\npages to his account of Vanity Fair had he been with us. The women,\nbe-patched, be-ruddled, and brazen; the men swaggering, roistering,\ncursing--the brawling, the drabbing, and the drunkenness! It was a fit\nkingdom to be ruled over by such a court. At last we had made our way to\nmore quiet streets, and were hoping that our adventures were at an end,\nwhen of a sudden there came a rush of half-drunken cavaliers from a side\nstreet, who set upon the passers-by with their swords, as though we had\nfallen into an ambuscade of savages in some Paynim country. They were,\nas I surmise, of the same breed as those of whom the excellent John\nMilton wrote: \"The sons of Belial, flown with insolence and wine.\" Alas!\nmy memory is not what it was, for at one time I could say by rote whole\nbooks of that noble and godly poem.'\n\n'And, pray, how fared ye with these rufflers, sir?' I asked.\n\n'They beset us, and some few other honest citizens who were wending\ntheir ways homewards, and waving their naked swords they called upon us\nto lay down our arms and pay homage. \"To whom?\" I asked. They pointed\nto one of their number who was more gaudily dressed and somewhat\ndrunker than the rest. \"This is our most sovereign liege,\" they cried.\n\"Sovereign over whom?\" I asked. \"Over the Tityre Tus,\" they answered.\n\"Oh, most barbarous and cuckoldy citizen, do you not recognise that you\nhave fallen into the hands of that most noble order?\" \"This is not your\nreal monarch,\" said I, \"for he is down beneath us chained in the pit,\nwhere some day he will gather his dutiful subjects around him.\" \"Lo, he\nhath spoken treason!\" they cried, on which, without much more ado, they\nset upon us with sword and dagger. Neighbour Foster and I placed our\nbacks against a wall, and with our cloaks round our left arms we made\nplay with our tucks, and managed to put in one or two of the old Wigan\nLane raspers. In particular, friend Foster pinked the King in such wise\nthat his Majesty ran howling down the street like a gored bull-pup. We\nwere beset by numbers, however, and might have ended our mission then\nand there had not the watch appeared upon the scene, struck up our\nweapons with their halberds, and so arrested the whole party. Whilst the\nfray lasted the burghers from the adjoining houses were pouring water\nupon us, as though we were cats on the tiles, which, though it did\nnot cool our ardour in the fight, left us in a scurvy and unsavoury\ncondition. In this guise we were dragged to the round-house, where we\nspent the night amidst bullies, thieves, and orange wenches, to whom I\nam proud to say that both neighbour Foster and myself spoke some words\nof joy and comfort. In the morning we were released, and forthwith shook\nthe dust of London from our feet; nor do I ever wish to return thither,\nunless it be at the head of our Somersetshire regiments, to see King\nMonmouth don the crown which he had wrested in fair fight from the\nPopish perverter.'\n\nAs Master Stephen Timewell ended his tale a general shuffling and rising\nannounced the conclusion of the meal. The company filed slowly out in\norder of seniority, all wearing the same gloomy and earnest expression,\nwith grave gait and downcast eyes. These Puritan ways were, it is true,\nfamiliar to me from childhood, yet I had never before seen a large\nhousehold conforming to them, or marked their effect upon so many young\nmen.\n\n'You shall bide behind for a while,' said the Mayor, as we were about\nto follow the others. 'William, do you bring a flask of the old green\nsealed sack. These creature comforts I do not produce before my lads,\nfor beef and honest malt is the fittest food for such. On occasion,\nhowever, I am of Paul's opinion, that a flagon of wine among friends is\nno bad thing for mind or for body. You can away now, sweetheart, if you\nhave aught to engage you.'\n\n'Do you go out again?' asked Mistress Ruth.\n\n'Presently, to the town-hall. The survey of arms is not yet complete.'\n\n'I shall have your robes ready, and also the rooms of our guests,' she\nanswered, and so, with a bright smile to us, tripped away upon her duty.\n\n'I would that I could order our town as that maiden orders this house,'\nsaid the Mayor. 'There is not a want that is not supplied before it is\nfelt. She reads my thoughts and acts upon them ere my lips have time to\nform them. If I have still strength to spend in the public service, it\nis because my private life is full of restful peace. Do not fear the\nsack, sirs. It cometh from Brooke and Hellier's of Abchurch Lane, and\nmay be relied upon.'\n\n'Which showeth that one good thing cometh out of London,' remarked Sir\nGervas.\n\n'Aye, truly,' said the old man, smiling. 'But what think ye of my young\nmen, sir? They must needs be of a very different class to any with\nwhom you are acquainted, if, as I understand, you have frequented court\ncircles.'\n\n'Why, marry, they are good enough young men, no doubt,' Sir Gervas\nanswered lightly. 'Methinks, however, that there is a want of sap about\nthem. It is not blood, but sour buttermilk that flows in their veins.'\n\n'Nay, nay,' the Mayor responded warmly. 'There you do them an injustice.\nTheir passions and feelings are under control, as the skilful rider\nkeeps his horse in hand; but they are as surely there as is the speed\nand endurance of the animal. Did you observe the godly youth who sat\nupon your right, whom I had occasion to reprove more than once for\nover-zeal? He is a fit example of how a man may take the upper hand of\nhis feelings, and keep them in control.'\n\n'And how has he done so?' I asked.\n\n'Why, between friends,' quoth the Mayor, 'it was but last Lady-day that\nhe asked the hand of my granddaughter Ruth in marriage. His time is\nnearly served, and his father, Sam Derrick, is an honourable craftsman,\nso that the match would have been no unfitting one. The maiden turned\nagainst him, however--young girls will have their fancies--and the\nmatter came to an end. Yet here he dwells under the same roof-tree, at\nher elbow from morn to night, with never a sign of that passion which\ncan scarce have died out so soon. Twice my wool warehouse hath been\nnigh burned to the ground since then, and twice he hath headed those who\nfought the flames. There are not many whose suit hath been rejected who\nwould bear themselves in so resigned and patient a fashion.'\n\n'I am prepared to find that your judgment is the correct one,' said Sir\nGervas Jerome. 'I have learned to distrust too hasty dislikes, and bear\nin mind that couplet of John Dryden--\n\n          \"Errors, like straws, upon the surface flow.\n           He who would search for pearls must dive below.\"'\n\n'Or worthy Dr. Samuel Butler,' said Saxon, 'who, in his immortal poem of\n\"Hudibras,\" says--\n\n          \"The fool can only see the skin:\n           The wise man tries to peep within.\"'\n\n'I wonder, Colonel Saxon,' said our host severely, 'that you should\nspeak favourably of that licentious poem, which is composed, as I have\nheard, for the sole purpose of casting ridicule upon the godly. I should\nas soon have expected to hear you praise the wicked and foolish work of\nHobbes, with his mischievous thesis, \"A Deo rex, a rege lex.\"'\n\n'It is true that I contemn and despise the use which Butler hath made of\nhis satire,' said Saxon adroitly; 'yet I may admire the satire itself,\njust as one may admire a damascened blade without approving of the\nquarrel in which it is drawn.'\n\n'These distinctions are, I fear, too subtle for my old brain,' said the\nstout old Puritan. 'This England of ours is divided into two camps, that\nof God and that of Antichrist. He who is not with us is against us, nor\nshall any who serve under the devil's banner have anything from me save\nmy scorn and the sharp edge of my sword.'\n\n'Well, well,' said Saxon, filling up his glass, 'I am no Laodicean or\ntime-server. The cause shall not find me wanting with tongue or with\nsword.'\n\n'Of that I am well convinced, my worthy friend,' the Mayor answered,\n'and if I have spoken over sharply you will hold me excused. But I\nregret to have evil tidings to announce to you. I have not told the\ncommonalty lest it cast them down, but I know that adversity will be\nbut the whetstone to give your ardour a finer edge. Argyle's rising has\nfailed, and he and his companions are prisoners in the hands of the man\nwho never knew what pity was.'\n\nWe all started in our chairs at this, and looked at one another aghast,\nsave only Sir Gervas Jerome, whose natural serenity was, I am well\nconvinced, proof against any disturbance. For you may remember, my\nchildren, that I stated when I first took it in hand to narrate to you\nthese passages of my life, that the hopes of Monmouth's party rested\nvery much upon the raid which Argyle and the Scottish exiles had\nmade upon Ayrshire, where it was hoped that they would create such a\ndisturbance as would divert a good share of King James's forces, and so\nmake our march to London less difficult. This was the more confidently\nexpected since Argyle's own estates lay upon that side of Scotland,\nwhere he could raise five thousand swordsmen among his own clansmen.\nThe western counties abounded, too, in fierce zealots who were ready to\nassert the cause of the Covenant, and who had proved themselves in many\na skirmish to be valiant warriors. With the help of the Highlanders and\nof the Covenanters it seemed certain that Argyle would be able to hold\nhis own, the more so since he took with him to Scotland the English\nPuritan Rumbold, and many others skilled in warfare. This sudden news\nof his total defeat and downfall was therefore a heavy blow, since it\nturned the whole forces of the Government upon ourselves.\n\n'Have you the news from a trusty source?' asked Decimus Saxon, after a\nlong silence.\n\n'It is beyond all doubt or question,' Master Stephen Timewell answered.\n'Yet I can well understand your surprise, for the Duke had trusty\ncouncillors with him. There was Sir Patrick Hume of Polwarth--'\n\n'All talk and no fight,' said Saxon.\n\n'And Richard Rumbold.'\n\n'All fight and no talk,' quoth our companion. 'He should, methinks, have\nrendered a better account of himself.'\n\n'Then there was Major Elphinstone.'\n\n'A bragging fool!' cried Saxon.'\n\n'And Sir John Cochrane.'\n\n'A captious, long-tongued, short-witted sluggard,' said the soldier of\nfortune. 'The expedition was doomed from the first with such men at\nits head. Yet I had thought that could they have done nought else, they\nmight at least have flung themselves into the mountain country, where\nthese bare-legged caterans could have held their own amid their native\nclouds and mists. All taken, you say! It is a lesson and a warning\nto us. I tell you that unless Monmouth infuses more energy into his\ncouncils, and thrusts straight for the heart instead of fencing and\nfoining at the extremities, we shall find ourselves as Argyle and\nRumbold. What mean these two days wasted at Axminster at a time when\nevery hour is of import? Is he, every time that he brushes a party\nof militia aside, to stop forty-eight hours and chant \"Te Deums\" when\nChurchill and Feversham are, as I know, pushing for the West with every\navailable man, and the Dutch grenadiers are swarming over like rats into\na granary?'\n\n'You are very right, Colonel Saxon,' the Mayor answered. 'And I trust\nthat when the King comes here we may stir him up to more prompt action.\nHe has much need of more soldierly advisers, for since Fletcher hath\ngone there is hardly a man about him who hath been trained to arms.'\n\n'Well,' said Saxon moodily, 'now that Argyle hath gone under we are face\nto face with James, with nothing but our own good swords to trust to.'\n\n'To them and to the justice of our cause. How like ye the news, young\nsirs? Has the wine lost its smack on account of it? Are ye disposed to\nflinch from the standard of the Lord?'\n\n'For my own part I shall see the matter through,' said I.\n\n'And I shall bide where Micah Clarke bides,' quoth Reuben Lockarby.\n\n'And to me,' said Sir Gervas, 'it is a matter of indifference, so long\nas I am in good company and there is something stirring.'\n\n'In that case,' said the Mayor, 'we had best each turn to his own work,\nand have all ready for the King's arrival. Until then I trust that ye\nwill honour my humble roof.'\n\n'I fear that I cannot accept your kindness,' Saxon answered. 'When I am\nin harness I come and go early and late. I shall therefore take up my\nquarters in the inn, which is not very well furnished with victual,\nand yet can supply me with the simple fare, which with a black Jack of\nOctober and a pipe of Trinidado is all I require.'\n\nAs Saxon was firm in this resolution the Mayor forbore to press it upon\nhim, but my two friends gladly joined with me in accepting the worthy\nwool-worker's offer, and took up our quarters for the time under his\nhospitable roof.\n\n\n\nChapter XIX. Of a Brawl in the Night\n\nDecimus Saxon refused to avail himself of Master Timewell's house and\ntable for the reason, as I afterwards learned, that, the Mayor being a\nfirm Presbyterian, he thought it might stand him in ill stead with the\nIndependents and other zealots were he to allow too great an intimacy\nto spring up between them. Indeed, my dears, from this time onward this\ncunning man framed his whole life and actions in such a way as to make\nfriends of the sectaries, and to cause them to look upon him as their\nleader. For he had a firm belief that in all such outbreaks as that in\nwhich we were engaged, the most extreme party is sure in the end to gain\nthe upper hand. 'Fanatics,' he said to me one day, 'mean fervour, and\nfervour means hard work, and hard work means power.' That was the centre\npoint of all his plotting and scheming.\n\nAnd first of all he set himself to show how excellent a soldier he was,\nand he spared neither time nor work to make this apparent. From morn\ntill midday, and from afternoon till night, we drilled and drilled until\nin very truth the shouting of the orders and the clatter of the arms\nbecame wearisome to our ears. The good burghers may well have\nthought that Colonel Saxon's Wiltshire foot were as much part of the\nmarket-place as the town cross or the parish stocks. There was much to\nbe done in very little time, so much that many would have thought it\nhopeless to attempt it. Not only was there the general muster of the\nregiment, but we had each to practise our own companies in their several\ndrills, and to learn as best we could the names and the wants of the\nmen. Yet our work was made easier to us by the assurance that it was not\nthrown away, for at every gathering our bumpkins stood more erect,\nand handled their weapons more deftly. From cock-crow to sun-down the\nstreets resounded with 'Poise your muskets! Order your muskets! Rest\nyour muskets! Handle your primers!' and all the other orders of the old\nmanual exercise.\n\nAs we became more soldierly we increased in numbers, for our smart\nappearance drew the pick of the new-comers into our ranks. My own\ncompany swelled until it had to be divided, and others enlarged in\nproportion. The baronet's musqueteers mustered a full hundred, skilled\nfor the most part in the use of the gun. Altogether we sprang from\nthree hundred to four hundred and fifty, and our drill improved until we\nreceived praise from all sides on the state of our men.\n\nLate in the evening I was riding slowly back to the house of Master\nTimewell when Reuben clattered after me, and besought me to turn back\nwith him to see a noteworthy sight. Though feeling little in the mood\nfor such things, I turned Covenant and rode with him down the length of\nHigh Street, and into the suburb which is known as Shuttern, where my\ncompanion pulled up at a bare barn-like building, and bade me look in\nthrough the window.\n\nThe interior, which consisted of a single great hall, the empty\nwarehouse in which wool had used to be stored, was all alight with lamps\nand candles. A great throng of men, whom I recognised as belonging to\nmy own company, or that of my companion, lay about on either side, some\nsmoking, some praying, and some burnishing their arms. Down the middle a\nline of benches had been drawn up, on which there were seated astraddle\nthe whole hundred of the baronet's musqueteers, each engaged in plaiting\ninto a queue the hair of the man who sat in front of him. A boy walked\nup and down with a pot of grease, by the aid of which with some whipcord\nthe work was going forward merrily. Sir Gervas himself with a great\nflour dredger sat perched upon a bale of wool at the head of the line,\nand as quickly as any queue was finished he examined it through his\nquizzing glass, and if it found favour in his eyes, daintily powdered it\nfrom his dredger, with as much care and reverence as though it were some\nservice of the Church. No cook seasoning a dish could have added\nhis spices with more nicety of judgment than our friend displayed in\nwhitening the pates of his company. Glancing up from his labours he saw\nour two smiling faces looking in at him through the window, but his work\nwas too engrossing to allow him to leave it, and we rode off at last\nwithout having speech with him.\n\nBy this time the town was very quiet and still, for the folk in those\nparts were early bed-goers, save when some special occasion kept them\nafoot. We rode slowly together through the silent streets, our horses'\nhoofs ringing out sharp against the cobble stones, talking about such\nlight matters as engage the mind of youth. The moon was shining very\nbrightly above us, silvering the broad streets, and casting a fretwork\nof shadows from the peaks and pinnacles of the churches. At Master\nTimewell's courtyard I sprang from my saddle, but Reuben, attracted by\nthe peace and beauty of the scene, rode onwards with the intention of\ngoing as far as the town gate.\n\nI was still at work upon my girth buckles, undoing my harness, when of\na sudden there came from the street a shouting and a rushing, with the\nclinking of blades, and my comrade's voice calling upon me for help.\nDrawing my sword I ran out. Some little way down there was a clear\nspace, white with the moonshine, in the centre of which I caught a\nglimpse of the sturdy figure of my friend springing about with an\nactivity for which I had never given him credit, and exchanging sword\nthrusts with three or four men who were pressing him closely. On the\nground there lay a dark figure, and behind the struggling group Reuben's\nmare reared and plunged in sympathy with her master's peril. As I rushed\ndown, shouting and waving my sword, the assailants took flight down\na side street, save one, a tall sinewy swordsman, who rushed in upon\nReuben, stabbing furiously at him, and cursing him the while for a\nspoil-sport. To my horror I saw, as I ran, the fellow's blade slip\ninside my friend's guard, who threw up his arms and fell prostrate,\nwhile the other with a final thrust dashed off down one of the narrow\nwinding lanes which lead from East Street to the banks of the Tone.\n\n'For Heaven's sake where are you hurt?' I cried, throwing myself upon my\nknees beside his prostrate body. 'Where is your injury, Reuben?'\n\n'In the wind, mostly,' quoth he, blowing like a smithy bellows;\n'likewise on the back of my pate. Give me your hand, I pray.'\n\n'And are you indeed scathless?' I cried, with a great lightening of\nthe heart as I helped him to his feet. 'I thought that the villain had\nstabbed you.'\n\n'As well stab a Warsash crab with a bodkin,' said he. 'Thanks to good\nSir Jacob Clancing, once of Snellaby Hall and now of Salisbury Plain,\ntheir rapiers did no more than scratch my plate of proof. But how is it\nwith the maid?'\n\n'The maid?' said I.\n\n'Aye, it was to save her that I drew. She was beset by these night\nwalkers. See, she rises! They threw her down when I set upon them.'\n\n'How is it with you, Mistress?' I asked; for the prostrate figure\nhad arisen and taken the form of a woman, young and graceful to all\nappearance, with her face muffled in a mantle. 'I trust that you have\nmet with no hurt.'\n\n'None, sir,' she answered, in a low, sweet voice, 'but that I have\nescaped is due to the ready valour of your friend, and the guiding\nwisdom of Him who confutes the plots of the wicked. Doubtless a true man\nwould have rendered this help to any damsel in distress, and yet it may\nadd to your satisfaction to know that she whom you have served is no\nstranger to you.' With these words she dropped her mantle and turned her\nface towards us in the moonlight.\n\n'Good lack! it is Mistress Timewell!' I cried, in amazement.\n\n'Let us homewards,' she said, in firm, quick tones. 'The neighbours are\nalarmed, and there will be a rabble collected anon. Let us escape from\nthe babblement.'\n\nWindows had indeed begun to clatter up in every direction, and loud\nvoices to demand what was amiss. Far away down the street we could\nsee the glint of lanthorns swinging to and fro as the watch hurried\nthitherwards. We slipped along in the shadow, however, and found\nourselves safe within the Mayor's courtyard without let or hindrance.\n\n'I trust, sir, that you have really met with no hurt,' said the maiden\nto my companion.\n\nReuben had said not a word since she had uncovered her face, and bore\nthe face of a man who finds himself in some pleasant dream and is vexed\nonly by the fear lest he wake up from it. 'Nay, I am not hurt,' he\nanswered, 'but I would that you could tell us who these roving blades\nmay be, and where they may be found.'\n\n'Nay, nay,' said she, with uplifted finger, 'you shall not follow the\nmatter further. As to the men, I cannot say with certainty who they\nmay have been. I had gone forth to visit Dame Clatworthy, who hath the\ntertian ague, and they did beset me on my return. Perchance they are\nsome who are not of my grandfather's way of thinking in affairs of\nState, and who struck at him through me. But ye have both been so kind\nthat ye will not refuse me one other favour which I shall ask ye?'\n\nWe protested that we could not, with our hands upon our sword-hilts.\n\n'Nay, keep them for the Lord's quarrel,' said she, smiling at the\naction. 'All that I ask is that ye will say nothing if this matter to my\ngrandsire. He is choleric, and a little matter doth set him in a flame,\nso old as he is. I would not have his mind turned from the public needs\nto a private trifle of this sort. Have I your promises?'\n\n'Mine,' said I, bowing.\n\n'And mine,' said Lockarby.\n\n'Thanks, good friends. Alack! I have dropped my gauntlet in the street.\nBut it is of no import. I thank God that no harm has come to any one. My\nthanks once more, and may pleasant dreams await ye.' She sprang up the\nsteps and was gone in an instant.\n\nReuben and I unharnessed our horses and saw them cared for in silence.\nWe then entered the house and ascended to our chambers, still without a\nword. Outside his room door my friend paused.\n\n'I have heard that long man's voice before, Micah,' said he.\n\n'And so have I,' I answered. 'The old man must beware of his 'prentices.\nI have half a mind to go back for the little maiden's gauntlet.'\n\nA merry twinkle shot through the cloud which hid gathered on Reuben's\nbrow. He opened his left hand and showed me the doe-skin glove crumpled\nup in his palm.\n\n'I would not barter it for all the gold in her grandsire's coffers,'\nsaid he, with a sudden outflame, and then half-laughing, half-blushing\nat his own heat, he whisked in and left me to my thoughts.\n\nAnd so I learned for the first time, my dears, that my good comrade had\nbeen struck by the little god's arrows. When a man's years number one\nscore, love springs up in him, as the gourd grew in the Scriptures, in a\nsingle night. I have told my story ill if I have not made you understand\nthat my friend was a frank, warm-hearted lad of impulse, whose reason\nseldom stood sentry over his inclinations. Such a man can no more draw\naway from a winning maid than the needle can shun the magnet. He loves\nas the mavis sings or the kitten plays. Now, a slow-witted, heavy fellow\nlike myself, in whose veins the blood has always flowed somewhat coolly\nand temperately, may go into love as a horse goes into a shelving\nstream, step by step, but a man like Reuben is kicking his heels upon\nthe bank one moment, and is over ears in the deepest pool the nest.\n\nHeaven only knows what match it was that had set the tow alight. I can\nbut say that from that day on my comrade was sad and cloudy one hour,\ngay and blithesome the next. His even flow of good spirits had deserted\nhim, and he became as dismal as a moulting chicken, which has ever\nseemed to me to be one of the strangest outcomes of what poets have\ncalled the joyous state of love. But, indeed, pain and pleasure are so\nvery nearly akin in this world, that it is as if they were tethered\nin neighbouring stalls, and a kick would at any time bring down the\npartition. Here is a man who is as full of sighs as a grenade is of\npowder, his face is sad, his brow is downcast, his wits are wandering;\nyet if you remark to him that it is an ill thing that he should be\nin this state, he will answer you, as like as not, that he would not\nexchange it for all the powers and principalities. Tears to him are\ngolden, and laughter is but base coin. Well, my dears, it is useless\nfor me to expound to you that which I cannot myself understand. If, as I\nhave heard, it is impossible to get the thumb-marks of any two men to\nbe alike, how can we expect their inmost thoughts and feelings to tally?\nYet this I can say with all truth, that when I asked your grandmother's\nhand I did not demean myself as if I were chief mourner at a funeral.\nShe will bear me out that I walked up to her with a smile upon my face,\nthough mayhap there was a little flutter at my heart, and I took her\nhand and I said--but, lack-a-day, whither have I wandered? What has all\nthis to do with Taunton town and the rising of 1685?\n\nOn the night of Wednesday, June 17, we learned that the King, as\nMonmouth was called throughout the West, was lying less than ten miles\noff with his forces, and that he would make his entry into the loyal\ntown of Taunton the next morning. Every effort was made, as ye may well\nguess, to give him a welcome which should be worthy of the most Whiggish\nand Protestant town in England. An arch of evergreens had already\nbeen built up at the western gate, bearing the motto, 'Welcome to King\nMonmouth!' and another spanned the entrance to the market-place from the\nupper window of the White Hart Inn, with 'Hail to the Protestant Chief!'\nin great scarlet letters. A third, if I remember right, bridged the\nentrance to the Castle yard, but the motto on it has escaped me. The\ncloth and wool industry is, as I have told you, the staple trade of\nthe town, and the merchants had no mercy on their wares, but used them\nfreely to beautify the streets. Rich tapestries, glossy velvets, and\ncostly brocades fluttered from the windows or lined the balconies. East\nStreet, High Street, and Fore Street were draped from garret to basement\nwith rare and beautiful fabrics, while gay flags hung from the roofs\non either side, or fluttered in long festoons from house to house.\nThe royal banner of England floated from the lofty tower of St. Mary\nMagdalene, while the blue ensign of Monmouth waved from the sister\nturret of St. James. Late into the night there was planing and\nhammering, working and devising, until when the sun rose upon Thursday,\nJune 18, it shone on as brave a show of bunting and evergreen as ever\ngraced a town. Taunton had changed as by magic from a city into a flower\ngarden.\n\nMaster Stephen Timewell had busied himself in these preparations, but he\nhad borne in mind at the same time that the most welcome sight which\nhe could present to Monmouth's eyes was the large body of armed men who\nwere prepared to follow his fortunes. There were sixteen hundred in the\ntown, two hundred of which were horse, mostly well armed and equipped.\nThese were disposed in such a way that the King should pass them in his\nprogress. The townsmen lined the market-place three deep from the\nCastle gate to the entrance to the High Street; from thence to Shuttern,\nDorsetshire, and Frome peasants were drawn up on either side of the\nstreet; while our own regiment was stationed at the western gate. With\narms well burnished, serried ranks, and fresh sprigs of green in every\nbonnet, no leader could desire a better addition to his army. When\nall were in their places, and the burghers and their wives had arrayed\nthemselves in their holiday gear, with gladsome faces and baskets of\nnew-cut flowers, all was ready for the royal visitor's reception.\n\n'My orders are,' said Saxon, riding up to us as we sat our horses reside\nour companions, 'that I and my captains should fall in with the King's\nescort as he passes, and so accompany him to the market-place. Your men\nshall present arms, and shall then stand their ground until we return.'\n\nWe all three drew our swords and saluted.\n\n'If ye will come with me, gentlemen, and take position to the right of\nthe gate here,' said he, 'I may be able to tell ye something of these\nfolk as they pass. Thirty years of war in many climes should give me the\nmaster craftsman's right to expound to his apprentices.'\n\nWe all very gladly followed his advice, and passed out through the gate,\nwhich was now nothing more than a broad gap amongst the mounds which\nmarked the lines of the old walls. 'There is no sign of them yet,' I\nremarked, as we pulled up upon a convenient hillock. 'I suppose that\nthey must come by this road which winds through the valley before us.'\n\n'There are two sorts of bad general,' quoth Saxon, 'the man who is too\nfast and the man who is too slow. His Majesty's advisers will never be\naccused of the former failing, whatever other mistakes they may fall\ninto. There was old Marshal Grunberg, with whom I did twenty-six months'\nsoldiering in Bohemia. He would fly through the country pell-mell,\nhorse, foot, and artillery, as if the devil were at his heels. He might\nmake fifty blunders, but the enemy had never time to take advantage. I\ncall to mind a raid which we made into Silesia, when, after two days or\nso of mountain roads, his Oberhauptmann of the staff told him that it\nwas impossible for the artillery to keep up. \"Lass es hinter!\" says he.\nSo the guns were left, and by the evening of the next day the foot were\ndead-beat. \"They cannot walk another mile!\" says the Oberhauptmann.\n\"Lassen Sie hinter!\" says he. So on we went with the horse--I was in his\nPandour regiment, worse luck! But after a skirmish or two, what with the\nroads and what with the enemy, our horses were foundered and useless.\n\"The horses are used up!\" says the Oberhauptmann. \"Lassen Sie hinter!\"\nhe cries; and I warrant that he would have pushed on to Prague with his\nstaff, had they allowed him. \"General Hinterlassen\" we called him after\nthat.'\n\n'A dashing commander, too,' cried Sir Gervas. 'I would fain have served\nunder him.'\n\n'Aye, and he had a way of knocking his recruits into shape which would\nscarce be relished by our good friends here in the west country,' said\nSaxon. 'I remember that after the leaguer of Salzburg, when we had taken\nthe castle or fortalice of that name, we were joined by some thousand\nuntrained foot, which had been raised in Dalmatia in the Emperor's\nemploy. As they approached our lines with waving of hands and blowing of\nbugles, old Marshal Hinterlassen discharged a volley of all the cannon\nupon the walls at them, killing three score and striking great panic\ninto the others. \"The rogues must get used to standing fire sooner\nor later,\" said he, \"so they may as well commence their education at\nonce.\"'\n\n'He was a rough schoolmaster,' I remarked. 'He might have left that part\nof the drill to the enemy.'\n\n'Yet his soldiers loved him,' said Saxon. 'He was not a man, when a city\nhad been forced, to inquire into every squawk of a woman, or give ear to\nevery burgess who chanced to find his strong-box a trifle the lighter.\nBut as to the slow commanders, I have known none to equal Brigadier\nBaumgarten, also of the Imperial service. He would break up his\nwinter-quarters and sit down before some place of strength, where he\nwould raise a sconce here, and sink a sap there, until his soldiers were\nsick of the very sight of the place. So he would play with it, as a cat\nwith a mouse, until at last it was about to open its gates, when,\nas like as not, he would raise the leaguer and march back into his\nwinter-quarters. I served two campaigns under him without honour, sack,\nplunder, or emolument, save a beggarly stipend of three gulden a day,\npaid in clipped money, six months in arrear. But mark ye the folk upon\nyonder tower! They are waving their kerchiefs as though something were\nvisible to them.'\n\n'I can see nothing,' I answered, shading my eyes and gazing down the\ntree-sprinkled valley which rose slowly in green uplands to the grassy\nBlackdown hills.\n\n'Those on the housetops are waving and pointing,' said Reuben. 'Methinks\nI can myself see the flash of steel among yonder woods.'\n\n'There it is,' cried Saxon, extending his gauntleted hand, 'on the\nwestern bank of the Tone, hard by the wooden bridge. Follow my finger,\nClarke, and see if you cannot distinguish it.'\n\n'Yes, truly,' I exclaimed, 'I see a bright shimmer coming and going. And\nthere to the left, where the road curves over the hill, mark you that\ndense mass of men! Ha! the head of the column begins to emerge from the\ntrees.'\n\nThere was not a cloud in the sky, but the great heat had caused a haze\nto overlie the valley, gathering thickly along the winding course of\nthe river, and hanging in little sprays and feathers over the woodlands\nwhich clothe its banks. Through this filmy vapour there broke from time\nto time fierce sparkles of brilliant light as the sun's rays fell upon\nbreastplate or headpiece. Now and again the gentle summer breeze\nwafted up sudden pulses of martial music to our ears, with the blare of\ntrumpets and the long deep snarl of the drums. As we gazed, the van of\nthe army began to roll out from the cover of the trees and to darken the\nwhite dusty roads. The long line slowly extended itself, writhing out of\nthe forest land like a dark snake with sparkling scales, until the whole\nrebel army--horse, foot, and ordnance--were visible beneath us. The\ngleam of the weapons, the waving of numerous banners, the plumes of the\nleaders, and the deep columns of marching men, made up a picture which\nstirred the very hearts of the citizens, who, from the housetops and\nfrom the ruinous summit of the dismantled walls, were enabled to gaze\ndown upon the champions of their faith. If the mere sight of a passing\nregiment will cause a thrill in your bosoms, you can fancy how it is\nwhen the soldiers upon whom you look are in actual arms for your own\ndearest and most cherished interests, and have just come out victorious\nfrom a bloody struggle. If every other man's hand was against us, these\nat least were on our side, and our hearts went out to them as to friends\nand brothers. Of all the ties that unite men in this world, that of a\ncommon danger is the strongest.\n\nIt all appeared to be most warlike and most imposing to my inexperienced\neyes, and I thought as I looked at the long array that our cause was as\ngood as won. To my surprise, however, Saxon pished and pshawed under his\nbreath, until at last, unable to contain his impatience, he broke out in\nhot discontent.\n\n'Do but look at that vanguard as they breast the slope,' he cried.\n'Where is the advance party, or Vorreiter, as the Germans call them?\nWhere, too, is the space which should be left between the fore-guard and\nthe main battle? By the sword of Scanderbeg, they remind me more of a\ndrove of pilgrims, as I have seen them approaching the shrine of St.\nSebaldus of Nurnberg with their banners and streamers. There in\nthe centre, amid that cavalcade of cavaliers, rides our new monarch\ndoubtless. Pity he hath not a man by him who can put this swarm of\npeasants into something like campaign order. Now do but look at those\nfour pieces of ordnance trailing along like lame sheep behind the flock.\nCaracco, I would that I were a young King's officer with a troop of\nlight horse on the ridge yonder! My faith, how I should sweep down yon\ncross road like a kestrel on a brood of young plover! Then heh for cut\nand thrust, down with the skulking cannoniers, a carbine fire to cover\nus, round with the horses, and away go the rebel guns in a cloud of\ndust! How's that, Sir Gervas?'\n\n'Good sport, Colonel,' said the baronet, with a touch of colour in his\nwhite cheeks. 'I warrant that you did keep your Pandours on the trot.'\n\n'Aye, the rogues had to work or hang--one or t'other. But methinks our\nfriends here are scarce as numerous as reported. I reckon them to be a\nthousand horse, and mayhap five thousand two hundred foot. I have been\nthought a good tally-man on such occasions. With fifteen hundred in the\ntown that would bring us to close on eight thousand men, which is no\ngreat force to invade a kingdom and dispute a crown.'\n\n'If the West can give eight thousand, how many can all the counties of\nEngland afford?' I asked. 'Is not that the fairer way to look at it?'\n\n'Monmouth's popularity lies mostly in the West,' Saxon answered. 'It\nwas the memory of that which prompted him to raise his standard in these\ncounties.'\n\n'His standards, rather,' quoth Reuben. 'Why, it looks as though they had\nhung their linen up to dry all down the line.'\n\n'True! They have more ensigns than ever I saw with so small a force,'\nSaxon answered, rising in his stirrups. 'One or two are blue, and the\nrest, as far as I can see for the sun shining upon them, are white, with\nsome motto or device.'\n\nWhilst we had been conversing, the body of horse which formed the\nvanguard of the Protestant army had approached within a quarter of a\nmile or less of the town, when a loud, clear bugle-call brought them to\na halt. In each successive regiment or squadron the signal was repeated,\nso that the sound passed swiftly down the long array until it died away\nin the distance. As the coil of men formed up upon the white road, with\njust a tremulous shifting motion along the curved and undulating line,\nits likeness to a giant serpent occurred again to my mind.\n\n'I could fancy it a great boa,' I remarked, 'which was drawing its coils\nround the town.'\n\n'A rattlesnake, rather,' said Reuben, pointing to the guns in the rear.\n'It keeps all its noise in its tail.'\n\n'Here comes its head, if I mistake not,' quoth Saxon. 'It were best\nperhaps that we stand at the side of the gate.'\n\nAs he spoke a group of gaily dressed cavaliers broke away from the main\nbody and rode straight for the town. Their leader was a tall, slim,\nelegant young man, who sat his horse with the grace of a skilled rider,\nand who was remarkable amongst those around him for the gallantry of his\nbearing and the richness of his trappings. As he galloped towards the\ngate a roar of welcome burst from the assembled multitude, which was\ntaken up and prolonged by the crowds behind, who, though unable to see\nwhat was going forward, gathered from the shouting that the King was\napproaching.\n\n\n\nChapter XX. Of the Muster of the Men of the West\n\nMonmouth was at that time in his thirty-sixth year, and was remarkable\nfor those superficial graces which please the multitude and fit a man to\nlead in a popular cause. He was young, well-spoken, witty, and skilled\nin all martial and manly exercises. On his progress in the West he had\nnot thought it beneath him to kiss the village maidens, to offer prizes\nat the rural sports, and to run races in his boots against the fleetest\nof the barefooted countrymen. (Note G., Appendix) His nature was vain\nand prodigal, but he excelled in that showy magnificence and careless\ngenerosity which wins the hearts of the people. Both on the Continent\nand at Bothwell Bridge, in Scotland, he had led armies with success, and\nhis kindness and mercy to the Covenanters after his victory had caused\nhim to be as much esteemed amongst the Whigs as Dalzell and Claverhouse\nwere hated. As he reined up his beautiful black horse at the gate of the\ncity, and raised his plumed montero cap to the shouting crowd, the grace\nand dignity of his bearing were such as might befit the knight-errant\nin a Romance who is fighting at long odds for a crown which a tyrant has\nfilched from him.\n\nHe was reckoned well-favoured, but I cannot say that I found him so. His\nface was, I thought, too long and white for comeliness, yet his features\nwere high and noble, with well-marked nose and clear, searching eyes. In\nhis mouth might perchance be noticed some trace of that weakness which\nmarred his character, though the expression was sweet and amiable. He\nwore a dark purple roquelaure riding-jacket, faced and lapelled with\ngold lace, through the open front of which shone a silver breastplate.\nA velvet suit of a lighter shade than the jacket, a pair of high yellow\nCordovan boots, with a gold-hilted rapier on one side, and a poniard\nof Parma on the other, each hung from the morocco-leather sword-belt,\ncompleted his attire. A broad collar of Mechlin lace flowed over his\nshoulders, while wristbands of the same costly material dangled from his\nsleeves. Again and again he raised his cap and bent to the saddle-bow in\nresponse to the storm of cheering. 'A Monmouth! A Monmouth!' cried\nthe people; 'Hail to the Protestant chief!' 'Long live the noble King\nMonmouth!' while from every window, and roof, and balcony fluttering\nkerchief or waving hat brightened the joyous scene. The rebel van caught\nfire at the sight and raised a great deep-chested shout, which was taken\nup again and again by the rest of the army, until the whole countryside\nwas sonorous.\n\nIn the meanwhile the city elders, headed by our friend the Mayor,\nadvanced from the gate in all the dignity of silk and fur to pay homage\nto the King. Sinking upon one knee by Monmouth's stirrup, he kissed the\nhand which was graciously extended to him.\n\n'Nay, good Master Mayor,' said the King, in a clear, strong voice, 'it\nis for my enemies to sink before me, and not for my friends. Prythee,\nwhat is this scroll which you do unroll?'\n\n'It is an address of welcome and of allegiance, your Majesty, from your\nloyal town of Taunton.'\n\n'I need no such address,' said King Monmouth, looking round. 'It is\nwritten all around me in fairer characters than ever found themselves\nupon parchment. My good friends have made me feel that I was welcome\nwithout the aid of clerk or scrivener. Your name, good Master Mayor, is\nStephen Timewell, as I understand?'\n\n'The same, your Majesty.'\n\n'Too curt a name for so trusty a man,' said the King, drawing his sword\nand touching him upon the shoulder with it. 'I shall make it longer by\nthree letters. Rise up, Sir Stephen, and may I find that there are many\nother knights in my dominions as loyal and as stout.'\n\nAmidst the huzzahs which broke out afresh at this honour done to the\ntown, the Mayor withdrew with the councilmen to the left side of the\ngate, whilst Monmouth with his staff gathered upon the right. At a\nsignal a trumpeter blew a fanfare, the drums struck up a point of war,\nand the insurgent army, with serried ranks and waving banners, resumed\nits advance upon the town. As it approached, Saxon pointed out to us the\nvarious leaders and men of note who surrounded the King, giving us their\nnames and some few words as to their characters.\n\n'That is Lord Grey of Wark,' said he; 'the little middle-aged lean man\nat the King's bridle arm. He hath been in the Tower once for treason.\n'Twas he who fled with the Lady Henrietta Berkeley, his wife's sister. A\nfine leader truly for a godly cause! The man upon his left, with the\nred swollen face and the white feather in his cap, is Colonel Holmes.\nI trust that he will never show the white feather save on his head. The\nother upon the high chestnut horse is a lawyer, though, by my soul, he\nis a better man at ordering a battalion than at drawing a bill of costs.\nHe is the republican Wade who led the foot at the skirmish at Bridport,\nand brought them off with safety. The tall heavy-faced soldier in the\nsteel bonnet is Anthony Buyse, the Brandenburger, a soldado of fortune,\nand a man of high heart, as are most of his countrymen. I have fought\nboth with him and against him ere now.'\n\n'Mark ye the long thin man behind him?' cried Reuben. 'He hath drawn his\nsword, and waves it over his head. 'Tis a strange time and place for the\nbroadsword exercise. He is surely mad.'\n\n'Perhaps you are not far amiss,' said Saxon. 'Yet, by my hilt, were it\nnot for that man there would be no Protestant army advancing upon us\ndown yonder road. 'Tis he who by dangling the crown before Monmouth's\neyes beguiled him away from his snug retreat in Brabant. There is not\none of these men whom he hath not tempted into this affair by some bait\nor other. With Grey it was a dukedom, with Wade the woolsack, with Buyse\nthe plunder of Cheapside. Every one hath his own motive, but the clues\nto them all are in the hands of yonder crazy fanatic, who makes the\npuppets dance as he will. He hath plotted more, lied more, and suffered\nless than any Whig in the party.'\n\n'It must be that Dr. Robert Ferguson of whom I have heard my father\nspeak,' said I.\n\n'You are right. 'Tis he. I have but seen him once in Amsterdam, and yet\nI know him by his shock wig and crooked shoulders. It is whispered\nthat of late his overweening conceit hath unseated his reason. See, the\nGerman places his hand upon his shoulder and persuades him to sheathe\nhis weapon. King Monmouth glances round too, and smiles as though he\nwere the Court buffoon with a Geneva cloak instead of the motley. But\nthe van is upon us. To your companies, and mind that ye raise your\nswords to the salute while the colours of each troop go by.'\n\nWhilst our companion had been talking, the whole Protestant army had\nbeen streaming towards the town, and the head of the fore-guard was\nabreast with the gateway. Four troops of horse led the way, badly\nequipped and mounted, with ropes instead of bridles, and in some cases\nsquares of sacking in place of saddles. The men were armed for the most\npart with sword and pistol, while a few had the buff-coats, plates, and\nheadpieces taken at Axminster, still stained sometimes with the blood of\nthe last wearer. In the midst of them rode a banner-bearer, who carried\na great square ensign hung upon a pole, which was supported upon a\nsocket let into the side of the girth. Upon it was printed in golden\nletters the legend, 'Pro libertate et religione nostra.' These\nhorse-soldiers were made up of yeomen's and farmers' sons, unused to\ndiscipline, and having a high regard for themselves as volunteers, which\ncaused them to cavil and argue over every order. For this cause, though\nnot wanting in natural courage, they did little service during the war,\nand were a hindrance rather than a help to the army.\n\nBehind the horse came the foot, walking six abreast, divided into\ncompanies of varying size, each company bearing a banner which gave the\nname of the town or village from which it had been raised. This manner\nof arranging the troops had been chosen because it had been found to be\nimpossible to separate men who were akin and neighbours to each other.\nThey would fight, they said, side by side, or they would not fight at\nall. For my own part, I think that it is no bad plan, for when it comes\nto push of pike, a man stands all the faster when he knows that he\nhath old and tried friends on either side of him. Many of these country\nplaces I came to know afterwards from the talk of the men, and many\nothers I have travelled through, so that the names upon the banners have\ncome to have a real meaning with me. Homer hath, I remember, a chapter\nor book wherein he records the names of all the Grecian chiefs and\nwhence they came, and how many men they brought to the common muster. It\nis pity that there is not some Western Homer who could record the names\nof these brave peasants and artisans, and recount what each did or\nsuffered in upholding a noble though disastrous cause. Their places of\nbirth at least shall not be lost as far as mine own feeble memory can\ncarry me.\n\nThe first foot regiment, if so rudely formed a band could be so called,\nconsisted of men of the sea, fishers and coastmen, clad in the\nheavy blue jerkins and rude garb of their class. They were bronzed,\nweather-beaten tarpaulins, with hard mahogany faces, variously armed\nwith birding pieces, cutlasses, or pistols. I have a notion that it\nwas not the first time that those weapons had been turned against\nKing James's servants, for the Somerset and Devon coasts were famous\nbreeding-places for smugglers, and many a saucy lugger was doubtless\nlying up in creek or in bay whilst her crew had gone a-soldiering to\nTaunton. As to discipline, they had no notion of it, but rolled along in\ntrue blue-water style, with many a shout and halloo to each other or to\nthe crowd. From Star Point to Portland Roads there would be few nets\nfor many weeks to come, and fish would swim the narrow seas which should\nhave been heaped on Lyme Cobb or exposed for sale in Plymouth market.\nEach group, or band, of these men of the sea bore with it its own\nbanner, that of Lyme in the front, followed by Topsham, Colyford,\nBridport, Sidmouth, Otterton, Abbotsbury, and Charmouth, all southern\ntowns, which are on or near the coast. So they trooped past us, rough\nand careless, with caps cocked, and the reek of their tobacco rising\nup from them like the steam from a tired horse. In number they may have\nbeen four hundred or thereabouts.\n\nThe peasants of Rockbere, with flail and scythe, led the next column,\nfollowed by the banner of Honiton, which was supported by two hundred\nstout lacemakers from the banks of the Otter. These men showed by the\ncolour of their faces that their work kept them within four walls, yet\nthey excelled their peasant companions in their alert and soldierly\nbearing. Indeed, with all the troops, we observed that, though the\ncountrymen were the stouter and heartier, the craftsmen were the most\nready to catch the air and spirit of the camp. Behind the men of Honiton\ncame the Puritan clothworkers of Wellington, with their mayor upon\na white horse beside their standard-bearer, and a band of twenty\ninstruments before him. Grim-visaged, thoughtful, sober men, they were\nfor the most part clad in grey suits and wearing broad-brimmed hats.\n'For God and faith' was the motto of a streamer which floated from\namongst them. The clothworkers formed three strong companies, and the\nwhole regiment may have numbered close on six hundred men.\n\nThe third regiment was headed by five hundred foot from Taunton, men\nof peaceful and industrious life, but deeply imbued with those great\nprinciples of civil and religious liberty which were three years later\nto carry all before them in England. As they passed the gates they were\ngreeted by a thunderous welcome from their townsmen upon the walls and\nat the windows. Their steady, solid ranks, and broad, honest burgher\nfaces, seemed to me to smack of discipline and of work well done. Behind\nthem came the musters of Winterbourne, Ilminster, Chard, Yeovil, and\nCollumpton, a hundred or more pikesmen to each, bringing the tally of\nthe regiment to a thousand men.\n\nA squadron of horse trotted by, closely followed by the fourth regiment,\nbearing in its van the standards of Beaminster, Crewkerne, Langport,\nand Chidiock, all quiet Somersetshire villages, which had sent out their\nmanhood to strike a blow for the old cause. Puritan ministers, with\ntheir steeple hats and Geneva gowns, once black, but now white with\ndust, marched sturdily along beside their flocks. Then came a strong\ncompany of wild half-armed shepherds from the great plains which extend\nfrom the Blackdowns on the south to the Mendips on the north--very\ndifferent fellows, I promise you, from the Corydons and Strephons of\nMaster Waller or Master Dryden, who have depicted the shepherd as ever\nshedding tears of love, and tootling upon a plaintive pipe. I fear that\nChloe or Phyllis would have met with rough wooing at the hands of these\nWestern savages. Behind them were musqueteers from Dorchester, pikemen\nfrom Newton Poppleford, and a body of stout infantry from among the\nserge workers of Ottery St. Mary. This fourth regiment numbered rather\nbetter than eight hundred, but was inferior in arms and in discipline to\nthat which preceded it.\n\nThe fifth regiment was headed by a column of fen men from the dreary\nmarches which stretch round Athelney. These men, in their sad and sordid\ndwellings, had retained the same free and bold spirit which had made\nthem in past days the last resource of the good King Alfred and the\nprotectors of the Western shires from the inroads of the Danes, who\nwere never able to force their way into their watery strongholds. Two\ncompanies of them, towsy-headed and bare-legged, but loud in hymn and\nprayer, had come out from their fastnesses to help the Protestant cause.\nAt their heels came the woodmen and lumberers of Bishop's Lidiard, big,\nsturdy men in green jerkins, and the white-smocked villagers of Huish\nChampflower. The rear of the regiment was formed by four hundred men in\nscarlet coats, with white cross-belts and well-burnished muskets.\nThese were deserters from the Devonshire Militia, who had marched with\nAlbemarle from Exeter, and who had come over to Monmouth on the field\nat Axminster. These kept together in a body, but there were many other\nmilitiamen, both in red and in yellow coats, amongst the various bodies\nwhich I have set forth. This regiment may have numbered seven hundred\nmen.\n\nThe sixth and last column of foot was headed by a body of peasants\nbearing 'Minehead' upon their banner, and the ensign of the three\nwool-bales and the sailing ship, which is the sign of that ancient\nborough. They had come for the most part from the wild country which\nlies to the north of Dunster Castle and skirts the shores of the Bristol\nChannel. Behind them were the poachers and huntsmen of Porlock Quay, who\nhad left the red deer of Exmoor to graze in peace whilst they followed\na nobler quarry. They were followed by men from Dulverton, men from\nMilverton, men from Wiveliscombe and the sunny slopes of the Quantocks,\nswart, fierce men from the bleak moors of Dunkerry Beacon, and tall,\nstalwart pony rearers and graziers from Bampton. The banners of\nBridgewater, of Shepton Mallet, and of Nether Stowey swept past us, with\nthat of the fishers of Clovelly and the quarrymen of the Blackdowns. In\nthe rear were three companies of strange men, giants in stature, though\nsomewhat bowed with labour, with long tangled beards, and unkempt hair\nhanging over their eyes. These were the miners from the Mendip hills and\nfrom the Oare and Bagworthy valleys, rough, half-savage men, whose eyes\nrolled up at the velvets and brocades of the shouting citizens, or fixed\nthemselves upon their smiling dames with a fierce intensity which scared\nthe peaceful burghers. So the long line rolled in until three squadrons\nof horse and four small cannon, with the blue-coated Dutch cannoniers as\nstiff as their own ramrods, brought up the rear. A long train of carts\nand of waggons which had followed the army were led into the fields\noutside the walls and there quartered.\n\nWhen the last soldier had passed through the Shuttern Gate, Monmouth and\nhis leaders rode slowly in, the Mayor walking by the King's charger.\nAs we saluted they all faced round to us, and I saw a quick flush of\nsurprise and pleasure come over Monmouth's pale face as he noted our\nclose lines and soldierly bearing.\n\n'By my faith, gentlemen,' he said, glancing round at his staff, 'our\nworthy friend the Mayor must have inherited Cadmus's dragon teeth. Where\nraised ye this pretty crop, Sir Stephen? How came ye to bring them\nto such perfection too, even, I declare, to the hair powder of the\ngrenadiers?'\n\n'I have fifteen hundred in the town,' the old wool-worker answered\nproudly; 'though some are scarce as disciplined.\n\nThese men come from Wiltshire, and the officers from Hampshire. As to\ntheir order, the credit is due not to me, but to the old soldier Colonel\nDecimus Saxon, whom they have chosen as their commander, as well as to\nthe captains who serve under him.'\n\n'My thanks are due to you, Colonel,' said the King, turning to Saxon,\nwho bowed and sank the point of his sword to the earth, 'and to you\nalso, gentlemen. I shall not forget the warm loyalty which brought you\nfrom Hampshire in so short a time. Would that I could find the same\nvirtue in higher places! But, Colonel Saxon, you have, I gather, seen\nmuch service abroad. What think you of the army which hath just passed\nbefore you?'\n\n'If it please your Majesty,' Saxon answered, 'it is like so much\nuncarded wool, which is rough enough in itself, and yet may in time come\nto be woven into a noble garment.'\n\n'Hem! There is not much leisure for the weaving,' said Monmouth. 'But\nthey fight well. You should have seen them fall on at Axminster! We hope\nto see you and to hear your views at the council table. But how is this?\nHave I not seen this gentleman's face before?'\n\n'It is the Honourable Sir Gervas Jerome of the county of Surrey,' quoth\nSaxon.\n\n'Your Majesty may have seen me at St. James's,' said the baronet,\nraising his hat, 'or in the balcony at Whitehall. I was much at Court\nduring the latter years of the late king.'\n\n'Yes, yes. I remember the name as well as the face,' cried Monmouth.\n'You see, gentlemen,' he continued, turning to his staff, 'the courtiers\nbegin to come in at last. Were you not the man who did fight Sir Thomas\nKilligrew behind Dunkirk House? I thought as much. Will you not attach\nyourself to my personal attendants?'\n\n'If it please your Majesty,' Sir Gervas answered, 'I am of opinion\nthat I could do your royal cause better service at the head of my\nmusqueteers.'\n\n'So be it! So be it!' said King Monmouth. Setting spurs to his horse, he\nraised his hat in response to the cheers of the troops and cantered down\nthe High Street under a rain of flowers, which showered from roof and\nwindow upon him, his staff, and his escort. We had joined in his train,\nas commanded, so that we came in for our share of this merry crossfire.\nOne rose as it fluttered down was caught by Reuben, who, I observed,\npressed it to his lips, and then pushed it inside his breastplate.\nGlancing up, I caught sight, of the smiling face of our host's daughter\npeeping down at us from a casement.\n\n'Well caught, Reuben!' I whispered. 'At trick-track or trap and ball you\nwere ever our best player.'\n\n'Ah, Micah,' said he, 'I bless the day that ever I followed you to the\nwars. I would not change places with Monmouth this day.'\n\n'Has it gone so far then!' I exclaimed. 'Why, lad, I thought that you\nwere but opening your trenches, and you speak as though you had carried\nthe city.'\n\n'Perhaps I am over-hopeful,' he cried, turning from hot to cold, as a\nman doth when he is in love, or hath the tertian ague, or other bodily\ntrouble. 'God knows that I am little worthy of her, and yet--'\n\n'Set not your heart too firmly upon that which may prove to be beyond\nyour reach,' said I. 'The old man is rich, and will look higher.'\n\n'I would he were poor!' sighed Reuben, with all the selfishness of a\nlover. 'If this war last I may win myself some honour or title. Who\nknows? Others have done it, and why not I!'\n\n'Of our three from Havant,' I remarked, 'one is spurred onwards by\nambition, and one by love. Now, what am I to do who care neither for\nhigh office nor for the face of a maid? What is to carry me into the\nfight?'\n\n'Our motives come and go, but yours is ever with you,' said Reuben.\n'Honour and duty are the two stars, Micah, by which you have ever\nsteered your course.'\n\n'Faith, Mistress Ruth has taught you to make pretty speeches,' said I,\n'but methinks she ought to be here amid the beauty of Taunton.'\n\nAs I spoke we were riding into the market-place, which was now crowded\nwith our troops. Round the cross were grouped a score of maidens clad in\nwhite muslin dresses with blue scarfs around their waists. As the King\napproached, these little maids, with much pretty nervousness, advanced\nto meet him, and handed him a banner which they had worked for him, and\nalso a dainty gold-clasped Bible. Monmouth handed the flag to one of his\ncaptains, but he raised the book above his head, exclaiming that he\nhad come there to defend the truths contained within it, at which the\ncheerings and acclamations broke forth with redoubled vigour. It had\nbeen expected that he might address the people from the cross, but he\ncontented himself with waiting while the heralds proclaimed his titles\nto the Crown, when he gave the word to disperse, and the troops marched\noff to the different centres where food had been provided for them. The\nKing and his chief officers took up their quarters in the Castle, while\nthe Mayor and richer burgesses found bed and board for the rest. As to\nthe common soldiers, many were billeted among the townsfolk, many others\nencamped in the streets and Castle grounds, while the remainder took up\ntheir dwelling among the waggons in the fields outside the city, where\nthey lit up great fires, and had sheep roasting and beer flowing as\nmerrily as though a march on London were but a holiday outing.\n\n\n\nChapter XXI. Of my Hand-grips with the Brandenburger\n\nKing Monmouth had called a council meeting for the evening, and summoned\nColonel Decimus Saxon to attend it, with whom I went, bearing with me\nthe small package which Sir Jacob Clancing had given over to my keeping.\nOn arriving at the Castle we found that the King had not yet come out\nfrom his chamber, but we were shown into the great hall to await him, a\nfine room with lofty windows and a noble ceiling of carved woodwork. At\nthe further end the royal arms had been erected without the bar sinister\nwhich Monmouth had formerly worn. Here were assembled the principal\nchiefs of the army, with many of the inferior commanders, town officers,\nand others who had petitions to offer. Lord Grey of Wark stood silently\nby the window, looking out over the countryside with a gloomy face. Wade\nand Holmes shook their heads and whispered in a corner. Ferguson strode\nabout with his wig awry, shouting out exhortations and prayers in a\nbroad Scottish accent. A few of the more gaily dressed gathered round\nthe empty fireplace, and listened to a tale from one of their number\nwhich appeared to be shrouded in many oaths, and which was greeted with\nshouts of laughter. In another corner a numerous group of zealots, clad\nin black or russet gowns, with broad white bands and hanging mantles,\nstood round some favourite preacher, and discussed in an undertone\nCalvinistic philosophy and its relation to statecraft. A few plain\nhomely soldiers, who were neither sectaries nor courtiers, wandered up\nand down, or stared out through the windows at the busy encampment upon\nthe Castle Green. To one of these, remarkable for his great size and\nbreadth of shoulder, Saxon led me, and touching him on the sleeve, he\nheld out his hand as to an old friend. 'Mein Gott!' cried the German\nsoldier of fortune, for it was the same man whom my companion had\npointed out in the morning, 'I thought it was you, Saxon, when I saw you\nby the gate, though you are even thinner than of old. How a man could\nsuck up so much good Bavarian beer as you have done, and yet make so\nlittle flesh upon it, is more than I can verstehen. How have all things\ngone with you?'\n\n'As of old,' said Saxon. 'More blows than thalers, and greater need of\na surgeon than of a strong-box. When did I see you last, friend? Was\nit not at the onfall at Nurnberg, when I led the right and you the left\nwing of the heavy horse?'\n\n'Nay,' said Buyse. 'I have met you in the way of business since then.\nHave you forgot the skirmish on the Rhine bank, when you did flash your\nsnapphahn at me? Sapperment! Had some rascally schelm not stabbed my\nhorse I should have swept your head off as a boy cuts thistles mit a\nstick.'\n\n'Aye, aye,' Saxon answered composedly, 'I had forgot it. You were taken,\nif I remember aright, but did afterwards brain the sentry with your\nfetters, and swam the Rhine under the fire of a regiment. Yet, I think\nthat we did offer you the same terms that you were having with the\nothers.'\n\n'Some such base offer was indeed made me,' said the German sternly. 'To\nwhich I answered that, though I sold my sword, I did not sell my honour.\nIt is well that cavaliers of fortune should show that an engagement is\nwith them--how do ye say it?--unbreakable until the war is over. Then by\nall means let him change his paymaster. Warum nicht?'\n\n'True, friend, true!' replied Saxon. 'These beggarly Italians and Swiss\nhave made such a trade of the matter, and sold themselves so freely,\nbody and soul, to the longest purse, that it is well that we should be\nnice upon points of honour. But you remember the old hand-grip which no\nman in the Palatinate could exchange with you? Here is my captain, Micah\nClarke. Let him see how warm a North German welcome may be.'\n\nThe Brandenburger showed his white teeth in a grin as he held out his\nbroad brown hand to me. The instant that mine was enclosed in it he\nsuddenly bent his whole strength upon it, and squeezed my fingers\ntogether until the blood tingled in the nails, and the whole hand was\nlimp and powerless.\n\n'Donnerwetter!' he cried, laughing heartily at my start of pain and\nsurprise. 'It is a rough Prussian game, and the English lads have not\nmuch stomach for it.'\n\n'Truly, sir,' said I, 'it is the first time that I have seen the\npastime, and I would fain practise it under so able a master.'\n\n'What, another!' he cried. 'Why, you must be still pringling from the\nfirst. Nay, if you will I shall not refuse you, though I fear it may\nweaken your hold upon your sword-hilt.'\n\nHe held out his hand as he spoke, and I grasped it firmly, thumb to\nthumb, keeping my elbow high so as to bear all my force upon it. His own\ntrick was, as I observed, to gain command of the other hand by a great\noutput of strength at the onset. This I prevented by myself putting out\nall my power. For a minute or more we stood motionless, gazing into each\nother's faces. Then I saw a bead of sweat trickle down his forehead, and\nI knew that he was beaten. Slowly his grip relaxed, and his hand grew\nlimp and slack while my own tightened ever upon it, until he was forced\nin a surly, muttering voice to request that I should unhand him.\n\n'Teufel und hexerei!' he cried, wiping away the blood which oozed from\nunder his nails, 'I might as well put my fingers in a rat-trap. You\nare the first man that ever yet exchanged fair hand-grips with Anthony\nBuyse.'\n\n'We breed brawn in England as well as in Brandenburg,' said Saxon, who\nwas shaking with laughter over the German soldier's discomfiture. 'Why,\nI have seen that lad pick up a full-size sergeant of dragoons and throw\nhim into a cart as though he had been a clod of earth.'\n\n'Strong he is,' grumbled Buyse, still wringing his injured hand, 'strong\nas old Gotz mit de iron grip. But what good is strength alone in the\nhandling of a weapon? It is not the force of a blow, but the way in\nwhich it is geschlagen, that makes the effect. Your sword now is heavier\nthan mine, by the look of it, and yet my blade would bite deeper. Eh? Is\nnot that a more soldierly sport than kinderspiel such as hand-grasping\nand the like?'\n\n'He is a modest youth,' said Saxon. 'Yet I would match his stroke\nagainst yours.'\n\n'For what?' snarled the German.\n\n'For as much wine as we can take at a sitting.\n\n'No small amount, either,' said Buyse; 'a brace of gallons at the least.\nWell, be it so. Do you accept the contest?'\n\n'I shall do what I may,' I answered, 'though I can scarce hope to strike\nas heavy a blow as so old and tried a soldier.'\n\n'Henker take your compliments,' he cried gruffly. 'It was with sweet\nwords that you did coax my fingers into that fool-catcher of yours. Now,\nhere is my old headpiece of Spanish steel. It has, as you can see, one\nor two dints of blows, and a fresh one will not hurt it. I place it here\nupon this oaken stool high enough to be within fair sword-sweep. Have at\nit, Junker, and let us see if you can leave your mark upon it!'\n\n'Do you strike first, sir,' said I, 'since the challenge is yours.'\n\n'I must bruise my own headpiece to regain my soldierly credit,' he\ngrumbled. 'Well, well, it has stood a cut or two in its day.' Drawing\nhis broadsword, he waved back the crowd who had gathered around us,\nwhile he swung the great weapon with tremendous force round his head,\nand brought it down with a full, clean sweep on to the smooth cap of\nsteel. The headpiece sprang high into the air and then clattered down\nupon the oaken floor with a long, deep line bitten into the solid metal.\n\n'Well struck!' 'A brave stroke!' cried the spectators. 'It is proof\nsteel thrice welded, and warranted to turn a sword-blade,' one remarked,\nraising up the helmet to examine it, and then replacing it upon the\nstool.\n\n'I have seen my father cut through proof steel with this very sword,'\nsaid I, drawing the fifty-year-old weapon. 'He put rather more of his\nweight into it than you have done. I have heard him say that a good\nstroke should come from the back and loins rather than from the mere\nmuscles of the arm.'\n\n'It is not a lecture we want, but a beispiel or example,' sneered the\nGerman. 'It is with your stroke that we have to do, and not with the\nteaching of your father.'\n\n'My stroke,' said I, 'is in accordance with his teaching;' and,\nwhistling round the sword, I brought it down with all my might and\nstrength upon the German's helmet. The good old Commonwealth blade shore\nthrough the plate of steel, cut the stool asunder, and buried its point\ntwo inches deep in the oaken floor. 'It is but a trick,' I explained. 'I\nhave practised it in the winter evenings at home.'\n\n'It is not a trick that I should care to have played upon me,' said Lord\nGrey, amid a general murmur of applause and surprise. 'Od's bud, man,\nyou have lived two centuries too late. What would not your thews have\nbeen worth before gunpowder put all men upon a level!'\n\n'Wunderbar!' growled Buyse, 'wunderbar! I am past my prime, young sir,\nand may well resign the palm of strength to you. It was a right noble\nstroke. It hath cost me a runlet or two of canary, and a good old\nhelmet; but I grudge it not, for it was fairly done. I am thankful\nthat my head was not darin. Saxon, here, used to show us some brave\nschwertspielerei, but he hath not the weight for such smashing blows as\nthis.'\n\n'My eye is still true and my hand firm, though both are perhaps a trifle\nthe worse for want of use,' said Saxon, only too glad at the chance\nof drawing the eyes of the chiefs upon him. 'At backsword, sword and\ndagger, sword and buckler, single falchion and case of falchions, mine\nold challenge still holds good against any comer, save only my brother\nQuartus, who plays as well as I do, but hath an extra half-inch in reach\nwhich gives him the vantage.'\n\n'I studied sword-play under Signor Contarini of Paris,' said Lord Grey.\n'Who was your master?'\n\n'I have studied, my lord, under Signer Stern Necessity of Europe,' quoth\nSaxon. 'For five-and-thirty years my life has depended from day to day\nupon being able to cover myself with this slip of steel. Here is a\nsmall trick which showeth some nicety of eye: to throw this ring to the\nceiling and catch it upon a rapier point. It seems simple, perchance,\nand yet is only to be attained by some practice.'\n\n'Simple!' cried Wade the lawyer, a square-faced, bold-eyed man. 'Why,\nthe ring is but the girth of your little finger. A man might do it once\nby good luck, but none could ensure it.'\n\n'I will lay a guinea a thrust on it,' said Saxon; and tossing the little\ngold circlet up into the air, he flashed out his rapier and made a pass\nat it. The ring rasped down the steel blade and tinkled against the\nhilt, fairly impaled. By a sharp motion of the wrist he shot it up\nto the ceiling again, where it struck a carved rafter and altered its\ncourse; but again, with a quick step forward, he got beneath it and\nreceived it on his sword-point. 'Surely there is some cavalier present\nwho is as apt at the trick as I am,' he said, replacing the ring upon\nhis finger.\n\n'I think, Colonel, that I could venture upon it,' said a voice; and\nlooking round, we found that Monmouth had entered the room and was\nstanding quietly on the outskirts of the throng, unperceived in\nthe general interest which our contention had excited. 'Nay, nay,\ngentlemen,' he continued pleasantly, as we uncovered and bowed with\nsome little embarrassment; 'how could my faithful followers be better\nemployed than by breathing themselves in a little sword-play? I prythee\nlend me your rapier, Colonel.' He drew a diamond ring from his finger,\nand spinning it up into the air, he transfixed it as deftly as Saxon\nhad done. 'I practised the trick at The Hague, where, by my faith, I had\nonly too many hours to devote to such trifles. But how come these steel\nlinks and splinters of wood to be littered over the floor?'\n\n'A son of Anak hath appaired amang us,' said Ferguson, turning his\nface, all scarred and reddened with the king's evil, in my direction. 'A\nGoliath o' Gath, wha hath a stroke like untae a weaver's beam. Hath he\nno the smooth face o' a bairn and the thews' o' Behemoth?'\n\n'A shrewd blow indeed,' King Monmouth remarked, picking up half the\nstool. 'How is our champion named?'\n\n'He is my captain, your Majesty,' Saxon answered, resheathing the sword\nwhich the King had handed to him; 'Micah Clarke, a man of Hampshire\nbirth.'\n\n'They breed a good old English stock in those parts,' said Monmouth;\n'but how comes it that you are here, sir? I summoned this meeting for my\nown immediate household, and for the colonels of the regiments. If every\ncaptain is to be admitted into our councils, we must hold our meetings\non the Castle Green, for no apartment could contain us.'\n\n'I ventured to come here, your Majesty,' I replied, 'because on my way\nhither I received a commission, which was that I should deliver this\nsmall but weighty package into your hands. I therefore thought it my\nduty to lose no time in fulfilling my errand.'\n\n'What is in it?' he asked.\n\n'I know not,' I answered.\n\nDoctor Ferguson whispered a few words into the King's ear, who laughed\nand held out his hand for the packet.\n\n'Tut! tut!' said he. 'The days of the Borgias and the Medicis are over,\nDoctor. Besides, the lad is no Italian conspirator, but hath honest blue\neyes and flaxen hair as Nature's certificate to his character. This\nis passing heavy--an ingot of lead, by the feel. Lend me your dagger,\nColonel Holmes. It is stitched round with packthread. Ha! it is a bar\nof gold--solid virgin gold by all that is wonderful. Take charge of it,\nWade, and see that it is added to the common fund. This little piece\nof metal may furnish ten pikemen. What have we here? A letter and an\nenclosure. \"To James, Duke of Monmouth\"--hum! It was written before we\nassumed our royal state. \"Sir Jacob Glancing, late of Snellaby Hall,\nsends greeting and a pledge of affection. Carry out the good work.\nA hundred more such ingots await you when you have crossed Salisbury\nPlain.\" Bravely promised, Sir Jacob! I would that you had sent them.\nWell, gentlemen, ye see how support and tokens of goodwill come pouring\nin upon us. Is not the tide upon the turn? Can the usurper hope to hold\nhis own? Will his men stand by him? Within a month or less I shall see\nye all gathered round me at Westminster, and no duty will then be\nso pleasing to me as to see that ye are all, from the highest to the\nlowest, rewarded for your loyalty to your monarch in this the hour of\nhis darkness and his danger.'\n\nA murmur of thanks rose up from the courtiers at this gracious speech,\nbut the German plucked at Saxon's sleeve and whispered, 'He hath his\nwarm fit upon him. You shall see him cold anon.'\n\n'Fifteen hundred men have joined me here where I did but expect a\nthousand at the most,' the King continued. 'If we had high hopes when\nwe landed at Lyme Cobb with eighty at our back, what should we think now\nwhen we find ourselves in the chief city of Somerset with eight thousand\nbrave men around us? 'Tis but one other affair like that at Axminster,\nand my uncle's power will go down like a house of cards. But gather\nround the table, gentlemen, and we shall discuss matters in due form.'\n\n'There is yet a scrap of paper which you have not read, sire,' said\nWade, picking up a little slip which had been enclosed in the note.\n\n'It is a rhyming catch or the posy of a ring,' said Monmouth, glancing\nat it. 'What are we to make of this?\n\n          \"When thy star is in trine,\n           Between darkness and shine,\n           Duke Monmouth, Duke Monmouth,\n           Beware of the Rhine!\"\n\nThy star in trine! What tomfoolery is this?'\n\n'If it please your Majesty,' said I, 'I have reason to believe that the\nman who sent you this message is one of those who are deeply skilled\nin the arts of divination, and who pretend from the motions of the\ncelestial bodies to foretell the fates of men.'\n\n'This gentleman is right, sir,' remarked Lord Grey. '\"Thy star in trine\"\nis an astrological term, which signifieth when your natal planet shall\nbe in a certain quarter of the heavens. The verse is of the nature of a\nprophecy. The Chaldeans and Egyptians of old are said to have attained\nmuch skill in the art, but I confess that I have no great opinion of\nthose latter-day prophets who busy themselves in answering the foolish\nquestions of every housewife.'\n\n          'And tell by Venus and the moon,\n           Who stole a thimble or a spoon.'\nmuttered Saxon, quoting from his favourite poem.\n\n'Why, here are our Colonels catching the rhyming complaint,' said the\nKing, laughing. 'We shall be dropping the sword and taking to the harp\nanon, as Alfred did in these very parts. Or I shall become a king of\nbards and trouveurs, like good King Rene of Provence. But, gentlemen,\nif this be indeed a prophecy, it should, methinks, bode well for our\nenterprise. It is true that I am warned against the Rhine, but there is\nlittle prospect of our fighting this quarrel upon its banks.'\n\n'Worse luck!' murmured the German, under his breath.\n\n'We may, therefore, thank this Sir Jacob and his giant messenger for\nhis forecast as well as for his gold. But here comes the worthy Mayor of\nTaunton, the oldest of our councillors and the youngest of our knights.\nCaptain Clarke, I desire you to stand at the inside of the door and to\nprevent intrusion. What passes amongst us will, I am well convinced, be\nsafe in your keeping.'\n\nI bowed and took up my post as ordered, while the council-men and\ncommanders gathered round the great oaken table which ran down the\ncentre of the hall. The mellow evening light was streaming through the\nthree western windows, while the distant babble of the soldiers upon the\nCastle Green sounded like the sleepy drone of insects. Monmouth paced\nwith quick uneasy steps up and down the further end of the room until\nall were seated, when he turned towards them and addressed them.\n\n'You will have surmised, gentlemen,' he said, 'that I have called you\ntogether to-day that I might have the benefit of your collective wisdom\nin determining what our next steps should be. We have now marched some\nforty miles into our kingdom, and we have met wherever we have gone with\nthe warm welcome which we expected. Close upon eight thousand men follow\nour standards, and as many more have been turned away for want of\narms. We have twice met the enemy, with the effect that we have armed\nourselves with their muskets and field-pieces. From first to last there\nhath been nothing which has not prospered with us. We must look to it\nthat the future be as successful as the past. To insure this I have\ncalled ye together, and I now ask ye to give me your opinions of our\nsituation, leaving me after I have listened to your views to form our\nplan of action. There are statesmen among ye, and there are soldiers\namong ye, and there are godly men among ye who may chance to get a flash\nof light when statesman and soldier are in the dark. Speak fearlessly,\nthen, and let me know what is in your minds.'\n\nFrom my central post by the door I could see the lines of faces on\neither side of the board, the solemn close-shaven Puritans, sunburned\nsoldiers, and white-wigged moustachioed courtiers. My eyes rested\nparticularly upon Ferguson's scorbutic features, Saxon's hard aquiline\nprofile, the German's burly face, and the peaky thoughtful countenance\nof the Lord of Wark.\n\n'If naebody else will gie an opeenion,' cried the fanatical Doctor,\n'I'll een speak mysel' as led by the inward voice. For have I no worked\nin the cause and slaved in it, much enduring and suffering mony things\nat the honds o' the froward, whereby my ain speerit hath plentifully\nfructified? Have I no been bruised as in a wine-press, and cast oot wi'\nhissing and scorning into waste places?'\n\n'We know your merits and your sufferings, Doctor,' said the King. 'The\nquestion before us is as to our course of action.'\n\n'Was there no a voice heard in the East?' cried the old Whig. 'Was there\nno a soond as o' a great crying, the crying for a broken covenant and a\nsinful generation? Whence came the cry? Wha's was the voice? Was it no\nthat o' the man Robert Ferguson, wha raised himsel' up against the great\nones in the land, and wouldna be appeased?'\n\n'Aye, aye, Doctor,' said Monmouth impatiently. 'Speak to the point, or\ngive place to another.'\n\n'I shall mak' mysel' clear, your Majesty. Have we no heard that Argyle\nis cutten off? And why was he cutten off? Because he hadna due faith\nin the workings o' the Almighty, and must needs reject the help o' the\nchildren o' light in favour o' the bare-legged spawn o' Prelacy, wha are\nhalf Pagan, half Popish. Had he walked in the path o' the Lord he wudna\nbe lying in the Tolbooth o' Edinburgh wi' the tow or the axe before\nhim. Why did he no gird up his loins and march straight onwards wi'\nthe banner o' light, instead o' dallying here and biding there like a\nhalf-hairted Didymus? And the same or waur will fa' upon us if we dinna\nmarch on intae the land and plant our ensigns afore the wicked toun o'\nLondon--the toun where the Lord's wark is tae be done, and the tares tae\nbe separated frae the wheat, and piled up for the burning.'\n\n'Your advice, in short, is that we march on!' said Monmouth.\n\n'That we march on, your Majesty, and that we prepare oorselves tae be\nthe vessels o' grace, and forbear frae polluting the cause o' the Gospel\nby wearing the livery o' the devil'--here he glared at a gaily attired\ncavalier at the other side of the table--'or by the playing o' cairds,\nthe singing o' profane songs and the swearing o' oaths, all which are\nnichtly done by members o' this army, wi' the effect o' giving much\nscandal tae God's ain folk.'\n\nA hum of assent and approval rose up from the more Puritan members of\nthe council at this expression of opinion, while the courtiers glanced\nat each other and curled their lips in derision. Monmouth took two or\nthree turns and then called for another opinion.\n\n'You, Lord Grey,' he said, 'are a soldier and a man of experience. What\nis your advice? Should we halt here or push forward towards London?'\n\n'To advance to the East would, in my humble judgment, be fatal to us,'\nGrey answered, speaking slowly, with the manner of a man who has thought\nlong and deeply before delivering an opinion. 'James Stuart is strong\nin horse, and we have none. We can hold our own amongst hedgerows or in\nbroken country, but what chance could we have in the middle of Salisbury\nPlain? With the dragoons round us we should be like a flock of sheep\namid a pack of wolves. Again, every step which we take towards London\nremoves us from our natural vantage ground, and from the fertile country\nwhich supplies our necessities, while it strengthens our enemy by\nshortening the distance he has to convey his troops and his victuals.\nUnless, therefore, we hear of some great outbreak elsewhere, or of some\ngeneral movement in London in our favour, we would do best to hold our\nground and wait an attack.'\n\n'You argue shrewdly and well, my Lord Grey,' said the King. 'But how\nlong are we to wait for this outbreak which never comes, and for this\nsupport which is ever promised and never provided? We have now been\nseven long days in England, and during that time of all the House of\nCommons no single man hath come over to us, and of the lords none gave\nmy Lord Grey, who was himself an exile. Not a baron or an earl, and only\none baronet, hath taken up arms for me. Where are the men whom Danvers\nand Wildman promised me from London? Where are the brisk boys of the\nCity who were said to be longing for me? Where are the breakings out\nfrom Berwick to Portland which they foretold? Not a man hath moved\nsave only these good peasants. I have been deluded, ensnared,\ntrapped--trapped by vile agents who have led me into the shambles.' He\npaced up and down, wringing his hands and biting his lips, with despair\nstamped upon his face. I observed that Buyse smiled and whispered\nsomething to Saxon--a hint, I suppose, that this was the cold fit of\nwhich he spoke.\n\n'Tell me, Colonel Buyse,' said the King, mastering his emotion by a\nstrong effort. 'Do you, as a soldier, agree with my Lord Grey?'\n\n'Ask Saxon, your Majesty,' the German answered. 'My opinion in a\nRaths-Versammlung is, I have observed, ever the same as his.'\n\n'Then we turn to you, Colonel Saxon,' said Monmouth. 'We have in this\ncouncil a party who are in favour of an advance and a party who wish\nto stand their ground. Their weight and numbers are, methinks, nearly\nequal. If you had the casting vote how would you decide?' All eyes were\nbent upon our leader, for his martial bearing, and the respect shown to\nhim by the veteran Buyse, made it likely that his opinion might really\nturn the scale. He sat for a few moments in silence with his hands\nbefore his face.\n\n'I will give my opinion, your Majesty,' he said at last. 'Feversham and\nChurchill are making for Salisbury with three thousand foot, and they\nhave pushed on eight hundred of the Blue Guards, and two or three\ndragoon regiments. We should, therefore, as Lord Grey says, have to\nfight on Salisbury Plain, and our foot armed with a medley of weapons\ncould scarce make head against their horse. All is possible to the Lord,\nas Dr. Ferguson wisely says. We are as grains of dust in the hollow of\nHis hand. Yet He hath given us brains wherewith to choose the better\ncourse, and if we neglect it we must suffer the consequence of our\nfolly.'\n\nFerguson laughed contemptuously, and breathed out a prayer, but many of\nthe other Puritans nodded their heads to acknowledge that this was not\nan unreasonable view to take of it.\n\n'On the other hand, sire,' Saxon continued, 'it appears to me that to\nremain here is equally impossible. Your Majesty's friends throughout\nEngland would lose all heart if the army lay motionless and struck no\nblow. The rustics would flock off to their wives and homes. Such an\nexample is catching. I have seen a great army thaw away like an icicle\nin the sunshine. Once gone, it is no easy matter to collect them again.\nTo keep them we must employ them. Never let them have an idle minute.\nDrill them. March them. Exercise them. Work them. Preach to them. Make\nthem obey God and their Colonel. This cannot be done in snug quarters.\nThey must travel. We cannot hope to end this business until we get\nto London. London, then, must be our goal. But there are many ways of\nreaching it. You have, sire, as I have heard, many friends at Bristol\nand in the Midlands. If I might advise, I should say let us march round\nin that direction. Every day that passes will serve to swell your forces\nand improve your troops, while all will feel something is astirring.\nShould we take Bristol--and I hear that the works are not very\nstrong--it would give us a very good command of shipping, and a rare\ncentre from which to act. If all goes well with us, we could make\nour way to London through Gloucestershire and Worcestershire. In the\nmeantime I might suggest that a day of fast and humiliation be called to\nbring down a blessing on the cause.'\n\nThis address, skilfully compounded of worldly wisdom and of spiritual\nzeal, won the applause of the whole council, and especially that of King\nMonmouth, whose melancholy vanished as if by magic.\n\n'By my faith, Colonel,' said he, 'you make it all as clear as day.\nOf course, if we make ourselves strong in the West, and my uncle is\nthreatened with disaffection elsewhere, he will have no chance to hold\nout against us. Should he wish to fight us upon our own ground, he must\nneeds drain his troops from north, south, and east, which is not to be\nthought of. We may very well march to London by way of Bristol.'\n\n'I think that the advice is good,' Lord Grey observed; 'but I should\nlike to ask Colonel Saxon what warrant he hath for saying that Churchill\nand Feversham are on their way, with three thousand regular foot and\nseveral regiments of horse?'\n\n'The word of an officer of the Blues with whom I conversed at\nSalisbury,' Saxon answered. 'He confided in me, believing me to be one\nof the Duke of Beaufort's household. As to the horse, one party pursued\nus on Salisbury Plain with bloodhounds, and another attacked us not\ntwenty miles from here and lost a score of troopers and a cornet.'\n\n'We heard something of the brush,' said the King. 'It was bravely done.\nBut if these men are so close we have no great time for preparation.'\n\n'Their foot cannot be here before a week,' said the Mayor. 'By that time\nwe might be behind the walls of Bristol.'\n\n'There is one point which might be urged,' observed Wade the lawyer. 'We\nhave, as your Majesty most truly says, met with heavy discouragement in\nthe fact that no noblemen and few commoners of repute have declared for\nus. The reason is, I opine, that each doth wait for his neighbour to\nmake a move. Should one or two come over the others would soon follow.\nHow, then, are we to bring a duke or two to our standards?'\n\n'There's the question, Master Wade,' said Monmouth, shaking his head\ndespondently.\n\n'I think that it might be done,' continued the Whig lawyer. 'Mere\nproclamations addressed to the commonalty will not catch these gold\nfish. They are not to be angled for with a naked hook. I should\nrecommend that some form of summons or writ be served upon each of them,\ncalling upon them to appear in our camp within a certain date under pain\nof high treason.'\n\n'There spake the legal mind,' quoth King Monmouth, with a laugh. 'But\nyou have omitted to tell us how the said writ or summons is to be\nconveyed to these same delinquents.'\n\n'There is the Duke of Beaufort,' continued Wade, disregarding the King's\nobjection. 'He is President of Wales, and he is, as your Majesty knows,\nlieutenant of four English counties. His influence overshadows the whole\nWest. He hath two hundred horses in his stables at Badminton, and a\nthousand men, as I have heard, sit down at his tables every day. Why\nshould not a special effort be made to gain over such a one, the more so\nas we intend to march in his direction?'\n\n'Henry, Duke of Beaufort, is unfortunately already in arms against his\nsovereign,' said Monmouth gloomily.\n\n'He is, sire, but he may be induced to turn in your favour the weapon\nwhich he hath raised against you. He is a Protestant. He is said to be a\nWhig. Why should we not send a message to him? Flatter his pride. Appeal\nto his religion. Coax and threaten him. Who knows? He may have private\ngrievances of which we know nothing, and may be ripe for such a move.'\n\n'Your counsel is good, Wade,' said Lord Grey, 'but methinks his Majesty\nhath asked a pertinent question. Your messenger would, I fear, find\nhimself swinging upon one of the Badminton oaks if the Duke desired to\nshow his loyalty to James Stuart. Where are we to find a man who is wary\nenough and bold enough for such a mission, without risking one of our\nleaders, who could be ill-spared at such a time?'\n\n'It is true,' said the King. 'It were better not to venture it at all\nthan to do it in a clumsy and halting fashion. Beaufort would think that\nit was a plot not to gain him over, but to throw discredit upon him. But\nwhat means our giant at the door by signing to us?'\n\n'If it please your Majesty,' I asked, 'have I permission to speak?'\n\n'We would fain hear you, Captain,' he answered graciously. 'If your\nunderstanding is in any degree correspondent to your strength, your\nopinion should be of weight.'\n\n'Then, your Majesty,' said I, 'I would offer myself as a fitting\nmessenger in this matter. My father bid me spare neither life nor limb\nin this quarrel, and if this honourable council thinks that the Duke\nmay be gained over, I am ready to guarantee that the message shall be\nconveyed to him if man and horse can do it.'\n\n'I'll warrant that no better herald could be found,' cried Saxon. 'The\nlad hath a cool head and a staunch heart.'\n\n'Then, young sir, we shall accept your loyal and gallant offer,' said\nMonmouth. 'Are ye all agreed, gentlemen, upon the point?' A murmur of\nassent rose from the company.\n\n'You shall draw up the paper, Wade. Offer him money, a seniority amongst\nthe dukes, the perpetual Presidentship of Wales--what you will, if you\ncan but shake him. If not, sequestration, exile, and everlasting infamy.\nAnd, hark ye! you can enclose a copy of the papers drawn up by Van\nBrunow, which prove the marriage of my mother, together with the\nattestations of the witnesses. Have them ready by to-morrow at daybreak,\nwhen the messenger may start.' (Note H, Appendix.)\n\n'They shall be ready, your Majesty,' said Wade.\n\n'In that case, gentlemen,' continued King Monmouth, 'I may now dismiss\nye to your posts. Should anything fresh arise I shall summon ye again,\nthat I may profit by your wisdom. Here we shall stay, if Sir Stephen\nTimewell will have us, until the men are refreshed and the recruits\nenrolled. We shall then make our way Bristolwards, and see what luck\nawaits us in the North. If Beaufort comes over all will be well.\nFarewell, my kind friends! I need not tell ye to be diligent and\nfaithful.'\n\nThe council rose at the King's salutation, and bowing to him they began\nto file out of the Castle hall. Several of the members clustered round\nme with hints for my journey or suggestions as to my conduct.\n\n'He is a proud, froward man,' said one. 'Speak humbly to him or he will\nnever hearken to your message, but will order you to be scourged out of\nhis presence.'\n\n'Nay, nay!' cried another. 'He is hot, but he loves a man that is a\nman. Speak boldly and honestly to him, and he is more like to listen to\nreason.'\n\n'Speak as the Lord shall direct you,' said a Puritan. 'It is His message\nwhich you bear as well as the King's.'\n\n'Entice him out alone upon some excuse,' said Buyse, 'then up and away\nmit him upon your crupper. Hagelsturm! that would be a proper game.'\n\n'Leave him alone,' cried Saxon. 'The lad hath as much sense as any of\nye. He will see which way the cat jumps. Come, friend, let us make our\nway back to our men.'\n\n'I am sorry, indeed, to lose you,' he said, as we threaded our way\nthrough the throng of peasants and soldiers upon the Castle Green. 'Your\ncompany will miss you sorely. Lockarby must see to the two. If all goes\nwell you should be back in three or four days. I need not tell you that\nthere is a real danger. If the Duke wishes to prove to James that\nhe would not allow himself to be tampered with, he can only do it by\npunishing the messenger, which as lieutenant of a county he hath power\nto do in times of civil commotion. He is a hard man if all reports be\ntrue. On the other hand, if you should chance to succeed it may lay the\nfoundations of your fortunes and be the means of saving Monmouth. He\nneeds help, by the Lord Harry! Never have I seen such a rabble as this\narmy of his. Buyse says that they fought lustily at this ruffle at\nAxminster, but he is of one mind with me, that a few whiffs of shot and\ncavalry charges would scatter them over the countryside. Have you any\nmessage to leave?'\n\n'None, save my love to my mother,' said I.\n\n'It is well. Should you fall in any unfair way, I shall not forget his\nGrace of Beaufort, and the next of his gentlemen who comes in my way\nshall hang as high as Haman. And now you had best make for your chamber,\nand have as good a slumber as you may, since to-morrow at cock-crow\nbegins your new mission.'\n\n\n\nChapter XXII. Of the News from Havant\n\nHaving given my orders that Covenant should be saddled and bridled by\ndaybreak, I had gone to my room and was preparing for a long night's\nrest, when Sir Gervas, who slept in the same apartment, came dancing in\nwith a bundle of papers waving over his head.\n\n'Three guesses, Clarke!' he cried. 'What would you most desire?'\n\n'Letters from Havant,' said I eagerly.\n\n'Right,' he answered, throwing them into my lap. 'Three of them, and not\na woman's hand among them. Sink me, if I can understand what you have\nbeen doing all your life.\n\n          \"How can youthful heart resign\n           Lovely woman, sparkling wine?\"\n\nBut you are so lost in your news that you have not observed my\ntransformation.'\n\n'Why, wherever did you get these?' I asked in astonishment, for he\nwas attired in a delicate plum-coloured suit with gold buttons and\ntrimmings, set off by silken hosen and Spanish leather shoes with roses\non the instep.\n\n'It smacks more of the court than of the camp,' quoth Sir Gervas,\nrubbing his hands and glancing down at himself with some satisfaction.\n'I am also revictualled in the matter of ratafia and orange-flower\nwater, together with two new wigs, a bob and a court, a pound of the\nImperial snuff from the sign of the Black Man, a box of De Crepigny's\nhair powder, my foxskin muff, and several other necessaries. But I\nhinder you in your reading.'\n\n'I have seen enough to tell me that all is well at home,' I answered,\nglancing over my father's letter. 'But how came these things?'\n\n'Some horsemen have come in from Petersfield, bearing them with them. As\nto my little box, which a fair friend of mine in town packed for me,\nit was to be forwarded to Bristol, where I am now supposed to be, and\nshould be were it not for my good fortune in meeting your party. It\nchanced to find its way, however, to the Bruton inn, and the good woman\nthere, whom I had conciliated, found means to send it after me. It is a\ngood rule to go upon, Clarke, in this earthly pilgrimage, always to\nkiss the landlady. It may seem a small thing, and yet life is made up\nof small things. I have few fixed principles, I fear, but two there are\nwhich I can say from my heart that I never transgress. I always carry a\ncorkscrew, and I never forget to kiss the landlady.'\n\n'From what I have seen of you,' said I, laughing, 'I could be warranty\nthat those two duties are ever fulfilled.'\n\n'I have letters, too,' said he, sitting on the side of the bed and\nturning over a sheaf of papers. '\"Your broken-hearted Araminta.\" Hum!\nThe wench cannot know that I am ruined or her heart would speedily be\nrestored. What's this? A challenge to match my bird Julius against my\nLord Dorchester's cockerel for a hundred guineas. Faith! I am too busy\nbacking the Monmouth rooster for the champion stakes. Another asking me\nto chase the stag at Epping. Zounds! had I not cleared off I should\nhave been run down myself, with a pack of bandog bailiffs at my heels.\nA dunning letter from my clothier. He can afford to lose this bill.\nHe hath had many a long one out of me. An offer of three thousand from\nlittle Dicky Chichester. No, no, Dicky, it won't do. A gentleman can't\nlive upon his friends. None the less grateful. How now? From Mrs.\nButterworth! No money for three weeks! Bailiffs in the house! Now, curse\nme, if this is not too bad!'\n\n'What is the matter?' I asked, glancing up from my own letters. The\nbaronet's pale face had taken a tinge of red, and he was striding\nfuriously up and down the bedroom with a letter crumpled up in his hand.\n\n'It is a burning shame, Clarke,' he cried. 'Hang it, she shall have my\nwatch. It is by Tompion, of the sign of the Three Crowns in Paul's\nYard, and cost a hundred when new. It should keep her for a few months.\nMortimer shall measure swords with me for this. I shall write villain\nupon him with my rapier's point.'\n\n'I have never seen you ruffled before,' said I.\n\n'No,' he answered, laughing. 'Many have lived with me for years and\nwould give me a certificate for temper. But this is too much. Sir Edward\nMortimer is my mother's younger brother, Clarke, but he is not many\nyears older than myself. A proper, strait-laced, soft-voiced lad he has\never been, and, as a consequence, he throve in the world, and joined\nland to land after the scriptural fashion. I had befriended him from my\npurse in the old days, but he soon came to be a richer man than I, for\nall that he gained he kept, whereas all I got--well, it went off like\nthe smoke of the pipe which you are lighting. When I found that all was\nup with me I received from Mortimer an advance, which was sufficient to\ntake me according to my wish over to Virginia, together with a horse and\na personal outfit. There was some chance, Clarke, of the Jerome acres\ngoing to him should aught befall me, so that he was not averse to\nhelping me off to a land of fevers and scalping knives. Nay, never shake\nyour head, my dear country lad, you little know the wiles of the world.'\n\n'Give him credit for the best until the worst is proved,' said I,\nsitting up in bed smoking, with my letters littered about in front of\nme.\n\n'The worst _is_ proved,' said Sir Gervas, with a darkening face. 'I\nhave, as I said, done Mortimer some turns which he might remember,\nthough it did not become me to remind him of them. This Mistress\nButterworth is mine old wet-nurse, and it hath been the custom of the\nfamily to provide for her. I could not bear the thought that in the ruin\nof my fortune she should lose the paltry guinea or so a week which stood\nbetween her and hunger. My only request to Mortimer, therefore, made on\nthe score of old friendship, was that he should continue this pittance,\nI promising that should I prosper I would return whatever he should\ndisburse. The mean-hearted villain wrung my hand and swore that it\nshould be so. How vile a thing is human nature, Clarke! For the sake of\nthis paltry sum he, a rich man, hath broken his pledge, and left this\npoor woman to starve. But he shall answer to me for it. He thinks that\nI am on the Atlantic. If I march back to London with these brave boys\nI shall disturb the tenor of his sainted existence. Meanwhile I shall\ntrust to sun-dials, and off goes my watch to Mother Butterworth. Bless\nher ample bosoms! I have tried many liquors, but I dare bet that the\nfirst was the most healthy. But how of your own letters? You have been\nfrowning and smiling like an April day.'\n\n'There is one from my father, with a few words attached from my mother,'\nsaid I. 'The second is from an old friend of mine, Zachariah Palmer, the\nvillage carpenter. The third is from Solomon Sprent, a retired seaman,\nfor whom I have an affection and respect.'\n\n'You have a rare trio of newsmen. I would I knew your father, Clarke, he\nmust, from what you say, be a stout bit of British oak. I spoke even now\nof your knowing little of the world, but indeed it may be that in your\nvillage you can see mankind without the varnish, and so come to learn\nmore of the good of human nature. Varnish or none, the bad will ever\npeep through. Now this carpenter and seaman show themselves no doubt for\nwhat they are. A man might know my friends of the court for a lifetime,\nand never come upon their real selves, nor would it perhaps repay the\nsearch when you had come across it. Sink me, but I wax philosophical,\nwhich is the old refuge of the ruined man. Give me a tub, and I shall\nset up in the Piazza of Covent Garden, and be the Diogenes of London. I\nwould not be wealthy again, Micah! How goes the old lilt?--\n\n          \"Our money shall never indite us\n           Or drag us to Goldsmith Hall,\n           No pirates or wrecks can affright us.\n           We that have no estates\n           Fear no plunder or rates,\n           Nor care to lock gates.\n           He that lies on the ground cannot fall!\"\n\nThat last would make a good motto for an almshouse.'\n\n'You will have Sir Stephen up,' said I warningly, for he was carolling\naway at the pitch of his lungs.\n\n'Never fear! He and his 'prentices were all at the broad-sword exercise\nin the hall as I came by. It is worth something to see the old fellow\nstamp, and swing his sword, and cry, \"Ha!\" on the down-cut. Mistress\nRuth and friend Lockarby are in the tapestried room, she spinning and he\nreading aloud one of those entertaining volumes which she would have me\nread. Methinks she hath taken his conversion in hand, which may end in\nhis converting her from a maid into a wife. And so you go to the Duke of\nBeaufort! Well, I would that I could travel with you, but Saxon will not\nhear of it, and my musqueteers must be my first care. God send you safe\nback! Where is my jasmine powder and the patch-box? Read me your letters\nif there be aught in them of interest. I have been splitting a flask\nwith our gallant Colonel at his inn, and he hath told me enough of your\nhome at Havant to make me wish to know more.'\n\n'This one is somewhat grave,' said I.\n\n'Nay, I am in the humour for grave things. Have at it, if it contain the\nwhole Platonic philosophy.'\n\n''Tis from the venerable carpenter who hath for many years been my\nadviser and friend. He is one who is religious without being sectarian,\nphilosophic without being a partisan, and loving without being weak.'\n\n'A paragon, truly!' exclaimed Sir Gervas, who was busy with his eyebrow\nbrush.\n\n'This is what he saith,' I continued, and proceeded to read the very\nletter which I now read to you.\n\n'\"Having heard from your father, my dear lad, that there was some chance\nof being able to send a letter to you, I have written this, and am\nnow sending it under the charge of the worthy John Packingham, of\nChichester, who is bound for the West. I trust that you are now safe\nwith Monmouth's army, and that you have received honourable appointment\ntherein. I doubt not that you will find among your comrades some who\nare extreme sectaries, and others who are scoffers and disbelievers.\nBe advised by me, friend, and avoid both the one and the other. For the\nzealot is a man who not only defends his own right of worship, wherein\nhe hath justice, but wishes to impose upon the consciences of others,\nby which he falls into the very error against which he fights. The mere\nbrainless scoffer is, on the other hand, lower than the beast of\nthe field, since he lacks the animal's self-respect and humble\nresignation.\"'\n\n'My faith!' cried the Baronet, 'the old gentleman hath a rough side to\nhis tongue.'\n\n'\"Let us take religion upon its broadest base, for the truth must be\nbroader than aught which we can conceive. The presence of a table doth\nprove the existence of a carpenter, and so the presence of a universe\nproves the existence of a universe Maker, call Him by what name\nyou will. So far the ground is very firm beneath us, without either\ninspiration, teaching, or any aid whatever. Since, then, there _must_ be\na world Maker, let us judge of His nature by His work. We cannot observe\nthe glories of the firmament, its infinite extent, its beauty, and the\nDivine skill wherewith every plant and animal hath its wants cared for,\nwithout seeing that He is full of wisdom, intelligence, and power. We\nare still, you will perceive, upon solid ground, without having to call\nto our aid aught save pure reason.\"'\n\n'\"Having got so far, let us inquire to what end the universe was made,\nand we put upon it. The teaching of all nature shows that it must be to\nthe end of improvement and upward growth, the increase in real virtue,\nin knowledge, and in wisdom. Nature is a silent preacher which holds\nforth upon week-days as on Sabbaths. We see the acorn grow into the oak,\nthe egg into the bird, the maggot into the butterfly. Shall we doubt,\nthen, that the human soul, the most precious of all things, is also\nupon the upward path? And how can the soul progress save through the\ncultivation of virtue and self-mastery? What other way is there? There\nis none. We may say with confidence, then, that we are placed here to\nincrease in knowledge and in virtue.\"'\n\n'\"This is the core of all religion, and this much needs no faith in\nthe acceptance. It is as true and as capable of proof as one of those\nexercises of Euclid which we have gone over together. On this common\nground men have raised many different buildings. Christianity, the creed\nof Mahomet, the creed of the Easterns, have all the same essence. The\ndifference lies in the forms and the details. Let us hold to our own\nChristian creed, the beautiful, often-professed, and seldom-practised\ndoctrine of love, but let us not despise our fellow-men, for we are all\nbranches from the common root of truth.\"'\n\n'\"Man comes out of darkness into light. He tarries awhile and then\npasses into darkness again. Micah, lad, the days are passing, mine as\nwell as thine. Let them not be wasted. They are few in number. What says\nPetrarch?' To him that enters, life seems infinite; to him that\ndeparts, nothing.' Let every day, every hour, be spent in furthering the\nCreator's end--in getting out whatever power for good there is in you.\nWhat is pain, or work, or trouble? The cloud that passes over the sun.\nBut the result of work well done is everything. It is eternal. It lives\nand waxes stronger through the centuries. Pause not for rest. The rest\nwill come when the hour of work is past.\"'\n\n'\"May God protect and guard you! There is no great news. The Portsmouth\ngarrison hath marched to the West. Sir John Lawson, the magistrate, hath\nbeen down here threatening your father and others, but he can do little\nfor want of proofs. Church and Dissent are at each other's throats as\never. Truly the stern law of Moses is more enduring than the sweet words\nof Christ. Adieu, my dear lad! All good wishes from your grey-headed\nfriend, ZACHARIAH PALMER.\"'\n\n'Od's fish!' cried Sir Gervas, as I folded up the letter, 'I have heard\nStillingfleet and Tenison, but I never listened to a better sermon. This\nis a bishop disguised as a carpenter. The crozier would suit his hand\nbetter than the plane. But how of our seaman friend? Is he a tarpaulin\ntheologian--a divine among the tarry-breeks?'\n\n'Solomon Sprent is a very different man, though good enough in his way,'\nsaid I. 'But you shall judge him from his letter.'\n\n'\"Master Clarke. Sir,--When last we was in company I had run in under\nthe batteries on cutting-out service, while you did stand on and off in\nthe channel and wait signals. Having stopped to refit and to overhaul my\nprize, which proved to be in proper trim alow and aloft--\"'\n\n'What the devil doth he mean?' asked Sir Gervas.\n\n'It is a maid of whom he talks--Phoebe Dawson, the sister of the\nblacksmith. He hath scarce put foot on land for nigh forty years, and\ncan as a consequence only speak in this sea jargon, though he fancies\nthat he uses as pure King's English as any man in Hampshire.'\n\n'Proceed, then,' quoth the Baronet.\n\n'\"Having also read her the articles of war, I explained to her the\nconditions under which we were to sail in company on life's voyage,\nnamely:\"'\n\n'\"First. She to obey signals without question as soon as received.\"'\n\n'\"Second. She to steer by my reckoning.\"'\n\n'\"Third. She to stand by me as true consort in foul weather, battle, or\nshipwreck.\"'\n\n'\"Fourth. She to run under my guns if assailed by picaroons,\nprivateeros, or garda-costas.\"'\n\n'\"Fifth. Me to keep her in due repair, dry-dock her at intervals,\nand see that she hath her allowance of coats of paint, streamers, and\nbunting, as befits a saucy pleasure boat.\"'\n\n'\"Sixth. Me to take no other craft in tow, and if any be now attached,\nto cut their hawsers.\"'\n\n'\"Seventh. Me to revictual her day by day.\"'\n\n'\"Eighth. Should she chance to spring a leak, or be blown on her beam\nends by the winds of misfortune, to stand by her and see her pumped out\nor righted.\"'\n\n'\"Ninth. To fly the Protestant ensign at the peak during life's voyage,\nand to lay our course for the great harbour, in the hope that moorings\nand ground to swing may be found for two British-built crafts when laid\nup for eternity.\"'\n\n'\"'Twas close on eight-bells before these articles were signed and\nsealed. When I headed after you I could not so much as catch a glimpse\nof your topsail. Soon after I heard as you had gone a-soldiering,\ntogether with that lean, rakish, long-sparred, picaroon-like craft which\nI have seen of late in the village. I take it unkind of you that you\nhave not so much as dipped ensign to me on leaving. But perchance\nthe tide was favourable, and you could not tarry. Had I not been\njury-rigged, with one of my spars shot away, I should have dearly loved\nto have strapped on my hanger and come with you to smell gunpowder once\nmore. I would do it now, timber-toe and all, were it not for my consort,\nwho might claim it as a breach of the articles, and so sheer off. I must\nfollow the light on her poop until we are fairly joined.\"'\n\n'\"Farewell, mate! In action, take an old sailor's advice. Keep the\nweather-gauge and board! Tell that to your admiral on the day of battle.\nWhisper it in his ear. Say to him, 'Keep the weather-gauge and board!'\nTell him also to strike quick, strike hard, and keep on striking. That's\nthe word of Christopher Mings, and a better man has not been launched,\nthough he did climb in through the hawse-pipe.--Yours to command,\nSOLOMON SPRENT.\"'\n\nSir Gervas had been chuckling to himself during the reading of this\nepistle, but at the last part we both broke out a-laughing.\n\n'Land or sea, he will have it that battles are fought in ships,'\nsaid the Baronet. 'You should have had that sage piece of advice for\nMonmouth's council to-day. Should he ever ask your opinion it must be,\n\"Keep the weather-gauge and board!\"'\n\n'I must to sleep,' said I, laying aside my pipe. 'I should be on the\nroad by daybreak.'\n\n'Nay, I prythee, complete your kindness by letting me have a glimpse of\nyour respected parent, the Roundhead.'\n\n''Tis but a few lines,' I answered. 'He was ever short of speech. But\nif they interest you, you shall hear them. \"I am sending this by a godly\nman, my dear son, to say that I trust that you are bearing yourself as\nbecomes you. In all danger and difficulty trust not to yourself, but\nask help from on high. If you are in authority, teach your men to sing\npsalms when they fall on, as is the good old custom. In action give\npoint rather than edge. A thrust must beat a cut. Your mother and the\nothers send their affection to you. Sir John Lawson hath been down\nhere like a ravening wolf, but could find no proof against me. John\nMarchbank, of Bedhampton, is cast into prison. Truly Antichrist reigns\nin the land, but the kingdom of light is at hand. Strike lustily for\ntruth and conscience.--Your loving father, JOSEPH CLARKE.\"'\n\n'\"Postscriptum (from my mother).--I trust that you will remember what I\nhave said concerning your hosen and also the broad linen collars, which\nyou will find in the bag. It is little over a week since you left, yet\nit seems a year. When cold or wet, take ten drops of Daffy's elixir in a\nsmall glass of strong waters. Should your feet chafe, rub tallow on the\ninside of your boots. Commend me to Master Saxon and to Master Lockarby,\nif he be with you. His father was mad at his going, for he hath a great\nbrewing going forward, and none to mind the mash-tub. Ruth hath baked a\ncake, but the oven hath played her false, and it is lumpy in the inside.\nA thousand kisses, dear heart, from your loving mother, M. C.\"'\n\n'A right sensible couple,' quoth Sir Gervas, who, having completed his\ntoilet, had betaken him to his couch. 'I now begin to understand your\nmanufacture, Clarke. I see the threads that are used in the weaving of\nyou. Your father looks to your spiritual wants. Your mother concerns\nherself with the material. Yet the old carpenter's preaching is,\nmethinks, more to your taste. You are a rank latitudinarian, man. Sir\nStephen would cry fie upon you, and Joshua Pettigrue abjure you! Well,\nout with the light, for we should both be stirring at cock-crow. That is\nour religion at present.'\n\n'Early Christians,' I suggested, and we both laughed as we settled down\nto sleep.\n\n\n\nChapter XXIII. Of the Snare on the Weston Road\n\nJust after sunrise I was awoke by one of the Mayor's servants, who\nbrought word that the Honourable Master Wade was awaiting me downstairs.\nHaving dressed and descended, I found him seated by the table in the\nsitting-room with papers and wafer-box, sealing up the missive which I\nwas to carry. He was a small, worn, grey-faced man, very erect in his\nbearing and sudden in his speech, with more of the soldier than of the\nlawyer in his appearance.\n\n'So,' said he, pressing his seal above the fastening of the string, 'I\nsee that your horse is ready for you outside. You had best make your way\nround by Nether Stowey and the Bristol Channel, for we have heard that\nthe enemy's horse guard the roads on the far side of Wells. Here is your\npacket.'\n\nI bowed and placed it in the inside of my tunic.\n\n'It is a written order as suggested in the council. The Duke's reply may\nbe written, or it may be by word of mouth. In either case guard it well.\nThis packet contains also a copy of the depositions of the clergyman at\nThe Hague, and of the other witnesses who saw Charles of England marry\nLucy Walters, the mother of his Majesty. Your mission is one of such\nimportance that the whole success of our enterprise may turn upon it.\nSee that you serve the paper upon Beaufort in person, and not through\nany intermediary, or it might not stand in a court of law.'\n\nI promised to do so if possible.\n\n'I should advise you also,' he continued, 'to carry sword and pistol as\na protection against the chance dangers of the road, but to discard your\nhead-piece and steel-front as giving you too warlike an aspect for a\npeaceful messenger.'\n\n'I had already come to that resolve,' said I.\n\n'There is nothing more to be said, Captain,' said the lawyer, giving me\nhis hand. 'May all good fortune go with you. Keep a still tongue and a\nquick ear. Watch keenly how all things go. Mark whose face is gloomy and\nwhose content. The Duke may be at Bristol, but you had best make for his\nseat at Badminton. Our sign of the day is Tewkesbury.'\n\nThanking my instructor for his advice I went out and mounted Covenant,\nwho pawed and champed at his bit in his delight at getting started\nonce more. Few of the townsmen were stirring, though here and there\na night-bonneted head stared out at me through a casement. I took the\nprecaution of walking the horse very quietly until we were some distance\nfrom the house, for I had told Reuben nothing of my intended journey,\nand I was convinced that if he knew of it neither discipline, nor even\nhis new ties of love, would prevent him from coming with me. Covenant's\niron-shod feet rang sharply, in spite of my care, upon the cobblestones,\nbut looking back I saw that the blinds of my faithful friend's room\nwere undrawn, and that all seemed quiet in the house. I shook my bridle,\ntherefore, and rode at a brisk trot through the silent streets, which\nwere still strewn with faded flowers and gay with streamers. At the\nnorth gate a guard of half a company was stationed, who let me pass upon\nhearing the word. Once beyond the old walls I found myself out on the\ncountry side, with my face to the north and a clear road in front of me.\n\nIt was a blithesome morning. The sun was rising over the distant hills,\nand heaven and earth were ruddy and golden. The trees in the wayside\norchards were full of swarms of birds, who chattered and sang until the\nair was full of their piping. There was lightsomeness and gladness in\nevery breath. The wistful-eyed red Somerset kine stood along by the\nhedgerows, casting great shadows down the fields and gazing at me as\nI passed. Farm horses leaned over wooden gates, and snorted a word of\ngreeting to their glossy-coated brother. A great herd of snowy-fleeced\nsheep streamed towards us over the hillside and frisked and gambolled in\nthe sunshine. All was innocent life, from the lark which sang on high\nto the little shrew-mouse which ran amongst the ripening corn, or the\nmartin which dashed away at the sound of my approach. All alive and all\ninnocent. What are we to think, my dear children, when we see the beasts\nof the field full of kindness and virtue and gratitude? Where is this\nsuperiority of which we talk?\n\nFrom the high ground to the north I looked back upon the sleeping town,\nwith the broad edging of tents and waggons, which showed how suddenly\nits population had outgrown it. The Royal Standard still fluttered\nfrom the tower of St. Mary Magdalene, while close by its beautiful\nbrother-turret of St. James bore aloft the blue flag of Monmouth. As\nI gazed the quick petulant roll of a drum rose up on the still morning\nair, with the clear ringing call of the bugles summoning the troops from\ntheir slumbers. Beyond the town, and on either side of it, stretched a\nglorious view of the Somersetshire downs, rolling away to the distant\nsea, with town and hamlet, castle turret and church tower, wooded coombe\nand stretch of grain-land--as fair a scene as the eye could wish to rest\nupon. As I wheeled my horse and sped upon my way I felt, my dears, that\nthis was a land worth fighting for, and that a man's life was a small\nthing if he could but aid, in however trifling a degree, in working out\nits freedom and its happiness. At a little village over the hill I fell\nin with an outpost of horse, the commander of which rode some distance\nwith me, and set me on my road to Nether Stowey. It seemed strange to\nmy Hampshire eyes to note that the earth is all red in these parts--very\ndifferent to the chalk and gravel of Havant. The cows, too, are mostly\nred. The cottages are built neither of brick nor of wood, but of some\nform of plaster, which they call cob, which is strong and smooth so\nlong as no water comes near it. They shelter the walls from the rain,\ntherefore, by great overhanging thatches. There is scarcely a steeple in\nthe whole country-side, which also seems strange to a man from any other\npart of England. Every church hath a square tower, with pinnacles upon\nthe top, and they are mostly very large, with fine peals of bells.\n\nMy course ran along by the foot of the beautiful Quantock Hills, where\nheavy-wooded coombes are scattered over the broad heathery downs, deep\nwith bracken and whortle-bushes. On either side of the track steep\nwinding glens sloped downwards, lined with yellow gorse, which blazed\nout from the deep-red soil like a flame from embers. Peat-coloured\nstreams splashed down these valleys and over the road, through which\nCovenant ploughed fetlock deep, and shied to see the broad-backed trout\ndarting from between his fore feet.\n\nAll day I rode through this beautiful country, meeting few folk, for\nI kept away from the main roads. A few shepherds and farmers, a\nlong-legged clergyman, a packman with his mule, and a horseman with a\ngreat bag, whom I took to be a buyer of hair, are all that I can recall.\nA black jack of ale and the heel of a loaf at a wayside inn were all my\nrefreshments. Near Combwich, Covenant cast a shoe, and two hours were\nwasted before I found a smithy in the town and had the matter set right.\nIt was not until evening that I at last came out upon the banks of the\nBristol Channel, at a place called Shurton Bars, where the muddy Parret\nmakes its way into the sea. At this point the channel is so broad that\nthe Welsh mountains can scarcely be distinguished. The shore is flat\nand black and oozy, flecked over with white patches of sea-birds, but\nfurther to the east there rises a line of hills, very wild and rugged,\nrising in places into steep precipices. These cliffs run out into the\nsea, and numerous little harbours and bays are formed in their broken\nsurface, which are dry half the day, but can float a good-sized boat at\nhalf-tide. The road wound over these bleak and rocky hills, which are\nsparsely inhabited by a wild race of fishermen, or shepherds, who came\nto their cabin doors on hearing the clatter of my horse's hoofs, and\nshot some rough West-country jest at me as I passed. As the night drew\nin the country became bleaker and more deserted. An occasional light\ntwinkling in the distance from some lonely hillside cottage was the only\nsign of the presence of man. The rough track still skirted the sea, and\nhigh as it was, the spray from the breakers drifted across it. The salt\nprinkled on my lips, and the air was filled with the hoarse roar of the\nsurge and the thin piping of curlews, who flitted past in the darkness\nlike white, shadowy, sad-voiced creatures from some other world. The\nwind blew in short, quick, angry puffs from the westward, and far out on\nthe black waters a single glimmer of light rising and falling, tossing\nup, and then sinking out of sight, showed how fierce a sea had risen in\nthe channel.\n\nRiding through the gloaming in this strange wild scenery my mind\nnaturally turned towards the past. I thought of my father and my mother,\nof the old carpenter and of Solomon Sprent. Then I pondered over Decimus\nSaxon, his many-faced character having in it so much to be admired and\nso much to be abhorred. Did I like him or no? It was more than I could\nsay. From him I wandered off to my faithful Reuben, and to his love\npassage with the pretty Puritan, which in turn brought me to Sir Gervas\nand the wreck of his fortunes. My mind then wandered to the state of the\narmy and the prospects of the rising, which led me to my present mission\nwith its perils and its difficulties. Having turned over all these\nthings in my mind I began to doze upon my horse's back, overcome by the\nfatigue of the journey and the drowsy lullaby of the waves. I had just\nfallen into a dream in which I saw Reuben Lockarby crowned King of\nEngland by Mistress Ruth Timewell, while Decimus Saxon endeavoured to\nshoot him with a bottle of Daffy's elixir, when in an instant,\nwithout warning, I was dashed violently from my horse, and left lying\nhalf-conscious on the stony track.\n\nSo stunned and shaken was I by the sudden fall, that though I had a dim\nknowledge of shadowy figures bending over me, and of hoarse laughter\nsounding in my ears, I could not tell for a few minutes where I was nor\nwhat had befallen me. When at last I did make an attempt to recover my\nfeet I found that a loop of rope had been slipped round my arms and my\nlegs so as to secure them. With a hard struggle I got one hand free, and\ndashed it in the face of one of the men who were holding me down; but\nthe whole gang of a dozen or more set upon me at once, and while some\nthumped and kicked at me, others tied a fresh cord round my elbows, and\ndeftly fastened it in such a way as to pinion me completely. Finding\nthat in my weak and dazed state all efforts were of no avail, I lay\nsullen and watchful, taking no heed of the random blows which were still\nshowered upon me. So dark was it that I could neither see the faces of\nmy attackers, nor form any guess as to who they might be, or how they\nhad hurled me from my saddle. The champing and stamping of a horse hard\nby showed me that Covenant was a prisoner as well as his master.\n\n'Dutch Pete's got as much as he can carry,' said a rough, harsh voice.\n'He lies on the track as limp as a conger.'\n\n'Ah, poor Pete!' muttered another. 'He'll never deal a card or drain a\nglass of the right Cognac again.'\n\n'There you lie, mine goot vriend,' said the injured man, in weak,\nquavering tones. 'And I will prove that you lie if you have a flaschen\nin your pocket.'\n\n'If Pete were dead and buried,' the first speaker said, 'a word about\nstrong waters would bring him to. Give him a sup from your bottle,\nDicon.'\n\nThere was a great gurgling and sucking in the darkness, followed by a\ngasp from the drinker. 'Gott sei gelobt,' he exclaimed in a stronger\nvoice, 'I have seen more stars than ever were made. Had my kopf not\nbeen well hooped he would have knocked it in like an ill-staved cask. He\nshlags like the kick of a horse.'\n\nAs he spoke the edge of the moon peeped over a cliff and threw a flood\nof cold clear light upon the scene. Looking up I saw that a strong rope\nhad been tied across the road from one tree trunk to another about eight\nfeet above the ground. This could not be seen by me, even had I been\nfully awake, in the dusk; but catching me across the breast as Covenant\ntrotted under it, it had swept me off and dashed me with great force to\nthe ground. Either the fall or the blows which I had received had cut me\nbadly, for I could feel the blood trickling in a warm stream past my\near and down my neck. I made no attempt to move, however, but waited in\nsilence to find out who these men were into whose hands I had fallen.\nMy one fear was lest my letters should be taken away from me, and my\nmission rendered of no avail. That in this, my first trust, I should be\ndisarmed without a blow and lose the papers which had been confided to\nme, was a chance which made me flush and tingle with shame at the very\nthought.\n\nThe gang who had seized me were rough-bearded fellows in fur caps and\nfustian jackets, with buff belts round their waists, from which hung\nshort straight whinyards. Their dark sun-dried faces and their great\nboots marked them as fishermen or seamen, as might be guessed from their\nrude sailor speech. A pair knelt on either side with their hands upon\nmy arms, a third stood behind with a cocked pistol pointed at my head,\nwhile the others, seven or eight in number, were helping to his feet the\nman whom I had struck, who was bleeding freely from a cut over the eye.\n\n'Take the horse up to Daddy Mycroft's,' said a stout, black-bearded man,\nwho seemed to be their leader. 'It is no mere dragooner hack,(Note\nI. Appendix) but a comely, full-blooded brute, which will fetch sixty\npieces at the least. Your share of that, Peter, will buy salve and\nplaster for your cut.'\n\n'Ha, houndsfoot!' cried the Dutchman, shaking his fist at me. 'You\nwould strike Peter, would you? You would draw Peter's blood, would you?\nTausend Teufel, man! if you and I were together upon the hillside we\nshould see vich vas the petter man.'\n\n'Slack your jaw tackle, Pete,' growled one of his comrades. 'This fellow\nis a limb of Satan for sure, and doth follow a calling that none but a\nmean, snivelling, baseborn son of a gun would take to. Yet I warrant,\nfrom the look of him, that he could truss you like a woodcock if he had\nhis great hands upon you. And you would howl for help as you did last\nMartinmas, when you did mistake Cooper Dick's wife for a gauger.'\n\n'Truss me, would he? Todt und Holle!' cried the other, whom the blow\nand the brandy had driven to madness. 'We shall see. Take that, thou\ndeyvil's spawn, take that!' He ran at me, and kicked me as hard as he\ncould with his heavy sea-boots.\n\nSome of the gang laughed, but the man who had spoken before gave\nthe Dutchman a shove that sent him whirling. 'None of that,' he said\nsternly. 'We'll have British fair-play on British soil, and none of your\ncursed longshore tricks. I won't stand by and see an Englishman\nkicked, d'ye see, by a tub-bellied, round-starned, schnapps-swilling,\nchicken-hearted son of an Amsterdam lust-vrouw. Hang him, if the skipper\nlikes. That's all above board, but by thunder, if it's a fight that you\nwill have, touch that man again.'\n\n'All right, Dicon,' said their leader soothingly. 'We all know that\nPete's not a fighting man, but he's the best cooper on the coast, eh,\nPete? There is not his equal at staving, hooping, and bumping. He'll\ntake a plank of wood and turn it into a keg while another man would be\nthinking of it.'\n\n'Oh, you remember that, Captain Murgatroyd,' said the Dutchman sulkily.\n'But you see me knocked about and shlagged, and bullied, and called\nnames, and what help have I? So help me, when the _Maria_ is in the\nTexel next, I'll take to my old trade, I will, and never set foot on her\nagain.'\n\n'No fear,' the Captain answered, laughing. 'While the _Maria_ brings in\nfive thousand good pieces a year, and can show her heels to any cutter\non the coast, there is no fear of greedy Pete losing his share of her.\nWhy, man, at this rate you may have a lust-haus of your own in a year or\ntwo, with a trimmed lawn, and the trees all clipped like peacocks, and\nthe flowers in pattern, and a canal by the door, and a great bouncing\nhouse-wife just like any Burgomeister. There's many such a fortune been\nmade out of Mechlin and Cognac.'\n\n'Aye, and there's many a broken kopf got over Mechlin and Cognac,'\ngrumbled my enemy. 'Donner! There are other things beside lust-houses\nand flower-beds. There are lee-shores and nor'-westers, beaks and\npreventives.'\n\n'And there's where the smart seaman has the pull over the herring buss,\nor the skulking coaster that works from Christmas to Christmas with all\nthe danger and none of the little pickings. But enough said! Up with the\nprisoner, and let us get him safely into the bilboes.'\n\nI was raised to my feet and half carried, half dragged along in the\nmidst of the gang. My horse had already been led away in the opposite\ndirection. Our course lay off the road, down a very rocky and rugged\nravine which sloped away towards the sea. There seemed to be no trace of\na path, and I could only stumble along over rocks and bushes as best I\nmight in my fettered and crippled state. The blood, however, had\ndried over my wounds, and the cool sea breeze playing upon my forehead\nrefreshed me, and helped me to take a clearer view of my position.\n\nIt was plain from their talk that these men were smugglers. As such,\nthey were not likely to have any great love for the Government, or\ndesire to uphold King James in any way. On the contrary, their goodwill\nwould probably be with Monmouth, for had I not seen the day before a\nwhole regiment of foot in his army, raised from among the coaster folk?\nOn the other hand, their greed might be stronger than their loyalty, and\nmight lead them to hand me over to justice in the hope of reward. On the\nwhole it would be best, I thought, to say nothing of my mission, and to\nkeep my papers secret as long as possible.\n\nBut I could not but wonder, as I was dragged along, what had led these\nmen to lie in wait for me as they had done. The road along which I had\ntravelled was a lonely one, and yet a fair number of travellers bound\nfrom the West through Weston to Bristol must use it. The gang could\nnot lie in perpetual guard over it. Why had they set a trap on this\nparticular night, then? The smugglers were a lawless and desperate body,\nbut they did not, as a rule, descend to foot-paddery or robbery. As long\nas no one interfered with them they were seldom the first to break the\npeace. Then, why had they lain in wait for me, who had never injured\nthem? Could it possibly be that I had been betrayed? I was still turning\nover these questions in my mind when we all came to a halt, and the\nCaptain blew a shrill note on a whistle which hung round his neck.\n\nThe place where we found ourselves was the darkest and most rugged spot\nin the whole wild gorge. On either side great cliffs shot up, which\narched over our heads, with a fringe of ferns and bracken on either lip,\nso that the dark sky and the few twinkling stars were well-nigh hid.\nGreat black rocks loomed vaguely out in the shadowy light, while in\nfront a high tangle of what seemed to be brushwood barred our road. At a\nsecond whistle, however, a glint of light was seen through the branches,\nand the whole mass was swung to one side as though it moved upon a\nhinge. Beyond it a dark winding passage opened into the side of the\nhill, down which we went with our backs bowed, for the rock ceiling was\nof no great height. On every side of us sounded the throbbing of the\nsea.\n\nPassing through the entrance, which must have been dug with great labour\nthrough the solid rock, we came out into a lofty and roomy cave, lit\nup by a fire at one end, and by several torches. By their smoky yellow\nglare I could see that the roof was, at least, fifty feet above us, and\nwas hung by long lime-crystals, which sparkled and gleamed with great\nbrightness. The floor of the cave was formed of fine sand, as soft and\nvelvety as a Wilton carpet, sloping down in a way which showed that the\ncave must at its mouth open upon the sea, which was confirmed by the\nbooming and splashing of the waves, and by the fresh salt air which\nfilled the whole cavern. No water could be seen, however, as a sharp\nturn cut off our view of the outlet.\n\nIn this rock-girt space, which may have been sixty paces long and\nthirty across, there were gathered great piles of casks, kegs and cases;\nmuskets, cutlasses, staves, cudgels, and straw were littered about upon\nthe floor. At one end a high wood fire blazed merrily, casting strange\nshadows along the walls, and sparkling like a thousand diamonds among\nthe crystals on the roof. The smoke was carried away through a great\ncleft in the rocks. Seated on boxes, or stretched on the sand round the\nfire, there were seven or eight more of the band, who sprang to their\nfeet and ran eagerly towards us as we entered.\n\nHave ye got him?' they cried. 'Did he indeed come? Had he attendants?'\n\n'He is here, and he is alone,' the Captain answered. 'Our hawser fetched\nhim off his horse as neatly as ever a gull was netted by a cragsman.\nWhat have ye done in our absence, Silas!'\n\n'We have the packs ready for carriage,' said the man addressed, a\nsturdy, weather-beaten seaman of middle age. 'The silk and lace are done\nin these squares covered over with sacking. The one I have marked \"yarn\"\nand the other \"jute\"--a thousand of Mechlin to a hundred of the shiny.\nThey will sling over a mule's back. Brandy, schnapps, Schiedam, and\nHamburg Goldwasser are all set out in due order. The 'baccy is in the\nflat cases over by the Black Drop there. A plaguey job we had carrying\nit all out, but here it is ship-shape at last, and the lugger floats\nlike a skimming dish, with scarce ballast enough to stand up to a\nfive-knot breeze.'\n\n'Any signs of the _Fairy Queen_?' asked the smuggler.\n\n'None. Long John is down at the water's edge looking out for her\nflash-light. This wind should bring her up if she has rounded\nCombe-Martin Point. There was a sail about ten miles to the\neast-nor'-east at sundown. She might have been a Bristol schooner, or\nshe might have been a King's fly-boat.'\n\n'A King's crawl-boat,' said Captain Murgatroyd, with a sneer. 'We cannot\nhang the gauger until Venables brings up the _Fairy Queen_, for after\nall it was one of his hands that was snackled. Let him do his own dirty\nwork.'\n\n'Tausend Blitzen!' cried the ruffian Dutchman, 'would it not be a kindly\ngrass to Captain Venables to chuck the gauger down the Black Drop ere he\ncome? He may have such another job to do for us some day.'\n\n'Zounds, man, are you in command or am I?' said the leader angrily.\n'Bring the prisoner forward to the fire! Now, hark ye, dog of a\nland-shark; you are as surely a dead man as though you were laid out\nwith the tapers burning. See here'--he lifted a torch, and showed by\nits red light a great crack in the floor across the far end of the\ncave--'you can judge of the Black Drop's depth!' he said, raising an\nempty keg and tossing it over into the yawning gulf. For ten seconds\nwe stood silent before a dull distant clatter told that it had at last\nreached the bottom.\n\n'It will carry him half-way to hell before the breath leaves him,' said\none.\n\n'It's an easier death than the Devizes gallows!' cried a second.\n\n'Nay, he shall have the gallows first!' a third shouted. 'It is but his\nburial that we are arranging.'\n\n'He hath not opened his mouth since we took him,' said the man who was\ncalled Dicon. 'Is he a mute, then? Find your tongue, my fine fellow, and\nlet us hear what your name is. It would have been well for you if you\nhad been born dumb, so that you could not have sworn our comrade's life\naway.'\n\n'I have been waiting for a civil question after all this brawling and\nbrabbling,' said I. 'My name is Micah Clarke. Now, pray inform me who ye\nmay be, and by what warrant ye stop peaceful travellers upon the public\nhighway?'\n\n'This is our warrant,' Murgatroyd answered, touching the hilt of his\ncutlass. 'As to who we are, ye know that well enough. Your name is\nnot Clarke, but Westhouse, or Waterhouse, and you are the same cursed\nexciseman who snackled our poor comrade, Cooper Dick, and swore away his\nlife at Ilchester.'\n\n'I swear that you are mistaken,' I replied. 'I have never in my life\nbeen in these parts before.'\n\n'Fine words! Fine words!' cried another smuggler. 'Gauger or no, you\nmust jump for it, since you know the secret of our cave.'\n\n'Your secret is safe with me,' I answered. 'But if ye wish to murder me,\nI shall meet my fate as a soldier should. I should have chosen to die on\nthe field of battle, rather than to lie at the mercy of such a pack of\nwater-rats in their burrow.'\n\n'My faith!' said Murgatroyd. 'This is too tall talk for a gauger. He\nbears himself like a soldier, too. It is possible that in snaring the\nowl we have caught the falcon. Yet we had certain token that he would\ncome this way, and on such another horse.'\n\n'Call up Long John,' suggested the Dutchman. 'I vould not give a plug of\nTrinidado for the Schelm's word. Long John was with Cooper Dick when he\nwas taken.'\n\n'Aye,' growled the mate Silas. 'He got a wipe over the arm from the\ngauger's whinyard. He'll know his face, if any will.'\n\n'Call him, then,' said Murgatroyd, and presently a long, loose-limbed\nseaman came up from the mouth of the cave, where he had been on watch.\nHe wore a red kerchief round his forehead, and a blue jerkin, the sleeve\nof which he slowly rolled up as he came nigh.\n\n'Where is Gauger Westhouse?' he cried; 'he has left his mark on my arm.\nRat me, if the scar is healed yet. The sun is on our side of the wall\nnow, gauger. But hullo, mates! Who be this that ye have clapped into\nirons? This is not our man!'\n\n'Not our man!' they cried, with a volley of curses.\n\n'Why, this fellow would make two of the gauger, and leave enough over\nto fashion a magistrate's clerk. Ye may hang him to make sure, but still\nhe's not the man.'\n\n'Yes, hang him!' said Dutch Pete. 'Sapperment! is our cave to be the\ntalk of all the country? Vere is the pretty _Maria_ to go then, vid her\nsilks and her satins, her kegs and her cases'? Are we to risk our\ncave for the sake of this fellow? Besides, has he not schlagged my\nkopf--schlagged your cooper's kopf--as if he had hit me mit mine own\nmallet? Is that not vorth a hemp cravat?'\n\n'Worth a jorum of rumbo,' cried Dicon. 'By your leave, Captain, I would\nsay that we are not a gang of padders and michers, but a crew of honest\nseamen, who harm none but those who harm us. Exciseman Westhouse hath\nslain Cooper Dick, and it is just that he should die for it; but as to\ntaking this young soldier's life, I'd as soon think of scuttling the\nsaucy _Maria_, or of mounting the Jolly Roger at her peak.'\n\nWhat answer would have been given to this speech I cannot tell, for\nat that moment a shrill whistle resounded outside the cave, and two\nsmugglers appeared bearing between them the body of a man. It hung so\nlimp that I thought at first that he might be dead, but when they threw\nhim on the sand he moved, and at last sat up like one who is but half\nawoken from a swoon. He was a square dogged-faced fellow, with a long\nwhite scar down his cheek, and a close-fitting blue coat with brass\nbuttons.\n\n'It's Gauger Westhouse!' cried a chorus of voices. 'Yes, it is Gauger\nWesthouse,' said the man calmly, giving his neck a wriggle as though he\nwere in pain. 'I represent the King's law, and in its name I arrest ye\nall, and declare all the contraband goods which I see around me to be\nconfiscate and forfeited, according to the second section of the first\nclause of the statute upon illegal dealing. If there are any honest men\nin this company, they will assist me in the execution of my duty.' He\nstaggered to his feet as he spoke, but his spirit was greater than his\nstrength, and he sank back upon the sand amid a roar of laughter from\nthe rough seamen.\n\n'We found him lying on the road when we came from Daddy Mycroft's,' said\none of the new-comers, who were the same men who had led away my horse.\n'He must have passed just after you left, and the rope caught him under\nthe chin and threw him a dozen paces. We saw the revenue button on his\ncoat, so we brought him down. Body o' me, but he kicked and plunged for\nall that he was three-quarters stunned.'\n\n'Have ye slacked the hawser?' the Captain asked.\n\n'We cast one end loose and let it hang.'\n\n''Tis well. We must keep him for Captain Venables. But now, as to our\nother prisoner: we must overhaul him and examine his papers, for so many\ncraft are sailing under false colours that we must needs be careful.\nHark ye, Mister Soldier! What brings you to these parts, and what king\ndo you serve? for I hear there's a mutiny broke out, and two skippers\nclaim equal rating in the old British ship.'\n\n'I am serving under King Monmouth,' I answered, seeing that the proposed\nsearch must end in the finding of my papers.\n\n'Under King Monmouth!' cried the smuggler. 'Nay, friend, that rings\nsomewhat false. The good King hath, I hear, too much need of his friends\nin the south to let an able soldier go wandering along the sea coast\nlike a Cornish wrecker in a sou'-wester.'\n\n'I bear despatches,' said I, 'from the King's own hand to Henry Duke\nof Beaufort, at his castle at Badminton. Ye can find them in my inner\npocket, but I pray ye not to break the seal, lest it bring discredit\nupon my mission.'\n\n'Sir,' cried the gauger, raising himself upon his elbow, 'I do hereby\narrest you on the charge of being a traitor, a promoter of treason, a\nvagrant, and a masterless man within the meaning of the fourth statute\nof the Act. As an officer of the law I call upon you to submit to my\nwarrant.'\n\n'Brace up his jaw with your scarf, Jim,' said Murgatroyd. 'When Venables\ncomes he will soon find a way to check his gab. Yes,' he continued,\nlooking at the back of my papers, 'it is marked, as you say, \"From James\nthe Second of England, known lately as the Duke of Monmouth, to Henry\nDuke of Beaufort, President of Wales, by the hand of Captain Micah\nClarke, of Saxon's regiment of Wiltshire foot.\" Cast off the lashings,\nDicon. So, Captain, you are a free man once more, and I grieve that we\nshould have unwittingly harmed you. We are good Lutherans to a man, and\nwould rather speed you than hinder you on this mission.'\n\n'Could we not indeed help him on his way!' said the mate Silas. 'For\nmyself, I don't fear a wet jacket or a tarry hand for the cause, and\nI doubt not ye are all of my way of thinking. Now with this breeze we\ncould run up to Bristol and drop the Captain by morning, which would\nsave him from being snapped up by any land-sharks on the road.'\n\n'Aye, aye,' cried Long John. 'The King's horse are out beyond Weston,\nbut he could give them the slip if he had the _Maria_ under him.'\n\n'Well,' said Murgatroyd, 'we could get back by three long tacks.\nVenables will need a day or so to get his goods ashore. If we are to\nsail back in company we shall have time on our hands. How would the plan\nsuit you, Captain?'\n\n'My horse!' I objected.\n\n'It need not stop us. I can rig up a handy horse-stall with my spare\nspars and the grating. The wind has died down. The lugger could be\nbrought to Dead Man's Edge, and the horse led down to it. Run up to\nDaddy's, Jim; and you, Silas, see to the boat. Here is some cold junk\nand biscuit--seaman's fare, Captain--and a glass o' the real Jamaica to\nwash it down an' thy stomach be not too dainty for rough living.'\n\nI seated myself on a barrel by the fire, and stretched my limbs, which\nwere cramped and stiffened by their confinement, while one of the seamen\nbathed the cut on my head with a wet kerchief, and another laid out some\nfood on a case in front of me. The rest of the gang had trooped away to\nthe mouth of the cave to prepare the lugger, save only two or three who\nstood on guard round the ill-fated gauger. He lay with his back resting\nagainst the wall of the cave, and his arms crossed over his breast,\nglancing round from time to time at the smugglers with menacing eyes, as\na staunch old hound might gaze at a pack of wolves who had overmatched\nhim. I was turning it over in my own mind whether aught could be done to\nhelp him, when Murgatroyd came over, and dipping a tin pannikin into the\nopen rum tub, drained it to the success of my mission.\n\n'I shall send Silas Bolitho with you,' said he, 'while I bide here to\nmeet Venables, who commands my consort. If there is aught that I can do\nto repay you for your ill usage--'\n\n'There is but one thing, Captain,' I broke in eagerly. 'It is as much,\nor more, for your own sake than mine that I ask it. Do not allow this\nunhappy man to be murdered.'\n\nMurgatroyd's face flushed with anger. 'You are a plain speaker, Captain\nClarke,' said he. 'This is no murder. It is justice. What harm do we\nhere? There is not an old housewife over the whole countryside who does\nnot bless us. Where is she to buy her souchong, or her strong waters,\nexcept from us! We charge little, and force our goods on no one. We are\npeaceful traders. Yet this man and his fellows are ever yelping at our\nheels, like so many dogfish on a cod bank. We have been harried, and\nchivied, and shot at until we are driven into such dens as this. A month\nago, four of our men were bearing a keg up the hillside to Farmer Black,\nwho hath dealt with us these five years back. Of a sudden, down came\nhalf a score of horse, led by this gauger, hacked and slashed with their\nbroad-swords, cut Long John's arm open, and took Cooper Dick prisoner.\nDick was haled to Ilchester Gaol, and hung up after the assizes like\na stoat on a gamekeeper's door. This night we had news that this very\ngauger was coming this way, little knowing that we should be on the\nlook-out for him. Is it a wonder that we should lay a trap for him, and\nthat, having caught him, we should give him the same justice as he gave\nour comrades?'\n\n'He is but a servant, I argued. 'He hath not made the law. It is his\nduty to enforce it. It is with the law itself that your quarrel is.'\n\n'You are right,' said the smuggler gloomily. 'It is with Judge Moorcroft\nthat we have our chief account to square. He may pass this road upon his\ncircuit. Heaven send he does! But we shall hang the gauger too. He knows\nour cave now, and it would be madness to let him go.'\n\nI saw that it was useless to argue longer, so I contented myself with\ndropping my pocket-knife on the sand within reach of the prisoner, in\nthe hope that it might prove to be of some service to him. His guards\nwere laughing and joking together, and giving little heed to their\ncharge, but the gauger was keen enough, for I saw his hand close over\nit.\n\nI had walked and smoked for an hour or more, when Silas the mate\nappeared, and said that the lugger was ready and the horse aboard.\nBidding Murgatroyd farewell, I ventured a few more words in favour of\nthe gauger, which were received with a frown and an angry shake of the\nhead. A boat was drawn up on the sand, inside the cave, at the water's\nedge. Into this I stepped, as directed, with my sword and pistols, which\nhad been given back to me, while the crew pushed her off and sprang in\nas she glided into deep water.\n\nI could see by the dim light of the single torch which Murgatroyd held\nupon the margin, that the roof of the cave sloped sheer down upon us as\nwe sculled slowly out towards the entrance. So low did it come at last\nthat there was only a space of a few feet between it and the water, and\nwe had to bend our heads to avoid the rocks above us. The boatmen gave\ntwo strong strokes, and we shot out from under the overhanging ledge,\nand found ourselves in the open with the stars shining murkily above\nus, and the moon showing herself dimly and cloudily through a gathering\nhaze. Right in front of us was a dark blur, which, as we pulled towards\nit, took the outline of a large lugger rising and falling with the pulse\nof the sea. Her tall thin spars and delicate network of cordage towered\nabove us as we glided under the counter, while the creaking of blocks\nand rattle of ropes showed that she was all ready to glide off upon her\njourney. Lightly and daintily she rode upon the waters, like some giant\nseafowl, spreading one white pinion after another in preparation for\nher flight. The boatmen ran us alongside and steadied the dinghy while I\nclimbed over the bulwarks on to the deck.\n\nShe was a roomy vessel, very broad in the beam, with a graceful curve in\nher bows, and masts which were taller than any that I had seen on such\na boat on the Solent. She was decked over in front, but very deep in the\nafter part, with ropes fixed all round the sides to secure kegs when the\nhold should be full. In the midst of this after-deck the mariners had\nbuilt a strong stall, in which my good steed was standing, with a bucket\nfull of oats in front of him. My old friend shoved his nose against my\nface as I came aboard, and neighed his pleasure at finding his master\nonce more. We were still exchanging caresses when the grizzled head of\nSilas Bolitho the mate popped out of the cabin hatchway.\n\n'We are fairly on our way now, Captain Clarke,' said he. 'The breeze\nhas fallen away to nothing, as you can see, and we may be some time in\nrunning down to our port. Are you not aweary?'\n\n'I am a little tired,' I confessed. 'My head is throbbing from the crack\nI got when that hawser of yours dashed me from my saddle.'\n\n'An hour or two of sleep will make you as fresh as a Mother Carey's\nchicken,' said the smuggler. 'Your horse is well cared for, and you can\nleave him without fear. I will set a man to tend him, though, truth to\nsay, the rogues know more about studding-sails and halliards than they\ndo of steeds and their requirements. Yet no harm can come to him, so you\nhad best come down and turn in.'\n\nI descended the steep stairs which led down into the low-roofed cabin of\nthe lugger. On either side a recess in the wall had been fitted up as a\ncouch.\n\n'This is your bed,' said he, pointing to one of them. 'We shall call\nyou if there be aught to report.' I needed no second invitation, but\nflinging myself down without undressing, I sank in a few minutes into\na dreamless sleep, which neither the gentle motion of the boat nor the\nclank of feet above my head could break off.\n\n\n\nChapter XXIV. Of the Welcome that met me at Badminton\n\nWhen I opened my eyes I had some ado to recall where I was, but on\nsitting up it was brought home to me by my head striking the low ceiling\nwith a sharp rap. On the other side of the cabin Silas Bolitho was\nstretched at full length with a red woollen nightcap upon his head, fast\nasleep and snoring. In the centre of the cabin hung a swing-table,\nmuch worn, and stained all over with the marks of countless glasses\nand pannikins. A wooden bench, screwed to the floor, completed the\nfurniture, with the exception of a stand of muskets along one side.\nAbove and below the berths in which we lay were rows of lockers, in\nwhich, doubtless, some of the more choice laces and silks were stowed.\nThe vessel was rising and falling with a gentle motion, but from the\nflapping of canvas I judged that there was little wind. Slipping quietly\nfrom my couch, so as not to wake the mate, I stole upon deck.\n\nWe were, I found, not only becalmed, but hemmed in by a dense fog-bank\nwhich rolled in thick, choking wreaths all round us, and hid the very\nwater beneath us. We might have been a ship of the air riding upon\na white cloud-bank. Now and anon a little puff of breeze caught the\nforesail and bellied it out for a moment, only to let it flap back\nagainst the mast, limp and slack, once more. A sunbeam would at times\nbreak through the dense cloud, and would spangle the dead grey wall with\na streak of rainbow colour, but the haze would gather in again and shut\noff the bright invader. Covenant was staring right and left with great\nquestioning eyes. The crew were gathered along the bulwarks and smoking\ntheir pipes while they peered out into the dense fog.\n\n'God den, Captain,' said Dicon, touching his fur cap. 'We have had a\nrare run while the breeze lasted, and the mate reckoned before he turned\nin that we were not many miles from Bristol town.'\n\n'In that case, my good fellow,' I answered, 'ye can set me ashore, for I\nhave not far to go.'\n\n'We must e'en wait till the fog lifts,' said Long John. 'There's only\none place along here, d'ye see, where we can land cargoes unquestioned.\nWhen it clears we shall turn her head for it, but until we can take our\nbearings it is anxious work wi' the sands under our lee.'\n\n'Keep a look-out there, Tom Baldock!' cried Dicon to a man in the bows.\n'We are in the track of every Bristol ship, and though there's so little\nwind, a high-sparred craft might catch a breeze which we miss.'\n\n'Sh!' said Long John suddenly, holding up his hand in warning. 'Sh!'\n\nWe listened with all our ears, but there was no sound, save the gentle\nwash of the unseen waves against our sides.\n\n'Call the mate!' whispered the seaman. 'There's a craft close by us. I\nheard the rattle of a rope upon her deck.'\n\nSilas Bolitho was up in an instant, and we all stood straining our ears,\nand peering through the dense fog-bank. We had well-nigh made up our\nminds that it was a false alarm, and the mate was turning back in no\nvery good humour, when a clear loud bell sounded seven times quite\nclose to us, followed by a shrill whistle and a confused shouting and\nstamping.\n\n'It's a King's ship,' growled the mate. 'That's seven bells, and the\nbo'sun is turning out the watch below.'\n\n'It was on our quarter,' whispered one.\n\n'Nay, I think it was on our larboard bow,' said another.\n\nThe mate held up his hand, and we all listened for some fresh sign\nof the whereabouts of our scurvy neighbour. The wind had freshened a\nlittle, and we were slipping through the water at four or five knots\nan hour. Of a sudden a hoarse voice was heard roaring at our very side.\n''Bout ship!' it shouted. 'Bear a hand on the lee-braces, there! Stand\nby the halliards! Bear a hand, ye lazy rogues, or I'll be among ye with\nmy cane, with a wannion to ye!'\n\n'It is a King's ship, sure enough, and she lies just there,' said Long\nJohn, pointing out over the quarter. 'Merchant adventurers have\ncivil tongues. It's your blue-coated, gold-braided, swivel-eyed,\nquarter-deckers that talk of canes. Ha! did I not tell ye!'\n\nAs he spoke, the white screen of vapour rolled up like the curtain in\na playhouse, and uncovered a stately war-ship, lying so close that we\ncould have thrown a biscuit aboard. Her long, lean, black hull rose\nand fell with a slow, graceful rhythm, while her beautiful spars and\nsnow-white sails shot aloft until they were lost in the wreaths of fog\nwhich still hung around her. Nine bright brass cannons peeped out at us\nfrom her portholes. Above the line of hammocks, which hung like carded\nwool along her bulwarks, we could see the heads of the seamen staring\ndown at us, and pointing us out to each other. On the high poop stood an\nelderly officer with cocked hat and trim white wig, who at once whipped\nup his glass and gazed at us through it.\n\n'Ahoy, there!' he shouted, leaning over the taffrail. 'What lugger is\nthat?'\n\n'The _Lucy_,' answered the mate, 'bound from Porlock Quay to Bristol\nwith hides and tallow. Stand ready to tack!' he added in a lower voice,\n'the fog is coming down again.'\n\n'Ye have one of the hides with the horse still in it,' cried the\nofficer. 'Run down under our counter. We must have a closer look at ye.'\n\n'Aye, aye, sir!' said the mate, and putting his helm hard down the boom\nswung across, and the _Maria_ darted off like a scared seabird into the\nfog. Looking back there was nothing but a dim loom to show where we had\nleft the great vessel. We could hear, however, the hoarse shouting of\norders and the bustle of men.\n\n'Look out for squalls, lads!' cried the mate. 'He'll let us have it\nnow.'\n\nHe had scarcely spoken before there were half-a-dozen throbs of flame in\nthe mist behind, and as many balls sung among our rigging. One cut away\nthe end of the yard, and left it dangling; another grazed the bowsprit,\nand sent a puff of white splinters into the air.\n\n'Warm work, Captain, eh?' said old Silas, rubbing his hands. 'Zounds,\nthey shoot better in the dark than ever they did in the light. There\nhave been more shots fired at this lugger than she could carry wore she\nloaded with them. And yet they never so much as knocked the paint off\nher before. There they go again!'\n\nA fresh discharge burst from the man-of-war, but this time they had lost\nall trace of us, and were firing by guess.\n\n'That is their last bark, sir,' said Dicon.\n\n'No fear. They'll blaze away for the rest of the day,' growled another\nof the smugglers. 'Why, Lor' bless ye, it's good exercise for the crew,\nand the 'munition is the King's, so it don't cost nobody a groat.'\n\n'It's well the breeze freshened,' said Long John. 'I heard the creak o'\ndavits just after the first discharge. She was lowering her boats, or\nI'm a Dutchman.'\n\n'The petter for you if you vas, you seven-foot stock-fish,' cried my\nenemy the cooper, whose aspect was not improved by a great strip of\nplaster over his eye. 'You might have learned something petter than to\npull on a rope, or to swab decks like a vrouw all your life.'\n\n'I'll set you adrift in one of your own barrels, you skin of lard,' said\nthe seaman. 'How often are we to trounce you before we knock the sauce\nout of you?'\n\n'The fog lifts a little towards the land,' Silas remarked. 'Methinks I\nsee the loom of St. Austin's Point. It rises there upon the starboard\nbow.'\n\n'There it is, sure enough, sir!' cried one of the seamen, pointing to a\ndark cape which cut into the mist.\n\n'Steer for the three-fathom creek then,' said the mate. 'When we are on\nthe other side of the point, Captain Clarke, we shall be able to land\nyour horse and yourself. You will then be within a few hours' ride of\nyour destination.'\n\nI led the old seaman aside, and having thanked him for the kindness\nwhich he had shown me, I spoke to him of the gauger, and implored him to\nuse his influence to save the man.\n\n'It rests with Captain Venables,' said he gloomily. 'If we let him go\nwhat becomes of our cave?'\n\n'Is there no way of insuring his silence?' I asked. 'Well, we might ship\nhim to the Plantations,' said the mate. 'We could take him to the Texel\nwith us, and get Captain Donders or some other to give him a lift across\nthe western ocean.'\n\n'Do so,' said I, 'and I shall take care that King Monmouth shall hear of\nthe help which ye have given his messenger.'\n\n'Well, we shall be there in a brace of shakes,' he remarked. 'Let us go\nbelow and load your ground tier, for there is nothing like starting well\ntrimmed with plenty of ballast in the hold.'\n\nFollowing the sailor's advice I went down with him and enjoyed a rude\nbut plentiful meal. By the time that we had finished, the lugger had\nbeen run into a narrow creek, with shelving sandy banks on either side.\nThe district was wild and marshy, with few signs of any inhabitants.\nWith much coaxing and pushing Covenant was induced to take to the water,\nand swam easily ashore, while I followed in the smuggler's dinghy. A\nfew words of rough, kindly leave-taking were shouted after me; I saw the\ndinghy return, and the beautiful craft glided out to sea and faded away\nonce more into the mists which still hung over the face of the waters.\n\nTruly Providence works in strange ways, my children, and until a\nman comes to the autumn of his days he can scarce say what hath been\nill-luck and what hath been good. For of all the seeming misfortunes\nwhich have befallen me during my wandering life, there is not one which\nI have not come to look upon as a blessing. And if you once take this\ninto your hearts, it is a mighty help in enabling you to meet all\ntroubles with a stiff lip; for why should a man grieve when he hath not\nyet determined whether what hath chanced may not prove to be a cause of\nrejoicing. Now here ye will perceive that I began by being dashed upon\na stony road, beaten, kicked, and finally well-nigh put to death in\nmistake for another. Yet it ended in my being safely carried to my\njourney's end, whereas, had I gone by land, it is more than likely that\nI should have been cut off at Weston; for, as I heard afterwards, a\ntroop of horse were making themselves very active in those parts by\nblocking the roads and seizing all who came that way.\n\nBeing now alone, my first care was to bathe my face and hands in a\nstream which ran down to the sea, and to wipe away any trace of my\nadventures of the night before. My cut was but a small one, and was\nconcealed by my hair. Having reduced myself to some sort of order I next\nrubbed down my horse as best I could, and rearranged his girth and his\nsaddle. I then led him by the bridle to the top of a sandhill hard by,\nwhence I might gain some idea as to my position.\n\nThe fog lay thick upon the Channel, but all inland was very clear and\nbright. Along the coast the country was dreary and marshy, but at the\nother side a goodly extent of fertile plain lay before me, well tilled\nand cared for. A range of lofty hills, which I guessed to be the\nMendips, bordered the whole skyline, and further north there lay a\nsecond chain in the blue distance. The glittering Avon wound its way\nover the country-side like a silver snake in a flower-bed. Close to its\nmouth, and not more than two leagues from where I stood, rose the spires\nand towers of stately Bristol, the Queen of the West, which was and\nstill may be the second city in the kingdom. The forests of masts which\nshot up like a pinegrove above the roofs of the houses bore witness to\nthe great trade both with Ireland and with the Plantations which had\nbuilt up so flourishing a city.\n\nAs I knew that the Duke's seat was miles on the Gloucestershire side of\nthe city, and as I feared lest I might be arrested and examined should I\nattempt to pass the gates, I struck inland with intent to ride round the\nwalls and so avoid the peril. The path which I followed led me into a\ncountry lane, which in turn opened into a broad highway crowded with\ntravellers, both on horseback and on foot. As the troublous times\nrequired that a man should journey with his arms, there was naught in\nmy outfit to excite remark, and I was able to jog on among the other\nhorsemen without question or suspicion. From their appearance they were,\nI judged, country farmers or squires for the most part, who were riding\ninto Bristol to hear the news, and to store away their things of price\nin a place of safety.\n\n'By your leave, zur!' said a burly, heavy-faced man in a velveteen\njacket, riding up upon my bridle-arm. 'Can you tell me whether his Grace\nof Beaufort is in Bristol or at his house o' Badminton?'\n\nI answered that I could not tell, but that I was myself bound for his\npresence.\n\n'He was in Bristol yestreen a-drilling o' the train-bands,' said the\nstranger; 'but, indeed, his Grace be that loyal, and works that hard for\nhis Majesty's cause, that he's a' ower the county, and it is but chance\nwork for to try and to catch him. But if you are about to zeek him,\nwhither shall you go?'\n\n'I will to Badminton,' I answered, 'and await him there. Can you tell me\nthe way?'\n\n'What! Not know the way to Badminton!' he cried, with a blank stare of\nwonder. 'Whoy, I thought all the warld knew that. You're not fra Wales\nor the border counties, zur, that be very clear.'\n\n'I am a Hampshire man,' said I. 'I have come some distance to see the\nDuke.'\n\n'Aye, so I should think!' he cried, laughing loudly. 'If you doan't know\nthe way to Badminton you doan't know much! But I'll go with you, danged\nif I doan't, and I'll show you your road, and run my chance o' finding\nthe Duke there. What be your name?'\n\n'Micah Clarke is my name.'\n\n'And Vairmer Brown is mine--John Brown by the register, but better\nknowed as the Vairmer. Tak' this turn to the right off the high-road.\nNow we can trot our beasts and not be smothered in other folk's dust.\nAnd what be you going to Beaufort for?'\n\n'On private matters which will not brook discussion,' I answered.\n\n'Lor', now! Affairs o' State belike,' said he, with a whistle. 'Well, a\nstill tongue saves many a neck. I'm a cautious man myself, and these be\ntimes when I wouldna whisper some o' my thoughts--no, not into the ears\no' my old brown mare here--for fear I'd see her some day standing over\nagainst me in the witness-box.'\n\n'They seem very busy over there,' I remarked, for we were now in full\nsight of the walls of Bristol, where gangs of men were working hard with\npick and shovel improving the defences.\n\n'Aye, they be busy sure enough, makin' ready in case the rebels come\nthis road. Cromwell and his tawnies found it a rasper in my vather's\ntime, and Monmouth is like to do the same.'\n\n'It hath a strong garrison, too,' said I, bethinking me of Saxon's\nadvice at Salisbury. 'I see two or three regiments out yonder on the\nbare open space.'\n\n'They have four thousand foot and a thousand horse,' the farmer\nanswered. 'But the foot are only train-bands, and there's no trusting\nthem after Axminster. They say up here that the rebels run to nigh\ntwenty thousand, and that they give no quarter. Well, if we must have\ncivil war, I hope it may be hot and sudden, not spun out for a dozen\nyears like the last one. If our throats are to be cut, let it be with a\nshairp knife, and not with a blunt hedge shears.'\n\n'What say you to a stoup of cider?' I asked, for we were passing an\nivy-clad inn, with 'The Beaufort Arms' printed upon the sign.\n\n'With all my heart, lad,' my companion answered. 'Ho, there! two pints\nof the old hard-brewed! That will serve to wash the dust down. The real\nBeaufort Arms is up yonder at Badminton, for at the buttery hatch one\nmay call for what one will in reason and never put hand to pocket.'\n\n'You speak of the house as though you knew it well,' said I.\n\n'And who should know it better?' asked the sturdy farmer, wiping his\nlips, as we resumed our journey. 'Why, it seems but yesterday that I\nplayed hide-and-seek wi' my brothers in the old Boteler Castle, that\nstood where the new house o' Badminton, or Acton Turville, as some calls\nit, now stands. The Duke hath built it but a few years, and, indeed, his\nDukedom itself is scarce older. There are some who think that he would\nhave done better to stick by the old name that his forebears bore.'\n\n'What manner of man is the Duke?' I asked.\n\n'Hot and hasty, like all of his blood. Yet when he hath time to think,\nand hath cooled down, he is just in the main. Your horse hath been in\nthe water this morning, vriend.'\n\n'Yes,' said I shortly, 'he hath had a bath.'\n\n'I am going to his Grace on the business of a horse,' quoth my\ncompanion. 'His officers have pressed my piebald four-year-old, and\ntaken it without a \"With your leave,\" or \"By your leave,\" for the use of\nthe King. I would have them know that there is something higher than\nthe Duke, or even than the King. There is the English law, which will\npreserve a man's goods and his chattels. I would do aught in reason for\nKing James's service, but my piebald four-year-old is too much.'\n\n'I fear that the needs of the public service will override your\nobjection,' said I.\n\n'Why it is enough to make a man a Whig,' he cried. 'Even the Roundheads\nalways paid their vair penny for every pennyworth they had, though they\nwanted a vair pennyworth for each penny. I have heard my father say that\ntrade was never so brisk as in 'forty-six, when they were down this way.\nOld Noll had a noose of hemp ready for horse-stealers, were they for\nKing or for Parliament. But here comes his Grace's carriage, if I\nmistake not.'\n\nAs he spoke a great heavy yellow coach, drawn by six cream-coloured\nFlemish mares, dashed down the road, and came swiftly towards us. Two\nmounted lackeys galloped in front, and two others all in light blue and\nsilver liveries rode on either side.\n\n'His Grace is not within, else there had been an escort behind,' said\nthe farmer, as we reined our horses aside to let the carriage pass. As\nthey swept by he shouted out a question as to whether the Duke was at\nBadminton, and received a nod from the stately bewigged coachman in\nreply.\n\n'We are in luck to catch him,' said Farmer Brown. 'He's as hard to find\nthese days as a crake in a wheatfield. We should be there in an hour\nor less. I must thank you that I did not take a fruitless journey into\nBristol. What did you say your errand was?'\n\nI was again compelled to assure him that the matter was not one of which\nI could speak with a stranger, on which he appeared to be huffed, and\nrode for some miles without opening his mouth. Groves of trees lined the\nroad on either side, and the sweet smell of pines was in our nostrils.\nFar away the musical pealing of a bell rose and fell on the hot, close\nsummer air. The shelter of the branches was pleasant, for the sun was\nvery strong, blazing down out of a cloudless heaven, and raising a haze\nfrom the fields and valleys.\n\n''Tis the bell from Chipping Sodbury,' said my companion at last, wiping\nhis ruddy face. 'That's Sodbury Church yonder over the brow of the hill,\nand here on the right is the entrance of Badminton Park.'\n\nHigh iron gates, with the leopard and griffin, which are the supporters\nof the Beaufort arms, fixed on the pillars which flanked them, opened\ninto a beautiful domain of lawn and grass land with clumps of trees\nscattered over it, and broad sheets of water, thick with wild fowl. At\nevery turn as we rode up the winding avenue some new beauty caught our\neyes, all of which were pointed out and expounded by Farmer Brown, who\nseemed to take as much pride in the place as though it belonged to him.\nHere it was a rockery where a thousand bright-coloured stones shone out\nthrough the ferns and creepers which had been trained over them. There\nit was a pretty prattling brook, the channel of which had been turned so\nas to make it come foaming down over a steep ledge of rocks. Or perhaps\nit was some statue of nymph or sylvan god, or some artfully built\narbour overgrown with roses or honeysuckle. I have never seen grounds\nso tastefully laid out, and it was done, as all good work in art must\nbe done, by following Nature so closely that it only differed from her\nhandiwork in its profusion in so narrow a compass. A few years later our\nhealthy English taste was spoiled by the pedant gardening of the Dutch\nwith their straight flat ponds, and their trees all clipped and in a\nline like vegetable grenadiers. In truth, I think that the Prince of\nOrange and Sir William Temple had much to answer for in working this\nchange, but things have now come round again, I understand, and we have\nceased to be wiser than Nature in our pleasure-grounds.\n\nAs we drew near the house we came on a large extent of level sward on\nwhich a troop of horse were exercising, who were raised, as my companion\ninformed me, entirely from the Duke's own personal attendants. Passing\nthem we rode through a grove of rare trees and came out on a broad space\nof gravel which lay in front of the house. The building itself was of\ngreat extent, built after the new Italian fashion, rather for comfort\nthan for defence; but on one wing there remained, as my companion\npointed out, a portion of the old keep and battlements of the feudal\ncastle of the Botelers, looking as out of place as a farthingale of\nQueen Elizabeth joined to a court dress fresh from Paris. The main\ndoorway was led up to by lines of columns and a broad flight of marble\nsteps, on which stood a group of footmen and grooms, who took our horses\nwhen we dismounted. A grey-haired steward or major-domo inquired our\nbusiness, and on learning that we wished to see the Duke in person, he\ntold us that his Grace would give audience to strangers in the afternoon\nat half after three by the clock. In the meantime he said that the\nguests' dinner had just been laid in the hall, and it was his master's\nwish that none who came to Badminton should depart hungry. My companion\nand I were but too glad to accept the steward's invitation, so having\nvisited the bath-room and attended to the needs of the toilet, we\nfollowed a footman, who ushered us into a great room where the company\nhad already assembled.\n\nThe guests may have numbered fifty or sixty, old and young, gentle and\nsimple, of the most varied types and appearance. I observed that many\nof them cast haughty and inquiring glances round them, in the pauses\nbetween the dishes, as though each marvelled how he came to be a member\nof so motley a crew. Their only common feature appeared to be the\ndevotion which they showed to the platter and the wine flagon. There was\nlittle talking, for there were few who knew their neighbours. Some were\nsoldiers who had come to offer their swords and their services to\nthe King's lieutenant; others were merchants from Bristol, with some\nproposal or suggestion anent the safety of their property. There\nwere two or three officials of the city, who had come out to receive\ninstructions as to its defence, while here and there I marked the child\nof Israel, who had found his way there in the hope that in times of\ntrouble he might find high interest and noble borrowers. Horse-dealers,\nsaddlers, armourers, surgeons, and clergymen completed the company,\nwho were waited upon by a staff of powdered and liveried servants, who\nbrought and removed the dishes with the silence and deftness of long\ntraining.\n\nThe room was a contrast to the bare plainness of Sir Stephen Timewell's\ndining-hall at Taunton, for it was richly panelled and highly decorated\nall round. The floor was formed of black and white marble, set in\nsquares, and the walls were of polished oak, and bore a long line of\npaintings of the Somerset family, from John of Gaunt downwards. The\nceiling, too, was tastefully painted with flowers and nymphs, so that a\nman's neck was stiff ere he had done admiring it. At the further end of\nthe hall yawned a great fireplace of white marble, with the lions and\nlilies of the Somerset arms carved in oak above it, and a long gilt\nscroll bearing the family motto, \"Mutare vel timere sperno.\" The massive\ntables at which we sat were loaded with silver chargers and candelabra,\nand bright with the rich plate for which Badminton was famous. I could\nnot but think that, if Saxon could clap eyes upon it, he would not be\nlong in urging that the war be carried on in this direction.\n\nAfter dinner we were all shown into a small ante-chamber, set round with\nvelvet settees, where we were to wait till the Duke was ready to see us.\nIn the centre of this room there stood several cases, glass-topped and\nlined with silk, wherein were little steel and iron rods, with brass\ntubes and divers other things, very bright and ingenious, though I\ncould not devise for what end they had been put together. A\ngentleman-in-waiting came round with paper and ink-horn, making notes\nof our names and of our business. Him I asked whether it might not be\npossible for me to have an entirely private audience.\n\n'His Grace never sees in private,' he replied. 'He has ever his chosen\ncouncillors and officers in attendance.'\n\n'But the business is one which is only fit for his own ear,' I urged.\n\n'His Grace holds that there is no business fit only for his own ear,'\nsaid the gentleman. 'You must arrange matters as best you can when\nyou are shown in to him. I will promise, however, that your request be\ncarried to him, though I warn you that it cannot be granted.'\n\nI thanked him for his good offices, and turned away with the farmer to\nlook at the strange little engines within the cases.\n\n'What is it?' I asked. 'I have never seen aught that was like it.'\n\n'It is the work of the mad Marquis of Worcester,' quoth he. 'He was the\nDuke's grandfather. He was ever making and devising such toys, but they\nwere never of any service to himself or to others. Now, look ye here!\nThis wi' the wheels were called the water-engine, and it was his crazy\nthought that, by heating the water in that ere kettle, ye might make the\nwheels go round, and thereby travel along iron bars quicker nor a\nhorse could run. 'Oons! I'd match my old brown mare against all such\ncontrivances to the end o' time. But to our places, for the Duke is\ncoming.'\n\nWe had scarce taken our seats with the other suitors, when the\nfolding-doors were flung open, and a stout, thick, short man of fifty,\nor thereabouts, came bustling into the room, and strode down it between\ntwo lines of bowing clients. He had large projecting blue eyes, with\ngreat pouches of skin beneath them, and a yellow, sallow visage. At his\nheels walked a dozen officers and men of rank, with flowing wigs and\nclanking swords. They had hardly passed through the opposite door into\nthe Duke's own room, when the gentleman with the list called out a name,\nand the guests began one after the other to file into the great man's\npresence.\n\n'Methinks his Grace is in no very gentle temper,' quoth Farmer Brown.\n'Did you not mark how he gnawed his nether lip as he passed?'\n\n'He seemed a quiet gentleman enough,' I answered. 'It would try Job\nhimself to see all these folk of an afternoon.'\n\n'Hark at that!' he whispered, raising his finger. As he spoke the\nsound of the Duke's voice in a storm of wrath was heard from the inner\nchamber, and a little sharp-faced man came out and flew through the\nante-chamber as though fright had turned his head.\n\n'He is an armourer of Bristol,' whispered one of my neighbours. 'It is\nlikely that the Duke cannot come to terms with him over a contract.'\n\n'Nay,' said another. 'He supplied Sir Marmaduke Hyson's troop with\nsabres, and it is said that the blades will bend as though they were\nlead. Once used they can never be fitted back into the scabbard again.'\n\n'The tall man who goes in now is an inventor,' quoth the first. 'He hath\nthe secret of some very grievous fire, such as hath been used by the\nGreeks against the Turks in the Levant, which he desires to sell for the\nbetter fortifying of Bristol.'\n\nThe Greek fire seemed to be in no great request with the Duke, for the\ninventor came out presently with his face as red as though it had been\ntouched by his own compound. The next upon the list was my honest friend\nthe farmer. The angry tones which greeted him promised badly for the\nfate of the four-year-old, but a lull ensued, and the farmer came out\nand resumed his seat, rubbing his great red hands with satisfaction.\n\n'Ecod!' he whispered. 'He was plaguy hot at first, but he soon came\nround, and he hath promised that if I pay for the hire of a dragooner as\nlong as the war shall last I shall have back the piebald.'\n\nI had been sitting all this time wondering how in the world I was\nto conduct my business amid the swarm of suppliants and the crowd of\nofficers who were attending the Duke. Had there been any likelihood\nof my gaining audience with him in any other way I should gladly have\nadopted it, but all my endeavours to that end had been useless. Unless I\ntook this occasion I might never come face to face with him at all.\nBut how could he give due thought or discussion to such a matter\nbefore others? What chance was there of his weighing it as it should be\nweighed? Even if his feelings inclined him that way, he dared not show\nany sign of wavering when so many eyes were upon him. I was tempted to\nfeign some other reason for my coming, and trust to fortune to give me\nsome more favourable chance for handing him my papers. But then that\nchance might never arrive, and time was pressing. It was said that he\nwould return to Bristol next morning. On the whole, it seemed best that\nI should make the fittest use I could of my present position in the hope\nthat the Duke's own discretion and self-command might, when he saw the\naddress upon my despatches, lead to a more private interview.\n\nI had just come to this resolution when my name was read out, on which I\nrose and advanced into the inner chamber. It was a small but lofty room,\nhung in blue silk with a broad gold cornice. In the centre was a square\ntable littered over with piles of papers, and behind this sat his Grace\nwith full-bottomed wig rolling down to his shoulders, very stately and\nimposing. He had the same subtle air of the court which I had observed\nboth in Monmouth and in Sir Gervas, which, with his high bold features\nand large piercing eyes, marked him as a leader of men. His private\nscrivener sat beside him, taking notes of his directions, while the\nothers stood behind in a half circle, or took snuff together in the deep\nrecess of the window.\n\n'Make a note of Smithson's order,' he said, as I entered. 'A hundred\npots and as many fronts and backs to be ready by Tuesday; also six score\nsnaphances for the musqueteers, and two hundred extra spades for the\nworkers. Mark that the order be declared null and void unless fulfilled\nwithin the time appointed.'\n\n'It is so marked, your Grace.'\n\n'Captain Micah Clarke,' said the Duke, reading from the list in front of\nhim. 'What is your wish, Captain?'\n\n'One which it would be better if I could deliver privately to your\nGrace,' I answered.\n\n'Ah, you are he who desired private audience? Well, Captain, these are\nmy council and they are as myself. So we may look upon ourselves as\nalone. What I may hear they may hear. Zounds, man, never stammer and\nboggle, but out with it!'\n\nMy request had roused the interest of the company, and those who were in\nthe window came over to the table. Nothing could have been worse for the\nsuccess of my mission, and yet there was no help for it but to deliver\nmy despatches. I can say with a clear conscience, without any vainglory,\nthat I had no fears for myself. The doing of my duty was the one thought\nin my mind. And here I may say once for all, my dear children, that I am\nspeaking of myself all through this statement with the same freedom\nas though it were another man. In very truth the strong active lad of\none-and-twenty _was_ another man from the grey-headed old fellow who\nsits in the chimney corner and can do naught better than tell old tales\nto the youngsters. Shallow water gives a great splash, and so a braggart\nhas ever been contemptible in my eyes. I trust, therefore, that ye will\nnever think that your grandad is singing his own praises, or setting\nhimself up as better than his neighbours. I do but lay the facts, as far\nas I can recall them, before ye with all freedom and with all truth.\n\nMy short delay and hesitation had sent a hot flush of anger into the\nDuke's face, so I drew the packet of papers from my inner pocket and\nhanded them to him with a respectful bow. As his eyes fell upon the\nsuperscription, he gave a sudden start of surprise and agitation, making\na motion as though to hide them in his bosom. If this were his impulse\nhe overcame it, and sat lost in thought for a minute or more with the\npapers in his hand. Then with a quick toss of the head, like a man who\nhath formed his resolution, he broke the seals and cast his eyes over\nthe contents, which he then threw down upon the table with a bitter\nlaugh.\n\n'What think ye, gentlemen!' he cried, looking round with scornful eyes;\n'what think ye this private message hath proved to be? It is a letter\nfrom the traitor Monmouth, calling upon me to resign the allegiance of\nmy natural sovereign and to draw my sword in his behalf! If I do this\nI am to have his gracious favour and protection. If not, I incur\nsequestration, banishment, and ruin. He thinks Beaufort's loyalty is\nto be bought like a packman's ware, or bullied out of him by ruffling\nwords. The descendant of John of Gaunt is to render fealty to the brat\nof a wandering playwoman!'\n\nSeveral of the company sprang to their feet, and a general buzz of\nsurprise and anger greeted the Duke's words. He sat with bent brows,\nbeating his foot against the ground, and turning over the papers upon\nthe table.\n\n'What hath raised his hopes to such mad heights?' he cried. 'How doth\nhe presume to send such a missive to one of my quality? Is it because he\nhath seen the backs of a parcel of rascally militiamen, and because\nhe hath drawn a few hundred chawbacons from the plough's tail to his\nstandard, that he ventures to hold such language to the President of\nWales? But ye will be my witnesses as to the spirit in which I received\nit?'\n\n'We can preserve your Grace from all danger of slander on that point,'\nsaid an elderly officer, while a murmur of assent from the others\ngreeted the remark.\n\n'And you!' cried Beaufort, raising his voice and turning his flashing\neyes upon me; 'who are you that dare to bring such a message to\nBadminton? You had surely taken leave of your senses ere you did set out\nupon such an errand!'\n\n'I am in the hands of God here as elsewhere,' I answered, with some\nflash of my father's fatalism. 'I have done what I promised to do, and\nthe rest is no concern of mine.'\n\n'You shall find it a very close concern of thine,' he shouted, springing\nfrom his chair and pacing up and down the room; 'so close as to put an\nend to all thy other concerns in this life. Call in the halberdiers from\nthe outer hall! Now, fellow, what have you to say for yourself?'\n\n'There is naught to be said,' I answered.\n\n'But something to be done,' he retorted in a fury. 'Seize this man and\nsecure his hands!'\n\nFour halberdiers who had answered the summons closed in upon me and laid\nhands on me. Resistance would have been folly, for I had no wish to harm\nthe men in the doing of their duty. I had come to take my chance, and\nif that chance should prove to be death, as seemed likely enough at\npresent, it must be met as a thing foreseen. I thought of those old-time\nlines which Master Chillingfoot, of Petersfield, had ever held up to our\nadmiration--\n\n          Non civium ardor prava jubentium\n          Non vultus instantis tyranni\n          Mente quatit solida.\n\nHere was the 'vultus instantis tyranni,' in this stout, be-wigged,\nlace-covered, yellow-faced man in front of me. I had obeyed the poet in\nso far that my courage had not been shaken. I confess that this spinning\ndust-heap of a world has never had such attractions for me that it would\nbe a pang to leave it. Never, at least, until my marriage--and that, you\nwill find, alters your thoughts about the value of your life, and many\nother of your thoughts as well. This being so, I stood erect, with my\neyes fixed upon the angry nobleman, while his soldiers were putting the\ngyves about my wrists.\n\n\n\nChapter XXV. Of Strange Doings in the Boteler Dungeon\n\n'Take down this fellow's statement,' said the Duke to his scrivener.\n'Now, sirrah, it may not be known to you that his gracious Majesty the\nKing hath conferred plenary powers upon me during these troubled times,\nand that I have his warrant to deal with all traitors without either\njury or judge. You do bear a commission, I understand, in the rebellious\nbody which is here described as Saxon's regiment of Wiltshire Foot?\nSpeak the truth for your neck's sake.'\n\n'I will speak the truth for the sake of something higher than that, your\nGrace,' I answered. 'I command a company in that regiment.'\n\n'And who is this Saxon?'\n\n'I will answer all that I may concerning myself,' said I, 'but not a\nword which may reflect upon others.'\n\n'Ha!' he roared, hot with anger. 'Our pretty gentleman must needs stand\nupon the niceties of honour after taking up arms against his King. I\ntell you, sir, that your honour is in such a parlous state already that\nyou may well throw it over and look to your safety. The sun is sinking\nin the west. Ere it set your life, too, may have set for ever.'\n\n'I am the keeper of my own honour, your Grace,' I answered. 'As to my\nlife, I should not be standing here this moment if I had any great dread\nof losing it. It is right that I should tell you that my Colonel hath\nsworn to exact a return for any evil that may befall me, on you or any\nof your household who may come into his power. This I say, not as a\nthreat, but as a warning, for I know him to be a man who is like to be\nas good as his word.'\n\n'Your Colonel, as you call him, may find it hard enough to save himself\nsoon,' the Duke answered with a sneer. 'How many men hath Monmouth with\nhim?'\n\nI smiled and shook my head.\n\n'How shall we make this traitor find his tongue?' he asked furiously,\nturning to his council.\n\n'I should clap on the thumbikins,' said one fierce-faced old soldier.\n\n'I have known a lighted match between the fingers work wonders,' another\nsuggested. 'Sir Thomas Dalzell hath in the Scottish war been able to\nwin over several of that most stubborn and hardened race, the Western\nCovenanters, by such persuasion.'\n\n'Sir Thomas Dalzell,' said a grey-haired gentleman, clad in black\nvelvet, 'hath studied the art of war among the Muscovites, in their\nbarbarous and bloody encounters with the Turks. God forbid that we\nChristians of England should seek our examples among the skin-clad\nidolaters of a savage country.'\n\n'Sir William would like to see war carried out on truly courteous\nprinciples,' said the first speaker. 'A battle should be like a stately\nminuet, with no loss of dignity or of etiquette.'\n\n'Sir,' the other answered hotly, 'I have been in battles when you were\nin your baby-linen, and I handled a battoon when you could scarce shake\na rattle. In leaguer or onfall a soldier's work is sharp and stern, but\nI say that the use of torture, which the law of England hath abolished,\nshould also be laid aside by the law of nations.'\n\n'Enough, gentlemen, enough!' cried the Duke, seeing that the dispute was\nlike to wax warm. 'Your opinion, Sir William, hath much weight with us,\nand yours also, Colonel Hearn. We shall discuss this at greater length\nin privacy. Halberdiers, remove the prisoner, and let a clergyman be\nsent to look to his spiritual needs!'\n\n'Shall we take him to the strong room, your Grace?' asked the Captain of\nthe guard.\n\n'No, to the old Boteler dungeon,' he replied; and I heard the next name\nupon the list called out, while I was led through a side door with a\nguard in front and behind me. We passed through endless passages and\ncorridors, with heavy stop and clank of arms, until we reached the\nancient wing. Here, in the corner turret, was a small, bare room, mouldy\nand damp, with a high, arched roof, and a single long slit in the outer\nwall to admit light. A small wooden couch and a rude chair formed\nthe whole of the furniture. Into this I was shown by the Captain, who\nstationed a guard at the door, and then came in after me and loosened\nmy wrists. He was a sad-faced man, with solemn sunken eyes and a\ndreary expression, which matched ill with his bright trappings and gay\nsword-knot.\n\n'Keep your heart up, friend,' said he, in a hollow voice. 'It is but a\nchoke and a struggle. A day or two since we had the same job to do, and\nthe man scarcely groaned. Old Spender, the Duke's marshal, hath as sure\na trick of tying and as good judgment in arranging a drop as hath Dun\nof Tyburn. Be of good heart, therefore, for you shall not fall into the\nhands of a bungler.'\n\n'I would that I could let Monmouth know that his letters were\ndelivered,' I exclaimed, seating myself on the side of the bed.\n\n'I' faith, they were delivered. Had you been the penny postman of Mr.\nRobert Murray, of whom we heard so much in London last spring, you could\nnot have handed it in more directly. Why did you not talk the Duke fair?\nHe is a gracious nobleman, and kind of heart, save when he is thwarted\nor angered. Some little talk as to the rebels' numbers and dispositions\nmight have saved you.'\n\n'I wonder that you, as a soldier, should speak or think of such a\nthing,' said I coldly.\n\n'Well, well! Your neck is your own. If it please you to take a leap into\nnothing it were pity to thwart you. But his Grace commanded that you\nshould have the chaplain. I must away to him.'\n\n'I prythee do not bring him,' said I. 'I am one of a dissenting stock,\nand I see that there is a Bible in yonder recess. No man can aid me in\nmaking my peace with God.'\n\n'It is well,' he answered, 'for Dean Hewby hath come over from\nChippenham, and he is discoursing with our good chaplain on the need of\nself-denial, moistening his throat the while with a flask of the prime\nTokay. At dinner I heard him put up thanks for what he was to receive,\nand in the same breath ask the butler how he dared to serve a deacon\nof the Church with a pullet without truffle dressing. But, perhaps, you\nwould desire Dean Hewby's spiritual help? No? Well, what I can do for\nyou in reason shall be done, since you will not be long upon our hands.\nAbove all, keep a cheery heart.'\n\nHe left the cell, but presently unlocked the door and pushed his dismal\nface round the corner. 'I am Captain Sinclair, of the Duke's household,'\nhe said, 'should you have occasion to ask for me. You had best have\nspiritual help, for I do assure you that there hath been something worse\nthan either warder or prisoner in this cell.'\n\n'What then?' I asked.\n\n'Why, marry, nothing less than the Devil,' he answered, coming in and\nclosing the door. 'It was in this way,' he went on, sinking his voice:\n'Two years agone Hector Marot, the highwayman, was shut up in this very\nBoteler dungeon. I was myself on guard in the corridor that night, and\nsaw the prisoner at ten o'clock sitting on that bed even as you are now.\nAt twelve I had occasion to look in, as my custom is, with the hope\nof cheering his lonely hours, when lo, he was gone! Yes, you may well\nstare. Mine eyes had never been off the door, and you can judge what\nchance there was of his getting through the windows. Walls and floor are\nboth solid stone, which might be solid rock for the thickness. When\nI entered there was a plaguy smell of brimstone, and the flame of my\nlanthorn burned blue. Nay, it is no smiling matter. If the Devil did not\nrun away with Hector Marot, pray who did? for sure I am that no angel of\ngrace could come to him as to Peter of old. Perchance the Evil One may\ndesire a second bird out of the same cage, and so I tell you this that\nyou may be on your guard against his assaults.'\n\n'Nay, I fear him not,' I answered.\n\n'It is well,' croaked the Captain. 'Be not cast down!' His head\nvanished, and the key turned in the creaking lock. So thick were the\nwalls that I could hear no sound after the door was closed. Save for\nthe sighing of the wind in the branches of the trees outside the narrow\nwindow, all was as silent as the grave within the dungeon.\n\nThus left to myself I tried to follow Captain Sinclair's advice as to\nthe keeping up of my heart, though his talk was far from being of a\ncheering nature. In my young days, more particularly among the sectaries\nwith whom I had been brought most in contact, a belief in the occasional\nappearance of the Prince of Darkness, and his interference in bodily\nform with the affairs of men, was widespread and unquestioning.\nPhilosophers in their own quiet chambers may argue learnedly on the\nabsurdity of such things, but in a dim-lit dungeon, cut off from the\nworld, with the grey gloaming creeping down, and one's own fate hanging\nin the balance, it becomes a very different matter. The escape, if the\nCaptain's story were true, appeared to border upon the miraculous. I\nexamined the walls of the cell very carefully. They were formed of great\nsquare stones cunningly fitted together. The thin slit or window was\ncut through the centre of a single large block. All over, as high as\nthe hand could reach, the face of the walls was covered with letters and\nlegends cut by many generations of captives. The floor was composed of\nold foot-worn slabs, firmly cemented together. The closest search failed\nto show any hole or cranny where a rat could have escaped, far less a\nman.\n\nIt is a very strange thing, my dears, to sit down in cold blood, and\nthink that the chances are that within a few hours your pulses will\nhave given their last throb, and your soul have sped away upon its final\nerrand. Strange and very awesome! The man who rideth down into the\npress of the battle with his jaw set and his grip tight upon reign and\nsword-hilt cannot feel this, for the human mind is such that one emotion\nwill ever push out another. Neither can the man who draws slow and\ncatching breaths upon the bed of deadly sickness be said to have\nexperience of it, for the mind weakened with disease can but submit\nwithout examining too closely that which it submits to. When, however,\na young and hale man sits alone in quiet, and sees present death hanging\nover him, he hath such food for thought that, should he survive and live\nto be grey-headed, his whole life will be marked and altered by those\nsolemn hours, as a stream is changed in its course by some rough bank\nagainst which it hath struck. Every little fault and blemish stands\nout clear in the presence of death, as the dust specks appear when the\nsunbeam shines into the darkened room. I noted them then, and I have, I\ntrust, noted them ever since.\n\nI was seated with my head bowed upon my breast, deeply buried in this\nsolemn train of thoughts, when I was startled by hearing a sharp click,\nsuch as a man might give who wished to attract attention. I sprang to my\nfeet and gazed round in the gathering gloom without being able to tell\nwhence it came. I had well-nigh persuaded myself that my senses had\ndeceived me, when the sound was repeated louder than before, and casting\nmy eyes upwards I saw a face peering in at me through the slit, or part\nof a face rather, for I could but see the eye and corner of the cheek.\nStanding on my chair I made out that it was none other than the farmer\nwho had been my companion upon the road.\n\n'Hush, lad!' he whispered, with a warning forefinger pushed through the\nnarrow crack. 'Speak low, or the guard may chance to hear. What can I do\nfor you?'\n\n'How did you come to know where I was?' I asked in astonishment.\n\n'Whoy, mun,' he answered, 'I know as much of this 'ere house as Beaufort\ndoes himsel'. Afore Badminton was built, me and my brothers has spent\nmany a day in climbing over the old Boteler tower. It's not the first\ntime that I have spoke through this window. But, quick; what can I do\nfor you?'\n\n'I am much beholden to you, sir,' I answered, 'but I fear that there is\nno help which you can give me, unless, indeed, you could convey news to\nmy friends in the army of what hath befallen me.'\n\n'I might do that,' whispered Farmer Brown. 'Hark ye in your ear, lad,\nwhat I never breathed to man yet. Mine own conscience pricks me at times\nover this bolstering up of a Papist to rule over a Protestant nation.\nLet like rule like, say I. At the 'lections I rode to Sudbury, and I\nput in my vote for Maister Evans, of Turnford, who was in favour o' the\nExclusionists. Sure enough, if that same Bill had been carried, the Duke\nwould be sitting on his father's throne. The law would have said yes.\nNow, it says nay. A wonderful thing is the law with its yea, yea, and\nnay, nay, like Barclay, the Quaker man, that came down here in a leather\nsuit, and ca'd the parson a steepleman. There's the law. It's no use\nshootin' at it, or passin' pikes through it, no, nor chargin' at it wi'\na troop of horse. If it begins by saying \"nay\" it will say \"nay\" to the\nend of the chapter. Ye might as well fight wi' the book o' Genesis. Let\nMonmouth get the law changed, and it will do more for him than all the\ndukes in England. For all that he's a Protestant, and I would do what I\nmight to serve him.'\n\n'There is a Captain Lockarby, who is serving in Colonel Saxon's\nregiment, in Monmouth's army,' said I. 'Should things go wrong with me,\nI would take it as a great kindness if you would bear him my love, and\nask him to break it gently, by word or by letter, to those at Havant.\nIf I were sure that this would be done, it would be a great ease to my\nmind.'\n\n'It shall be done, lad,' said the good farmer. 'I shall send my best man\nand fleetest horse this very night, that they may know the straits in\nwhich you are. I have a file here if it would help you.'\n\n'Nay,' I answered, 'human aid can do little to help me here.'\n\n'There used to be a hole in the roof. Look up and see if you can see\naught of it.'\n\n'It arches high above my head,' I answered, looking upwards; 'but there\nis no sign of any opening.'\n\n'There was one,' he repeated. 'My brother Roger hath swung himself down\nwi' a rope. In the old time the prisoners were put in so, like Joseph\ninto the pit. The door is but a new thing.'\n\n'Hole or no hole, it cannot help me,' I answered. 'I have no means\nof climbing to it. Do not wait longer, kind friend, or you may find\nyourself in trouble.'\n\n'Good-bye then, my brave heart,' he whispered, and the honest grey eye\nand corner of ruddy cheek disappeared from the casement. Many a time\nduring the course of the long evening I glanced up with some wild hope\nthat he might return, and every creak of the branches outside brought me\non to the chair, but it was the last that I saw of Farmer Brown.\n\nThis kindly visit, short as it was, relieved my mind greatly, for I had\na trusty man's word that, come what might, my friends should, at least,\nhave some news of my fate. It was now quite dark, and I was pacing up\nand down the little chamber, when the key turned in the door, and the\nCaptain entered with a rushlight and a great bowl of bread and milk.\n\n'Here is your supper, friend,' said he. 'Take it down, appetite or no,\nfor it will give you strength to play the man at the time ye wot of.\nThey say it was beautiful to see my Lord Russell die upon Tower Hill. Be\nof good cheer! Folk may say as much of you. His Grace is in a terrible\nway. He walketh up and down, and biteth his lip, and clencheth his hands\nlike one who can scarce contain his wrath. It may not be against you,\nbut I know not what else can have angered him.'\n\nI made no answer to this Job's comforter, so he presently left me,\nplacing the bowl upon the chair, with the rushlight beside it. I\nfinished the food, and feeling the better for it, stretched myself upon\nthe couch, and fell into a heavy and dreamless sleep. This may have\nlasted three or four hours, when I was suddenly awoken by a sound like\nthe creaking of hinges. Sitting up on the pallet I gazed around me. The\nrushlight had burned out and the cell was impenetrably dark. A greyish\nglimmer at one end showed dimly the position of the aperture, but all\nelse was thick and black. I strained my ears, but no further sound fell\nupon them. Yet I was certain that I had not been deceived, and that the\nnoise which had aroused me was within my very chamber. I rose and felt\nmy way slowly round the room, passing my hand over the walls and door.\nThen I paced backwards and forwards to test the flooring. Neither around\nme nor beneath me was there any change. Whence did the sound come from,\nthen? I sat down upon the side of the bed and waited patiently in the\nhope of hearing it once again.\n\nPresently it was repeated, a low groaning and creaking as though a door\nor shutter long disused was being slowly and stealthily opened. At the\nsame time a dull yellow light streamed down from above, issuing from a\nthin slit in the centre of the arched roof above me. Slowly as I watched\nit this slit widened and extended as if a sliding panel were being\npulled out, until a good-sized hole was left, through which I saw a\nhead, looking down at me, outlined against the misty light behind it.\nThe knotted end of a rope was passed through this aperture, and came\ndangling down to the dungeon floor. It was a good stout piece of hemp,\nstrong enough to bear the weight of a heavy man, and I found, upon\npulling at it, that it was firmly secured above. Clearly it was the\ndesire of my unknown benefactor that I should ascend by it, so I went\nup hand over hand, and after some difficulty in squeezing my shoulders\nthrough the hole I succeeded in reaching the room above. While I was\nstill rubbing my eyes after the sudden change from darkness into light,\nthe rope was swiftly whisked up and the sliding shutter closed once\nmore. To those who were not in the secret there was nothing to throw\nlight upon my disappearance.\n\nI found myself in the presence of a stout short man clad in a rude\njerkin and leather breeches, which gave him somewhat the appearance of a\ngroom. He wore a broad felt hat drawn down very low over his eyes, while\nthe lower part of his face was swathed round with a broad cravat. In his\nhand he bore a horn lanthorn, by the light of which I saw that the\nroom in which we were was of the same size as the dungeon beneath, and\ndiffered from it only in having a broad casement which looked out upon\nthe park. There was no furniture in the chamber, but a great beam ran\nacross it, to which the rope had been fastened by which I ascended.\n\n'Speak low, friend,' said the stranger. 'The walls are thick and the\ndoors are close, yet I would not have your guardians know by what means\nyou have been spirited away.'\n\n'Truly, sir,' I answered, 'I can scarce credit that it is other than a\ndream. It is wondrous that my dungeon should be so easily broken into,\nand more wondrous still that I should find a friend who would be willing\nto risk so much for my sake.'\n\n'Look there!' quoth he, holding down his lanthorn so as to cast its\nlight on the part of the floor where the panel was fitted. Can you not\nsee how old and crumbled is the stone-work which surrounds it? This\nopening in the roof is as old as the dungeon itself, and older far\nthan the door by which you were led into it. For this was one of those\nbottle-shaped cells or oubliettes which hard men of old devised for the\nsafe keeping of their captives. Once lowered through this hole into the\nstone-girt pit a man might eat his heart out, for his fate was sealed.\nYet you see that the very device which once hindered escape has now\nbrought freedom within your reach.'\n\n'Thanks to your clemency, your Grace,' I answered, looking keenly at my\ncompanion.\n\n'Now out on these disguises!' he cried, peevishly pushing back the\nbroad-edged hat and disclosing, as I expected, the features of the Duke.\n'Even a blunt soldier lad can see through my attempts at concealment.\nI fear, Captain, that I should make a bad plotter, for my nature is as\nopen--well, as thine is. I cannot better the simile.'\n\n'Your Grace's voice once heard is not easily forgot,' said I.\n\n'Especially when it talks of hemp and dungeons,' he answered, with a\nsmile. 'But if I clapped you into prison, you must confess that I have\nmade you amends by pulling you out again at the end of my line, like a\nminnow out of a bottle. But how came you to deliver such papers in the\npresence of my council?'\n\n'I did what I could to deliver them in private,' said I. 'I sent you a\nmessage to that effect.'\n\n'It is true,' he answered; 'but such messages come in to me from every\nsoldier who wishes to sell his sword, and every inventor who hath a long\ntongue and a short purse. How could I tell that the matter was of real\nimport?'\n\n'I feared to let the chance slip lest it might never return,' said I. 'I\nhear that your Grace hath little leisure during these times.'\n\n'I cannot blame you,' he answered, pacing up and down the room. 'But it\nwas untoward. I might have hid the despatches, yet it would have roused\nsuspicions. Your errand would have leaked out. There are many who envy\nmy lofty fortunes, and who would seize upon a chance of injuring me with\nKing James. Sunderland or Somers would either of them blow the least\nrumour into a flame which might prove unquenchable. There was naught for\nit, therefore, but to show the papers and to turn a harsh face on the\nmessenger. The most venomous tongue could not find fault in my conduct.\nWhat course would you have advised under such circumstances?' 'The most\ndirect,' I answered. 'Aye, aye, Sir. Honesty. Public men have, however,\nto pick their steps as best they may, for the straight path would lead\ntoo often to the cliff-edge. The Tower would be too scanty for its\nguests were we all to wear our hearts upon our sleeves. But to you in\nthis privacy I can tell my real thoughts without fear of betrayal or\nmisconstruction. On paper I will not write one word. Your memory must\nbe the sheet which bears my answer to Monmouth. And first of all, erase\nfrom it all that you have heard me say in the council-room. Let it be as\nthough it never were spoken. Is that done?'\n\n'I understand that it did not really represent your Grace's thoughts.'\n\n'Very far from it, Captain. But prythee tell me what expectation of\nsuccess is there among the rebels themselves? You must have heard your\nColonel and others discuss the question, or noted by their bearing which\nway their thoughts lay. Have they good hopes of holding out against the\nKing's troops?'\n\n'They have met with naught but success hitherto,' I answered.\n\n'Against the militia. But they will find it another thing when they have\ntrained troops to deal with. And yet--and yet!--One thing I know, that\nany defeat of Feversham's army would cause a general rising throughout\nthe country. On the other hand, the King's party are active. Every\npost brings news of some fresh levy. Albemarle still holds the militia\ntogether in the west. The Earl of Pembroke is in arms in Wiltshire.\nLord Lumley is moving from the east with the Sussex forces. The Earl of\nAbingdon is up in Oxfordshire. At the university the caps and gowns are\nall turning into head-pieces and steel fronts. James's Dutch regiments\nhave sailed from Amsterdam. Yet Monmouth hath gained two fights, and why\nnot a third? They are troubled waters--troubled waters!' The Duke paced\nbackwards and forwards with brows drawn down, muttering all this to\nhimself rather than to me, and shaking his head like one in the sorest\nperplexity.\n\n'I would have you tell Monmouth,' he said at last, 'that I thank him for\nthe papers which he hath sent me, and that I will duly read and weigh\nthem. Tell him also that I wish him well in his enterprise, and would\nhelp him were it not that I am hemmed in by those who watch me closely,\nand who would denounce me were I to show my true thoughts. Tell him\nthat, should he move his army into these parts, I may then openly\ndeclare myself; but to do so now would be to ruin the fortunes of my\nhouse, without in any way helping him. Can you bear him that message?'\n\n'I shall do so, your Grace.\n\n'Tell me,' he asked, 'how doth Monmouth bear himself in this\nenterprise?'\n\n'Like a wise and gallant leader,' I answered.\n\n'Strange,' he murmured; 'it was ever the jest at court that he had\nscarce energy or constancy enough to finish a game at ball, but would\never throw his racquet down ere the winning point was scored. His plans\nwere like a weather-vane, altered by every breeze. He was constant\nonly in his inconstancy. It is true that he led the King's troops in\nScotland, but all men knew that Claverhouse and Dalzell were the real\nconquerors at Bothwell Bridge. Methinks he resembles that Brutus in\nRoman history who feigned weakness of mind as a cover to his ambitions.'\n\nThe Duke was once again conversing with himself rather than with me, so\nthat I made no remark, save to observe that Monmouth had won the hearts\nof the lower people.\n\n'There lies his strength,' said Beaufort. 'The blood of his mother runs\nin his veins. He doth not think it beneath him to shake the dirty paw\nof Jerry the tinker, or to run a race against a bumpkin on the village\ngreen. Well, events have shown that he hath been right. These same\nbumpkins have stood by him when nobler friends have held aloof. I would\nI could see into the future. But you have my message, Captain, and\nI trust that, if you change it in the delivery, it will be in the\ndirection of greater warmth and kindliness. It is time now that you\ndepart, for within three hours the guard is changed, and your escape\nwill be discovered.'\n\n'But how depart?' I asked.\n\n'Through here,' he answered, pushing open the casement, and sliding the\nrope along the beam in that direction. 'The rope may be a foot or two\nshort, but you have extra inches to make matters even. When you have\nreached the ground, take the gravel path which turns to the right, and\nfollow it until it leads you to the high trees which skirt the park. The\nseventh of these hath a bough which shoots over the boundary wall. Climb\nalong the bough, drop over upon the other side, and you will find my\nown valet waiting with your horse. Up with you, and ride, haste, haste,\npost-haste, for the south. By morn you should be well out of danger's\nway.'\n\n'My sword?' I asked.\n\n'All your property is there. Tell Monmouth what I have said, and let him\nknow that I have used you as kindly as was possible.'\n\n'But what will your Grace's council say when they find that I am gone?'\nI asked.\n\n'Pshaw, man! Never fret about that! I will off to Bristol at daybreak,\nand give my council enough to think of without their having time to\ndevote to your fate. The soldiers will but have another instance of\nthe working of the Father of Evil, who hath long been thought to have a\nweakness for that cell beneath us. Faith, if all we hear be true, there\nhave been horrors enough acted there to call up every devil out of the\npit. But time presses. Gently through the casement! So! Remember the\nmessage.'\n\n'Adieu, your Grace!' I answered, and seizing the rope slipped rapidly\nand noiselessly to the ground, upon which he drew it up and closed the\ncasement. As I looked round, my eye fell upon the dark narrow slit which\nopened into my cell, and through which honest Farmer Brown had held\nconverse with me. Half-an-hour ago I had been stretched upon the prison\npallet without a hope or a thought of escape. Now I was out in the open\nwith no hand to stay me, breathing the air of freedom with the prison\nand the gallows cast off from me, as the waking man casts off his evil\ndreams. Such changes shake a man's soul, my children. The heart that can\nsteel itself against death is softened by the assurance of safety. So\nI have known a worthy trader bear up manfully when convinced that his\nfortunes had been engulfed in the ocean, but lose all philosophy on\nfinding that the alarm was false, and that they had come safely through\nthe danger. For my own part, believing as I do that there is nothing of\nchance in the affairs of this world, I felt that I had been exposed to\nthis trial in order to dispose me to serious thought, and that I had\nbeen saved that I might put those thoughts into effect. As an earnest of\nmy endeavour to do so I knelt down on the green sward, in the shadow of\nthe Boteler turret, and I prayed that I might come to be of use on\nthe earth, and that I might be helped to rise above my own wants and\ninterests, to aid forward whatever of good or noble might be stirring in\nmy days. It is well-nigh fifty years, my dears, since I bowed my spirit\nbefore the Great Unknown in the moon-tinted park of Badminton, but I\ncan truly say that from that day to this the aims which I laid down\nfor myself have served me as a compass over the dark waters of life--a\ncompass which I may perchance not always follow--for flesh is weak and\nfrail, but which hath, at least, been ever present, that I might turn to\nit in seasons of doubt and of danger.\n\nThe path to the right led through groves and past carp ponds for a mile\nor more, until I reached the line of trees which skirted the boundary\nwall. Not a living thing did I see upon my way, save a herd of\nfallow-deer, which scudded away like swift shadows through the\nshimmering moonshine. Looking back, the high turrets and gables of the\nBoteler wing stood out dark and threatening against the starlit sky.\nHaving reached the seventh tree, I clambered along the projecting bough\nwhich shot over the park wall, and dropped down upon the other side,\nwhere I found my good old dapple-grey awaiting me in the charge of a\ngroom. Springing to my saddle, I strapped my sword once more to my side,\nand galloped off as fast as the four willing feet could carry me on my\nreturn journey.\n\nAll that night I rode hard without drawing bridle, through sleeping\nhamlets, by moon-bathed farmhouses, past shining stealthy rivers, and\nover birch-clad hills. When the eastern sky deepened from pink into\nscarlet, and the great sun pushed his rim over the blue north Somerset\nhills, I was already far upon my journey. It was a Sabbath morning, and\nfrom every village rose the sweet tinkling and calling of the bells.\nI bore no dangerous papers with me now, and might therefore be more\ncareless as to my route. At one point I was questioned by a keen-eyed\ntoll-keeper as to whence I came, but my reply that I was riding direct\nfrom his Grace of Beaufort put an end to his suspicions. Further down,\nnear Axbridge, I overtook a grazier who was jogging into Wells upon his\nsleek cob. With him I rode for some time, and learned that the whole\nof North Somerset, as well as south, was now in open revolt, and that\nWells, Shepton Mallet, and Glastonbury were held by armed volunteers\nfor King Monmouth. The royal forces had all retired west, or east, until\nhelp should come. As I rode through the villages I marked the blue flag\nupon the church towers, and the rustics drilling upon the green, without\nany sign of trooper or dragoon to uphold the authority of the Stuarts.\n\nMy road lay through Shepton Mallet, Piper's Inn, Bridgewater, and North\nPetherton, until in the cool of the evening I pulled up my weary horse\nat the Cross Hands, and saw the towers of Taunton in the valley beneath\nme. A flagon of beer for the rider, and a sieveful of oats for the\nsteed, put fresh mettle into both of us, and we were jogging on our way\nonce more, when there came galloping down the side of the hill about\nforty cavaliers, as hard as their horses could carry them. So wild was\ntheir riding that I pulled up, uncertain whether they were friend or\nfoe, until, as they came whirling towards me, I recognised that the two\nofficers who rode in front of them were none other than Reuben Lockarby\nand Sir Gervas Jerome. At the sight of me they flung up their hands, and\nReuben shot on to his horse's neck, where he sat for a moment astride of\nthe mane, until the brute tossed him back into the saddle.\n\n'It's Micah! It's Micah!' he gasped, with his mouth open, and the tears\nhopping down his honest face.\n\n'Od's pitlikins, man, how did you come here?' asked Sir Gervas, poking\nme with his forefinger as though to see if I were really of flesh and\nblood. 'We were leading a forlorn of horse into Beaufort's country to\nbeat him up, and to burn his fine house about his ears if you had come\nto harm. There has just come a groom from some farmer in those parts who\nhath brought us news that you were under sentence of death, on which I\ncame away with my wig half frizzled, and found that friend Lockarby had\nleave from Lord Grey to go north with these troopers. But how have you\nfared?'\n\n'Well and ill,' I answered, wringing their kindly hands. 'I had not\nthought last night to see another sun rise, and yet ye see that I am\nhere, sound in life and limb. But all these things will take some time\nin the telling.'\n\n'Aye, and King Monmouth will be on thorns to see you. Right about, my\nlads, and back for the camp. Never was errand so rapidly and happily\nfinished as this of ours. It would have fared ill with Badminton had you\nbeen hurt.'\n\nThe troopers turned their horses and trotted slowly back to Taunton,\nwhile I rode behind them between my two faithful friends, hearing from\nthem all that had occurred in my absence, and telling my own adventures\nin return. The night had fallen ere we rode through the gates, where I\nhanded Covenant over to the Mayor's groom, and went direct to the castle\nto deliver an account of my mission.\n\n\n\nChapter XXVI. Of the Strife in the Council\n\nKing Monmouth's council was assembled at the time of my coming, and my\nentrance caused the utmost surprise and joy, as they had just heard news\nof my sore danger. Even the royal presence could not prevent several\nmembers, among whom were the old Mayor and the two soldiers of fortune,\nfrom springing to their feet and shaking me warmly by the hand. Monmouth\nhimself said a few gracious words, and requested that I should be seated\nat the board with the others.\n\n'You have earned the right to be of our council,' said he; 'and lest\nthere should be a jealousy amongst other captains that you should come\namong us, I do hereby confer upon you the special title of Scout-master,\nwhich, though it entail few if any duties in the present state of our\nforce, will yet give you precedence over your fellows. We had heard that\nyour greeting from Beaufort was of the roughest, and that you were in\nsore straits in his dungeons. But you have happily come yourself on the\nvery heels of him who bore the tidings. Tell us then from the beginning\nhow things have fared with you.'\n\nI should have wished to have limited my story to Beaufort and his\nmessage, but as the council seemed to be intent upon hearing a full\naccount of my journey, I told in as short and simple speech as I\ncould the various passages which had befallen me--the ambuscado of\nthe smugglers, the cave, the capture of the gauger, the journey in the\nlugger, the acquaintance with Farmer Brown, my being cast into prison,\nwith the manner of my release and the message wherewith I had been\ncommissioned. To all of this the council hearkened with the uttermost\nattention, while a muttered oath ever and anon from a courtier or a\ngroan and prayer from a Puritan showed how keenly they followed the\nvarious phases of my fortunes. Above all, they gave the greatest heed\nto Beaufort's words, and stopped me more than once when I appeared to be\npassing over any saying or event before they had due time to weigh\nit. When I at last finished they all sat speechless, looking into each\nother's faces and waiting for an expression of opinion.\n\n'On my word,' said Monmouth at last, 'this is a young Ulysses, though\nhis Odyssey doth but take three days in the acting. Scudery might not be\nso dull were she to take a hint from these smugglers' caves and sliding\npanels. How say you, Grey?'\n\n'He hath indeed had his share of adventure,' the nobleman answered, 'and\nhath also performed his mission like a fearless and zealous messenger.\nYou say that Beaufort gave you nought in writing?'\n\n'Not a word, my lord,' I replied.\n\n'And his private message was that he wished us well, and would join us\nif we were in his country?'\n\n'That was the effect, my lord.'\n\n'Yet in his council, as I understand, he did utter bitter things against\nus, putting affronts upon the King, and making light of his just claims\nupon the fealty of his nobility?'\n\n'He did,' I answered.\n\n'He would fain stand upon both sides of the hedge at once,' said King\nMonmouth. 'Such a man is very like to find himself on neither side, but\nin the very heart of the briars. It may be as well, however, that we\nshould move his way, so as to give him the chance of declaring himself.'\n\n'In any case, as your Majesty remembers,' said Saxon, 'we had determined\nto march Bristolwards and attempt the town.'\n\n'The works are being strengthened,' said I, 'and there are five thousand\nof the Gloucestershire train-bands assembled within. I saw the labourers\nat work upon the ramparts as I passed.'\n\n'If we gain Beaufort we shall gain the town,' quoth Sir Stephen\nTimewell. 'There are already a strong body of godly and honest folk\ntherein, who would rejoice to see a Protestant army within their gates.\nShould we have to beleaguer it we may count upon some help from within.'\n\n'Hegel und blitzen!' exclaimed the German soldier, with an impatience\nwhich even the presence of the King could not keep in bounds; 'how can\nwe talk of sieges and leaguers when we have not a breaching-piece in the\narmy?'\n\n'The Lard will find us the breaching-pieces,' cried Ferguson, in his\nstrange, nasal voice. 'Did the Lard no breach the too'ers o' Jericho\nwithoot the aid o' gunpooder? Did the Lard no raise up the man Robert\nFerguson and presairve him through five-and-thairty indictments and\ntwa-and-twenty proclamations o' the godless? What is there He canna do?\nHosannah! Hosannah!'\n\n'The Doctor is right,' said a square-faced, leather-skinned English\nIndependent. 'We talk too much o' carnal means and worldly chances,\nwithout leaning upon that heavenly goodwill which should be to us as a\nstaff on stony and broken paths. Yes, gentlemen,' he continued, raising\nhis voice and glancing across the table at some of the courtiers, 'ye\nmay sneer at words of piety, but I say that it is you and those like you\nwho will bring down God's anger upon this army.'\n\n'And I say so too,' cried another sectary fiercely.\n\n'And I,' 'And I,' shouted several, with Saxon, I think, among them.\n\n'Is it your wish, your Majesty, that we should be insulted at your very\ncouncil board?' cried one of the courtiers, springing to his feet with\na flushed face. 'How long are we to be subject to this insolence because\nwe have the religion of a gentleman, and prefer to practise it in the\nprivacy of our hearts rather than at the street corners with these\npharisees?'\n\n'Speak not against God's saints,' cried a Puritan, in a loud stern\nvoice. 'There is a voice within me which tells me that it were better to\nstrike thee dead--yea, even in the presence of the King--than to allow\nthee to revile those who have been born again.'\n\nSeveral had sprung to their feet on either side. Hands were laid upon\nsword-hilts, and glances as stern and as deadly as rapier thrusts were\nflashing backwards and forwards; but the more neutral and reasonable\nmembers of the council succeeded in restoring peace, and in persuading\nthe angry disputants to resume their seats.\n\n'How now, gentlemen?' cried the King, his face dark with anger, when\nsilence was at last restored. 'Is this the extent of my authority that\nye should babble and brawl as though my council-chamber were a Fleet\nStreet pot-house? Is this your respect for my person? I tell ye that I\nwould forfeit my just claims for ever, and return to Holland, or devote\nmy sword to the cause of Christianity against the Turk, rather than\nsubmit to such indignity. If any man he proved to have stirred up strife\namongst the soldiers or commonalty on the score of religion I shall\nknow how to deal with him. Let each preach to his own, but let him not\ninterfere with the flock of his neighbour. As to you, Mr. Bramwell,\nand you, Mr. Joyce, and you also, Sir Henry Nuttall, we shall hold ye\nexcused from attending these meetings until ye have further notice from\nus. Ye may now separate, each to your quarters, and to-morrow morning\nwe shall, with the blessing of God, start for the north to see what luck\nmay await our enterprise in those parts.'\n\nThe King bowed as a sign that the formal meeting was over, and taking\nLord Grey aside, he conversed with him anxiously in a recess. The\ncourtiers, who numbered in their party several English and foreign\ngentlemen, who had come over together with some Devonshire and Somerset\ncountry squires, swaggered out of the room in a body, with much clinking\nof spurs and clanking of swords. The Puritans drew gravely together and\nfollowed after them, walking not with demure and downcast looks, as was\ntheir common use, but with grim faces and knitted brows, as the Jews of\nold may have appeared when, 'To your tents, O Israel!' was still ringing\nin their ears.\n\nIndeed, religious dissension and sectarian heat were in the very air.\nOutside, on the Castle Green, the voices of preachers rose up like the\ndrone of insects. Every waggon or barrel or chance provision case had\nbeen converted into a pulpit, each with its own orator and little knot\nof eager hearkeners. Here was a russet-coated Taunton volunteer in\njackboots and bandolier, holding forth on the justification by works.\nFurther on a grenadier of the militia, with blazing red coat and white\ncross-belt, was deep in the mystery of the Trinity. In one or two\nplaces, where the rude pulpits were too near to each other, the sermons\nhad changed into a hot discussion between the two preachers, in which\nthe audience took part by hums or groans, each applauding the champion\nwhose creed was most in accordance with his own. Through this wild\nscene, made more striking by the ruddy flickering glare of the\ncamp-fires, I picked my way with a weight at my heart, for I felt how\nvain it must be to hope for success where such division reigned, Saxon\nlooked on, however, with glistening eyes, and rubbed his hands with\nsatisfaction.\n\n'The leaven is working,' quoth he. 'Something will come of all this\nferment.'\n\n'I see not what can come of it save disorder and weakness,' I answered.\n\n'Good soldiers will come of it, lad,' said he. 'They are all sharpening\nthemselves, each after his own fashion, on the whetstone of religion.\nThis arguing breedeth fanatics, and fanatics are the stuff out of which\nconquerors are fashioned. Have you not heard how Old Noll's army divided\ninto Presbyterians, Independents, Ranters, Anabaptists, Fifth Monarchy\nmen, Brownists, and a score of other sects, out of whose strife rose the\nfinest regiments that ever formed line upon a field of battle?\n\n          \"Such as do build their faith upon\n           The holy text of sword and gun.\"\n\nYou know old Samuel's couplet. I tell you, I would rather see them thus\nemployed than at their drill, for all their wrangling and jangling.'\n\n'But how of this split in the council?' I asked.\n\n'Ah, that is indeed a graver matter. All creeds may be welded together,\nbut the Puritan and the scoffer are like oil and water. Yet the Puritan\nis the oil, for he will be ever atop. These courtiers do but stand for\nthemselves, while the others are backed up by the pith and marrow of the\narmy. It is well that we are afoot to-morrow. The King's troops are, I\nhear, pouring across Salisbury Plain, but their ordnance and stores are\ndelaying them, for they know well that they must bring all they need,\nsince they can expect little from the goodwill of the country folk. Ah,\nfriend Buyse, wie geht es?'\n\n'Ganz gut,' said the big German, looming up before us through the\ndarkness. 'But, sapperment, what a cawing and croaking, like a rookery\nat sunset! You English are a strange people--yes, donnerwetter, a very\nstrange people! There are no two of you who think alike upon any subject\nunder Himmel! The Cavalier will have his gay coat and his loose word.\nThe Puritan will cut your throat rather than give up his sad-coloured\ndress and his Bible. \"King James!\" cry some, \"King Monmouth!\" say the\npeasants. \"King Jesus!\" says the Fifth Monarchy man. \"No King at all!\"\ncry Master Wade and a few others who are for a Commonwealth. Since I\nset foot on the Helderenbergh at Amsterdam, my head hath been in a whirl\nwith trying to understand what it is that ye desire, for before I have\ngot to the end of one man's tale, and begin to see a little through the\nfinsterniss, another will come with another story, and I am in as evil a\ncase as ever. But, my young Hercules, I am right glad to see you back\nin safety. I am half in fear to give you my hand now, after your recent\ntreatment of it. I trust that you are none the worse for the danger that\nyou have gone through.'\n\n'Mine eyelids are in truth a little heavy,' I answered. 'Save for an\nhour or two aboard the lugger, and about as long on a prison couch, I\nhave not closed eye since I left the camp.'\n\n'We shall fall in at the second bugle call, about eight of the clock,'\nsaid Saxon. 'We shall leave you, therefore, that you may restore\nyourself after your fatigues. 'With a parting nod the two old soldiers\nstrode off together down the crowded Fore Street, while I made the best\nof my way back to the Mayor's hospitable dwelling, where I had to repeat\nmy story all over again to the assembled household before I was at last\nsuffered to seek my room.\n\n\n\nChapter XXVII. Of the Affair near Keynsham Bridge\n\nMonday, June 21, 1685, broke very dark and windy, with dull clouds\nmoving heavily across the sky and a constant sputter of rain. Yet a\nlittle after daybreak Monmouth's bugles were blowing in every quarter\nof the town, from Tone Bridge to Shuttern, and by the hour appointed the\nregiments had mustered, the roll had been called, and the vanguard was\nmarching briskly out through the eastern gate. It went forth in the same\norder as it entered, our own regiment and the Taunton burghers bringing\nup the rear. Mayor Timewell and Saxon had the ordering of this part of\nthe army between them, and being men who had seen much service, they\ndrew the ordnance into a less hazardous position, and placed a strong\nguard of horse, a cannon's shot in the rear, to meet any attempt of the\nRoyal dragoons.\n\nIt was remarked on all sides that the army had improved in order and\ndiscipline during the three days' halt, owing perchance to the example\nof our own unceasing drill and soldierly bearing. In numbers it had\nincreased to nigh eight thousand, and the men were well fed and light\nof heart. With sturdy close-locked ranks they splashed their way through\nmud and puddle, with many a rough country joke and many a lusty stave\nfrom song or hymn. Sir Gervas rode at the head of his musqueteers, whose\nbefloured tails hung limp and lank with the water dripping from\nthem. Lockarby's pikemen and my own company of scythesmen were mostly\nlabourers from the country, who were hardened against all weathers, and\nplodded patiently along with the rain-drops glistening upon their ruddy\nfaces. In front were the Taunton foot; behind, the lumbering train of\nbaggage waggons, with the horse in the rear of them. So the long line\nwound its way over the hills.\n\nAt the summit, where the road begins to dip down upon the other side, a\nhalt was called to enable the regiments to close up, and we looked back\nat the fair town which many of us were never to see again. From the dark\nwalls and house roofs we could still mark the flapping and flutter of\nwhite kerchiefs from those whom we left behind. Reuben sat his horse\nbeside me, with his spare shirt streaming in the wind and his great\npikemen all agrin behind him, though his thoughts and his eyes were\ntoo far away to note them. As we gazed, a long thin quiver of sunshine\nslipped out between two cloud banks and gilded the summit of the\nMagdalene tower, with the Royal standard which still waved from it. The\nincident was hailed as a happy augury, and a great shout spread from\nrank to rank at the sight of it, with a waving of hats and a clattering\nof weapons. Then the bugles blew a fanfare, the drums struck up a point\nof war, Reuben thrust his shirt into his haversack, and on we marched\nthrough mud and slush, with the dreary clouds bending low over us, and\nbuttressed by the no less dreary hills on either side. A seeker for\nomens might have said that the heavens were weeping over our ill-fated\nventure.\n\nAll day we trudged along roads which were quagmires, over our ankles\nin mud, until in the evening we made our way to Bridgewater, where we\ngained some recruits, and also some hundred pounds for our military\nchest, for it was a well-to-do place, with a thriving coast trade\ncarried on down the River Parret. After a night in snug quarters we set\noff again in even worse weather than before. The country in these parts\nis a quagmire in the driest season, but the heavy rains had caused the\nfens to overflow, and turned them into broad lakes on either side of the\nroad. This may have been to some degree in our favour, as shielding us\nfrom the raids of the King's cavalry, but it made our march very\nslow. All day it was splashing and swashing through mud and mire, the\nrain-drops shining on the gun-barrels and dripping from the heavy-footed\nhorses. Past the swollen Parret, through Eastover, by the peaceful\nvillage of Bawdrip, and over Polden Hill we made our way, until the\nbugles sounded a halt under the groves of Ashcot, and a rude meal was\nserved out to the men. Then on again, through the pitiless rain, past\nthe wooded park of Piper's Inn, through Walton, where the floods were\nthreatening the cottages, past the orchards of Street, and so in the\ndusk of the evening into the grey old town of Glastonbury, where the\ngood folk did their best by the warmth of their welcome to atone for the\nbitterness of the weather.\n\nThe next morning was wet still and inclement, so the army made a short\nmarch to Wells, which is a good-sized town, well laid out, with a fine\ncathedral, which hath a great number of figures carved in stone and\nplaced in niches on the outer side, like that which we saw at Salisbury.\nThe townsfolk were strong for the Protestant cause, and the army was so\nwell received that their victual cost little from the military chest. On\nthis march we first began to come into touch with the Royal horse. More\nthan once when the rain mist cleared we saw the gleam of arms upon the\nlow hills which overlook the road, and our scouts came in with reports\nof strong bodies of dragoons on either flank. At one time they massed\nheavily upon our rear, as though planning a descent upon the baggage.\nSaxon, however, planted a regiment of pikes on either side, so that they\nbroke up again and glinted off over the hills.\n\nFrom Wells we marched upon the twenty-fourth to Shepton Mallet, with the\nominous sabres and helmets still twinkling behind and on either side of\nus.\n\nThat evening we were at Keynsham Bridge, less than two leagues from\nBristol as the crow flies, and some of our horse forded the river and\npushed on almost to the walls.\n\nBy morning the rain clouds had at last cleared, so Reuben and I rode\nslowly up one of the sloping green hills which rose behind the camp, in\nthe hope of gaining some sight of the enemy. Our men we left littered\nabout upon the grass, trying to light fires with the damp sticks, or\nlaying out their clothes to dry in the sunshine. A strange-looking band\nthey were, coated and splashed with mud from head to heel, their hats\nall limp and draggled, their arms rusted, and their boots so worn that\nmany walked barefoot, and others had swathed their kerchiefs round\ntheir feet. Yet their short spell of soldiering had changed them\nfrom honest-faced yokels into fierce-eyed, half-shaven, gaunt-cheeked\nfellows, who could carry arms or port pikes as though they had done\nnought else since childhood.\n\nThe plight of the officers was no better than that of the men, nor\nshould an officer, my dears, when he is upon service, ever demean\nhimself by partaking of any comfort which all cannot share with him. Let\nhim lie by a soldier's fire and eat a soldier's fare, or let him hence,\nfor he is a hindrance and a stumbling-block. Our clothes were pulp, our\nsteel fronts red with rust, and our chargers as stained and splashed as\nthough they had rolled in the mire. Our very swords and pistols were in\nsuch a plight that we could scarce draw the one or snap the other. Sir\nGervas alone succeeded in keeping his attire and his person as neat and\nas dainty as ever. What he did in the watches of the night, and how he\ngained his sleep, hath ever been a mystery to me, for day after day\nhe turned out at the bugle call, washed, scented, brushed, with wig\nin order, and clothes from which every speck of mud had been carefully\nremoved. At his saddle-bow he bore with him the great flour dredger\nwhich we saw him use at Taunton, and his honest musqueteers had their\nheads duly dusted every morning, though in an hour their tails would\nbe as brown as nature made them, while the flour would be trickling in\nlittle milky streams down their broad backs, or forming in cakes upon\nthe skirts of their coats. It was a long contest between the weather and\nthe Baronet, but our comrade proved the victor.\n\n'There was a time when I was called plump Reuben,' quoth my friend, as\nwe rode together up the winding track. 'What with too little that is\nsolid and too much that is liquid I am like to be skeleton Reuben ere I\nsee Havant again. I am as full of rain-water as my father's casks are of\nOctober. I would, Micah, that you would wring me out and hang me to dry\nupon one of these bushes.'\n\n'If we are wet, King James's men must be wetter,' said I, 'for at least\nwe have had such shelter as there was.'\n\n'It is poor comfort when you are starved to know that another is in\nthe same plight. I give you my word, Micah, I took in one hole of my\nsword-belt on Monday, two on Tuesday, one yesterday, and one to-day. I\ntell you, I am thawing like an icicle in the sun.'\n\n'If you should chance to dwindle to nought,' said I, laughing, 'what\naccount are we to give of you in Taunton? Since you have donned armour\nand taken to winning the hearts of fair maidens, you have outstripped us\nall in importance, and become a man of weight and substance.'\n\n'I had more substance and weight ere I began trailing over the\ncountryside like a Hambledon packman,' quoth he. 'But in very truth and\nwith all gravity, Micah, it is a strange thing to feel that the whole\nworld for you, your hopes, your ambitions, your all, are gathered into\nso small a compass that a hood might cover it, and two little pattens\nsupport it. I feel as if she were my own higher self, my loftier\npart, and that I, should I be torn from her, would remain for ever an\nincomplete and half-formed being. With her, I ask nothing else. Without\nher, all else is nothing.'\n\n'But have you spoken to the old man?' I asked. 'Are you indeed\nbetrothed?'\n\n'I have spoken to him,' my friend answered, 'but he was so busy in\nfilling ammunition cases that I could not gain his attention. When I\ntried once more he was counting the spare pikes in the Castle armoury\nwith a tally and an ink-horn. I told him that I had come to crave his\ngranddaughter's hand, on which he turned to me and asked, \"which hand?\"\nwith so blank a stare that it was clear that his mind was elsewhere. On\nthe third trial, though, the day that you did come back from Badminton,\nI did at last prefer my request, but he flashed out at me that this was\nno time for such fooleries, and he bade me wait until King Monmouth was\non the throne, when I might ask him again. I warrant that he did not\ncall such things fooleries fifty years ago, when he went a-courting\nhimself.'\n\n'At least he did not refuse you,' said I. 'It is as good as a promise\nthat; should the cause be successful, you shall be so too.'\n\n'By my faith,' cried Reuben, 'if a man could by his own single blade\nbring that about, there is none who hath so strong an interest in it as\nI. No, not Monmouth himself! The apprentice Derrick hath for a long time\nraised his eyes to his master's daughter, and the old man was ready to\nhave him as a son, so much was he taken by his godliness and zeal. Yet I\nhave learned from a side-wind that he is but a debauched and low-living\nman, though he covers his pleasures with a mask of piety. I thought as\nyou did think that he was at the head of the roisterers who tried to\nbear Mistress Ruth away, though, i' faith, I can scarce think harshly\nof them, since they did me the greatest service that ever men did yet.\nMeanwhile I have taken occasion, ere we left Wells two nights ago, to\nspeak to Master Derrick on the matter, and to warn him as he loved his\nlife to plan no treachery against her.\n\n'And how took he this mild intimation?' I asked.\n\n'As a rat takes a rat trap. Snarled out some few words of godly hatred,\nand so slunk away.'\n\n'On my life, lad,' said I, 'you have been having as many adventures in\nyour own way as I in mine. But here we are upon the hill-top, with as\nfair an outlook as man could wish to have.'\n\nJust beneath us ran the Avon, curving in long bends through the\nwoodlands, with the gleam of the sun striking back from it here and\nthere, as though a row of baby suns had been set upon a silver string.\nOn the further side the peaceful, many-hued country, rising and falling\nin a swell of cornfields and orchards, swept away to break in a fringe\nof forest upon the distant Malverns. On our right were the green hills\nnear Bath and on our left the rugged Mendips, with queenly Bristol\ncrouching behind her forts, and the grey channel behind flecked with\nsnow-white sails. At our very feet lay Keynsham Bridge, and our army\nspotted in dark patches over the green fields, the smoke of their fires\nand the babble of their voices floating up in the still summer air.\n\nA road ran along the Somersetshire bank of the Avon, and down this two\ntroops of our horse were advancing, with intent to establish outposts\nupon our eastern flank. As they jangled past in somewhat loose order,\ntheir course lay through a pine-wood, into which the road takes a sharp\nbend. We were gazing down at the scene when, like lightning from a\ncloud, a troop of the Horse Guards wheeled out into the open, and\nbreaking from trot to canter, and from canter to gallop, dashed down in\na whirlwind of blue and steel upon our unprepared squadrons. A crackle\nof hastily unslung carbines broke from the leading ranks, but in an\ninstant the Guards burst through them and plunged on into the second\ntroop. For a space the gallant rustics held their own, and the dense\nmass of men and horses swayed backwards and forwards, with the swirling\nsword-blades playing above them in flashes of angry light. Then blue\ncoats began to break from among the russet, the fight rolled wildly back\nfor a hundred paces, the dense throng was split asunder, and the Royal\nGuards came pouring through the rent, and swerved off to right and left\nthrough hedges and over ditches, stabbing and hacking at the fleeing\nhorsemen. The whole scene, with the stamping horses, tossing manes,\nshouts of triumph or despair, gasping of hard-drawn breath and musical\nclink and clatter of steel, was to us upon the hill like some wild\nvision, so swiftly did it come and so swiftly go. A sharp, stern\nbugle-call summoned the Blues back into the road, where they formed up\nand trotted slowly away before fresh squadrons could come up from the\ncamp. The sun gleamed and the river rippled as ever, and there was\nnothing save the long litter of men and horses to mark the course of the\nhell blast which had broken so suddenly upon us.\n\nAs the Blues retired we observed that a single officer brought up the\nrear, riding very slowly, as though it went much against his mood to\nturn his back even to an army. The space betwixt the troop and him was\nsteadily growing greater, yet he made no effort to quicken his pace,\nbut jogged quietly on, looking back from time to time to see if he were\nfollowed. The same thought sprang into my comrade's mind and my own at\nthe same instant, and we read it in each other's faces.\n\n'This path,' cried he eagerly. 'It brings us out beyond the grove, and\nis in the hollow all the way.'\n\n'Lead the horses until we get on better ground,' I answered. 'We may\njust cut him off if we are lucky.'\n\nThere was no time for another word, for we hurried off down the uneven\ntrack, sliding and slipping on the rain-soaked turf. Springing into our\nsaddles we dashed down the gorge, through the grove, and so out on to\nthe road in time to see the troop disappear in the distance, and to meet\nthe solitary officer face to face.\n\nHe was a sun-burned, high-featured man, with black mustachios, mounted\non a great raw-boned chestnut charger. As we broke out on to the road he\npulled up to have a good look at us. Then, having fully made up his mind\nas to our hostile intent, he drew his sword, plucked a pistol out of his\nholster with his left hand, and gripping the bridle between his teeth,\ndug his spurs into his horse's flanks and charged down upon us at the\ntop of his speed. As we dashed at him, Reuben on his bridle arm and I\non the other, he cut fiercely at me, and at the same moment fired at my\ncompanion. The ball grazed Reuben's cheek, leaving a red weal behind it\nlike a lash from a whip, and blackening his face with the powder. His\ncut, however, fell short, and throwing my arm round his waist as the two\nhorses dashed past each other, I plucked him from the saddle and drew\nhim face upwards across my saddlebow. Brave Covenant lumbered on with\nhis double burden, and before the Guards had learned that they had lost\ntheir officer, we had brought him safe, in spite of his struggles and\nwrithings, to within sight of Monmouth's camp.\n\n'A narrow shave, friend,' quoth Reuben, with his hand to his cheek. 'He\nhath tattooed my face with powder until I shall be taken for Solomon\nSprent's younger brother.'\n\n'Thank God that you are unhurt,' said I. 'See, our horse are advancing\nalong the upper road. Lord Grey himself rides at their head. We had best\ntake our prisoner into camp, since we can do nought here.'\n\n'For Christ's sake, either slay me or set me down!' he cried. 'I cannot\nbear to be carried in this plight, like a half-weaned infant, through\nyour campful of grinning yokels.'\n\n'I would not make sport of a brave man,' I answered. 'If you will give\nyour word to stay with us, you shall walk between us.'\n\n'Willingly,' said he, scrambling down and arranging his ruffled attire.\n'By my faith, sirs, ye have taught me a lesson not to think too meanly\nof mine enemies. I should have ridden with my troop had I thought that\nthere was a chance of falling in with outposts or videttes.'\n\n'We were upon the hill before we cut you off,' quoth Reuben. 'Had that\npistol ball been a thought straighter, it is I that should have been\ntruly the cut-off one. Zounds, Micah! I was grumbling even now that I\nhad fallen away, but had my cheek been as round as of old the slug had\nbeen through it.'\n\n'Where have I seen you before?' asked our captive, bending his dark\neyes upon me. 'Aye, I have it! It was in the inn at Salisbury, where\nmy light-headed comrade Horsford did draw upon an old soldier who was\nriding with you. Mine own name is Ogilvy--Major Ogilvy of the Horse\nGuards Blue. I was right glad that ye did come off safely from the\nhounds. Some word had come of your errand after your departure, so this\nsame Horsford with the Mayor and one or two other Tantivies, whose zeal\nmethinks outran their humanity, slipped the dogs upon your trail.'\n\n'I remember you well,' I answered. 'You will find Colonel Decimus Saxon,\nmy former companion, in the camp. No doubt you will be shortly exchanged\nfor some prisoner of ours.'\n\n'Much more likely to have my throat cut,' said he, with a smile. 'I\nfear that Feversham in his present temper will scarce pause to make\nprisoners, and Monmouth may be tempted to pay him back in his own\ncoin. Yet it is the fortune of war, and I should pay for my want of all\nsoldierly caution. Truth to tell, my mind was far from battles and ruses\nat the moment, for it had wandered away to aqua-regia and its action\nupon the metals, until your appearance brought me back to soldiership.'\n\n'The horse are out of sight,' said Reuben, looking backwards, 'ours as\nwell as theirs. Yet I see a clump of men over yonder at the other side\nof the Avon, and there on the hillside can you not see the gleam of\nsteel?'\n\n'There are foot there,' I answered, puckering my eyes. 'It seems to me\nthat I can discern four or five regiments and as many colours of horse.\nKing Monmouth should know of this with all speed.'\n\n'He does know of it,' said Reuben. 'Yonder he stands under the trees\nwith his council about him. See, one of them rides this way!'\n\nA trooper had indeed detached himself from the group and galloped\ntowards us. 'If you are Captain Clarke, sir,' he said, with a salute,\n'the King orders you to join his council.'\n\n'Then I leave the Major in your keeping, Reuben,' I cried. 'See that\nhe hath what our means allow.' So saying I spurred my horse, and soon\njoined the group who were gathered round the King. There were Grey,\nWade, Buyse, Ferguson, Saxon, Hollis, and a score more, all looking very\ngrave, and peering down the valley with their glasses. Monmouth himself\nhad dismounted, and was leaning against the trunk of a tree, with his\narms folded upon his breast, and a look of white despair upon his face.\nBehind the tree a lackey paced up and down leading his glossy black\ncharger, who pranced and tossed his lordly mane, a very king among\nhorses.\n\n'You see, friends,' said Monmouth, turning lack-lustre eyes from one\nleader to another, 'Providence would seem to be against us. Some new\nmishap is ever at our heels.'\n\n'Not Providence, your Majesty, but our own negligence,' cried Saxon\nboldly. 'Had we advanced on Bristol last night, we might have been on\nthe right side of the ramparts by now.'\n\n'But we had no thought that the enemy's foot was so near!' exclaimed\nWade.\n\n'I told ye what would come of it, and so did Oberst Buyse and the worthy\nMayor of Taunton,' Saxon answered. 'However, there is nought to be\ngained by mourning over a broken pipkin. We must e'en piece it together\nas best we may.'\n\n'Let us advance on Bristol, and put oor trust in the Highest,' quoth\nFerguson. 'If it be His mighty will that we should tak' it, then\nshall we enter into it, yea, though drakes and sakers lay as thick as\ncobblestanes in the streets.'\n\n'Aye! aye! On to Bristol! God with us!' cried several of the Puritans\nexcitedly.\n\n'But it is madness--dummheit--utter foolishness,' Buyse broke in hotly.\n'You have the chance and you will not take it. Now the chance is gone\nand you are all eager to go. Here is an army of, as near as I can judge,\nfive thousand men on the right side of the river. We are on the wrong\nside, and yet you talk of crossing and making a beleaguering of Bristol\nwithout breaching-pieces or spades, and with this force in our rear.\nWill the town make terms when they can see from their ramparts the van\nof the army which comes to help them? Or does it assist us in fighting\nthe army to have a strong town beside us, from which horse and foot can\nmake an outfall upon our flank? I say again that it is madness.'\n\nWhat the German soldier said was so clearly the truth that even the\nfanatics were silenced. Away in the east the long shimmering lines\nof steel, and the patches of scarlet upon the green hillside, were\narguments which the most thoughtless could not overlook.\n\n'What would you advise, then?' asked Monmouth moodily, tapping his\njewelled riding-whip against his high boots.\n\n'To cross the river and come to hand-grips with them ere they can\nget help from the town,' the burly German answered bluntly. 'I cannot\nunderstand what we are here for if it be not to fight. If we win, the\ntown must fall. If we lose, We have had a bold stroke for it, and can do\nno more.'\n\n'Is that your opinion, too, Colonel Saxon?' the King asked.\n\n'Assuredly, your Majesty, if we can fight to advantage. We can scarce\ndo that, however, by crossing the river on a single narrow bridge in\nthe face of such a force. I should advise that we destroy this Keynsham\nBridge, and march down this southern bank in the hope of forcing a fight\nin a position which we may choose.'\n\n'We have not yet summoned Bath,' said Wade. 'Let us do as Colonel Saxon\nproposes, and let us in the meantime march in that direction and send a\ntrumpet to the governor.'\n\n'There is yet another plan,' quoth Sir Stephen Timewell, 'which is to\nhasten to Gloucester, to cross the Severn there, and so march through\nWorcestershire into Shropshire and Cheshire. Your Majesty has many\nfriends in those parts.'\n\nMonmouth paced up and down with his hand to his forehead like one\ndistrait. 'What am I to do,' he cried at last, 'in the midst of all this\nconflicting advice, when I know that not only my own success, but the\nlives of these poor faithful peasants and craftsmen depend upon my\nresolution?'\n\n'With all humbleness, your Majesty,' said Lord Grey, who had just\nreturned with the horse, 'I should suggest, since there are only a few\ntroops of their cavalry on this side of the Avon, that we blow up the\nbridge and move onwards to Bath, whence we can pass into Wiltshire,\nwhich we know to be friendly.'\n\n'So be it!' cried the King, with the reckless air of one who accepts\na plan, not because it is the best, but because he feels that all are\nequally hopeless. 'What think you, gentlemen?' he added, with a bitter\nsmile. 'I have heard news from London this morning, that my uncle has\nclapped two hundred merchants and others who are suspected of being true\nto their creed into the Tower and the Fleet. He will have one half of\nthe nation mounting guard over the other half ere long.'\n\n'Or the whole, your Majesty, mounting guard over him,' suggested Wade.\n'He may himself see the Traitor's Gate some of these mornings.'\n\n'Ha, ha! Think ye so? think ye so!' cried Monmouth, rubbing his hands\nand brightening into a smile. 'Well, mayhap you have nicked the truth.\nWho knows? Henry's cause seemed a losing one until Bosworth Field\nsettled the contention. To your charges, gentlemen. We shall march in\nhalf-an-hour. Colonel Saxon and you, Sir Stephen, shall cover the rear\nand guard the baggage--a service of honour with this fringe of horse\nupon our skirts.'\n\nThe council broke up forthwith, every man riding off to his own\nregiment. The whole camp was in a stir, bugles blowing and drums\nrattling, until in a very short time the army was drawn up in order, and\nthe forlorn of cavalry had already started along the road which leads to\nBath. Five hundred horse with the Devonshire militiamen were in the van.\nAfter them in order came the sailor regiment, the North Somerset men,\nthe first Taunton regiment of burghers, the Mendip and Bagworthy miners,\nthe lace and wool-workers of Honiton, Wellington, and Ottery St. Mary;\nthe woodmen, the graziers, the marsh-men, and the men from the Quantock\ndistrict. Behind were the guns and the baggage, with our own brigade and\nfour colours of horse as a rearguard. On our march we could see the red\ncoats of Feversham keeping pace with us upon the other side of the Avon.\nA large body of his horse and dragoons had forded the stream and hovered\nupon our skirts, but Saxon and Sir Stephen covered the baggage so\nskilfully, and faced round so fiercely with such a snarl of musketry\nwhenever they came too nigh, that they never ventured to charge home.\n\n\n\nChapter XXVIII. Of the Fight in Wells Cathedral\n\nI am fairly tied to the chariot-wheels of history now, my dear children,\nand must follow on with name and place and date, whether my tale suffer\nby it or no. With such a drama as this afoot it were impertinent to\nspeak of myself, save in so far as I saw or heard what may make these\nold scenes more vivid to you. It is no pleasant matter for me to dwell\nupon, yet, convinced as I am that there is no such thing as chance\neither in the great or the little things of this world, I am very sure\nthat the sacrifices of these brave men were not thrown away, and that\ntheir strivings were not as profitless as might at first sight appear.\nIf the perfidious race of Stuart is not now seated upon the throne, and\nif religion in England is still a thing of free growth, we may, to my\nthinking, thank these Somerset yokels for it, who first showed how small\na thing would shake the throne of an unpopular monarch. Monmouth's\narmy was but the vanguard of that which marched throe years later into\nLondon, when James and his cruel ministers were flying as outcasts over\nthe face of the earth.\n\nOn the night of June 27, or rather early in the morning of June 28, we\nreached the town of Frome, very wet and miserable, for the rain had come\non again, and all the roads were quagmires. From this next day we pushed\non once more to Wells, where we spent the night and the whole of the\nnext day, to give the men time to get their clothes dry, and to recover\nthemselves after their privations.\n\nIn the forenoon a parade of our Wiltshire regiment was held in the\nCathedral Close, when Monmouth praised it, as it well deserved, for the\nsoldierly progress made in so short a time.\n\nAs we returned to our quarters after dismissing our men we came upon a\ngreat throng of the rough Bagworthy and Oare miners, who were assembled\nin the open space in front of the Cathedral, listening to one of their\nown number, who was addressing them from a cart. The wild and frenzied\ngestures of the man showed us that he was one of those extreme sectaries\nwhose religion runs perilously near to madness. The hums and groans\nwhich rose from the crowd proved, however, that his fiery words were\nwell suited to his hearers, so we halted on the verge of the multitude\nand hearkened to his address. A red-bearded, fierce-faced man he was,\nwith tangled shaggy hair tumbling over his gleaming eyes, and a hoarse\nvoice which resounded over the whole square.\n\n'What shall we not do for the Lord?' he cried; 'what shall we not do for\nthe Holy of Holies? Why is it that His hand is heavy upon us? Why is it\nthat we have not freed this land, even as Judith freed Bethulia? Behold,\nwe have looked for peace but no good came, and for a time of health, and\nbehold trouble! Why is this, I say? Truly, brothers, it is because we\nhave slighted the Lord, because we have not been wholehearted towards\nHim. Lo! we have praised Him with our breath, but in our deeds we have\nbeen cold towards Him. Ye know well that Prelacy is an accursed thing--a\nhissing and an abomination in the eyes of the Almighty! Yet what have\nwe, His servants, wrought for Him in this matter? Have we not seen\nPrelatist churches, churches of form and of show, where the creature is\nconfounded with the Creator--have we not seen them, I say, and have we\nnot forborne to sweep them away, and so lent our sanction to them? There\nis the sin of a lukewarm and back-sliding generation! There is the cause\nwhy the Lord should look coldly upon His people! Lo! at Shepton and at\nFrome we have left such churches behind us. At Glastonbury, too, we have\nspared those wicked walls which were reared by idolatrous hands of old.\nWoe unto ye, if, after having put your hands to God's plough, ye turn\nback from the work! See there!' he howled, facing round to the beautiful\nCathedral, 'what means this great heap of stones? Is it not an altar of\nBaal? Is it not built for man-worship rather than God-worship? Is it not\nthere that the man Ken, tricked out in his foolish rochet and baubles,\nmay preach his soulless and lying doctrines, which are but the old dish\nof Popery served up under a new cover? And shall we suffer this thing?\nShall we, the chosen children of the Great One, allow this plague-spot\nto remain? Can we expect the Almighty to help us when we will not\nstretch out a hand to help Him? We have left the other temples of\nPrelacy behind us. Shall we leave this one, too, my brothers?'\n\n'No, no!' yelled the crowd, tossing and swaying.\n\n'Shall we pluck it down, then, until no one stone is left upon another?'\n\n'Yes, yes!' they shouted.\n\n'Now, at once?'\n\n'Yes, yes!'\n\n'Then to work!' he cried, and springing from the cart he rushed towards\nthe Cathedral, with the whole mob of wild fanatics at his heels. Some\ncrowded in, shouting and yelling, through the open doors, while others\nswarmed up the pillars and pedestals of the front, hacking at the\nsculptured ornaments, and tugging at the grey old images which filled\nevery niche.\n\n'This must be stopped,' said Saxon curtly. 'We cannot afford to insult\nand estray the whole Church of England to please a few hot-headed\nranters. The pillage of this Cathedral would do our cause more harm than\na pitched battle lost. Do you bring up your company, Sir Gervas, and we\nshall do what we can to hold them in check until they come.'\n\n'Hi, Masterton!' cried the Baronet, spying one of his under-officers\namong the crowd who were looking on, neither assisting nor opposing the\nrioters. 'Do you hasten to the quarters, and tell Barker to bring up the\ncompany with their matches burning. I may be of use here.'\n\n'Ha, here is Buyse!' cried Saxon joyously, as the huge German ploughed\nhis way through the crowd. 'And Lord Grey, too! We must save the\nCathedral, my lord! They would sack and burn it.'\n\n'This way, gentlemen,' cried an old grey-haired man, running out towards\nus with hands outspread, and a bunch of keys clanking at his girdle. 'Oh\nhasten, gentlemen, if ye can indeed prevail over these lawless men! They\nhave pulled down Saint Peter, and they will have Paul down too unless\nhelp comes. There will not be an apostle left. The east window is\nbroken. They have brought a hogshead of beer, and are broaching it\nupon the high altar. Oh, alas, alas! That such things should be in a\nChristian land!' He sobbed aloud and stamped about in a very frenzy of\ngrief.\n\n'It is the verger, sirs,' said one of the townsfolk. 'He hath grown grey\nin the Cathedral.'\n\n'This way to the vestry door, my lords and gentlemen,' cried the old\nman, pushing a way strenuously through the crowd. 'Now, lack-a-day, the\nsainted Paul hath gone too!'\n\nAs he spoke a splintering crash from inside the Cathedral announced some\nfresh outrage on the part of the zealots. Our guide hastened on with\nrenewed speed, until he came to a low oaken door heavily arched, which\nhe unlocked with much rasping of wards and creaking of hinges. Through\nthis we sidled as best we might, and hurried after the old man down a\nstone-flagged corridor, which led through a wicket into the Cathedral\nclose by the high altar.\n\nThe great building was full of the rioters, who were rushing hither and\nthither, destroying and breaking everything which they could lay their\nhands on. A good number of these were genuine zealots, the followers of\nthe preacher whom we had listened to outside. Others, however, were on\nthe face of them mere rogues and thieves, such as gather round every\narmy upon the march. While the former were tearing down images from the\nwalls, or hurling the books of common prayer through the stained-glass\nwindows, the others were rooting up the massive brass candlesticks,\nand carrying away everything which promised to be of value. One ragged\nfellow was in the pulpit, tearing off the crimson velvet and hurling it\ndown among the crowd. Another had upset the reading-desk, and was busily\nengaged in wrenching off the brazen fastenings. In the centre of\nthe side aisle a small group had a rope round the neck of Mark the\nEvangelist, and were dragging lustily upon it, until, even as we\nentered, the statue, after tottering for a few moments, came crashing\ndown upon the marble floor. The shouts which greeted every fresh\noutrage, with the splintering of woodwork, the smashing of windows, and\nthe clatter of falling masonry, made up a most deafening uproar, which\nwas increased by the droning of the organ, until some of the rioters\nsilenced it by slitting up the bellows.\n\nWhat more immediately concerned ourselves was the scene which was being\nenacted just in front of us at the high altar. A barrel of beer had been\nplaced upon it, and a dozen ruffians gathered round it, one of whom with\nmany ribald jests had climbed up, and was engaged in knocking in the\ntop of the cask with a hatchet. As we entered he had just succeeded in\nbroaching it, and the brown mead was foaming over, while the mob with\nroars of laughter were passing up their dippers and pannikins. The\nGerman soldier rapped out a rough jagged oath at this spectacle, and\nshouldering his way through the roisterers he sprang upon the altar.\nThe ringleader was bending over his cask, black-jack in hand, when the\nsoldier's iron grip fell upon his collar, and in a moment his heels were\nflapping in the air, and his head three feet deep in the cask, while the\nbeer splashed and foamed in every direction. With a mighty heave Buyse\npicked up the barrel with the half-drowned miner inside, and hurled it\nclattering down the broad marble steps which led from the body of the\nchurch. At the same time, with the aid of a dozen of our men who had\nfollowed us into the Cathedral, we drove back the fellow's comrades, and\nthrust them out beyond the rails which divided the choir from the nave.\n\nOur inroad had the effect of checking the riot, but it simply did so by\nturning the fury of the zealots from the walls and windows to ourselves.\nImages, stone-work, and wood-carvings were all abandoned, and the whole\nswarm came rushing up with a hoarse buzz of rage, all discipline and\norder completely lost in their religious frenzy. 'Smite the Prelatists!'\nthey howled. 'Down with the friends of Antichrist! Cut them off even at\nthe horns of the altar! Down with them!' On either side they massed, a\nwild, half-demented crowd, some with arms and some without, but filled\nto a man with the very spirit of murder.\n\n'This is a civil war within a civil war,' said Lord Grey, with a quiet\nsmile. 'We had best draw, gentlemen, and defend the gap in the rails, if\nwe may hold it good until help arrives.' He flashed out his rapier as\nhe spoke, and took his stand on the top of the steps, with Saxon and Sir\nGervas upon one side of him, Buyse, Reuben, and myself upon the other.\nThere was only room for six to wield their weapons with effect, so our\nscanty band of followers scattered themselves along the line of the\nrails, which were luckily so high and strong as to make an escalado\ndifficult in the face of any opposition.\n\nThe riot had now changed into open mutiny among these marshmen and\nminers. Pikes, scythes, and knives glimmered through the dim light,\nwhile their wild cries re-echoed from the high arched roof like the\nhowling of a pack of wolves. 'Go forward, my brothers,' cried the\nfanatic preacher, who had been the cause of the outbreak--'go forward\nagainst them! What though they be in high places! There is One who\nis higher than they. Shall we shrink from His work because of a naked\nsword? Shall we suffer the Prelatist altar to be preserved by these sons\nof Amalek? On, on! In the name of the Lord!'\n\n'In the name of the Lord!' cried the crowd, with a sort of hissing gasp,\nlike one who is about to plunge into an icy bath. 'In the name of the\nLord!' From either side they came on, gathering speed and volume, until\nat last with a wild cry they surged right down upon our sword-points.\n\nI can say nothing of what took place to right or left of me during the\nruffle, for indeed there were so many pressing upon us, and the fight\nwas so hot, that it was all that each of us could do to hold our own.\nThe very number of our assailants was in our favour, by hampering their\nsword-arms. One burly miner cut fiercely at me with his scythe, but\nmissing me he swung half round with the force of the blow, and I passed\nmy sword through his body before he could recover himself. It was the\nfirst time that I had ever slain a man in anger, my dear children, and\nI shall never forget his white startled face as he looked over his\nshoulder at me ere he fell. Another closed in with me before I could get\nmy weapon disengaged, but I struck him out with my left hand, and then\nbrought the flat of my sword upon his head, laying him senseless\nupon the pavement. God knows, I did not wish to take the lives of the\nmisguided and ignorant zealots, but our own were at stake. A marshman,\nlooking more like a shaggy wild beast than a human being, darted under\nmy weapon and caught me round the knees, while another brought a flail\ndown upon my head-piece, from which it glanced on to my shoulder. A\nthird thrust at me with a pike, and pricked me on the thigh, but I shore\nhis weapon in two with one blow, and split his head with the next. The\nman with the flail gave back at sight of this, and a kick freed me from\nthe unarmed ape-like creature at my feet, so that I found myself clear\nof my assailants, and none the worse for my encounter, save for a touch\non the leg and some stiffness of the neck and shoulder.\n\nLooking round I found that my comrades had also beaten off those who\nwere opposed to them. Saxon was holding his bloody rapier in his left\nhand, while the blood was trickling from a slight wound upon his right.\nTwo miners lay across each other in front of him, but at the feet of\nSir Gervas Jerome no fewer than four bodies were piled together. He had\nplucked out his snuff-box as I glanced at him, and was offering it with\na bow and a flourish to Lord Grey, as unconcernedly as though he were\nback once more in his London coffee-house. Buyse leaned upon his long\nbroadsword, and looked gloomily at a headless trunk in front of him,\nwhich I recognised from the dress as being that of the preacher. As to\nReuben, he was unhurt himself, but in sore distress over my own trifling\nscar, though I assured the faithful lad that it was a less thing than\nmany a tear from branch or thorn which we had had when blackberrying\ntogether.\n\nThe fanatics, though driven back, were not men to be content with a\nsingle repulse. They had lost ten of their number, including their\nleader, without being able to break our line, but the failure only\nserved to increase their fury. For a minute or so they gathered panting\nin the aisle. Then with a mad yell they dashed in once more, and made a\ndesperate effort to cut a way through to the altar. It was a fiercer and\nmore prolonged struggle than before. One of our followers was stabbed to\nthe heart over the rails, and fell without a groan. Another was stunned\nby a mass of masonry hurled at him by a giant cragsman. Reuben was\nfelled by a club, and would have been dragged out and hacked to pieces\nhad I not stood over him and beaten off his assailants. Sir Gervas was\nborne off his legs by the rush, but lay like a wounded wildcat, striking\nout furiously at everything which came within his reach. Buyse and\nSaxon, back to back, stood firm amidst the seething, rushing crowd,\ncutting down every man within sweep of their swords. Yet in such a\nstruggle numbers must in the end prevail, and I confess that I for one\nhad begun to have fears for the upshot of our contest, when the heavy\ntramp of disciplined feet rang through the Cathedral, and the Baronet's\nmusqueteers came at a quick run up the central aisle. The fanatics did\nnot await their charge, but darted off over benches and pews, followed\nby our allies, who were furious on seeing their beloved Captain upon the\nground. There was a wild minute or two, with confused shuffling of feet,\nstabs, groans, and the clatter of musket butts on the marble floor. Of\nthe rioters some were slain, but the greater part threw down their arms\nand were arrested at the command of Lord Grey, while a strong guard was\nplaced at the gates to prevent any fresh outburst of sectarian fury.\n\nWhen at last the Cathedral was cleared and order restored, we had time\nto look around us and to reckon our own injuries. In all my wanderings,\nand the many wars in which I afterwards fought--wars compared to which\nthis affair of Monmouth's was but the merest skirmish--I have never seen\na stranger or more impressive scene. In the dim, solemn light the pile\nof bodies in front of the rails, with their twisted limbs and white-set\nfaces, had a most sad and ghost-like aspect. The evening light, shining\nthrough one of the few unbroken stained-glass windows, cast great\nsplotches of vivid crimson and of sickly green upon the heap of\nmotionless figures. A few wounded men sat about in the front pews or lay\nupon the steps moaning for water. Of our own small company not one had\nescaped unscathed. Three of our followers had been slain outright, while\na fourth was lying stunned from a blow. Buyse and Sir Gervas were much\nbruised. Saxon was cut on the right arm. Reuben had been felled by a\nbludgeon stroke, and would certainly have been slain but for the fine\ntemper of Sir Jacob Clancing's breastplate, which had turned a fierce\npike-thrust. As to myself it is scarce worth the mention, but my head\nsang for some hours like a good wife's kettle, and my boot was full of\nblood, which may have been a blessing in disguise, for Sneckson, our\nHavant barber, was ever dinning into my ears how much the better I\nshould be for a phlebotomy.\n\nIn the meantime all the troops had assembled and the mutiny been swiftly\nstamped out. There were doubtless many among the Puritans who had no\nlove for the Prelatists, but none save the most crack-brained fanatics\ncould fail to see that the sacking of the Cathedral would set the\nwhole Church of England in arms, and ruin the cause for which they were\nfighting. As it was, much damage had been done; for whilst the gang\nwithin had been smashing all which they could lay their hands upon,\nothers outside had chipped off cornices and gargoyles, and had even\ndragged the lead covering from the roof and hurled it down in great\nsheets to their companions beneath. This last led to some profit, for\nthe army had no great store of ammunition, so the lead was gathered up\nby Monmouth's orders and recast into bullets. The prisoners were held\nin custody for a time, but it was deemed unwise to punish them, so that\nthey were finally pardoned and dismissed from the army.\n\nA parade of our whole force was held in the fields outside the town upon\nthe second day of our stay at Wells, the weather having at last become\nwarm and sunny. The foot was then found to muster six regiments of nine\nhundred men, or five thousand four hundred in all. Of these fifteen\nhundred were musqueteers, two thousand were pikemen, and the rest were\nscythesmen or peasants with flails and hammers. A few bodies, such as\nour own or those from Taunton, might fairly lay claim to be soldiers,\nbut the most of them were still labourers and craftsmen with weapons\nin their hands. Yet, ill-armed and ill-drilled as they were, they were\nstill strong robust Englishmen, full of native courage and of religious\nzeal. The light and fickle Monmouth began to take heart once more at the\nsight of their sturdy bearing, and at the sound of their hearty cheers.\nI heard him as I sat my horse beside his staff speak exultantly to those\naround him, and ask whether these fine fellows could possibly be beaten\nby mercenary half-hearted hirelings.\n\n'What say you, Wade!' he cried. 'Are we never to see a smile on that sad\nface of yours? Do you not see a woolsack in store for you as you look\nupon these brave fellows?'\n\n'God forbid that I should say a word to damp your Majesty's ardour,' the\nlawyer answered; 'yet I cannot but remember that there was a time when\nyour Majesty, at the head of these same hirelings, did drive men as\nbrave as these in headlong rout from Bothwell Bridge.'\n\n'True, true!' said the King, passing his hand over his forehead--a\nfavourite motion when he was worried and annoyed. 'They were bold men,\nthe western Covenanters, yet they could not stand against the rush of\nour battalions. But they had had no training, whereas these can fight in\nline and fire a platoon as well as one would wish to see.'\n\n'If we hadna a gun nor a patronal among us,' said Ferguson, 'if we hadna\nsae muckle as a sword, but just oor ain honds, yet would the Lard gie us\nthe victory, if it seemed good in His a' seeing een.'\n\n'All battles are but chance work, your Majesty,' remarked Saxon, whose\nsword-arm was bound round with his kerchief. 'Some lucky turn, some slip\nor chance which none can foresee, is ever likely to turn the scale. I\nhave lost when I have looked to win, and I have won when I have looked\nto lose. It is an uncertain game, and one never knows the finish till\nthe last card is played.'\n\n'Not till the stakes are drawn,' said Buyse, in his deep guttural voice.\n'There is many a leader that wins what you call the trick, and yet loses\nthe game.'\n\n'The trick being the battle and the game the campaign,' quoth the King,\nwith a smile. 'Our German friend is a master of camp-fire metaphors. But\nmethinks our poor horses are in a sorry state. What would cousin William\nover at The Hague, with his spruce guards, think of such a show as\nthis?'\n\nDuring this talk the long column of foot had tramped past, still bearing\nthe banners which they had brought with them to the wars, though much\nthe worse for wind and weather. Monmouth's remarks had been drawn forth\nby the aspect of the ten troops of horse which followed. The chargers\nhad been sadly worn by the continued work and constant rain, while the\nriders, having allowed their caps and fronts to get coated with rust,\nappeared to be in as bad a plight as their steeds. It was clear to the\nleast experienced of us that if we were to hold our own it was upon\nour foot that we must rely. On the tops of the low hills all round the\nfrequent shimmer of arms, glancing here and there when the sun's rays\nstruck upon them, showed how strong our enemies were in the very point\nin which we were so weak. Yet in the main this Wells review was cheering\nto us, as showing that the men kept in good heart, and that there was no\nill-feeling at the rough handling of the zealots upon the day before.\n\nThe enemy's horse hovered about us during these days, but the foot had\nbeen delayed through the heavy weather and the swollen streams. On the\nlast day of June we marched out of Wells, and made our way across flat\nsedgy plains and over the low Polden Hills to Bridgewater, where we\nfound some few recruits awaiting us. Here Monmouth had some thoughts\nof making a stand, and even set to work raising earthworks, but it was\npointed out to him that, even could he hold the town, there was not more\nthan a few days' provisions within it, while the country round had been\nalready swept so bare that little more could be expected from it. The\nworks were therefore abandoned, and, fairly driven to bay, without a\nloophole of escape left, we awaited the approach of the enemy.\n\n\n\nChapter XXIX. Of the Great Cry from the Lonely House\n\nAnd so our weary marching and counter-marching came at last to an end,\nand we found ourselves with our backs fairly against the wall, and the\nwhole strength of the Government turned against us. Not a word came\nto us of a rising or movement in our favour in any part of England.\nEverywhere the Dissenters were cast into prison and the Church dominant.\nFrom north and east and west the militia of the counties was on its\nmarch against us. In London six regiments of Dutch troops had arrived as\na loan from the Prince of Orange. Others were said to be on their way.\nThe City had enrolled ten thousand men. Everywhere there was mustering\nand marching to succour the flower of the English army, which was\nalready in Somersetshire. And all for the purpose of crushing some five\nor six thousand clodhoppers and fishermen, half-armed and penniless, who\nwere ready to throw their lives away for a man and for an idea.\n\nBut this idea, my dear children, was a noble one, and one which a man\nmight very well sacrifice all for, and yet feel that all was well spent.\nFor though these poor peasants, in their dumb, blundering fashion, would\nhave found it hard to give all their reasons in words, yet in the inmost\nheart of them they knew and felt that it was England's cause which they\nwere fighting for, and that they were upholding their country's true\nself against those who would alter the old systems under which she had\nled the nations. Three more years made all this very plain, and showed\nthat our simple unlettered followers had seen and judged the signs of\nthe times more correctly than those who called themselves their betters.\nThere are, to my thinking, stages of human progress for which the Church\nof Rome is admirably suited. Where the mind of a nation is young, it may\nbe best that it should not concern itself with spiritual affairs, but\nshould lean upon the old staff of custom and authority. But England had\ncast off her swaddling-clothes, and was a nursery of strong, thinking\nmen, who would bow to no authority save that which their reason and\nconscience approved. It was hopeless, useless, foolish, to try to drive\nsuch men back into a creed which they had outgrown. Such an attempt was,\nhowever, being made, backed by all the weight of a bigoted king with a\npowerful and wealthy Church as his ally. In three years the nation would\nunderstand it, and the King would be flying from his angry people; but\nat present, sunk in a torpor after the long civil wars and the corrupt\nreign of Charles, they failed to see what was at stake, and turned\nagainst those who would warn them, as a hasty man turns on the messenger\nwho is the bearer of evil tidings. Is it not strange, my dears, how\nquickly a mere shadowy thought comes to take living form, and grow into\na very tragic reality? At one end of the chain is a king brooding over a\npoint of doctrine; at the other are six thousand desperate men, chivied\nand chased from shire to shire, standing to bay at last amid the bleak\nBridgewater marshes, with their hearts as bitter and as hopeless as\nthose of hunted beasts of prey. A king's theology is a dangerous thing\nfor his subjects.\n\nBut if the idea for which these poor men fought was a worthy one, what\nshall we say of the man who had been chosen as the champion of their\ncause? Alas, that such men should have had such a leader! Swinging from\nthe heights of confidence to the depths of despair, choosing his future\ncouncil of state one day and proposing to fly from the army on the\nnext, he appeared from the start to be possessed by the very spirit\nof fickleness. Yet he had borne a fair name before this enterprise. In\nScotland he had won golden opinions, not only for his success, but for\nthe moderation and mercy with which he treated the vanquished. On the\nContinent he had commanded an English brigade in a way that earned\npraise from old soldiers of Louis and the Empire. Yet now, when his own\nhead and his own fortunes were at stake, he was feeble, irresolute, and\ncowardly. In my father's phrase, 'all the virtue had gone out of him.'\nI declare when I have seen him riding among his troops, with his head\nbowed upon his breast and a face like a mute at a burying, casting an\nair of gloom and of despair all round him, I have felt that, even in\ncase of success, such a man could never wear the crown of the Tudors and\nthe Plantagenets, but that some stronger hand, were it that of one of\nhis own generals, would wrest it from him.\n\nI will do Monmouth the justice to say that from the time when it was at\nlast decided to fight--for the very good reason that no other course was\nopen--he showed up in a more soldierly and manlier spirit. For the first\nfew days in July no means were neglected to hearten our troops and to\nnerve them for the coming battle. From morning to night we were at work,\nteaching our foot how to form up in dense groups to meet the charge of\nhorse, and how to depend upon each other, and look to their officers for\norders. At night the streets of the little town from the Castle Field\nto the Parret Bridge resounded with the praying and the preaching. There\nwas no need for the officers to quell irregularities, for the troops\npunished them amongst themselves. One man who came out on the streets\nhot with wine was well-nigh hanged by his companions, who finally cast\nhim out of the town as being unworthy to fight in what they looked\nupon as a sacred quarrel. As to their courage, there was no occasion to\nquicken that, for they were as fearless as lions, and the only danger\nwas lest their fiery daring should lead them into foolhardiness. Their\ndesire was to hurl themselves upon the enemy like a horde of Moslem\nfanatics, and it was no easy matter to drill such hot-headed fellows\ninto the steadiness and caution which war demands.\n\nProvisions ran low upon the third day of our stay in Bridgewater, which\nwas due to our having exhausted that part of the country before, and\nalso to the vigilance of the Royal Horse, who scoured the district round\nand cut off our supplies. Lord Grey determined, therefore, to send\nout two troops of horse under cover of night, to do what they could to\nrefill the larder. The command of the small expedition was given over\nto Major Martin Hooker, an old Lifeguardsman of rough speech and curt\nmanners, who had done good service in drilling the headstrong farmers\nand yeomen into some sort of order. Sir Gervas Jerome and I asked leave\nfrom Lord Grey to join the foray--a favour which was readily granted,\nsince there was little stirring in the town.\n\nIt was about eleven o'clock on a moonless night that we sallied out\nof Bridgewater, intending to explore the country in the direction of\nBoroughbridge and Athelney. We had word that there was no large body\nof the enemy in that quarter, and it was a fertile district where\ngood store of supplies might be hoped for. We took with us four empty\nwaggons, to carry whatever we might have the luck to find. Our commander\narranged that one troop should ride before these and one behind, while a\nsmall advance party, under the charge of Sir Gervas, kept some hundreds\nof paces in front. In this order we clattered out of the town just as\nthe late bugles were blowing, and swept away down the quiet shadowy\nroads, bringing anxious peering faces to the casements of the wayside\ncottages as we whirled past in the darkness.\n\nThat ride comes very clearly before me as I think of it. The dark loom\nof the club-headed willows flitting by us, the moaning of the breeze\namong the withies, the vague, blurred figures of the troopers, the dull\nthud of the hoofs, and the jingling of scabbard against stirrup--eye and\near can both conjure up those old-time memories. The Baronet and I rode\nin front, knee against knee, and his light-hearted chatter of life in\ntown, with his little snatches of verse or song from Cowley or Waller,\nwere a very balm of Gilead to my sombre and somewhat heavy spirit.\n\n'Life is indeed life on such a night as this,' quoth he, as we breathed\nin the fresh country air with the reeks of crops and of kine. 'Rabbit\nme! but you are to be envied, Clarke, for having been born and bred in\nthe country! What pleasures has the town to offer compared to the free\ngifts of nature, provided always that there be a perruquier's and\na snuff merchant's, and a scent vendor's, and one or two tolerable\noutfitters within reach? With these and a good coffee-house and a\nplayhouse, I think I could make shift to lead a simple pastoral life for\nsome months.'\n\n'In the country,' said I, laughing, 'we have ever the feeling that the\ntrue life of mankind, with the growth of knowledge and wisdom, are being\nwrought out in the towns.'\n\n'Ventre Saint-Gris! It was little knowledge or wisdom that I acquired\nthere,' he answered. 'Truth to tell, I have lived more and learned more\nduring these few weeks that we have been sliding about in the rain with\nour ragged lads, than ever I did when I was page of the court, with the\nball of fortune at my feet. It is a sorry thing for a man's mind to have\nnothing higher to dwell upon than the turning of a compliment or the\ndancing of a corranto. Zounds, lad! I have your friend the carpenter to\nthank for much. As he says in his letter, unless a man can get the good\nthat is in him out, he is of loss value in the world than one of those\nfowls that we hear cackling, for they at least fulfill their mission, if\nit be only to lay eggs. Ged, it is a new creed for me to be preaching!'\n\n'But,' said I, 'when you were a wealthy man you must have been of\nservice to some one, for how could one spend so much money and yet none\nbe the better?'\n\n'You dear bucolic Micah!' he cried, with a gay laugh. 'You will ever\nspeak of my poor fortune with bated breath and in an awestruck voice, as\nthough it were the wealth of the Indies. You cannot think, lad, how easy\nit is for a money-bag to take unto itself wings and fly. It is true that\nthe man who spends it doth not consume the money, but passes it on to\nsome one who profits thereby. Yet the fault lies in the fact that it was\nto the wrong folk that we passed our money, thereby breeding a useless\nand debauched class at the expense of honest callings. Od's fish, lad!\nwhen I think of the swarms of needy beggars, the lecherous pimps, the\nnose-slitting bullies, the toadies and the flatterers who were reared by\nus, I feel that in hatching such a poisonous brood our money hath done\nwhat no money can undo. Have I not seen them thirty deep of a morning\nwhen I have held my levee, cringing up to my bedside--'\n\n'Your bedside!' I exclaimed.\n\n'Aye! it was the mode to receive in bed, attired in laced cambric\nshirt and periwig, though afterwards it was permitted to sit up in your\nchamber, but dressed _a la negligence_, in gown and slippers. The mode\nis a terrible tyrant, Clarke, though its arm may not extend as far as\nHavant. The idle man of the town must have some rule of life, so he\nbecomes a slave to the law of the fashions. No man in London was more\nsubject to it than myself. I was regular in my irregularities, and\norderly in my disorders. At eleven o'clock to the stroke, up came my\nvalet with the morning cup of hippocras, an excellent thing for the\nqualms, and some slight refection, as the breast of an ortolan or wing\nof a widgeon. Then came the levee, twenty, thirty, or forty of the class\nI have spoken of, though now and then perhaps there might be some honest\ncase of want among them, some needy man-of-letters in quest of a guinea,\nor pupil-less pedant with much ancient learning in his head and very\nlittle modern coinage in his pocket. It was not only that I had some\npower of mine own, but I was known to have the ear of my Lord Halifax,\nSidney Godolphin, Lawrence Hyde, and others whose will might make or mar\na man. Mark you those lights upon the left! Would it not be well to see\nif there is not something to be had there?'\n\n'Hooker hath orders to proceed to a certain farm,' I answered. 'This we\ncould take upon our return should we still have space. We shall be back\nhere before morning.'\n\n'We must get supplies, if I have to ride back to Surrey for them,' said\nhe. 'Rat me, if I dare look my musqueteers in the face again unless I\nbring them something to toast upon the end of their ramrods! They had\nlittle more savoury than their own bullets to put in their mouths when\nI left them. But I was speaking of old days in London. Our time was\nwell filled. Should a man of quality incline to sport there was ever\nsomething to attract him. He might see sword-playing at Hockley, or\ncocking at Shoe Lane, or baiting at Southwark, or shooting at Tothill\nFields. Again, he might walk in the physic gardens of St. James's, or go\ndown the river with the ebb tide to the cherry orchards at Rotherhithe,\nor drive to Islington to drink the cream, or, above all, walk in the\nPark, which is most modish for a gentleman who dresses in the fashion.\nYou see, Clarke, that we were active in our idleness, and that there was\nno lack of employment. Then as evening came on there were the playhouses\nto draw us, Dorset Gardens, Lincoln's Inn, Drury Lane, and the\nQueen's--among the four there was ever some amusement to be found.'\n\n'There, at least, your time was well employed,' said I; 'you could\nnot hearken to the grand thoughts or lofty words of Shakespeare or of\nMassinger without feeling some image of them in your own soul.'\n\nSir Gervas chuckled quietly. 'You are as fresh to me, Micah, as this\nsweet country air,' said he. 'Know, thou dear babe, that it was not to\nsee the play that we frequented the playhouse.'\n\n'Then why, in Heaven's name?' I asked.\n\n'To see each other,' he answered. 'It was the mode, I assure you, for a\nman of fashion to stand with his back turned to the stage from the\nrise of the curtain to the fall of it. There were the orange wenches to\nquiz--plaguey sharp of tongue the hussies are, too--and there were the\nvizards of the pit, whose little black masks did invite inquiry, and\nthere were the beauties of the town and the toasts of the Court,\nall fair mark for our quizzing-glasses. Play, indeed! S'bud, we had\nsomething better to do than to listen to alexandrines or weigh the\nmerits of hexameters! 'Tis true that if La Jeune were dancing, or if\nMrs. Bracegirdle or Mrs. Oldfield came upon the boards, we would hum\nand clap, but it was the fine woman that we applauded rather than the\nactress.'\n\n'And when the play was over you went doubtless to supper and so to bed?'\n\n'To supper, certainly. Sometimes to the Rhenish House, sometimes to\nPontack's in Abchurch Lane. Every one had his own taste in that matter.\nThen there were dice and cards at the Groom Porter's or under the arches\nat Covent Garden, piquet, passage, hazard, primero--what you choose.\nAfter that you could find all the world at the coffee-houses, where an\narriere supper was often served with devilled bones and prunes, to drive\nthe fumes of wine from the head. Zounds, Micah! If the Jews should relax\ntheir pressure, or if this war brings us any luck, you shall come to\ntown with me and shall see all these things for yourself.'\n\n'Truth to tell, it doth not tempt me much,' I answered. 'Slow and solemn\nI am by nature, and in such scenes as you have described I should feel a\nvery death's head at a banquet.'\n\nSir Gervas was about to reply, when of a sudden out of the silence\nof the night there rose a long-drawn piercing scream, which thrilled\nthrough every nerve of our bodies. I have never heard such a wail of\ndespair. We pulled up our horses, as did the troopers behind us, and\nstrained our ears for some sign as to whence the sound proceeded, for\nsome were of opinion that it came from our right and some from our left.\nThe main body with the waggons had come up, and we all listened intently\nfor any return of the terrible cry. Presently it broke upon us again,\nwild, shrill, and agonised: the scream of a woman in mortal distress.\n\n'Tis over there, Major Hooker,' cried Sir Gervas, standing up in his\nstirrups and peering through the darkness. 'There is a house about two\nfields off. I can see some glimmer, as from a window with the blind\ndrawn.'\n\n'Shall we not make for it at once?' I asked impatiently, for our\ncommander sat stolidly upon his horse as though by no means sure what\ncourse he should pursue.\n\n'I am here, Captain Clarke,' said he, 'to convey supplies to the army,\nand I am by no means justified in turning from my course to pursue other\nadventures.'\n\n'Death, man! there is a woman in distress,' cried Sir Gervas. 'Why,\nMajor, you would not ride past and let her call in vain for help? Hark,\nthere she is again!' As he spoke the wild scream rang out once more from\nthe lonely house.\n\n'Nay, I can abide this no longer,' I cried, my blood boiling in my\nveins; 'do you go on your errand, Major Hooker, and my friend and I\nshall leave you here. We shall know how to justify our action to the\nKing. Come, Sir Gervas!'\n\n'Mark ye, this is flat mutiny, Captain Clarke,' said Hooker; 'you are\nunder my orders, and should you desert me you do so at your peril.'\n\n'In such a case I care not a groat for thy orders,' I answered hotly.\nTurning Covenant I spurred down a narrow, deeply-rutted lane which\nled towards the house, followed by Sir Gervas and two or three of the\ntroopers. At the same moment I heard a sharp word of command from Hooker\nand the creaking of wheels, showing that he had indeed abandoned us and\nproceeded on his mission.\n\n'He is right,' quoth the Baronet, as we rode down the lane; 'Saxon or\nany other old soldier would commend his discipline.'\n\n'There are things which are higher than discipline,' I muttered.\n'I could not pass on and leave this poor soul in her distress. But\nsee--what have we here?'\n\nA dark mass loomed in front of us, which proved as we approached to be\nfour horses fastened by their bridles to the hedge.\n\n'Cavalry horses, Captain Clarke!' cried one of the troopers who had\nsprung down to examine them. 'They have the Government saddle and\nholsters. Here is a wooden gate which opens on a pathway leading to the\nhouse.'\n\n'We had best dismount, then,' said Sir Gervas, jumping down and tying\nhis horse beside the others. 'Do you, lads, stay by the horses, and if\nwe call for ye come to our aid. Sergeant Holloway, you can come with us.\nBring your pistols with you!'\n\n\n\nChapter XXX. Of the Swordsman with the Brown Jacket\n\nThe sergeant, who was a great raw-boned west-countryman, pushed the gate\nopen, and we were advancing up the winding pathway, when a stream of\nyellow light flooded out from a suddenly opened door, and we saw a dark\nsquat figure dart through it into the inside of the house. At the same\nmoment there rose up a babel of sounds, followed by two pistol shots,\nand a roaring, gasping hubbub, with clash of swords and storm of oaths.\nAt this sudden uproar we all three ran at our topmost speed up the\npathway and peered in through the open door, where we saw a scene such\nas I shall never forget while this old memory of mine can conjure up any\npicture of the past.\n\nThe room was large and lofty, with long rows of hams and salted meats\ndangling from the smoke-browned rafters, as is usual in Somersetshire\nfarmhouses. A high black clock ticked in a corner, and a rude table,\nwith plates and dishes laid out as for a meal, stood in the centre.\nRight in front of the door a great fire of wood faggots was blazing, and\nbefore this, to our unutterable horror, there hung a man head downwards,\nsuspended by a rope which was knotted round his ankles, and which,\npassing over a hook in a beam, had been made fast to a ring in the\nfloor. The struggles of this unhappy man had caused the rope to whirl\nround, so that he was spinning in front of the blaze like a joint\nof meat. Across the threshold lay a woman, the one whose cries had\nattracted us, but her rigid face and twisted body showed that our\naid had come too late to save her from the fate which she had seen\nimpending. Close by her two swarthy dragoons in the glaring red coats of\nthe Royal army lay stretched across each other upon the floor, dark and\nscowling even in death. In the centre of the room two other dragoons\nwere cutting and stabbing with their broad-swords at a thick, short,\nheavy-shouldered man, clad in coarse brown kersey stuff, who sprang\nabout among the chairs and round the table with a long basket-hilted\nrapier in his hand, parrying or dodging their blows with wonderful\nadroitness, and every now and then putting in a thrust in return.\nHard pressed as he was, his set resolute face, firm mouth, and bright\nwell-opened eyes spoke of a bold spirit within, while the blood which\ndripped from the sleeve of one of his opponents proved that the contest\nwas not so unequal as it might appear. Even as we gazed he sprang back\nto avoid a fierce rush of the furious soldiers, and by a quick sharp\nside stroke he severed the rope by which the victim was hung. The body\nfell with a heavy thud upon the brick floor, while the little swordsman\ndanced off in a moment into another quarter of the room, still stopping\nor avoiding with the utmost ease and skill the shower of blows which\nrained upon him.\n\nThis strange scene held us spell-bound for a few seconds, but there was\nno time for delay, for a slip or trip would prove fatal to the gallant\nstranger. Rushing into the chamber, sword in hand, we fell upon the\ndragoons, who, outnumbered as they were, backed into a corner and struck\nout fiercely, knowing that they need expect no mercy after the devil's\nwork in which they had been engaged. Holloway, our sergeant of horse,\nspringing furiously in, laid himself open to a thrust which stretched\nhim dead upon the ground. Before the dragoon could disengage his weapon,\nSir Gervas cut him down, while at the same moment the stranger got past\nthe guard of his antagonist, and wounded him mortally in the throat.\nOf the four red-coats not one escaped alive, while the bodies of our\nsergeant and of the old couple who had been the first victims increased\nthe horror of the scene.\n\n'Poor Holloway is gone,' said I, placing my hand over his heart. 'Who\never saw such a shambles? I feel sick and ill.'\n\n'Here is eau-de-vie, if I mistake not,' cried the stranger, clambering\nup on a chair and reaching a bottle from the shelf. 'Good, too, by the\nsmell. Take a sup, for you are as white as a new-bleached sheet.'\n\n'Honest warfare I can abide, but scenes like this make my blood run\ncold,' I answered, taking a gulp from the flask. I was a very young\nsoldier then, my dears, but I confess that to the end of my campaigns\nany form of cruelty had the same effect upon me. I give you my word that\nwhen I went to London last fall the sight of an overworked, raw-backed\ncart-horse straining with its load, and flogged for not doing that which\nit could not do, gave me greater qualms than did the field of Sedgemoor,\nor that greater day when ten thousand of the flower of France lay\nstretched before the earthworks of Landen.\n\n'The woman is dead,' said Sir Gervas, 'and the man is also, I fear, past\nrecovery. He is not burned, but suffers, I should judge, poor devil!\nfrom the rush of blood to the head.'\n\n'If that be all it may well be cured, 'remarked the stranger; and taking\na small knife from his pocket, he rolled up the old man's sleeve and\nopened one of his veins. At first only a few sluggish black drops oozed\nfrom the wound, but presently the blood began to flow more freely, and\nthe injured man showed signs of returning sense.\n\n'He will live,' said the little swordsman, putting his lancet back in\nhis pocket. 'And now, who may you be to whom I owe this interference\nwhich shortened the affair, though mayhap the result would have been the\nsame had you left us to settle it amongst ourselves?'\n\n'We are from Monmouth's army,' I answered. 'He lies at Bridgewater, and\nwe are scouting and seeking supplies.'\n\n'And who are you?' asked Sir Gervas. 'And how came you into this\nruffle? S'bud, you are a game little rooster to fight four such great\ncockerels!'\n\n'My name is Hector Marot,' the man answered, cleaning out his empty\npistols and very carefully reloading them. 'As to who I am, it is a\nmatter of small moment. Suffice it that I have helped to lessen Kirk's\nhorse by four of his rogues. Mark their faces, so dusky and sun-dried\neven in death. These men have learned warfare fighting against the\nheathen in Africa, and now they practise on poor harmless English folk\nthe devil's tricks which they have picked up amongst the savages. The\nLord help Monmouth's men should they be beaten! These vermin are more to\nbe feared than hangman's cord or headsman's axe.'\n\n'But how did you chance upon the spot at the very nick of time?' I\nasked.\n\n'Why, marry, I was jogging down the road on my mare when I heard the\nclatter of hoofs behind me, and concealing myself in a field, as a\nprudent man would while the country is in its present state, I saw these\nfour rogues gallop past. They made their way up to the farmhouse\nhere, and presently from cries and other tokens I knew what manner of\nhell-fire business they had on hand. On that I left my mare in the field\nand ran up, when I saw them through the casement, tricing the good man\nup in front of his fire to make him confess where his wealth lay hidden,\nthough indeed it is my own belief that neither he nor any other farmer\nin these parts hath any wealth left to hide, after two armies have been\nquartered in turn upon them. Finding that his mouth remained closed,\nthey ran him up, as you saw, and would assuredly have toasted him like a\nsnipe, had I not stepped in and winged two of them with my barkers. The\nothers set upon me, but I pinked one through the forearm, and should\ndoubtless have given a good account of both of them but for your\nincoming.'\n\n'Right gallantly done!' I exclaimed. 'But where have I heard your name\nbefore, Mr. Hector Marot?'\n\n'Nay,' he answered, with a sharp, sidelong look, 'I cannot tell that.'\n\n'It is familiar to mine ear,' said I.\n\nHe shrugged his broad shoulders, and continued to look to the priming\nof his pistols, with a half-defiant and half-uneasy expression. He was\na very sturdy, deep-chested man, with a stern, square-jawed face, and a\nwhite seam across his bronzed forehead as from a slash with a knife. He\nwore a gold-edged riding-cap, a jacket of brown sad-coloured stuff much\nstained by the weather, a pair of high rusty jack-boots, and a small\nbob-wig.\n\nSir Gervas, who had been staring very hard at the man, suddenly gave a\nstart, and slapped his hand against his leg.\n\n'Of course!' he cried. 'Sink me, if I could remember where I had seen\nyour face, but now it comes back to me very clearly.'\n\nThe man glanced doggedly from under his bent brows at each of us\nin turn. 'It seems that I have fallen among acquaintances,' he said\ngruffly; 'yet I have no memory of ye. Methinks, young sirs, that your\nfancy doth play ye false.'\n\n'Not a whit,' the Baronet answered quietly, and, bending forward, he\nwhispered a few words into the man's ear, which caused him to spring\nfrom his seat and take a couple of quick strides forward, as though to\nescape from the house.\n\n'Nay, nay!' cried Sir Gervas, springing between him and the door, 'you\nshall not run away from us. Pshaw, man! never lay your hand upon your\nsword. We have had bloody work enough for one night. Besides, we would\nnot harm you.'\n\n'What mean ye, then? What would ye have?' he asked, glancing about like\nsome fierce wild beast in a trap.\n\n'I have a most kindly feeling to you, man, after this night's work,'\ncried Sir Gervas. 'What is it to me how ye pick up a living, as long as\nyou are a true man at heart? Let me perish if I ever forget a face which\nI have once seen, and your bonne mine, with the trade-mark upon your\nforehead, is especially hard to overlook.'\n\n'Suppose I be the same? What then?' the man asked sullenly.\n\n'There is no suppose in the matter. I could swear to you. But I would\nnot, lad--not if I caught you red-handed. You must know, Clarke, since\nthere is none to overhear us, that in the old days I was a Justice of\nthe Peace in Surrey, and that our friend here was brought up before me\non a charge of riding somewhat late o' night, and of being plaguey short\nwith travellers. You will understand me. He was referred to assizes, but\ngot away in the meanwhile, and so saved his neck. Right glad I am of\nit, for you will agree with me that he is too proper a man to give a\ntight-rope dance at Tyburn.'\n\n'And I remember well now where I have heard your name,' said I. 'Were\nyou not a captive in the Duke of Beaufort's prison at Badminton, and did\nyou not succeed in escaping from the old Boteler dungeon?'\n\n'Nay, gentlemen,' he replied, seating himself on the edge of the table,\nand carelessly swinging his legs, 'since ye know so much it would be\nfolly for me to attempt to deceive ye. I am indeed the same Hector Marot\nwho hath made his name a terror on the great Western road, and who hath\nseen the inside of more prisons than any man in the south. With truth,\nhowever, I can say that though I have been ten years upon the roads, I\nhave never yet taken a groat from the poor, or injured any man who did\nnot wish to injure me. On the contrary, I have often risked life and\nlimb to save those who were in trouble.'\n\n'We can bear you out in that,' I answered, 'for if these four red-coat\ndevils have paid the price of their crimes, it is your doing rather than\nours.'\n\n'Nay, I can take little credit for that,' our new acquaintance answered.\n'Indeed, I had other scores to settle with Colonel Kirke's horse, and\nwas but too glad to have this breather with them.'\n\nWhilst we were talking the men whom we had left with the horses had come\nup, together with some of the neighbouring farmers and cottagers, who\nwere aghast at the scene of slaughter, and much troubled in their minds\nover the vengeance which might be exacted by the Royal troops next day.\n\n'For Christ's zake, zur,' cried one of them, an old ruddy-faced\ncountryman, 'move the bodies o' these soldier rogues into the road, and\nlet it zeem as how they have perished in a chance fight wi' your own\ntroopers loike. Should it be known as they have met their end within\na varmhouse, there will not be a thatch left unlighted over t' whole\ncountry side; as it is, us can scarce keep these murthering Tangiers\ndevils from oor throats.'\n\n'His request is in reason,' said the highwayman bluntly. 'We have no\nright to have our fun, and then go our way leaving others to pay the\nscore.'\n\n'Well, hark ye,' said Sir Gervas, turning to the group of frightened\nrustics. 'I'll strike a bargain with ye over the matter. We have come\nout for supplies, and can scarce go back empty-handed. If ye will among\nye provide us with a cart, filling it with such breadstuffs and greens\nas ye may, with a dozen bullocks as well, we shall not only screen ye in\nthis matter, but I shall promise payment at fair market rates if ye will\ncome to the Protestant camp for the money.'\n\n'I'll spare the bullocks,' quoth the old man whom we had rescued, who\nwas now sufficiently recovered to sit up. 'Zince my poor dame is foully\nmurthered it matters little to me what becomes o' the stock. I shall\nzee her laid in Durston graveyard, and shall then vollow you to t' camp,\nwhere I shall die happy if I can but rid the earth o' one more o' these\nincarnate devils.'\n\n'You say well, gaffer!' cried Hector Marot; 'you show the true spirit.\nMethinks I see an old birding-piece on yonder hooks, which, with a brace\nof slugs in it and a bold man behind it, might bring down one of these\nfine birds for all their gay feathers.'\n\n'Her's been a true mate to me for more'n thirty year,' said the old man,\nthe tears coursing down his wrinkled cheeks. 'Thirty zeed-toimes and\nthirty harvests we've worked together. But this is a zeed-toime which\nshall have a harvest o' blood if my right hand can compass it.'\n\n'If you go to t' wars, Gaffer Swain, we'll look to your homestead,'\nsaid the farmer who had spoken before. 'As to t' greenstuffs as this\ngentleman asks for he shall have not one wainload but three, if he will\nbut gi' us half-an-hour to fill them up. If he does not tak them t'\nothers will, so we had raither that they go to the good cause. Here,\nMiles, do you wak the labourers, and zee that they throw the potato\nstore wi' the spinach and the dried meats into the waggons wi' all\nspeed.'\n\n'Then we had best set about our part of the contract,' said Hector\nMarot. With the aid of our troopers he carried out the four dragoons and\nour dead sergeant, and laid them on the ground some way down the lane,\nleading the horses all round and between their bodies, so as to trample\nthe earth, and bear out the idea of a cavalry skirmish. While this was\ndoing, some of the labourers had washed down the brick floor of the\nkitchen and removed all traces of the tragedy. The murdered woman had\nbeen carried up to her own chamber, so that nothing was left to recall\nwhat had occurred, save the unhappy farmer, who sat moodily in the same\nplace, with his chin resting upon his stringy work-worn hands, staring\nout in front of him with a stony, empty gaze, unconscious apparently of\nall that was going on around him.\n\nThe loading of the waggons had been quickly accomplished, and the little\ndrove of oxen gathered from a neighbouring field. We were just starting\nupon our return journey when a young countryman rode up, with the news\nthat a troop of the Royal Horse were between the camp and ourselves.\nThis was grave tidings, for we were but seven all told, and our pace was\nnecessarily slow whilst we were hampered with the supplies.\n\n'How about Hooker?' I suggested. 'Should we not send after him and give\nhim warning?'\n\n'I'll goo at once,' said the countryman. 'I'm bound to zee him if he be\non the Athelney road.' So saying he set spurs to his horse and galloped\noff through the darkness.\n\n'While we have such volunteer scouts as this,' I remarked, 'it is easy\nto see which side the country folk have in their hearts. Hooker hath\nstill the better part of two troops with him, so surely he can hold his\nown. But how are we to make our way back?'\n\n'Zounds, Clarke! let us extemporise a fortress,' suggested Sir Gervas.\n'We could hold this farmhouse against all comers until Hooker returns,\nand then join our forces to his. Now would our redoubtable Colonel be in\nhis glory, to have a chance of devising cross-fires, and flanking-fires,\nwith all the other refinements of a well-conducted leaguer.'\n\n'Nay,' I answered, 'after leaving Major Hooker in a somewhat cavalier\nfashion, it would be a bitter thing to have to ask his help now that\nthere is danger.'\n\n'Ho, ho!' cried the Baronet. 'It does not take a very deep lead-line\nto come to the bottom of your stoical philosophy, friend Micah. For all\nyour cold-blooded stolidity you are keen enough where pride or honour is\nconcerned. Shall we then ride onwards, and chance it? I'll lay an even\ncrown that we never as much as see a red coat.'\n\n'If you will take my advice, gentlemen,' said the highwayman, trotting\nup upon a beautiful bay mare, 'I should say that your best course is to\nallow me to act as guide to you as far as the camp. It will be strange\nif I cannot find roads which shall baffle these blundering soldiers.'\n\n'A very wise and seasonable proposition,' cried Sir Gervas. 'Master\nMarot, a pinch from my snuff-box, which is ever a covenant of friendship\nwith its owner. Adslidikins, man! though our acquaintance at present\nis limited to my having nearly hanged you on one occasion, yet I have\na kindly feeling towards you, though I wish you had some more savoury\ntrade.'\n\n'So do many who ride o' night,' Marot answered, with a chuckle. 'But we\nhad best start, for the east is whitening, and it will be daylight ere\nwe come to Bridgewater.'\n\nLeaving the ill-omened farmhouse behind us we set off with all military\nprecautions, Marot riding with me some distance in front, while two of\nthe troopers covered the rear. It was still very dark, though a thin\ngrey line on the horizon showed that the dawn was not far off. In spite\nof the gloom, however, our new acquaintance guided us without a moment's\nhalt or hesitation through a network of lanes and bypaths, across fields\nand over bogs, where the waggons were sometimes up to their axles in\nbog, and sometimes were groaning and straining over rocks and stones. So\nfrequent were our turnings, and so often did we change the direction of\nour advance, that I feared more than once that our guide was at fault;\nyet, when at last the first rays of the sun brightened the landscape we\nsaw the steeple of Bridgewater parish church shooting up right in front\nof us.\n\n'Zounds, man! you must have something of the cat in you to pick your way\nso in the dark,' cried Sir Gervas, riding up to us. 'I am right glad to\nsee the town, for my poor waggons have been creaking and straining until\nmy ears are weary with listening for the snap of the axle-bar. Master\nMarot, we owe you something for this.'\n\n'Is this your own particular district?' I asked, 'or have you a like\nknowledge of every part of the south?'\n\n'My range,' said he, lighting his short, black pipe, 'is from Kent to\nCornwall, though never north of the Thames or Bristol Channel. Through\nthat district there is no road which is not familiar to me, nor as much\nas a break in the hedge which I could not find in blackest midnight. It\nis my calling. But the trade is not what it was. If I had a son I should\nnot bring him up to it. It hath been spoiled by the armed guards to\nthe mail-coaches, and by the accursed goldsmiths, who have opened their\nbanks and so taken the hard money into their strong boxes, giving out\ninstead slips of paper, which are as useless to us as an old newsletter.\nI give ye my word that only a week gone last Friday I stopped a grazier\ncoming from Blandford fair, and I took seven hundred guineas off him in\nthese paper cheques, as they call them--enough, had it been in gold, to\nhave lasted me for a three month rouse. Truly the country is coming to a\npretty pass when such trash as that is allowed to take the place of the\nKing's coinage.'\n\n'Why should you persevere in such a trade?' said I. 'Your own knowledge\nmust tell you that it can only lead to ruin and the gallows. Have you\never known one who has thriven at it?'\n\n'That have I,' he answered readily. 'There was Kingston Jones, who\nworked Hounslow for many a year. He took ten thousand yellow boys on\none job, and, like a wise man, he vowed never to risk his neck again.\nHe went into Cheshire, with some tale of having newly arrived from the\nIndies, bought an estate, and is now a flourishing country gentleman of\ngood repute, and a Justice of the Peace into the bargain. Zounds, man!\nto see him on the bench, condemning some poor devil for stealing a dozen\neggs, is as good as a comedy in the playhouse.'\n\n'Nay! but,' I persisted, 'you are a man, judging from what we have seen\nof your courage and skill in the use of your weapons, who would gain\nspeedy preferment in any army. Surely it were better to use your gifts\nto the gaining of honour and credit, than to make them a stepping-stone\nto disgrace and the gallows?'\n\n'For the gallows I care not a clipped shilling,' the highwayman\nanswered, sending up thick blue curls of smoke into the morning air. 'We\nhave all to pay nature's debt, and whether I do it in my boots or on a\nfeather bed, in one year or in ten, matters as little to me as to any\nsoldier among you. As to disgrace, it is a matter of opinion. I see\nno shame myself in taking a toll upon the wealth of the rich, since I\nfreely expose my own skin in the doing of it.'\n\n'There is a right and there is a wrong,' I answered, 'which no words\ncan do away with, and it is a dangerous and unprofitable trick to juggle\nwith them.'\n\n'Besides, even if what you have said were true as to property,' Sir\nGervas remarked, 'it would not hold you excused for that recklessness of\nhuman life which your trade begets.'\n\n'Nay! it is but hunting, save that your quarry may at any time turn\nround upon you, and become in turn the hunter. It is, as you say, a\ndangerous game, but two can play at it, and each has an equal chance.\nThere is no loading of the dice, or throwing of fulhams. Now it was but\na few days back that, riding down the high-road, I perceived three jolly\nfarmers at full gallop across the fields with a leash of dogs yelping in\nfront of them, and all in pursuit of one little harmless bunny. It was\na bare and unpeopled countryside on the border of Exmoor, so I bethought\nme that I could not employ my leisure better than by chasing the\nchasers. Odd's wouns! it was a proper hunt. Away went my gentlemen,\nwhooping like madmen, with their coat skirts flapping in the breeze,\nchivying on the dogs, and having a rare morning's sport. They never\nmarked the quiet horseman who rode behind them, and who without a\n\"yoick!\" or \"hark-a-way!\" was relishing his chase with the loudest of\nthem. It needed but a posse of peace officers at my heels to make up a\nbrave string of us, catch-who-catch-can, like the game the lads play on\nthe village green.'\n\n'And what came of it?' I asked, for our new acquaintance was laughing\nsilently to himself.\n\n'Well, my three friends ran down their hare, and pulled out their\nflasks, as men who had done a good stroke of work. They were still\nhobnobbing and laughing over the slaughtered bunny, and one had\ndismounted to cut off its ears as the prize of their chase, when I came\nup at a hand-gallop. \"Good-morrow, gentlemen,\" said I, \"we have had rare\nsport.\" They looked at me blankly enough, I promise you, and one of\nthem asked me what the devil I did there, and how I dared to join in a\nprivate sport. \"Nay, I was not chasing your hare, gentlemen,\" said I.\n\"What then, fellow?\" asked one of them. \"Why, marry, I was chasing you,\"\nI answered, \"and a better run I have not had for years.\" With that I\nlugged out my persuaders, and made the thing clear in a few words, and\nI'll warrant you would have laughed could you have seen their faces as\nthey slowly dragged the fat leather purses from their fobs. Seventy-one\npounds was my prize that morning, which was better worth riding for than\na hare's ears.'\n\n'Did they not raise the country on your track?' I asked.\n\n'Nay! When Brown Alice is given her head she flies faster than the news.\nRumour spreads quick, but the good mare's stride is quicker still.'\n\n'And here we are within our own outposts,' quoth Sir Gervas. 'Now, mine\nhonest friend--for honest you have been to us, whatever others may\nsay of you--will you not come with us, and strike in for a good cause?\nZounds, man! you have many an ill deed to atone for, I'll warrant.\nWhy not add one good one to your account, by risking your life for the\nreformed faith?'\n\n'Not I,' the highwayman answered, reining up his horse. 'My own skin is\nnothing, but why should I risk my mare in such a fool's quarrel? Should\nshe come to harm in the ruffle, where could I get such another? Besides,\nit matters nothing to her whether Papist or Protestant sits on the\nthrone of England--does it, my beauty?'\n\n'But you might chance to gain preferment,' I said. 'Our Colonel, Decimus\nSaxon, is one who loves a good swordsman, and his word hath power with\nKing Monmouth and the council.'\n\n'Nay, nay!' cried Hector Marot gruffly. 'Let every man stick to his own\ntrade. Kirke's Horse I am ever ready to have a brush with, for a party\nof them hung old blind Jim Houston of Milverton, who was a friend of\nmine. I have sent seven of the red-handed rogues to their last account\nfor it, and might work through the whole regiment had I time. But I will\nnot fight against King James, nor will I risk the mare, so let me hear\nno more of it. And now I must leave ye, for I have much to do. Farewell\nto you!'\n\n'Farewell, farewell!' we cried, pressing his brown horny hands; 'our\nthanks to you for your guidance.' Raising his hat, he shook his bridle\nand galloped off down the road in a rolling cloud of dust.\n\n'Rat me, if I ever say a word against the thieves again!' said Sir\nGervas. 'I never saw a man wield sword more deftly in my life, and he\nmust be a rare hand with a pistol to bring those two tall fellows down\nwith two shots. But look over there, Clarke! Can you not see bodies of\nred-coats?'\n\n'Surely I can,' I answered, gazing out over the broad, reedy,\ndead-coloured plain, which extended from the other side of the winding\nParret to the distant Polden Hills. 'I can see them over yonder in the\ndirection of Westonzoyland, as bright as the poppies among corn.'\n\n'There are more upon the left, near Chedzoy,' quoth Sir Gervas. 'One,\ntwo, three, and one yonder, and two others behind--six regiments of foot\nin all. Methinks I see the breastplates of horse over there, and some\nsign of ordnance too. Faith! Monmouth must fight now, if he ever hopes\nto feel the gold rim upon his temples. The whole of King James's army\nhath closed upon him.'\n\n'We must get back to our command, then,' I answered. 'If I mistake not,\nI see the flutter of our standards in the market-place.' We spurred our\nweary steeds forward, and made our way with our little party and the\nsupplies which we had collected, until we found ourselves back in\nour quarters, where we were hailed by the lusty cheers of our hungry\ncomrades. Before noon the drove of bullocks had been changed into joints\nand steaks, while our green stuff and other victuals had helped to\nfurnish the last dinner which many of our men were ever destined to eat.\nMajor Hooker came in shortly after with a good store of provisions, but\nin no very good case, for he had had a skirmish with the dragoons, and\nhad lost eight or ten of his men. He bore a complaint straightway to the\ncouncil concerning the manner in which we had deserted him; but great\nevents were coming fast upon us now, and there was small time to inquire\ninto petty matters of discipline. For myself, I freely confess, looking\nback on it, that as a soldier he was entirely in the right, and that\nfrom a strict military point of view our conduct was not to be excused.\nYet I trust, my dears, even now, when years have weighed me down, that\nthe scream of a woman in distress would be a signal which would draw me\nto her aid while these old limbs could bear me. For the duty which\nwe owe to the weak overrides all other duties and is superior to all\ncircumstances, and I for one cannot see why the coat of the soldier\nshould harden the heart of the man.\n\n\n\nChapter XXXI. Of the Maid of the Marsh and the Bubble which rose from\nthe Bog\n\nAll Bridgewater was in a ferment as we rode in, for King James's forces\nwere within four miles, on the Sedgemoor Plain, and it was likely that\nthey would push on at once and storm the town. Some rude works had been\nthrown up on the Eastover side, behind which two brigades were drawn\nup in arms, while the rest of the army was held in reserve in the\nmarket-place and Castle Field. Towards afternoon, however, parties of\nour horse and peasants from the fen country came in with the news that\nthere was no fear of an assault being attempted. The Royal troops had\nquartered themselves snugly in the little villages of the neighbourhood,\nand having levied contributions of cider and of beer from the farmers,\nthey showed no sign of any wish to advance.\n\nThe town was full of women, the wives, mothers, and sisters of our\npeasants, who had come in from far and near to see their loved ones once\nmore. Fleet Street or Cheapside upon a busy day are not more crowded\nthan were the narrow streets and lanes of the Somersetshire town.\nJack-booted, buff-coated troopers; scarlet militiamen; brown,\nstern-faced Tauntonians; serge-clad pikemen; wild, ragged miners;\nsmockfrocked yokels; reckless, weather-tanned seamen; gaunt cragsmen\nfrom the northern coast--all pushed and jostled each other in a thick,\nmany-coloured crowd. Everywhere among them were the country women,\nstraw-bonneted and loud-tongued, weeping, embracing, and exhorting.\nHere and there amid the motley dresses and gleam of arms moved the dark,\nsombre figure of a Puritan minister, with sweeping sad-coloured mantle\nand penthouse hat, scattering abroad short fiery ejaculations and stern\npithy texts of the old fighting order, which warmed the men's blood like\nliquor. Ever and anon a sharp, fierce shout would rise from the people,\nlike the yelp of a high-spirited hound which is straining at its leash\nand hot to be at the throat of its enemy.\n\nOur regiment had been taken off duty whenever it was clear that\nFeversham did not mean to advance, and they were now busy upon the\nvictuals which our night-foray had furnished. It was a Sunday, fresh and\nwarm, with a clear, unclouded sky, and a gentle breeze, sweet with the\nsmack of the country. All day the bells of the neighbouring villages\nrang out their alarm, pealing their music over the sunlit countryside.\nThe upper windows and red-tiled roofs of the houses were crowded with\npale-faced women and children, who peered out to eastward, where the\nsplotches of crimson upon the dun-coloured moor marked the position of\nour enemies.\n\nAt four o'clock Monmouth held a last council of war upon the square\ntower out of which springs the steeple of Bridgewater parish church,\nwhence a good view can be obtained of all the country round. Since my\nride to Beaufort I had always been honoured with a summons to attend, in\nspite of my humble rank in the army. There were some thirty councillors\nin all, as many as the space would hold, soldiers and courtiers,\nCavaliers and Puritans, all drawn together now by the bond of a common\ndanger. Indeed, the near approach of a crisis in their fortunes had\nbroken down much of the distinction of manner which had served to\nseparate them. The sectary had lost something of his austerity and\nbecome flushed and eager at the prospect of battle, while the giddy man\nof fashion was hushed into unwonted gravity as he considered the danger\nof his position. Their old feuds were forgotten as they gathered on the\nparapet and gazed with set faces at the thick columns of smoke which\nrose along the sky-line.\n\nKing Monmouth stood among his chiefs, pale and haggard, with the\ndishevelled, unkempt look of a man whose distress of mind has made him\nforgetful of the care of his person. He held a pair of ivory glasses,\nand as he raised them to his eyes his thin white hands shook and\ntwitched until it was grievous to watch him. Lord Grey handed his own\nglasses to Saxon, who leaned his elbows upon the rough stone breastwork\nand stared long and earnestly at the enemy.\n\n'They are the very men I have myself led,' said Monmouth at last, in a\nlow voice, as though uttering his thoughts aloud. 'Over yonder at the\nright I see Dumbarton's foot. I know these men well. They will fight.\nHad we them with us all would be well.'\n\n'Nay, your Majesty,' Lord Grey answered with spirit, 'you do your brave\nfollowers an injustice. They, too, will fight to the last drop of their\nblood in your quarrel.'\n\n'Look down at them!' said Monmouth sadly, pointing at the swarming\nstreets beneath us. 'Braver hearts never beat in English breasts, yet do\nbut mark how they brabble and clamour like clowns on a Saturday night.\nCompare them with the stern, orderly array of the trained battalions.\nAlas! that I should have dragged these honest souls from their little\nhomes to fight so hopeless a battle!'\n\n'Hark at that!' cried Wade. 'They do not think it hopeless, nor do we.'\nAs he spoke a wild shout rose from the dense crowd beneath, who were\nlistening to a preacher who was holding forth from a window.\n\n'It is worthy Doctor Ferguson,' said Sir Stephen Timewell, who had\njust come up. 'He is as one inspired, powerfully borne onwards in his\ndiscourse. Verily he is even as one of the prophets of old. He has\nchosen for his text, \"The Lord God of gods he knoweth and Israel he\nshall know. If it be in rebellion or if in transgression against the\nLord, save us not this day.\"'\n\n'Amen, amen!' cried several of the Puritan soldiers devoutly, while\nanother hoarse burst of shouting from below, with the clashing of\nscythe-blades and the clatter of arms, showed how deeply the people were\nmoved by the burning words of the fanatic.\n\n'They do indeed seem to be hot for battle,' said Monmouth, with a more\nsprightly look. 'It may be that one who has commanded regular troops, as\nI have done, is prone to lay too much weight upon the difference which\ndiscipline and training make. These brave lads seem high of heart. What\nthink you of the enemy's dispositions, Colonel Saxon?'\n\n'By my faith, I think very little of them, your Majesty,' Saxon answered\nbluntly. 'I have seen armies drawn up in array in many different parts\nof the world and under many commanders. I have likewise read the section\nwhich treats of the matter in the \"De re militari\" of Petrinus Bellus,\nand in the works of a Fleming of repute, yet I have neither seen nor\nheard anything which can commend the arrangements which we see before\nus.'\n\n'How call you the hamlet on the left--that with the square ivy-clad\nchurch tower?' asked Monmouth, turning to the Mayor of Bridgewater,\na small, anxious-faced man, who was evidently far from easy at the\nprominence which his office had brought upon him.\n\n'Westonzoyland, your Honour--that is, your Grace--I mean, your Majesty,'\nhe stammered. 'The other, two miles farther off, is Middlezoy, and away\nto the left, just on the far side of the rhine, is Chedzoy.'\n\n'The rhine, sir! What do you mean?' asked the King, starting violently,\nand turning so fiercely upon the timid burgher, that he lost the little\nbalance of wits which was left to him.\n\n'Why, the rhine, your Grace, your Majesty,' he quavered. 'The rhine,\nwhich, as your Majesty's Grace cannot but perceive, is what the country\nfolk call the rhine.'\n\n'It is a name, your Majesty, for the deep and broad ditches which drain\noff the water from the great morass of Sedgemoor,' said Sir Stephen\nTimewell.\n\nMonmouth turned white to his very lips, and several of the council\nexchanged significant glances, recalling the strange prophetic jingle\nwhich I had been the means of bringing to the camp. The silence was\nbroken, however, by an old Cromwellian Major named Hollis, who had been\ndrawing upon paper the position of the villages in which the enemy was\nquartered.\n\n'If it please your Majesty, there is something in their order which\nrecalls to my mind that of the army of the Scots upon the occasion\nof the battle of Dunbar. Cromwell lay in Dunbar even as we lie in\nBridgewater. The ground around, which was boggy and treacherous, was\nheld by the enemy. There was not a man in the army who would not own\nthat, had old Leslie held his position, we should, as far as human\nwisdom could see, have had to betake us to our ships, leave our stores\nand ordnance, and so make the best of our way to Newcastle. He moved,\nhowever, through the blessing of Providence, in such a manner that a\nquagmire intervened between his right wing and the rest of his army, on\nwhich Cromwell fell upon that wing in the early dawn, and dashed it\nto pieces, with such effect that the whole army fled, and we had the\nexecution of them to the very gates of Leith. Seven thousand Scots lost\ntheir lives, but not more than a hundred or so of the honest folk.\nNow, your Majesty will see through your glass that a mile of bogland\nintervenes between these villages, and that the nearest one, Chedzoy, as\nI think they call it, might be approached without ourselves entering the\nmorass. Very sure I am that were the Lord-General with us now he would\ncounsel us to venture some such attack.'\n\n'It is a bold thing with raw peasants to attack old soldiers,' quoth Sir\nStephen Timewell. 'Yet if it is to be done, I know well that there is\nnot a man born within sound of the bells of St. Mary Magdalene who will\nflinch from it.'\n\n'You say well, Sir Stephen,' said Monmouth. 'At Dunbar Cromwell had\nveterans at his back, and was opposed to troops who had small experience\nof war.'\n\n'Yet there is much good sense in what Major Hollis has said,' remarked\nLord Grey. 'We must either fall on, or be gradually girt round and\nstarved out. That being so, why not take advantage at once of the chance\nwhich Feversham's ignorance or carelessness hath given us? To-morrow, if\nChurchill can prevail over his chief, I have little doubt that we\nshall find their camp rearranged, and so have cause to regret our lost\nopportunity.'\n\n'Their horse lie at Westonzoyland,' said Wade. 'The sun is so fierce now\nthat we can scarce see for its glare and the haze which rises up from\nthe marshes. Yet a little while ago I could make out through my glasses\nthe long lines of horses picketed on the moor beyond the village.\nBehind, in Middlezoy, are two thousand militia, while in Chedzoy, where\nour attack would fall, there are five regiments of regular foot.'\n\n'If we could break those all would be well,' cried Monmouth. 'What is\nyour advice, Colonel Buyse?'\n\n'My advice is ever the same,' the German answered. 'We are here to\nfight, and the sooner we get to work at it the better.'\n\n'And yours, Colonel Saxon? Do you agree with the opinion of your\nfriend?'\n\n'I think with Major Hollis, your Majesty, that Feversham by his\ndispositions hath laid himself open to attack, and that we should take\nadvantage of it forthwith. Yet, considering that trained men and a\nnumerous horse have great advantage by daylight, I should be in favour\nof a camisado or night onfall.'\n\n'The same thought was in my mind,' said Grey. 'Our friends here know\nevery inch of the ground, and could guide us to Chedzoy as surely in the\ndarkness as in the day.'\n\n'I have heard,' said Saxon, 'that much beer and cider, with wine and\nstrong waters, have found their way into their camp. If this be so\nwe may give them a rouse while their heads are still buzzing with the\nliquor, when they shall scarce know whether it is ourselves or the blue\ndevils which have come upon them.'\n\nA general chorus of approval from the whole council showed that the\nprospect of at last coming to an engagement was welcome, after the weary\nmarchings and delays of the last few weeks.\n\n'Has any cavalier anything to say against this plan?' asked the King.\n\nWe all looked from one to the other, but though many faces were doubtful\nor desponding, none had a word to say against the night attack, for it\nwas clear that our action in any case must be hazardous, and this had at\nleast the merit of promising a better chance of success than any other.\nYet, my dears, I dare say the boldest of us felt a sinking at the heart\nas we looked at our downcast, sad-faced leader, and asked ourselves\nwhether this was a likely man to bring so desperate an enterprise to a\nsuccess.\n\n'If all are agreed,' said he, 'let our word be \"Soho,\" and let us come\nupon them as soon after midnight as may be. What remains to be settled\nas to the order of battle may be left for the meantime. You will now,\ngentlemen, return to your regiments, and you will remember that be the\nupshot of this what it may, whether Monmouth be the crowned King of\nEngland or a hunted fugitive, his heart, while it can still beat, will\never bear in memory the brave friends who stood at his side in the hour\nof his trouble.'\n\nAt this simple and kindly speech a flush of devotion, mingled in my\nown case at least with a heart-whole pity for the poor, weak gentleman,\nswept over us. We pressed round him with our hands upon the hilts of our\nswords, swearing that we would stand by him, though all the world stood\nbetween him and his rights. Even the rigid and impassive Puritans were\nmoved to a show of loyalty; while the courtiers, carried away by zeal,\ndrew their rapiers and shouted until the crowd beneath caught the\nenthusiasm, and the air was full of the cheering. The light returned\nto Monmouth's eye and the colour to his cheek as he listened to the\nclamour. For a moment at least he looked like the King which he aspired\nto be.\n\n'My thanks to ye, dear friends and subjects,' he cried. 'The issue rests\nwith the Almighty, but what men can do will, I know well, be done by you\nthis night. If Monmouth cannot have all England, six feet of her shall\nat least be his. Meanwhile, to your regiments, and may God defend the\nright!'\n\n'May God defend the right! cried the council solemnly, and separated,\nleaving the King with Grey to make the final dispositions for the\nattack.\n\n'These popinjays of the Court are ready enough to wave their rapiers\nand shout when there are four good miles between them and the foe,'\nsaid Saxon, as we made our way through the crowd. 'I fear that they will\nscarce be as forward when there is a line of musqueteers to be faced,\nand a brigade of horse perhaps charging down upon their flank. But here\ncomes friend Lockarby, with news written upon his face.'\n\n'I have a report to make, Colonel,' said Reuben, hurrying breathlessly\nup to us. 'You may remember that I and my company were placed on guard\nthis day at the eastern gates?'\n\nSaxon nodded.\n\n'Being desirous of seeing all that I could of the enemy, I clambered up\na lofty tree which stands just without the town. From this post, by the\naid of a glass, I was able to make out their lines and camp. Whilst I\nwas gazing I chanced to observe a man slinking along under cover of the\nbirch-trees half-way between their lines and the town. Watching him, I\nfound that he was indeed moving in our direction. Presently he came so\nnear that I was able to distinguish who it was--for it was one whom I\nknow--but instead of entering the town by my gate he walked round under\ncover of the peat cuttings, and so made his way doubtless to some other\nentrance. He is a man, however, who I have reason to believe has no true\nlove for the cause, and it is my belief that he hath been to the\nRoyal camp with news of our doings, and hath now come back for further\ninformation.'\n\n'Aye!' said Saxon, raising his eyebrows. 'And what is the man's name?'\n\n'His name is Derrick, one time chief apprentice to Master Timewell at\nTaunton, and now an officer in the Taunton foot.'\n\n'What, the young springald who had his eye upon pretty Mistress Ruth!\nNow, out on love, if it is to turn a true man into a traitor! But\nmethought he was one of the elect? I have heard him hold forth to the\npikemen. How comes it that one of his kidney should lend help to the\nPrelatist cause?'\n\n'Love again,' quoth I. 'This same love is a pretty flower when it grows\nunchecked, but a sorry weed if thwarted.'\n\n'He hath an ill-feeling towards many in the camp,' said Reuben, 'and he\nwould ruin the army to avenge himself on them, as a rogue might sink\na ship in the hope of drowning one enemy. Sir Stephen himself hath\nincurred his hatred for refusing to force his daughter into accepting\nhis suit. He has now returned into the camp, and I have reported the\nmatter to you, that you may judge whether it would not be well to send\na file of pikemen and lay him by the heels lest he play the spy once\nmore.'\n\n'Perhaps it would be best so,' Saxon answered, full of thought, 'and yet\nno doubt the fellow would have some tale prepared which would outweigh\nour mere suspicions. Could we not take him in the very act?'\n\nA thought slipped into my head. I had observed from the tower that there\nwas a single lonely cottage about a third of the way to the enemy's\ncamp, standing by the road at a place where there were marshes on either\nside. Any one journeying that way must pass it. If Derrick tried to\ncarry our plans to Feversham he might be cut off at this point by a\nparty placed to lie in wait for him.\n\n'Most excellent!' Saxon exclaimed, when I had explained the project. 'My\nlearned Fleming himself could not have devised a better rusus belli. Do\nye convey as many files as ye may think fit to this point, and I shall\nsee that Master Derrick is primed up with some fresh news for my Lord\nFeversham.'\n\n'Nay, a body of troops marching out would set tongues wagging,' said\nReuben. 'Why should not Micah and I go ourselves?'\n\n'That would indeed be better.' Saxon answered. 'But ye must pledge your\nwords, come what may, to be back at sundown, for your companies must\nstand to arms an hour before the advance.'\n\nWe both gladly gave the desired promise; and having learned for certain\nthat Derrick had indeed returned to the camp, Saxon undertook to let\ndrop in his presence some words as to the plans for the night, while we\nset off at once for our post. Our horses we left behind, and slipping\nout through the eastern gate we made our way over bog and moor,\nconcealing ourselves as best we could, until we came out upon the lonely\nroadway, and found ourselves in front of the house.\n\nIt was a plain, whitewashed, thatch-roofed cottage, with a small board\nabove the door, whereon was written a notice that the occupier sold milk\nand butter. No smoke reeked up from the chimney, and the shutters of the\nwindow were closed, from which we gathered that the folk who owned it\nhad fled away from their perilous position. On either side the marsh\nextended, reedy and shallow at the edge, but deeper at a distance, with\na bright green scum which covered its treacherous surface. We knocked\nat the weather-blotched door, but receiving, as we expected, no reply,\nI presently put my shoulder against it and forced the staple from its\nfastenings.\n\nThere was but a single chamber within, with a straight ladder in the\ncorner, leading through a square hole in the ceiling to the sleeping\nchamber under the roof. Three or four chairs and stools were scattered\nover the earthen floor, and at the side a deal table with the broad\nbrown milk basins upon it. Green blotches upon the wall and a sinking\nin of one side of the cottage showed the effect of its damp, marsh-girt\nposition.\n\nTo our surprise it had still one inmate within its walls. In the centre\nof the room, facing the door as we entered, stood a little bright,\ngolden-haired maid, five or six years of age. She was clad in a clean\nwhite smock, with trim leather belt and shining buckle about her waist.\nTwo plump little legs with socks and leathern boots peeped out from\nunder the dress, stoutly planted with right foot in advance as one who\nwas bent upon holding her ground. Her tiny head was thrown back, and her\nlarge blue eyes were full of mingled wonder and defiance. As we entered\nthe little witch flapped her kerchief at us, and shooed as though we\nwere two of the intrusive fowl whom she was wont to chevy out of the\nhouse. Reuben and I stood on the threshold, uncertain, and awkward, like\na pair of overgrown school lads, looking down at this fairy queen whose\nrealms we had invaded, in two minds whether to beat a retreat or to\nappease her wrath by soft and coaxing words.\n\n'Go 'way!' she cried, still waving her hands and shaking her kerchief.\n'Go 'way! Granny told me to tell any one that came to go 'way!'\n\n'But if they would not go away, little mistress,' asked Reuben, 'what\nwere you to do then?'\n\n'I was to drive them 'way,' she answered, advancing boldly against us\nwith many flaps. 'You bad man!' she continued, flashing out at me, 'you\nhave broken granny's bolt.'\n\n'Nay, I'll mend it again,' I answered penitently, and catching up\na stone I soon fastened the injured staple. 'There, mistress, your\ngranddam will never tell the difference.'\n\n'Ye must go 'way all the same,' she persisted; 'this is granny's house,\nnot yours.'\n\nWhat were we to do with this resolute little dame of the marshes? That\nwe should stay in the house was a crying need, for there was no other\ncover or shelter among the dreary bogs where we could hide ourselves.\nYet she was bent upon driving us out with a decision and fearlessness\nwhich might have put Monmouth to shame.\n\n'You sell milk,' said Reuben. 'We are tired and thirsty, so we have come\nto have a horn of it.'\n\n'Nay,' she cried, breaking into smiles, 'will ye pay me just as the folk\npay granny? Oh, heart alive! but that will be fine!' She skipped up\non to a stool and filled a pair of deep mugs from the basins upon the\ntable. 'A penny, please!' said she.\n\nIt was strange to see the little wife hide the coin away in her smock,\nwith pride and joy in her innocent face at this rare stroke of business\nwhich she had done for her absent granny. We bore our milk away to the\nwindow, and having loosed the shutters we seated ourselves so as to have\nan outlook down the road.\n\n'For the Lord's sake, drink slow!' whispered Reuben, under his breath.\n'We must keep on swilling milk or she will want to turn us out.'\n\n'We have paid toll now,' I answered; 'surely she will let us bide.'\n\n'If you have done you must go 'way,' she said firmly.\n\n'Were ever two men-at-arms so tyrannised over by a little dolly such as\nthis!' said I, laughing. 'Nay, little one, we shall compound with you by\npaying you this shilling, which will buy all your milk. We can stay here\nand drink it at our ease.'\n\n'Jinny, the cow, is just across the marsh,' quoth she. 'It is nigh\nmilking time, and I shall fetch her round if ye wish more.'\n\n'Now, God forbid!' cried Reuben. 'It will end in our having to buy the\ncow. Where is your granny, little maid?'\n\n'She hath gone into the town,' the child answered. 'There are bad men\nwith red coats and guns coming to steal and to fight, but granny will\nsoon make them go 'way. Granny has gone to set it all right.'\n\n'We are fighting against the men with the red coats, my chuck,' said\nI; 'we shall take care of your house with you, and let no one steal\nanything.'\n\n'Nay, then ye may stay,' quoth she, climbing up upon my knee as grave as\na sparrow upon a bough. 'What a great boy you are!'\n\n'And why not a man?' I asked.\n\n'Because you have no beard upon your face. Why, granny hath more hair\nupon her chin than you. Besides, only boys drink milk. Men drink cider.'\n\n'Then if I am a boy I shall be your sweetheart,' said I.\n\n'Nay, indeed!' she cried, with a toss of her golden locks. 'I have no\nmind to wed for a while, but Giles Martin of Gommatch is my sweetheart.\nWhat a pretty shining tin smock you have, and what a great sword! Why\nshould people have these things to harm each other with when they are in\ntruth all brothers?'\n\n'Why are they all brothers, little mistress?' asked Reuben.\n\n'Because granny says that they are all the children of the great\nFather,' she answered. 'If they have all one father they must be\nbrothers, mustn't they?'\n\n'Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings, Micah,' quoth Reuben, staring\nout of the window.\n\n'You are a rare little marsh flower,' I said, as she clambered up to\ngrasp at my steel cap. 'Is it not strange to think, Reuben, that there\nshould be thousands of Christian men upon either side of us, athirst\nfor each other's lives, and here between them is a blue-eyed cherub who\nlisps out the blessed philosophy which would send us all to our homes\nwith softened hearts and hale bodies?'\n\n'A day of this child would sicken me for over of soldiering,' Reuben\nanswered. 'The cavalier and the butcher become too near of kin, as I\nlisten to her.'\n\n'Perhaps both are equally needful,' said I, shrugging my shoulders. 'We\nhave put our hands to the plough. But methinks I see the man for whom we\nwait coming down under the shadow of yonder line of pollard willows.'\n\n'It is he, sure enough,' cried Reuben, peeping through the diamond-paned\nwindow.\n\n'Then, little one, you must sit here,' said I, raising her up from my\nknee and placing her on a chair in a corner. 'You must be a brave lass\nand sit still, whatever may chance. Will you do so?'\n\nShe pursed up her rosy lips and nodded her head.\n\n'He comes on apace, Micah,' quoth my comrade, who was still standing\nby the casement. 'Is he not like some treacherous fox or other beast of\nprey?'\n\nThere was indeed something in his lean, black-clothed figure and swift\nfurtive movements which was like some cruel and cunning animal. He stole\nalong under shadow of the stunted trees and withies, with bent body and\ngliding gait, so that from Bridgewater it would be no easy matter for\nthe most keen-sighted to see him. Indeed, he was so far from the town\nthat he might safely have come out from his concealment and struck\nacross the moor, but the deep morass on either side prevented him from\nleaving the road until he had passed the cottage.\n\nAs he came abreast of our ambush we both sprang out from the open door\nand barred his way. I have heard the Independent minister at Emsworth\ngive an account of Satan's appearance, but if the worthy man had been\nwith us that day, he need not have drawn upon his fancy. The man's dark\nface whitened into a sickly and mottled pallor, while he drew back with\na long sharp intaking of the breath and a venomous flash from his black\neyes, glancing swiftly from right to left for some means of escape. For\nan instant his hand shot towards his sword-hilt, but his reason told him\nthat he could scarce expect to fight his way past us. Then he glanced\nround, but any retreat would lead him back to the men whom he had\nbetrayed. So he stood sullen and stolid, with heavy, downcast face and\nshifting, restless eye, the very type and symbol of treachery.\n\n'We have waited some time for you, Master John Derrick,' said I. 'You\nmust now return with us to the town.'\n\n'On what grounds do you arrest me?' he asked, in hoarse, broken tones.\n'Where is your warranty? Who hath given you a commission to molest\ntravellers upon the King's highway?'\n\n'I have my Colonel's commission,' I answered shortly. 'You have been\nonce already to Feversham's camp this morning.'\n\n'It is a lie,' he snarled fiercely. 'I do but take a stroll to enjoy the\nair.'\n\n'It is the truth,' said Reuben. 'I saw you myself on your return. Let us\nsee that paper which peeps from your doublet.'\n\n'We all know why you should set this trap for me,' Derrick cried\nbitterly. 'You have set evil reports afloat against me, lest I stand in\nyour light with the Mayor's daughter. What are you that you should dare\nto raise your eyes to her! A mere vagrant and masterless man, coming\nnone know whence. Why should you aspire to pluck the flower which has\ngrown up amongst us? What had you to do with her or with us? Answer me!'\n\n'It is not a matter which I shall discuss, save at a more fitting time\nand place,' Reuben answered quietly. 'Do you give over your sword and\ncome back with us. For my part, I promise to do what I can to save your\nlife. Should we win this night, your poor efforts can do little to harm\nus. Should we lose, there may be few of us left to harm.'\n\n'I thank you for your kindly protection,' he replied, in the same white,\ncold, bitter manner, unbuckling his sword as he spoke, and walking\nslowly up to my companion. 'You can take this as a gift to Mistress\nRuth,' he said, presenting the weapon in his left hand, 'and this!' he\nadded, plucking a knife from his belt and burying it in my poor friend's\nside.\n\nIt was done in an instant--so suddenly that I had neither time to spring\nbetween, nor to grasp his intention before the wounded man sank gasping\non the ground, and the knife tinkled upon the pathway at my feet. The\nvillain set up a shrill cry of triumph, and bounding back in time to\navoid the savage sword thrust which I made at him, he turned and fled\ndown the road at the top of his speed. He was a far lighter man than I,\nand more scantily clad, yet I had, from my long wind and length of limb,\nbeen the best runner of my district, and he soon learned by the sound of\nmy feet that he had no chance of shaking me off. Twice he doubled as a\nhare does when the hound is upon him, and twice my sword passed within a\nfoot of him, for in very truth I had no more thought of mercy than if\nhe had been a poisonous snake who had fastened his fangs into my friend\nbefore my eyes. I never dreamed of giving nor did he of claiming it.\nAt last, hearing my steps close upon him and my breathing at his\nvery shoulder, he sprang wildly through the reeds and dashed into the\ntreacherous morass. Ankle-deep, knee-deep, thigh-deep, waist-deep, we\nstruggled and staggered, I still gaining upon him, until I was within\narm's-reach of him, and had whirled up my sword to strike. It had been\nordained, however, my dear children, that he should die not the death of\na man, but that of the reptile which he was, for even as I closed upon\nhim he sank of a sudden with a gurgling sound, and the green marsh scum\nmet above his head. No ripple was there and no splash to mark the spot.\nIt was sudden and silent, as though some strange monster of the marshes\nhad seized him and dragged him down into the depths. As I stood with\nupraised sword still gazing upon the spot, one single great bubble rose\nand burst upon the surface, and then all was still once more, and the\ndreary fens lay stretched before me, the very home of death and of\ndesolation. I know not whether he had indeed come upon some sudden pit\nwhich had engulfed him, or whether in his despair he had cast himself\ndown of set purpose. I do but know that there in the great Sedgemoor\nmorass are buried the bones of the traitor and the spy.\n\nI made my way as best I could through the oozy clinging mud to the\nmargin, and hastened back to where Reuben was lying. Bending over him\nI found that the knife had pierced through the side leather which\nconnected his back and front plates, and that the blood was not only\npouring out of the wound, but was trickling from the corner of his\nmouth. With trembling fingers I undid the straps and buckles, loosened\nthe armour, and pressed my kerchief to his side to staunch the flow.\n\n'I trust that you have not slain him, Micah,' he said of a sudden,\nopening his eyes.\n\n'A higher power than ours has judged him, Reuben,' I answered.\n\n'Poor devil! He has had much to embitter him,' he murmured, and\nstraightway fainted again. As I knelt over him, marking the lad's white\nface and laboured breathing, and bethought me of his simple, kindly\nnature and of the affection which I had done so little to deserve, I am\nnot ashamed to say, my dears, albeit I am a man somewhat backward in my\nemotions, that my tears were mingled with his blood.\n\nAs it chanced, Decimus Saxon had found time to ascend the church tower\nfor the purpose of watching us through his glass and seeing how we\nfared. Noting that there was something amiss, he had hurried down for\na skilled chirurgeon, whom he brought out to us under an escort of\nscythesmen. I was still kneeling by my senseless friend, doing what an\nignorant man might to assist him, when the party arrived and helped me\nto bear him into the cottage, out of the glare of the sun. The minutes\nwere as hours while the man of physic with a grave face examined and\nprobed the wound.\n\n'It will scarce prove fatal,' he said at last, and I could have embraced\nhim for the words. 'The blade has glanced on a rib, though the lung is\nslightly torn. We shall hear him back with us to the town.'\n\n'You hear what he says,' said Saxon kindly. 'He is a man whose opinion\nis of weight--\n\n          \"A skilful leach is better far,\n           Than half a hundred men of war.\"\n\nCheer up, man! You are as white as though it were your blood and not his\nwhich was drained away. Where is Derrick?'\n\n'Drowned in the marshes,' I answered.\n\n''Tis well! It will save us six feet of good hemp. But our position here\nis somewhat exposed, since the Royal Horse might make a dash at us. Who\nis this little maid who sits so white and still in the corner.'\n\n''Tis the guardian of the house. Her granny has left her here.'\n\n'You had better come with us. There may be rough work here ere all is\nover.'\n\n'Nay, I must wait for granny,' she answered, with the tears running down\nher cheeks.\n\n'But how if I take you to granny, little one,' said I. 'We cannot\nleave you here. 'I held out my arms, and the child sprang into them and\nnestled up against my bosom, sobbing as though her heart would break.\n'Take me away,' she cried; 'I'se frightened.'\n\nI soothed the little trembling thing as best I might, and bore her off\nwith me upon my shoulder. The scythesmen had passed the handles of their\nlong weapons through the sleeves of their jerkins in such a way as to\nform a couch or litter, upon which poor Reuben was laid. A slight dash\nof colour had come back to his cheeks in answer to some cordial given\nhim by the chirurgeon, and he nodded and smiled at Saxon. Thus, pacing\nslowly, we returned to Bridgewater, where Reuben was carried to our\nquarters, and I bore the little maid of the marshes to kind townsfolk,\nwho promised to restore her to her home when the troubles were over.\n\n\n\nChapter XXXII. Of the Onfall at Sedgemoor\n\nHowever pressing our own private griefs and needs, we had little time\nnow to dwell upon them, for the moment was at hand which was to decide\nfor the time not only our own fates, but that of the Protestant cause\nin England. None of us made light of the danger. Nothing less than a\nmiracle could preserve us from defeat, and most of us were of opinion\nthat the days of the miracles were past. Others, however, thought\notherwise. I believe that many of our Puritans, had they seen the\nheavens open that night, and the armies of the Seraphim and the Cherubim\ndescending to our aid, would have looked upon it as by no means a\nwonderful or unexpected occurrence.\n\nThe whole town was loud with the preaching. Every troop or company had\nits own chosen orator, and sometimes more than one, who held forth\nand expounded. From barrels, from waggons, from windows, and even from\nhousetops, they addressed the crowds beneath; nor was their eloquence\nin vain. Hoarse, fierce shouts rose up from the streets, with broken\nprayers and ejaculations. Men were drunk with religion as with wine.\nTheir faces were flushed, their speech thick, their gestures wild. Sir\nStephen and Saxon smiled at each other as they watched them, for they\nknew, as old soldiers, that of all causes which make a man valiant in\ndeed and careless of life, this religious fit is the strongest and the\nmost enduring.\n\nIn the evening I found time to look in upon my wounded friend, and found\nhim propped up with cushions upon his couch, breathing with some pain,\nbut as bright and merry as ever. Our prisoner, Major Ogilvy, who had\nconceived a warm affection for us, sat by his side and read aloud to him\nout of an old book of plays.\n\n'This wound hath come at an evil moment,' said Reuben impatiently.\n'Is it not too much that a little prick like this should send my men\ncaptainless into battle, after all our marching and drilling? I have\nbeen present at the grace, and am cut off from the dinner.'\n\n'Your company hath been joined to mine,' I answered, 'though, indeed,\nthe honest fellows are cast down at not having their own captain. Has\nthe physician been to see you?'\n\n'He has left even now,' said Major Ogilvy. 'He pronounces our friend to\nbe doing right well, but hath warned me against allowing him to talk.'\n\n'Hark to that, lad!' said I, shaking my finger at him. 'If I hear a word\nfrom you I go. You will escape a rough waking this night, Major. What\nthink you of our chance?'\n\n'I have thought little of your chance from the first,' he replied\nfrankly. 'Monmouth is like a ruined gamester, who is now putting his\nlast piece upon the board. He cannot win much, and he may lose all.'\n\n'Nay, that is a hard saying,' said I. 'A success might set the whole of\nthe Midlands in arms.'\n\n'England is not ripe for it,' the Major answered, with a shake of his\nhead. 'It is true that it has no fancy either for Papistry or for a\nPapist King, but we know that it is but a passing evil, since the next\nin succession, the Prince of Orange, is a Protestant. Why, then, should\nwe risk so many evils to bring that about which time and patience must,\nperforce, accomplish between them? Besides, the man whom ye support has\nshown that he is unworthy of confidence. Did he not in his declaration\npromise to leave the choice of a monarch to the Commons? And yet, in\nless than a week, he proclaimed himself at Taunton Market Cross! Who\ncould believe one who has so little regard for truth?'\n\n'Treason, Major, rank treason,' I answered, laughing. 'Yet if we could\norder a leader as one does a coat we might, perchance, have chosen\none of a stronger texture. We are in arms not for him, but for the old\nliberties and rights of Englishmen. Have you seen Sir Gervas?'\n\nMajor Ogilvy, and even Reuben, burst out laughing. 'You will find him\nin the room above,' said our prisoner. 'Never did a famous toast prepare\nherself for a court ball as he is preparing for his battle. If the\nKing's troops take him they will assuredly think that they have the\nDuke. He hath been in here to consult us as to his patches, hosen, and I\nknow not what beside. You had best go up to him.'\n\n'Adieu, then, Reuben!' I said, grasping his hand in mine.\n\n'Adieu, Micah! God shield you from harm,' said he.\n\n'Can I speak to you aside, Major?' I whispered. 'I think,' I went on,\nas he followed me into the passage, 'that you will not say that your\ncaptivity hath been made very harsh for you. May I ask, therefore, that\nyou will keep an eye upon my friend should we be indeed defeated this\nnight? No doubt if Feversham gains the upper hand there will be bloody\nwork. The hale can look after themselves, but he is helpless, and will\nneed a friend.'\n\nThe Major pressed my hand. 'I swear to God,' he said, 'that no harm\nshall befall him.'\n\n'You have taken a load from my heart,' I answered; 'I know that I leave\nhim in safety. 'I can now ride to battle with an easy mind.' With a\nfriendly smile the soldier returned to the sick-room, whilst I ascended\nthe stair and entered the quarters of Sir Gervas Jerome.\n\nHe was standing before a table which was littered all over with pots,\nbrushes, boxes, and a score of the like trifles, which he had either\nbought or borrowed for the occasion. A large hand-mirror was balanced\nagainst the wall, with rush-lights on either side of it. In front of\nthis, with a most solemn and serious expression upon his pale, handsome\nface, the Baronet was arranging and re-arranging a white berdash cravat.\nHis riding-boots were brightly polished, and the broken seam repaired.\nHis sword-sheath, breastplate, and trappings were clear and bright.\nHe wore his gayest and newest suit, and above all he had donned a most\nnoble and impressive full-bottomed periwig, which drooped down to his\nshoulders, as white as powder could make it. From his dainty riding-hat\nto his shining spur there was no speck or stain upon him--a sad set-off\nto my own state, plastered as I was with a thick crust of the Sedgemoor\nmud, and disordered from having ridden and worked for two days without\nrest or repose.\n\n'Split me, but you have come in good time!' he exclaimed, as I entered.\n'I have even now sent down for a flask of canary. Ah, and here it\ncomes!' as a maid from the inn tripped upstairs with the bottle and\nglasses. 'Here is a gold piece, my pretty dear, the very last that I\nhave in the whole world. It is the only survivor of a goodly family. Pay\nmine host for the wine, little one, and keep the change for thyself, to\nbuy ribbons for the next holiday. Now, curse me if I can get this cravat\nto fit unwrinkled!'\n\n'There is nought amiss with it,' I answered. 'How can such trifles\noccupy you at such a time?'\n\n'Trifles!' he cried angrily. 'Trifles! Well, there, it boots not to\nargue with you. Your bucolic mind would never rise to the subtle import\nwhich may lie in such matters--the rest of mind which it is to have\nthem right, and the plaguey uneasiness when aught is wrong. It comes,\ndoubtless, from training, and it may be that I have it more than others\nof my class. I feel as a cat who would lick all day to take the least\nspeck from her fur. Is not the patch over the eyebrow happily chosen?\nNay, you cannot even offer an opinion; I would as soon ask friend Marot,\nthe knight of the pistol. Fill up your glass!'\n\n'Your company awaits you by the church,' I remarked; 'I saw them as I\npassed.'\n\n'How looked they?' he asked. 'Were they powdered and clean?'\n\n'Nay, I had little leisure to observe. I saw that they were cutting\ntheir matches and arranging their priming.'\n\n'I would that they had all snaphances,' he answered, sprinkling himself\nwith scented water; 'the matchlocks are slow and cumbersome. Have you\nhad wine enough?'\n\n'I will take no more,' I answered.\n\n'Then mayhap the Major may care to finish it. It is not often I ask help\nwith a bottle, but I would keep my head cool this night. Let us go down\nand see to our men.'\n\nIt was ten o'clock when we descended into the street. The hubbub of\nthe preachers and the shouting of the people had died away, for the\nregiments had fallen into their places, and stood silent and stern,\nwith the faint light from the lamps and windows playing over their dark\nserried ranks. A cool, clear moon shone down upon us from amidst fleecy\nclouds, which drifted ever and anon across her face. Away in the north\ntremulous rays of light flickered up into the heavens, coming and going\nlike long, quivering fingers. They were the northern lights, a sight\nrarely seen in the southland counties. It is little wonder that, coming\nat such a time, the fanatics should have pointed to them as signals\nfrom another world, and should have compared them to that pillar of fire\nwhich guided Israel through the dangers of the desert. The footpaths and\nthe windows were crowded with women and children, who broke into shrill\ncries of fear or of wonder as the strange light waxed and waned.\n\n'It is half after ten by St. Mary's clock,' said Saxon, as we rode up to\nthe regiment. 'Have we nothing to give the men?'\n\n'There is a hogshead of Zoyland cider in the yard of yonder inn,' said\nSir Gervas. 'Here, Dawson, do you take those gold sleeve links and give\nthem to mine host in exchange. Broach the barrel, and let each man have\nhis horn full. Sink me, if they shall fight with nought but cold water\nin them.'\n\n'They will feel the need of it ere morning,' said Saxon, as a score\nof pikemen hastened off to the inn. 'The marsh air is chilling to the\nblood.'\n\n'I feel cold already, and Covenant is stamping with it,' said I. 'Might\nwe not, if we have time upon our hands, canter our horses down the\nline?'\n\n'Of a surety,' Saxon answered gladly, 'we could not do better;' so\nshaking our bridles we rode off, our horses' hoofs striking fire from\nthe flint-paved streets as we passed.\n\nBehind the horse, in a long line which stretched from the Eastover gate,\nacross the bridge, along the High Street, up the Cornhill, and so past\nthe church to the Pig Cross, stood our foot, silent and grim, save when\nsome woman's voice from the windows called forth a deep, short answer\nfrom the ranks. The fitful light gleamed on scythes-blade or gun-barrel,\nand showed up the lines of rugged, hard set faces, some of mere children\nwith never a hair upon their cheeks, others of old men whose grey beards\nswept down to their cross-belts, but all bearing the same stamp of a\ndogged courage and a fierce self-contained resolution. Here were still\nthe fisher folk of the south. Here, too, were the fierce men from the\nMendips, the wild hunters from Porlock Quay and Minehead, the poachers\nof Exmoor, the shaggy marshmen of Axbridge, the mountain men from the\nQuantocks, the serge and wool-workers of Devonshire, the graziers of\nBampton, the red-coats from the Militia, the stout burghers of Taunton,\nand then, as the very bone and sinew of all, the brave smockfrocked\npeasants of the plains, who had turned up their jackets to the elbow,\nand exposed their brown and corded arms, as was their wont when good\nwork had to be done. As I speak to you, dear children, fifty years\nrolls by like a mist in the morning, and I am riding once more down\nthe winding street, and see again the serried ranks of my gallant\ncompanions. Brave hearts! They showed to all time how little training it\ntakes to turn an Englishman into a soldier, and what manner of men are\nbred in those quiet, peaceful hamlets which dot the sunny slopes of the\nSomerset and Devon downs. If ever it should be that England should\nbe struck upon her knees, if those who fight her battles should have\ndeserted her, and she should find herself unarmed in the presence of her\nenemy, let her take heart and remember that every village in the realm\nis a barrack, and that her real standing army is the hardy courage and\nsimple virtue which stand ever in the breast of the humblest of her\npeasants.\n\nAs we rode down the long line a buzz of greeting and welcome rose now\nand again from the ranks as they recognised through the gloom Saxon's\ntall, gaunt figure. The clock was on the stroke of eleven as we returned\nto our own men, and at that very moment King Monmouth rode out from the\ninn where he was quartered, and trotted with his staff down the High\nStreet. All cheering had been forbidden, but waving caps and brandished\narms spoke the ardour of his devoted followers. No bugle was to sound\nthe march, but as each received the word the one in its rear followed\nits movements. The clatter and shuffle of hundreds of moving feet came\nnearer and nearer, until the Frome men in front of us began to march,\nand we found ourselves fairly started upon the last journey which many\nof us were ever to take in this world.\n\nOur road lay across the Parret, through Eastover, and so along the\nwinding track past the spot where Derrick met his fate, and the lonely\ncottage of the little maid. At the other side of this the road becomes\na mere pathway over the plain. A dense haze lay over the moor, gathering\nthickly in the hollows, and veiling both the town which we had left and\nthe villages which we were approaching. Now and again it would lift\nfor a few moments, and then I could see in the moonlight the long black\nwrithing line of the army, with the shimmer of steel playing over it,\nand the rude white standards flapping in the night breeze. Far on the\nright a great fire was blazing--some farmhouse, doubtless, which the\nTangiers devils had made spoil of. Very slow our march was, and very\ncareful, for the plain was, as Sir Stephen Timewell had told us, cut\nacross by great ditches or rhines, which could not be passed save at\nsome few places. These ditches were cut for the purpose of draining the\nmarshes, and were many feet deep of water and of mud, so that even\nthe horse could not cross them. The bridges were narrow, and some time\npassed before the army could get over. At last, however, the two main\nones, the Black Ditch and the Langmoor Rhine, were safely traversed and\na halt was called while the foot was formed in line, for we had reason\nto believe that no other force lay between the Royal camp and ourselves.\nSo far our enterprise had succeeded admirably. We were within half a\nmile of the camp without mistake or accident, and none of the enemy's\nscouts had shown sign of their presence. Clearly they held us in such\ncontempt that it had never occurred to them that we might open the\nattack. If ever a general deserved a beating it was Feversham that\nnight. As he drew up upon the moor the clock of Chedzoy struck one.\n\n'Is it not glorious?' whispered Sir Gervas, as we reined up upon the\nfurther side of the Langmoor Rhine. 'What is there on earth to compare\nwith the excitement of this?'\n\n'You speak as though it wore a cocking-match or a bull-baiting, 'I\nanswered, with some little coldness. 'It is a solemn and a sad occasion.\nWin who will, English blood must soak the soil of England this night.'\n\n'The more room for those who are left,' said he lightly. 'Mark over\nyonder the glow of their camp-fires amidst the fog. What was it that\nyour seaman friend did recommend? Get the weather-gauge of them and\nboard--eh? Have you told that to the Colonel?'\n\n'Nay, this is no time for quips and cranks,' I answered gravely; 'the\nchances are that few of us will ever see to-morrow's sun rise.'\n\n'I have no great curiosity to see it,' he remarked, with a laugh. 'It\nwill be much as yesterday's. Zounds! though I have never risen to see\none in my life, I have looked on many a hundred ere I went to bed.'\n\n'I have told friend Reuben such few things as I should desire to be done\nin case I should fall,' said I. 'It has eased my mind much to know that\nI leave behind some word of farewell, and little remembrance to all whom\nI have known. Is there no service of the sort which I can do for you?'\n\n'Hum!' said he, musing. 'If I go under, you can tell Araminta--nay, let\nthe poor wench alone! Why should I send her messages which may plague\nher! Should you be in town, little Tommy Chichester would be glad to\nhear of the fun which we have had in Somerset. You will find him at the\nCoca Tree every day of the week between two and four of the clock. There\nis Mother Butterworth, too, whom I might commend to your notice. She\nwas the queen of wet-nurses, but alas! cruel time hath dried up her\nbusiness, and she hath need of some little nursing herself.'\n\n'If I live and you should fall, I shall do what may be done for her,'\nsaid I. 'Have you aught else to say?'\n\n'Only that Hacker of Paul's Yard is the best for vests,' he answered.\n'It is a small piece of knowledge, yet like most other knowledge it hath\nbeen bought and paid for. One other thing! I have a trinket or two left\nwhich might serve as a gift for the pretty Puritan maid, should our\nfriend lead her to the altar. Od's my life, but she will make him read\nsome queer books! How now, Colonel, why are we stuck out on the moor\nlike a row of herons among the sedges?'\n\n'They are ordering the line for the attack,' said Saxon, who had ridden\nup during our conversation. 'Donnerblitz! Who ever saw a camp so\nexposed to an onfall? Oh for twelve hundred good horse--for an hour of\nWessenburg's Pandours! Would I not trample them down until their camp\nwas like a field of young corn after a hail-storm!'\n\n'May not our horse advance?' I asked.\n\nThe old soldier gave a deep snort of disdain. 'If this fight is to be\nwon it must be by our foot,' said he; 'what can we hope for from such\ncavalry? Keep your men well in hand, for we may have to bear the brunt\nof the King's dragoons. A flank attack would fall upon us, for we are in\nthe post of honour.'\n\n'There are troops to the right of us,' I answered, peering through the\ndarkness.\n\n'Aye! the Taunton burghers and the Frome peasants. Our brigade covers\nthe right flank. Next us are the Mendip miners, nor could I wish for\nbetter comrades, if their zeal do not outrun their discretion. They are\non their knees in the mud at this moment.'\n\n'They will fight none the worse for that,' I remarked; 'but surely the\ntroops are advancing!'\n\n'Aye, aye!' cried Saxon joyously, plucking out his sword, and tying\nhis handkerchief round the handle to strengthen his grip. 'The hour has\ncome! Forwards!'\n\nVery slowly and silently we crept on through the dense fog, our feet\nsplashing and slipping in the sodden soil. With all the care which\nwe could take, the advance of so great a number of men could not be\nconducted without a deep sonorous sound from the thousands of marching\nfeet. Ahead of us were splotches of ruddy light twinkling through the\nfog which marked the Royal watch-fires. Immediately in front in a dense\ncolumn our own horse moved forwards. Of a sudden out of the darkness\nthere came a sharp challenge and a shout, with the discharge of a\ncarbine and the sound of galloping hoofs. Away down the line we heard\na ripple of shots. The first line of outposts had been reached. At the\nalarm our horse charged forward with a huzza, and we followed them as\nfast as our men could run. We had crossed two or three hundred yards of\nmoor, and could hear the blowing of the Royal bugles quite close to us,\nwhen our horse came to a sudden halt, and our whole advance was at a\nstandstill.\n\n'Sancta Maria!' cried Saxon, dashing forward with the rest of us to find\nout the cause of the delay. 'We must on at any cost! A halt now will\nruin our camisado.'\n\n'Forwards, forwards!' cried Sir Gervas and I, waving our swords.\n\n'It is no use, gentlemen,' cried a cornet of horse, wringing his hands;\n'we are undone and betrayed. There is a broad ditch without a ford in\nfront of us, full twenty feet across!'\n\n'Give me room for my horse, and I shall show ye the way across!' cried\nthe Baronet, backing his steed. 'Now, lads, who's for a jump?'\n\n'Nay, sir, for God's sake!' said a trooper, laying his hand upon his\nbridle. 'Sergeant Sexton hath sprung in even now, and horse and man have\ngone to the bottom!'\n\n'Let us see it, then!' cried Saxon, pushing his way through the crowd\nof horsemen. We followed close at his heels, until we found ourselves on\nthe borders of the vast trench which impeded our advance.\n\nTo this day I have never been able to make up my mind whether it was\nby chance or by treachery on the part of our guides that this fosse was\noverlooked until we stumbled upon it in the dark. There are some who say\nthat the Bussex Rhine, as it is called, is not either deep or broad,\nand was, therefore, unmentioned by the moorsmen, but that the recent\nconstant rains had swollen it to an extent never before known. Others\nsay that the guides had been deceived by the fog, and taken a wrong\ncourse, whereas, had we followed another track, we might have been able\nto come upon the camp without crossing the ditch. However that may be,\nit is certain that we found it stretching in front of us, broad, black,\nand forbidding, full twenty feet from bank to bank, with the cap of the\nill-fated sergeant just visible in the centre as a mute warning to all\nwho might attempt to ford it.\n\n'There must be a passage somewhere,' cried Saxon furiously. 'Every\nmoment is worth a troop of horse to them. Where is my Lord Grey? Hath\nthe guide met with his deserts?'\n\n'Major Hollis hath hurled the guide into the ditch,' the young cornet\nanswered. 'My Lord Grey hath ridden along the bank seeking for a ford.'\n\nI caught a pike out of a footman's hand, and probed into the black\noozy mud, standing myself up to the waist in it, and holding Covenant's\nbridle in my left hand. Nowhere could I touch bottom or find any hope of\nsolid foothold.\n\n'Here, fellow!' cried Saxon, seizing a trooper by the arm. 'Make for\nthe rear! Gallop as though the devil were behind you! Bring up a pair\nof ammunition waggons, and we shall see whether we cannot bridge this\ninfernal puddle.'\n\n'If a few of us could make a lodgment upon the other side we might make\nit good until help came,' said Sir Gervas, as the horseman galloped off\nupon his mission.\n\nAll down the rebel line a fierce low roar of disappointment and rage\nshowed that the whole army had met the same obstacle which hindered\nour attack. On the other side of the ditch the drums beat, the bugles\nscreamed, and the shouts and oaths of the officers could be heard as\nthey marshalled their men. Glancing lights in Chedzoy, Westonzoyland,\nand the other hamlets to left and right, showed how fast the alarm\nwas extending. Decimus Saxon rode up and down the edge of the fosse,\npattering forth foreign oaths, grinding his teeth in his fury, and\nrising now and again in his stirrups to shake his gauntleted hands at\nthe enemy.\n\n'For whom are ye?' shouted a hoarse voice out of the haze.\n\n'For the King!' roared the peasants in answer.\n\n'For which King?' cried the voice.\n\n'For King Monmouth!'\n\n'Let them have it, lads!' and instantly a storm of musket bullets\nwhistled and sung about our ears. As the sheet of flame sprang out of\nthe darkness the maddened, half-broken horses dashed wildly away across\nthe plain, resisting the efforts of the riders to pull them up. There\nare some, indeed, who say that those efforts were not very strong, and\nthat our troopers, disheartened at the check at the ditch, were not\nsorry to show their heels to the enemy. As to my Lord Grey, I can say\ntruly that I saw him in the dim light among the flying squadrons, doing\nall that a brave cavalier could do to bring them to a stand. Away they\nwent, however, thundering through the ranks of the foot and out over the\nmoor, leaving their companions to bear the whole brunt of the battle.\n\n'On to your faces, men!' shouted Saxon, in a voice which rose high above\nthe crash of the musketry and the cries of the wounded. The pikemen and\nscythesmen threw themselves down at his command, while the musqueteers\nknelt in front of them, loading and firing, with nothing to aim at save\nthe burning matches of the enemy's pieces, which could be seen twinkling\nthrough the darkness. All along, both to the right and the left, a\nrolling fire had broken out, coming in short, quick volleys from the\nsoldiers, and in a continuous confused rattle from the peasants. On the\nfurther wing our four guns had been brought into play, and we could hear\ntheir dull growling in the distance.\n\n'Sing, brothers, sing!' cried our stout-hearted chaplain, Master Joshua\nPettigrue, bustling backwards and forwards among the prostrate ranks.\n'Let us call upon the Lord in our day of trial!' The men raised a loud\nhymn of praise, which swelled into a great chorus as it was taken up by\nthe Taunton burghers upon our right and the miners upon our left. At\nthe sound the soldiers on the other side raised a fierce huzza, and the\nwhole air was full of clamour.\n\nOur musqueteers had been brought to the very edge of the Bussex Rhine,\nand the Royal troops had also advanced as far as they were able, so that\nthere were not five pikes'-lengths between the lines. Yet that short\ndistance was so impassable that, save for the more deadly fire, a\nquarter of a mile might have divided us. So near were we that the\nburning wads from the enemy's muskets flew in flakes of fire over\nour heads, and we felt upon our faces the hot, quick flush of their\ndischarges. Yet though the air was alive with bullets, the aim of the\nsoldiers was too high for our kneeling ranks, and very few of the men\nwere struck. For our part, we did what we could to keep the barrels of\nour muskets from inclining upwards. Saxon, Sir Gervas, and I walked\nour horses up and down without ceasing, pushing them level with our\nsword-blades, and calling on the men to aim steadily and slowly. The\ngroans and cries from the other side of the ditch showed that some, at\nleast, of our bullets had not been fired in vain.\n\n'We hold our own in this quarter,' said I to Saxon. 'It seems to me that\ntheir fire slackens.'\n\n'It is their horse that I fear,' he answered. 'They can avoid the ditch,\nsince they come from the hamlets on the flank. They may be upon us at\nany time.'\n\n'Hullo, sir!' shouted Sir Gervas, reining up his steed upon the very\nbrink of the ditch, and raising his cap in salute to a mounted officer\nupon the other side. 'Can you tell me if we have the honour to be\nopposed to the foot guards?'\n\n'We are Dumbarton's regiment, sir,' cried the other. 'We shall give ye\ngood cause to remember having met us.'\n\n'We shall be across presently to make your further acquaintance,' Sir\nGervas answered, and at the same moment rolled, horse and all, into the\nditch, amid a roar of exultation from the soldiers. Half-a-dozen of his\nmusqueteers sprang instantly, waist deep, into the mud, and dragged our\nfriend out of danger, but the charger, which had been shot through the\nheart, sank without a struggle.\n\n'There is no harm!' cried the Baronet, springing to his feet, 'I would\nrather fight on foot like my brave musqueteers.' The men broke out\na-cheering at his words, and the fire on both sides became hotter\nthan ever. It was a marvel to me, and to many more, to see these brave\npeasants with their mouths full of bullets, loading, priming, and firing\nas steadily as though they had been at it all their lives, and holding\ntheir own against a veteran regiment which has proved itself in other\nfields to be second to none in the army of England.\n\nThe grey light of morning was stealing over the moor, and still the\nfight was undecided. The fog hung about us in feathery streaks, and\nthe smoke from our guns drifted across in a dun-coloured cloud, through\nwhich the long lines of red coats upon the other side of the rhine\nloomed up like a battalion of giants. My eyes ached and my lips prinkled\nwith the smack of the powder. On every side of me men were falling fast,\nfor the increased light had improved the aim of the soldiers. Our good\nchaplain, in the very midst of a psalm, had uttered a great shout\nof praise and thanksgiving, and so passed on to join those of his\nparishioners who were scattered round him upon the moor. Hope-above\nWilliams and Keeper Milson, under-officers, and among the stoutest\nmen in the company, were both down, the one dead and the other sorely\nwounded, but still ramming down charges, and spitting bullets into his\ngun-barrel. The two Stukeleys of Somerton, twins, and lads of great\npromise, lay silently with grey faces turned to the grey sky, united in\ndeath as they had been in birth. Everywhere the dead lay thick amid the\nliving. Yet no man flinched from his place, and Saxon still walked\nhis horse among them with words of hope and praise, while his stern,\ndeep-lined face and tall sinewy figure were a very beacon of hope to\nthe simple rustics. Such of my scythesmen as could handle a musket were\nthrown forward into the fighting line, and furnished with the arms and\npouches of those who had fallen.\n\nEver and anon as the light waxed I could note through the rifts in the\nsmoke and the fog how the fight was progressing in other parts of the\nfield. On the right the heath was brown with the Taunton and Frome\nmen, who, like ourselves, were lying down to avoid the fire. Along the\nborders of the Bussex Rhine a deep fringe of their musqueteers were\nexchanging murderous volleys, almost muzzle to muzzle, with the\nleft wing of the same regiment with which we were engaged, which was\nsupported by a second regiment in broad white facings, which I believe\nto have belonged to the Wiltshire Militia. On either bank of the black\ntrench a thick line of dead, brown on the one side, and scarlet on the\nother, served as a screen to their companions, who sheltered themselves\nbehind them and rested their musket-barrels upon their prostrate bodies.\nTo the left amongst the withies lay five hundred Mendip and Bagworthy\nminers, singing lustily, but so ill-armed that they had scarce one gun\namong ten wherewith to reply to the fire which was poured into them.\nThey could not advance, and they would not retreat, so they sheltered\nthemselves as best they might, and waited patiently until their leaders\nmight decide what was to be done. Further down for half a mile or more\nthe long rolling cloud of smoke, with petulant flashes of flame spurting\nout through it, showed that every one of our raw regiments was bearing\nits part manfully. The cannon on the left had ceased firing. The Dutch\ngunners had left the Islanders to settle their own quarrels, and were\nscampering back to Bridgewater, leaving their silent pieces to the Royal\nHorse.\n\nThe battle was in this state when there rose a cry of 'The King, the\nKing!' and Monmouth rode through our ranks, bare-headed and wild-eyed,\nwith Buyse, Wade, and a dozen more beside him. They pulled up within a\nspear's-length of me, and Saxon, spurring forward to meet them, raised\nhis sword to the salute. I could not but mark the contrast between\nthe calm, grave face of the veteran, composed yet alert, and the half\nfrantic bearing of the man whom we were compelled to look upon as our\nleader.\n\n'How think ye, Colonel Saxon?' he cried wildly. 'How goes the fight? Is\nall well with ye? What an error, alas! what an error! Shall we draw off,\neh? How say you?'\n\n'We hold our own here, your Majesty,' Saxon answered. 'Methinks had we\nsomething after the nature of palisados or stockados, after the Swedish\nfashion, we might even make it good against the horse.'\n\n'Ah, the horse!' cried the unhappy Monmouth. 'If we get over this, my\nLord Grey shall answer for it. They ran like a flock of sheep. What\nleader could do anything with such troops? Oh, lack-a-day, lack-a-day!\nShall we not advance?'\n\n'There is no reason to advance, your Majesty, now that the surprise has\nfailed,' said Saxon. 'I had sent for carts to bridge over the trench,\naccording to the plan which is commended in the treatise, \"De vallis et\nfossis,\" but they are useless now. We can but fight it out as we are.'\n\n'To throw troops across would be to sacrifice them,' said Wade. 'We have\nlost heavily, Colonel Saxon, but I think from the look of yonder bank\nthat ye have given a good account of the red-coats.'\n\n'Stand firm! For God's sake, stand firm!' cried Monmouth distractedly.\n'The horse have fled, and the cannoniers also. Oh! what can I do with\nsuch men? What shall I do? Alas, alas!' He set spurs to his horse and\ngalloped off down the line, still ringing his hands and uttering his\ndismal wailings. Oh, my children, how small, how very small a thing is\ndeath when weighed in the balance with dishonour! Had this man but borne\nhis fate silently, as did the meanest footman who followed his banners,\nhow proud and glad would we have been to have discoursed of him, our\nprincely leader. But let him rest. The fears and agitations and petty\nfond emotions, which showed upon him as the breeze shows upon the water,\nare all stilled now for many a long year. Let us think of the kind heart\nand forget the feeble spirit.\n\nAs his escort trooped after him, the great German man-at-arms separated\nfrom them and turned back to us. 'I am weary of trotting up and down\nlike a lust-ritter at a fair,' said he. 'If I bide with ye I am like to\nhave my share of any fighting which is going. So, steady, mein Liebchen.\nThat ball grazed her tail, but she is too old a soldier to wince at\ntrifles. Hullo, friend, where is your horse?'\n\n'At the bottom of the ditch,' said Sir Gervas, scraping the mud off his\ndress with his sword-blade. ''Tis now half-past two,' he continued,\n'and we have been at this child's-play for an hour and more. With a line\nregiment, too! It is not what I had looked forward to!'\n\n'You shall have something to console you anon,' cried the German, with\nhis eyes shining. 'Mein Gott! Is it not splendid? Look to it, friend\nSaxon, look to it!'\n\nIt was no light matter which had so roused the soldier's admiration. Out\nof the haze which still lay thick upon our right there twinkled here and\nthere a bright gleam of silvery light, while a dull, thundering noise\nbroke upon our ears like that of the surf upon a rocky shore. More and\nmore frequent came the fitful flashes of steel, louder and yet louder\ngrew the hoarse gathering tumult, until of a sudden the fog was rent,\nand the long lines of the Royal cavalry broke out from it, wave after\nwave, rich in scarlet and blue and gold, as grand a sight as ever the\neye rested upon. There was something in the smooth, steady sweep of so\ngreat a body of horsemen which gave the feeling of irresistible power.\nRank after rank, and line after line, with waving standards, tossing\nmanes, and gleaming steel, they poured onwards, an army in themselves,\nwith either flank still shrouded in the mist. As they thundered along,\nknee to knee and bridle to bridle, there came from them such a gust of\ndeep-chested oaths with the jangle of harness, the clash of steel, and\nthe measured beat of multitudinous hoofs, that no man who hath not stood\nup against such a whirlwind, with nothing but a seven-foot pike in his\nhand, can know how hard it is to face it with a steady lip and a firm\ngrip.\n\nBut wonderful as was the sight, there was, as ye may guess, my\ndears, little time for us to gaze upon it. Saxon and the German flung\nthemselves among the pikemen and did all that men could do to thicken\ntheir array. Sir Gervas and I did the same with the scythesmen, who had\nbeen trained to form a triple front after the German fashion, one rank\nkneeling, one stooping, and one standing erect, with weapons advanced.\nClose to us the Taunton men had hardened into a dark sullen ring,\nbristling with steel, in the centre of which might be seen and heard\ntheir venerable Mayor, his long beard fluttering in the breeze, and his\nstrident voice clanging over the field. Louder and louder grew the roar\nof the horse. 'Steady, my brave lads,' cried Saxon, in trumpet tones.\n'Dig the pike-butt into the earth! Best it on the right foot! Give not\nan inch! Steady!' A great shout went up from either side, and then the\nliving wave broke over us.\n\nWhat hope is there to describe such a scene as that--the crashing of\nwood, the sharp gasping cries, the snorting of horses, the jar when the\npush of pike met with the sweep of sword! Who can hope to make\nanother see that of which he himself carries away so vague and dim an\nimpression? One who has acted in such a scene gathers no general sense\nof the whole combat, such as might be gained by a mere onlooker, but\nhe has stamped for ever upon his mind just the few incidents which may\nchance to occur before his own eyes. Thus my memories are confined to a\nswirl of smoke with steel caps and fierce, eager faces breaking through\nit, with the red gaping nostrils of horses and their pawing fore-feet\nas they recoiled from the hedge of steel. I see, too, a young beardless\nlad, an officer of dragoons, crawling on hands and knees under the\nscythes, and I hear his groan as one of the peasants pinned him to the\nground. I see a bearded, broad-faced trooper riding a grey horse just\noutside the fringe of the scythes, seeking for some entrance, and\nscreaming the while with rage. Small things imprint themselves upon a\nman's notice at such a time. I even marked the man's strong white teeth\nand pink gums. At the same time I see a white-faced, thin-lipped man\nleaning far forward over his horse's neck and driving at me with his\nsword point, cursing the while as only a dragoon can curse. All these\nimages start up as I think of that fierce rally, during which I hacked\nand cut and thrust at man and horse without a thought of parry or\nof guard. All round rose a fierce babel of shouts and cries, godly\nejaculations from the peasants and oaths from the horsemen, with Saxon's\nvoice above all imploring his pikemen to stand firm. Then the cloud\nof horse-men recoiled, circling off over the plain, and the shout of\ntriumph from my comrades, and an open snuff-box thrust out in front of\nme, proclaimed that we had seen the back of as stout a squadron as ever\nfollowed a kettledrum.\n\nBut if we could claim it as a victory, the army in general could scarce\nsay as much. None but the very pick of the troops could stand against\nthe flood of heavy horses and steel-clad men. The Frome peasants were\ngone, swept utterly from the field. Many had been driven by pure weight\nand pressure into the fatal mud which had checked our advance. Many\nothers, sorely cut and slashed, lay in ghastly heaps all over the ground\nwhich they had held. A few by joining our ranks had saved themselves\nfrom the fate of their companions. Further off the men of Taunton still\nstood fast, though in sadly diminished numbers. A long ridge of horses\nand cavaliers in front of them showed how stern had been the attack and\nhow fierce the resistance. On our left the wild miners had been broken\nat the first rush, but had fought so savagely, throwing themselves upon\nthe ground and stabbing upwards at the stomachs of the horses, that they\nhad at last beaten off the dragoons. The Devonshire militiamen, however,\nhad been scattered, and shared the fate of the men of Frome. During the\nwhole of the struggle the foot upon the further bank of the Bussex Rhine\nwere pouring in a hail of bullets, which our musqueteers, having to\ndefend themselves against the horse, were unable to reply to.\n\nIt needed no great amount of soldierly experience to see that the battle\nwas lost, and that Monmouth's cause was doomed. It was broad daylight\nnow, though the sun had not yet risen. Our cavalry was gone, our\nordnance was silent, our line was pierced in many places, and more than\none of our regiments had been destroyed. On the right flank the Horse\nGuards Blue, the Tangiers Horse, and two dragoon regiments were forming\nup for a fresh attack. On the left the foot-guards had bridged the ditch\nand were fighting hand to hand with the men from North Somerset. In\nfront a steady fire was being poured into us, to which our reply was\nfeeble and uncertain, for the powder carts had gone astray in the dark,\nand many were calling hoarsely for ammunition, while others were loading\nwith pebbles instead of ball. Add to this that the regiments which still\nheld their ground had all been badly shaken by the charge, and had lost\na third of their number. Yet the brave clowns sent up cheer after cheer,\nand shouted words of encouragement and homely jests to each other,\nas though a battle were but some rough game which must as a matter of\ncourse be played out while there was a player left to join in it.\n\n'Is Captain Clarke there?' cried Decimus Saxon, riding up with his\nsword-arm flecked with blood. 'Ride over to Sir Stephen Timewell and\ntell him to join his men to ours. Apart we shall be broken--together we\nmay stand another charge.'\n\nSetting spurs to Covenant I rode over to our companions and delivered\nthe message. Sir Stephen, who had been struck by a petronel bullet,\nand wore a crimsoned kerchief bound round his snow-white head, saw\nthe wisdom of the advice, and moved his townsmen as directed. His\nmusqueteers being better provided with powder than ours did good service\nby keeping down for a time the deadly fire from across the fosse.\n\n'Who would have thought it of him?' cried Sir Stephen, with flashing\neyes, as Buyse and Saxon rode out to meet him. 'What think ye now of our\nnoble monarch, our champion of the Protestant cause?'\n\n'He is no very great Krieger,' said Buyse. 'Yet perhaps it may be from\nwant of habit as much as from want of courage.'\n\n'Courage!' cried the old Mayor, in a voice of scorn. 'Look over yonder\nand behold your King.' He pointed out over the moor with a finger\nwhich shook as much from anger as from age. There, far away, showing\nup against the dark peat-coloured soil, rode a gaily-dressed cavalier,\nfollowed by a knot of attendants, galloping as fast as his horse would\ncarry him from the field of battle. There was no mistaking the fugitive.\nIt was the recreant Monmouth.\n\n'Hush!' cried Saxon, as we all gave a cry of horror and execration;\n'do not dishearten our brave lads! Cowardice is catching and will run\nthrough an army like the putrid fever.'\n\n'Der Feigherzige!' cried Buyse, grinding his teeth. 'And the brave\ncountry folk! It is too much.'\n\n'Stand to your pikes, men!' roared Saxon, in a voice of thunder, and\nwe had scarce time to form our square and throw ourselves inside of it,\nbefore the whirlwind of horse was upon us once more. When the Taunton\nmen had joined us a weak spot had been left in our ranks, and through\nthis in an instant the Blue Guards smashed their way, pouring through\nthe opening, and cutting fiercely to right and left. The burghers on the\none side and our own men on the other replied by savage stabs from their\npikes and scythes, which emptied many a saddle, but while the struggle\nwas at its hottest the King's cannon opened for the first time with a\ndeafening roar upon the other side of the rhine, and a storm of balls\nploughed their way through our dense ranks, leaving furrows of dead\nand wounded behind them. At the same moment a great cry of 'Powder! For\nChrist's sake, powder!' arose from the musqueteers whose last charge had\nbeen fired. Again the cannon roared, and again our men were mowed down\nas though Death himself with his scythe were amongst us. At last our\nranks were breaking. In the very centre of the pikemen steel caps were\ngleaming, and broadswords rising and falling. The whole body was swept\nback two hundred paces or more, struggling furiously the while, and\nwas there mixed with other like bodies which had been dashed out of all\nsemblance of military order, and yet refused to fly. Men of Devon, of\nDorset, of Wiltshire, and of Somerset, trodden down by horse, slashed by\ndragoons, dropping by scores under the rain of bullets, still fought on\nwith a dogged, desperate courage for a ruined cause and a man who\nhad deserted them. Everywhere as I glanced around me were set faces,\nclenched teeth, yells of rage and defiance, but never a sound of fear\nor of submission. Some clambered up upon the cruppers of the riders and\ndragged them backwards from their saddles. Others lay upon their faces\nand hamstrung the chargers with their scythe-blades, stabbing the\nhorsemen before they could disengage themselves. Again and again the\nguards crashed through them from side to side, and yet the shattered\nranks closed up behind them and continued the long-drawn struggle. So\nhopeless was it and so pitiable that I could have found it in my heart\nto wish that they would break and fly, were it not that on the broad\nmoor there was no refuge which they could make for. And all this time,\nwhile they struggled and fought, blackened with powder and parched with\nthirst, spilling their blood as though it were water, the man who called\nhimself their King was spurring over the countryside with a loose rein\nand a quaking heart, his thoughts centred upon saving his own neck, come\nwhat might to his gallant followers.\n\nLarge numbers of the foot fought to the death, neither giving nor\nreceiving quarter; but at last, scattered, broken, and without\nammunition, the main body of the peasants dispersed and fled across the\nmoor, closely followed by the horse. Saxon, Buyse, and I had done all\nthat we could to rally them once more, and had cut down some of the\nforemost of the pursuers, when my eye fell suddenly upon Sir Gervas,\nstanding hatless with a few of his musqueteers in the midst of a swarm\nof dragoons. Spurring our horses we cut a way to his rescue, and laid\nour swords about us until we had cleared off his assailants for the\nmoment.\n\n'Jump up behind me!' I cried. 'We can make good our escape.'\n\nHe looked up smiling and shook his head. 'I stay with my company,' said\nhe.\n\n'Your company!' Saxon cried. 'Why, man, you are mad! Your company is cut\noff to the last man.'\n\n'That's what I mean,' he answered, flicking some dirt from his cravat.\n'Don't ye mind! Look out for yourselves. Goodbye, Clarke! Present my\ncompliments to--' The dragoons charged down upon us again. We were all\nborne backwards, fighting desperately, and when we could look round the\nBaronet was gone for ever. We heard afterwards that the King's troops\nfound upon the field a body which they mistook for that of Monmouth, on\naccount of the effeminate grace of the features and the richness of the\nattire. No doubt it was that of our undaunted friend, Sir Gervas Jerome,\na name which shall ever be dear to my heart. When, ten years afterwards,\nwe heard much of the gallantry of the young courtiers of the household\nof the French King, and of the sprightly courage with which they fought\nagainst us in the Lowlands at Steinkirk and elsewhere, I have always\nthought, from my recollection of Sir Gervas, that I knew what manner of\nmen they were.\n\nAnd now it was every man for himself. In no part of the field did\nthe insurgents continue to resist. The first rays of the sun shining\nslantwise across the great dreary plain lit up the long line of the\nscarlet battalions, and glittered upon the cruel swords which rose and\nfell among the struggling drove of resistless fugitives. The German had\nbecome separated from us in the tumult, and we knew not whether he lived\nor was slain, though long afterwards we learned that he made good his\nescape, only to be captured with the ill-fated Duke of Monmouth. Grey,\nWade, Ferguson, and others had contrived also to save themselves, while\nStephen Timewell lay in the midst of a stern ring of his hard-faced\nburghers, dying as he had lived, a gallant Puritan Englishman. All this\nwe learned afterwards. At present we rode for our lives across the moor,\nfollowed by a few scattered bodies of horse, who soon abandoned their\npursuit in order to fasten upon some more easy prey.\n\nWe were passing a small clump of alder bushes when a loud manly voice\nraised in prayer attracted our attention. Pushing aside the branches, we\ncame upon a man, seated with his back up against a great stone, cutting\nat his own arm with a broad-bladed knife, and giving forth the Lord's\nprayer the while, without a pause or a quiver in his tone. As he glanced\nup from his terrible task we both recognised him as one Hollis, whom I\nhave mentioned as having been with Cromwell at Dunbar. His arm had\nbeen half severed by a cannon-ball, and he was quietly completing the\nseparation in order to free himself from the dangling and useless limb.\nEven Saxon, used as he was to all the forms and incidents of war, stared\nopen-eyed and aghast at this strange surgery; but the man, with a short\nnod of recognition, went grimly forward with his task, until, even as\nwe gazed, he separated the last shred which held it, and lay over with\nblanched lips which still murmured the prayer. (1) We could do little\nto help him, and, indeed, might by our halt attract his pursuers to his\nhiding-place; so, throwing him down my flask half filled with water, we\nhastened on upon our way. Oh, war, my children, what a terrible thing it\nis! How are men cozened and cheated by the rare trappings and prancing\nsteeds, by the empty terms of honour and of glory, until they forget\nin the outward tinsel and show the real ghastly horror of the accursed\nthing! Think not of the dazzling squadrons, nor of the spirit-stirring\nblare of the trumpets, but think of that lonely man under the shadow of\nthe alders, and of what he was doing in a Christian age and a Christian\nland. Surely I, who have grown grey in harness, and who have seen as\nmany fields as I have years of my life, should be the last to preach\nupon this subject, and yet I can clearly see that, in honesty, men must\neither give up war, or else they must confess that the words of the\nRedeemer are too lofty for them, and that there is no longer any use in\npretending that His teaching can be reduced to practice. I have seen a\nChristian minister blessing a cannon which had just been founded, and\nanother blessing a war-ship as it glided from the slips. They,\nthe so-called representatives of Christ, blessed these engines of\ndestruction which cruel man has devised to destroy and tear his\nfellow-worms. What would we say if we read in Holy Writ of our Lord\nhaving blessed the battering-rams and the catapults of the legions?\nWould we think that it was in agreement with His teaching? But there!\nAs long as the heads of the Church wander away so far from the spirit of\nits teaching as to live in palaces and drive in carriages, what wonder\nif, with such examples before them, the lower clergy overstep at times\nthe lines laid down by their great Master?\n\nLooking back from the summit of the low hills which lie to the westward\nof the moor, we could see the cloud of horse-men streaming over the\nbridge of the Parret and into the town of Bridgewater, with the helpless\ndrove of fugitives still flying in front of them. We had pulled up our\nhorses, and were looking sadly and silently back at the fatal plain,\nwhen the thud of hoofs fell upon our ears, and, turning round, we found\ntwo horsemen in the dress of the guards riding towards us. They had made\na circuit to cut us off, for they were riding straight for us with drawn\nswords and eager gestures.\n\n'More slaughter,' I said wearily. 'Why will they force us to it?'\n\nSaxon glanced keenly from beneath his drooping lids at the approaching\nhorsemen, and a grim smile wreathed his face in a thousand lines and\nwrinkles.\n\n'It is our friend who set the hounds upon our track at Salisbury,' he\nsaid. 'This is a happy meeting. I have a score to settle with him.'\n\nIt was, indeed, the hot-headed young comet whom we had met at the outset\nof our adventures. Some evil chance had led him to recognise the tall\nfigure of my companion as we rode from the field, and to follow him, in\nthe hope of obtaining revenge for the humiliation which he had met with\nat his hands. The other was a lance-corporal, a man of square soldierly\nbuild, riding a heavy black horse with a white blaze upon its forehead.\n\nSaxon rode slowly towards the officer, while the trooper and I fixed our\neyes upon each other.\n\n'Well, boy,' I heard my companion say, 'I trust that you have learned to\nfence since we met last.'\n\nThe young guardsman gave a snarl of rage at the taunt, and an instant\nafterwards the clink of their sword-blades showed that they had met.\nFor my own part I dared not spare a glance upon them, for my opponent\nattacked me with such fury that it was all that I could do to keep him\noff. No pistol was drawn upon either side. It was an honest contest of\nsteel against steel. So constant were the corporal's thrusts, now at my\nface, now at my body, that I had never an opening for one of the heavy\ncuts which might have ended the matter. Our horses spun round each\nother, biting and pawing, while we thrust and parried, until at last,\ncoming together knee to knee, we found ourselves within sword-point, and\ngrasped each other by the throat. He plucked a dagger from his belt and\nstruck it into my left arm, but I dealt him a blow with my gauntleted\nhand, which smote him off his horse and stretched him speechless upon\nthe plain. Almost at the same moment the cornet dropped from his horse,\nwounded in several places. Saxon sprang from his saddle, and picking the\nsoldier's dagger from the ground, would have finished them both had I\nnot jumped down also and restrained him. He flashed round upon me with\nso savage a face that I could see that the wild-beast nature within him\nwas fairly roused.\n\n'What hast thou to do?' he snarled. 'Let go!'\n\n'Nay, nay! Blood enough hath been shed,' said I. 'Let them lie.'\n\n'What mercy would they have had upon us?' he cried passionately,\nstruggling to get his wrist free. 'They have lost, and must pay\nforfeit.'\n\n'Not in cold blood,' I said firmly. 'I shall not abide it.'\n\n'Indeed, your lordship,' he sneered, with the devil peeping out through\nhis eyes. With a violent wrench he freed himself from my grasp, and\nspringing back, picked up the sword which he had dropped.\n\n'What then?' I asked, standing on my guard astride of the wounded man.\n\nHe stood for a minute or more looking at me from under his heavy-hung\nbrows, with his whole face writhing with passion. Every instant I\nexpected that he would fly at me, but at last, with a gulp in his\nthroat, he sheathed his rapier with a sharp clang, and sprang back into\nthe saddle.\n\n'We part here,' he said coldly. 'I have twice been on the verge of\nslaying you, and the third time might be too much for my patience. You\nare no fit companion for a cavalier of fortune. Join the clergy, lad; it\nis your vocation.'\n\n'Is this Decimus Saxon who speaks, or is it Will Spotterbridge?' I\nasked, remembering his jest concerning his ancestry, but no answering\nsmile came upon his rugged face. Gathering up his bridle in his left\nhand, he shot one last malignant glance at the bleeding officer, and\ngalloped off along one of the tracks which lead to the southward. I\nstood gazing after him, but he never sent so much as a hand-wave back,\nriding on with a rigid neck until he vanished in a dip in the moor.\n\n'There goes one friend,' thought I sadly, 'and all forsooth because I\nwill not stand by and see a helpless man's throat cut. Another friend is\ndead on the field. A third, the oldest and dearest of all, lies wounded\nat Bridgewater, at the mercy of a brutal soldiery. If I return to my\nhome I do but bring trouble and danger to those whom I love. Whither\nshall I turn?' For some minutes I stood irresolute beside the prostrate\nguardsmen, while Covenant strolled slowly along cropping the scanty\nherbage, and turning his dark full eyes towards me from time to time, as\nthough to assure me that one friend at least was steadfast. Northward I\nlooked at the Polden Hills, southwards, at the Blackdowns, westward\nat the long blue range of the Quantocks, and eastward at the broad fen\ncountry; but nowhere could I see any hope of safety. Truth to say, I\nfelt sick at heart and cared little for the time whether I escaped or\nno.\n\nA muttered oath followed by a groan roused me from my meditations.\nThe corporal was sitting up rubbing his head with a look of stupid\nastonishment upon his face, as though he were not very sure either of\nwhere he was or how he came there. The officer, too, had opened his\neyes and shown other signs of returning consciousness. His wounds were\nclearly of no very serious nature. There was no danger of their pursuing\nme even should they wish to do so, for their horses had trotted off to\njoin the numerous other riderless steeds who were wandering all over the\nmoorlands. I mounted, therefore, and rode slowly away, saving my good\ncharger as much as possible, for the morning's work had already told\nsomewhat heavily upon him.\n\nThere were many scattered bodies of horse riding hither and thither over\nthe marshes, but I was able to avoid them, and trotted onwards, keeping\nto the waste country until I found myself eight or ten miles from the\nbattlefield. The few cottages and houses which I passed wore deserted,\nand many of them bore signs of having been plundered. Not a peasant was\nto be seen. The evil fame of Kirke's lambs had chased away all those who\nhad not actually taken arms. At last, after riding for three hours, I\nbethought me that I was far enough from the main line of pursuit to\nbe free from danger, so I chose out a sheltered spot where a clump of\nbushes overhung a little brook. There, seated upon a bank of velvet\nmoss, I rested my weary limbs, and tried to wash the stains of battle\nfrom my person.\n\nIt was only now when I could look quietly at my own attire that it was\nbrought home to me how terrible the encounter must have been in which\nI had been engaged, and how wonderful it was that I had come off so\nscatheless. Of the blows which I had struck in the fight I had faint\nremembrance, yet they must have been many and terrible, for my sword\nedge was as jagged and turned as though I had hacked for an hour at an\niron bar. From head to foot I was splashed and crimsoned with blood,\npartly my own, but mostly that of others. My headpiece was dinted with\nblows. A petronel bullet had glanced off my front plate, striking it\nat an angle, and had left a broad groove across it. Two or three other\ncracks and stars showed where the good sheet of proof steel had saved\nme. My left arm was stiff and well-nigh powerless from the corporal's\nstab, but on stripping off my doublet and examining the place, I found\nthat though there had been much bleeding the wound was on the outer side\nof the bone, and was therefore of no great import. A kerchief dipped in\nwater and bound tightly round it eased the smart and stanched the blood.\nBeyond this scratch I had no injuries, though from my own efforts I felt\nas stiff and sore all over as though I had been well cudgelled, and the\nslight wound got in Wells Cathedral had reopened and was bleeding. With\na little patience and cold water, however, I was able to dress it and to\ntie myself up as well as any chirurgeon in the kingdom.\n\nHaving seen to my injuries I had now to attend to my appearance, for\nin truth I might have stood for one of those gory giants with whom the\nworthy Don Bellianis of Greece and other stout champions were wont to\ncontend. No woman or child but would have fled at the sight of me, for\nI was as red as the parish butcher when Martinmas is nigh. A good wash,\nhowever, in the brook soon removed those traces of war, and I was\nable to get the marks off my breastplate and boots. In the case of my\nclothes, however, it was so hopeless to clean them that I gave it up in\ndespair. My good old horse had been never so much as grazed by steel or\nbullet, so that with a little watering and tending he was soon as fresh\nas ever, and we turned our backs on the streamlet a better-favoured pair\nthan we had approached it.\n\nIt was now going on to mid-day, and I began to feel very hungry, for I\nhad tasted nothing since the evening before. Two or three houses stood\nin a cluster upon the moor, but the blackened walls and scorched thatch\nshowed that it was hopeless to expect anything from them. Once or twice\nI spied folk in the fields or on the roadway; but at sight of an armed\nhorseman they ran for their lives, diving into the brushwood like wild\nanimals. At one place, where a high oak tree marked the meeting of three\nroads, two bodies dangling from one of the branches showed that the\nfears of the villagers were based upon experience. These poor men had in\nall likelihood been hanged because the amount of their little hoardings\nhad not come up to the expectations of their plunderers; or because,\nhaving given all to one band of robbers, they had nothing with which\nto appease the next. At last, when I was fairly weary of my fruitless\nsearch for food, I espied a windmill standing upon a green hill at\nthe other side of some fields. Judging from its appearance that it had\nescaped the general pillage, I took the pathway which branched away to\nit from the high-road. (Note J, Appendix)\n\n1. The incident is historically true, and may serve to show what sort of\nmen they were who had learned their soldiering under Cromwell.\n\n\n\nChapter XXXIII. Of my Perilous Adventure at the Mill\n\nAt the base of the mill there stood a shed which was evidently used to\nstall the horses which brought the farmers' grain. Some grass was heaped\nup inside it, so I loosened Covenant's girths and left him to have a\nhearty meal. The mill itself appeared to be silent and empty. I climbed\nthe steep wood ladder, and pushing the door open, walked into a round\nstone-flagged room, from which a second ladder led to the loft above. On\none side of this chamber was a long wooden box, and all round the walls\nwere ranged rows of sacks full of flour. In the fireplace stood a pile\nof faggots ready for lighting, so with the aid of my tinder-box I soon\nhad a cheerful blaze. Taking a large handful of flour from the nearest\nbag I moistened it with water from a pitcher, and having rolled it out\ninto a flat cake, proceeded to bake it, smiling the while to think of\nwhat my mother would say to such rough cookery. Very sure I am that\nPatrick Lamb himself, whose book, the 'Complete Court Cook,' was ever in\nthe dear soul's left hand while she stirred and basted with her right,\ncould not have turned out a dish which was more to my taste at the\nmoment, for I had not even patience to wait for the browning of it, but\nsnapped it up and devoured it half hot. I then rolled a second one, and\nhaving placed it before the fire, and drawn my pipe from my pocket,\nI set myself to smoke, waiting with all the philosophy which I could\nmuster until it should be ready.\n\nI was lost in thought, brooding sadly over the blow which the news would\nbe to my father, when I was startled by a loud sneeze, which sounded as\nthough it were delivered in my very ear. I started to my feet and gazed\nall round me, but there was nothing save the solid wall behind and the\nempty chamber before. I had almost come to persuade myself that I had\nbeen the creature of some delusion, when again a crashing sneeze, louder\nand more prolonged than the last, broke upon the silence. Could some one\nbe hid in one of the bags? Drawing my sword I walked round pricking the\ngreat flour sacks, but without being able to find cause for the sound. I\nwas still marvelling over the matter when a most extraordinary chorus of\ngasps, snorts, and whistles broke out, with cries of 'Oh, holy mother!'\n'Blessed Redeemer!' and other such exclamations. This time there could\nbe no doubt as to whence the uproar came. Rushing up to the great chest\nupon which I had been seated, I threw back the heavy lid and gazed in.\n\nIt was more than half full of flour, in the midst of which was\nfloundering some creature, which was so coated and caked with the white\npowder, that it would have been hard to say that it was human were\nit not for the pitiable cries which it was uttering. Stooping down I\ndragged the man from his hiding-place, when he dropped upon his knees\nupon the floor and yelled for mercy, raising such a cloud of dust from\nevery wriggle of his body that I began to cough and to sneeze. As the\nskin of powder began to scale off from him, I saw to my surprise that he\nwas no miller or peasant, but was a man-at-arms, with a huge sword girt\nto his side, looking at present not unlike a frosted icicle, and a\ngreat steel-faced breastplate. His steel cap had remained behind in the\nflour-bin, and his bright red hair, the only touch of colour about him,\nstood straight up in the air with terror, as he implored me to spare his\nlife. Thinking that there was something familiar about his voice, I drew\nmy hand across his face, which set him yelling as though I had slain\nhim. There was no mistaking the heavy cheeks and the little greedy\neyes. It was none other than Master Tetheridge, the noisy town-clerk of\nTaunton.\n\nBut how much changed from the town-clerk whom we had seen strutting, in\nall the pomp and bravery of his office, before the good Mayor on the day\nof our coming to Somersetshire! Where now was the ruddy colour like a\npippin in September? Where was the assured manner and the manly port? As\nhe knelt his great jack-boots clicked together with apprehension, and he\npoured forth in a piping voice, like that of a Lincoln's Inn mumper, a\nstring of pleadings, excuses, and entreaties, as though I were Feversham\nin person, and was about to order him to instant execution.\n\n'I am but a poor scrivener man, your serene Highness,' he bawled.\n'Indeed, I am a most unhappy clerk, your Honour, who has been driven\ninto these courses by the tyranny of those above him. A more loyal man,\nyour Grace, never wore neat's leather, but when the mayor says \"Yes,\"\ncan the clerk say \"No\"? Spare me, your lordship; spare a most penitent\nwretch, whose only prayer is that he may be allowed to serve King James\nto the last drop of his blood!'\n\n'Do you renounce the Duke of Monmouth?' I asked, in a stern voice.\n\n'I do--from my heart!' said he fervently.\n\n'Then prepare to die!' I roared, whipping out my sword, 'for I am one of\nhis officers.'\n\nAt the sight of the steel the wretched clerk gave a perfect bellow of\nterror, and falling upon his face he wriggled and twisted, until looking\nup he perceived that I was laughing. On that he crawled up on to his\nknees once more, and from that to his feet, glancing at me askance, as\nthough by no means assured of my intentions.\n\n'You must remember me, Master Tetheridge,' I said. 'I am Captain Clarke,\nof Saxon's regiment of Wiltshire foot. I am surprised, indeed, that you\nshould have fallen away from that allegiance to which you did not only\nswear yourself, but did administer the oath to so many others.'\n\n'Not a whit, Captain, not a whit!' he answered, resuming his old\nbantam-cock manner as soon as he saw that there was no danger. 'I am\nupon oath as true and as leal a man as ever I was.'\n\n'That I can fully believe,' I answered.\n\n'I did but dissimulate,' he continued, brushing the flour from his\nperson. 'I did but practise that cunning of the serpent which should\nin every warrior accompany the courage of the lion. You have read your\nHomer, doubtless. Eh? I too have had a touch of the humanities. I am no\nmere rough soldier, however stoutly I can hold mine own at sword-play.\nMaster Ulysses is my type, even as thine, I take it, is Master Ajax.'\n\n'Methinks that Master Jack-in-the-box would fit you better,' said I.\n'Wilt have a half of this cake? How came you in the flour-bin?'\n\n'Why, marry, in this wise,' he answered, with his mouth full of dough.\n'It was a wile or ruse, after the fashion of the greatest commanders,\nwho have always been famous for concealing their movements, and lurking\nwhere they were least expected. For when the fight was lost, and I had\ncut and hacked until my arm was weary and my edge blunted, I found that\nI was left alone alive of all the Taunton men. Were we on the field you\ncould see where I had stood by the ring of slain which would be found\nwithin the sweep of my sword-arm. Finding that all was lost and that our\nrogues were fled, I mounted our worthy Mayor's charger, seeing that the\ngallant gentleman had no further need for it, and rode slowly from the\nfield. I promise you that there was that in my eye and bearing which\nprevented their horse from making too close a pursuit of me. One trooper\ndid indeed throw himself across my path, but mine old back-handed cut\nwas too much for him. Alas, I have much upon my conscience? I have made\nboth widows and orphans. Why will they brave me when--God of mercy, what\nis that?'\n\n''Tis but my horse in the stall below,' I answered.\n\n'I thought it was the dragoons,' quoth the clerk, wiping away the drops\nwhich had started out upon his brow. 'You and I would have gone forth\nand smitten them.'\n\n'Or climbed into the flour-bin,' said I.\n\n'I have not yet made clear to you how I came there,' he continued.\n'Having ridden, then, some leagues from the field, and noting this\nwindmill, it did occur to me that a stout man might single-handed make\nit good against a troop of horse. We have no great love of flight, we\nTetheridges. It may be mere empty pride, and yet the feeling runs strong\nin the family. We have a fighting strain in us ever since my kinsman\nfollowed Ireton's army as a sutler. I pulled up, therefore, and had\ndismounted to take my observations, when my brute of a charger gave\nthe bridle a twitch, jerked itself free, and was off in an instant over\nhedges and ditches. I had, therefore, only my good sword left to trust\nto. I climbed up the ladder, and was engaged in planning how the defence\ncould best be conducted, when I heard the clank of hoofs, and on the\ntop of it you did ascend from below. I retired at once into ambush, from\nwhich I should assuredly have made a sudden outfall or sally, had the\nflour not so choked my breathing that I felt as though I had a two-pound\nloaf stuck in my gizzard. For myself, I am glad that it has so come\nabout, for in my blind wrath I might unwittingly have done you an\ninjury. Hearing the clank of your sword as you did come up the ladder,\nI did opine that you were one of King James's minions, the captain,\nperchance, of some troop in the fields below.'\n\n'All very clear and explicit, Master Tetheridge,' said I, re-lighting\nmy pipe. 'No doubt your demeanour when I did draw you from your\nhiding-place was also a mere cloak for your valour. But enough of that.\nIt is to the future that we have to look. What are your intentions?'\n\n'To remain with you, Captain,' said he.\n\n'Nay, that you shall not,' I answered; 'I have no great fancy for your\ncompanionship. Your overflowing valour may bring me into ruffles which I\nhad otherwise avoided.'\n\n'Nay, nay! I shall moderate my spirit,' he cried. 'In such troublous\ntimes you will find yourself none the worse for the company of a tried\nfighting man.'\n\n'Tried and found wanting,' said I, weary of the man's braggart talk. 'I\ntell you I will go alone.'\n\n'Nay, you need not be so hot about it,' he exclaimed, shrinking away\nfrom me. 'In any case, we had best stay here until nightfall, when we\nmay make our way to the coast.'\n\n'That is the first mark of sense that you have shown,' said I. 'The\nKing's horse will find enough to do with the Zoyland cider and the\nBridgewater ale. If we can pass through, I have friends on the north\ncoast who would give us a lift in their lugger as far as Holland.\nThis help I will not refuse to give you, since you are my fellow in\nmisfortune. I would that Saxon had stayed with me! I fear he will be\ntaken!'\n\n'If you mean Colonel Saxon,' said the clerk, 'I think that he also is\none who hath much guile as well as valour. A stern, fierce soldier\nhe was, as I know well, having fought back to back with him for forty\nminutes by the clock, against a troop of Sarsfield's horse. Plain of\nspeech he was, and perhaps a trifle inconsiderate of the honour of a\ncavalier, but in the field it would have been well for the army had they\nhad more such commanders.'\n\n'You say truly,' I answered; 'but now that we have refreshed ourselves\nit is time that we bethought us of taking some rest, since we may have\nfar to travel this night. I would that I could lay my hand upon a flagon\nof ale.'\n\n'I would gladly drink to our further acquaintanceship in the same,'\nsaid my companion, 'but as to the matter of slumber that may be readily\narranged. If you ascend that ladder you will find in the loft a litter\nof empty sacks, upon which you can repose. For myself, I will stay down\nhere for a while and cook myself another cake.'\n\n'Do you remain on watch for two hours and then arouse me,' I replied.\n'I shall then keep guard whilst you sleep.' He touched the hilt of his\nsword as a sign that he would be true to his post, so not without some\nmisgivings I climbed up into the loft, and throwing myself upon the\nrude couch was soon in a deep and dreamless slumber, lulled by the low,\nmournful groaning and creaking of the sails.\n\nI was awoken by steps beside me, and found that the little clerk had\ncome up the ladder and was bending over me. I asked him if the time had\ncome for me to rouse, on which he answered in a strange quavering voice\nthat I had yet an hour, and that he had come up to see if there was any\nservice which he could render me. I was too weary to take much note\nof his slinking manner and pallid cheeks, so thanking him for his\nattention, I turned over and was soon asleep once more.\n\nMy next waking was a rougher and a sterner one. There came a sudden\nrush of heavy feet up the ladder, and a dozen red-coats swarmed into the\nroom. Springing on to my feet I put out my hand for the sword which I\nhad laid all ready by my side, but the trusty weapon had gone. It had\nbeen stolen whilst I slumbered. Unarmed and taken at a vantage, I was\nstruck down and pinioned in a moment. One held a pistol to my head, and\nswore that he would blow my brains out if I stirred, while the others\nwound a coil of rope round my body and arms, until Samson himself could\nscarce have got free. Feeling that my struggles were of no possible\navail, I lay silent and waited for whatever was to come. Neither now nor\nat any time, dear children, have I laid great store upon my life, but\nfar less then than now, for each of you are tiny tendrils which bind me\nto this world. Yet, when I think of the other dear ones who are waiting\nfor me on the further shore, I do not think that even now death would\nseem an evil thing in my eyes. What a hopeless and empty thing would\nlife be without it!\n\nHaving lashed my arms, the soldiers dragged me down the ladder, as\nthough I had been a truss of hay, into the room beneath, which was\nalso crowded with troopers. In one corner was the wretched scrivener,\na picture of abject terror, with chattering teeth and trembling knees,\nonly prevented from falling upon the floor by the grasp of a stalwart\ncorporal. In front of him stood two officers, one a little hard brown\nman with dark twinkling eyes and an alert manner, the other tall and\nslender, with a long golden moustache, which drooped down half-way to\nhis shoulders. The former had my sword in his hand, and they were both\nexamining the blade curiously.\n\n'It is a good bit of steel, Dick,' said one, putting the point against\nthe stone floor, and pressing down until he touched it with the handle.\n'See, with what a snap it rebounds! No maker's name, but the date 1638\nis stamped upon the pommel. Where did you get it, fellow?' he asked,\nfixing his keen gaze upon my face.\n\n'It was my father's before me,' I answered.\n\n'Then I trust that he drew it in a better quarrel than his son hath\ndone,' said the taller officer, with a sneer.\n\n'In as good, though not in a better,' I returned. 'That sword hath\nalways been drawn for the rights and liberties of Englishmen, and\nagainst the tyranny of kings and the bigotry of priests.'\n\n'What a tag for a playhouse, Dick,' cried the officer. 'How doth it\nrun? \"The bigotry of kings and the tyranny of priests.\" Why, if well\ndelivered by Betterton close up to the footlights, with one hand upon\nhis heart and the other pointing to the sky, I warrant the pit would\nrise at it.'\n\n'Very like,' said the other, twirling his moustache. 'But we have no\ntime for fine speeches now. What are we to do with the little one?'\n\n'Hang him,' the other answered carelessly.\n\n'No, no, your most gracious honours,' howled Master Tetheridge, suddenly\nwrithing out of the corporal's grip and flinging himself upon the\nfloor at their feet. 'Did I not tell ye where ye could find one of the\nstoutest soldiers of the rebel army? Did not I guide ye to him? Did not\nI even creep up and remove his sword lest any of the King's subjects\nbe slain in the taking of him? Surely, surely, ye would not use me so\nscurvily when I have done ye these services? Have I not made good my\nwords? Is he not as I described him, a giant in stature and of wondrous\nstrength? The whole army will bear me out in it, that he was worth any\ntwo in single fight. I have given him over to ye. Surely ye will let me\ngo!'\n\n'Very well delivered--plaguily so!' quoth the little officer, clapping\nthe palm of one hand softly against the back of the other. 'The emphasis\nwas just, and the enunciation clear. A little further back towards the\nwings, corporal, if you please. Thank you! Now, Dick, it is your cue.'\n\n'Nay, John, you are too absurd!' cried the other impatiently. 'The mask\nand the buskins are well enough in their place, but you look upon the\nplay as a reality and upon the reality as but a play. What this reptile\nhath said is true. We must keep faith with him if we wish that others of\nthe country folk should give up the fugitives. There is no help for it!'\n\n'For myself I believe in Jeddart law,' his companion answered. 'I\nwould hang the man first and then discuss the question of our promise.\nHowever, pink me if I will obtrude my opinion on any man!'\n\n'Nay, it cannot be,' the taller said. 'Corporal, do you take him down.\nHenderson will go with you. Take from him that plate and sword, which\nhis mother would wear with as good a grace. And hark ye, corporal, a few\ntouches of thy stirrup leathers across his fat shoulders might not be\namiss, as helping him to remember the King's dragoons.'\n\nMy treacherous companion was dragged off, struggling and yelping, and\npresently a series of piercing howls, growing fainter and fainter as he\nfled before his tormentors, announced that the hint had been taken. The\ntwo officers rushed to the little window of the mill and roared with\nlaughter, while the troopers, peeping furtively over their shoulders,\ncould not restrain themselves from joining in their mirth, from which I\ngathered that Master Tetheridge, as, spurred on by fear, he hurled his\nfat body through hedges and into ditches, was a somewhat comical sight.\n\n'And now for the other,' said the little officer, turning away from the\nwindow and wiping the tears of laughter from his face. 'That beam over\nyonder would serve our purpose. Where is Hangman Broderick, the Jack\nKetch of the Royals?'\n\n'Here I am, sir,' responded a sullen, heavy-faced trooper, shuffling\nforward; 'I have a rope here with a noose.'\n\n'Throw it over the beam, then. What is amiss with your hand, you clumsy\nrogue, that you should wear linen round it?'\n\n'May it please you, sir,' the man answered, 'it was all through an\nungrateful, prick-eared Presbyterian knave whom I hung at Gommatch. I\nhad done all that could be done for him. Had he been at Tyburn he could\nscarce have met with more attention. Yet when I did put my hand to his\nneck to see that all was as it should be, he did fix me with his teeth,\nand hath gnawed a great piece from my thumb.'\n\n'I am sorry for you,' said the officer. 'You know, no doubt, that the\nhuman bite under such circumstances is as deadly as that of the mad dog,\nso that you may find yourself snapping and barking one of these fine\nmornings. Nay, turn not pale! I have heard you preach patience and\ncourage to your victims. You are not afraid of death?'\n\n'Not of any Christian death, your Honour. Yet, ten shillings a week is\nscarce enough to pay a man for an end like that!'\n\n'Nay, it is all a lottery,' remarked the Captain cheerily. 'I have heard\nthat in these cases a man is so drawn up that his heels do beat a tattoo\nagainst the back of his head. But, mayhap, it is not as painful as it\nwould appear. Meanwhile, do you proceed to do your office.'\n\nThree or four troopers caught me by the arms, but I shook them off as\nbest I might, and walked with, as I trust, a steady step and a cheerful\nface under the beam, which was a great smoke-blackened rafter passing\nfrom one side of the chamber to the other. The rope was thrown over\nthis, and the noose placed round my neck with trembling fingers by the\nhangman, who took particular care to keep beyond the range of my teeth.\nHalf-a-dozen dragoons seized the further end of the coil, and stood\nready to swing me into eternity. Through all my adventurous life I have\nnever been so close upon the threshold of death as at that moment, and\nyet I declare to you that, terrible as my position was, I could think\nof nothing but the tattoo marks upon old Solomon Sprent's arm, and the\ncunning fashion in which he had interwoven the red and the blue. Yet I\nwas keenly alive to all that was going on around me. The scene of the\nbleak stone-floored room, the single narrow window, the two lounging\nelegant officers, the pile of arms in the corner, and even the texture\nof the coarse red serge and the patterns of the great brass buttons upon\nthe sleeve of the man who held me, are all stamped clearly upon my mind.\n\n'We must do our work with order,' remarked the taller Captain, taking a\nnote-book from his pocket. 'Colonel Sarsfield may desire some details.\nLet me see! This is the seventeenth, is it not?'\n\n'Four at the farm and five at the cross-roads,' the other answered,\ncounting upon his fingers. 'Then there was the one whom we shot in the\nhedge, and the wounded one who nearly saved himself by dying, and the\ntwo in the grove under the hill. I can remember no more, save those who\nwere strung up in 'Bridgewater immediately after the action.'\n\n'It is well to do it in an orderly fashion,' quoth the other, scribbling\nin his book. 'It is very well for Kirke and his men, who are half Moors\nthemselves, to hang and to slaughter without discrimination or ceremony,\nbut we should set them a better example. What is your name, sirrah?'\n\n'My name is Captain Micah Clarke,' I answered.\n\nThe two officers looked at each other, and the smaller one gave a long\nwhistle. 'It is the very man!' said he. 'This comes of asking questions!\nRat me, if I had not misgivings that it might prove to be so. They said\nthat he was large of limb.'\n\n'Tell me, sirrah, have you ever known one Major Ogilvy of the Horse\nGuards Blue?' asked the Captain.\n\n'Seeing that I had the honour of taking him prisoner,' I replied, 'and\nseeing also that he hath shared soldier's fare and quarters with me ever\nsince, I think I may fairly say that I do know him.'\n\n'Cast loose the cord!' said the officer, and the hangman reluctantly\nslipped the cord over my head once more. 'Young man, you are surely\nreserved for something great, for you will never be nearer your grave\nuntil you do actually step into it. This Major Ogilvy hath made great\ninterest both for you and for a wounded comrade of yours who lies at\nBridgewater. Your name hath been given to the commanders of horse, with\norders to bring you in unscathed should you be taken. Yet it is but fair\nto tell you that though the Major's good word may save you from martial\nlaw, it will stand you in small stead before a civil judge, before whom\nye must in the end take your trial.'\n\n'I desire to share the same lot and fortune as has befallen my\ncompanions-in-arms,' I answered.\n\n'Nay, that is but a sullen way to take your deliverance,' cried the\nsmaller officer. 'The situation is as flat as sutler's beer. Otway would\nhave made a bettor thing of it. Can you not rise to the occasion? Where\nis she?'\n\n'She! Who?' I asked.\n\n'She. The she. The woman. Your wife, sweetheart, betrothed, what you\nwill.'\n\n'There is none such,' I answered.\n\n'There now! What can be done in a case like that?' cried he\ndespairingly. 'She should have rushed in from the wings and thrown\nherself upon your bosom. I have seen such a situation earn three rounds\nfrom the pit. There is good material spoiling here for want of some one\nto work it up.'\n\n'We have something else to work up, Jack,' exclaimed his companion\nimpatiently. 'Sergeant Gredder, do you with two troopers conduct the\nprisoner to Gommatch Church. It is time that we were once more upon our\nway, for in a few hours the darkness will hinder the pursuit.'\n\nAt the word of command the troopers descended into the field where their\nhorses were picketed, and were speedily on the march once more, the tall\nCaptain leading them, and the stage-struck cornet bringing up the\nrear. The sergeant to whose care I had been committed--a great\nsquare-shouldered, dark-browed man--ordered my own horse to be brought\nout, and helped me to mount it. He removed the pistols from the\nholsters, however, and hung them with my sword at his own saddle-bow.\n\n'Shall I tie his feet under the horse's belly?' asked one of the\ndragoons.\n\n'Nay, the lad hath an honest face,' the sergeant answered. 'If he\npromises to be quiet we shall cast free his arms.'\n\n'I have no desire to escape,' said I.\n\n'Then untie the rope. A brave man in misfortune hath ever my goodwill,\nstrike me dumb else! Sergeant Gredder is my name, formerly of Mackay's\nand now of the Royals--as hard-worked and badly-paid a man as any in\nhis Majesty's service. Right wheel, and down the pathway! Do ye ride\non either side, and I behind! Our carbines are primed, friend, so stand\ntrue to your promise!'\n\n'Nay, you can rely upon it,' I answered.\n\n'Your little comrade did play you a scurvy trick,' said the sergeant,\n'for seeing us ride down the road he did make across to us, and\nbargained with the Captain that his life should be spared, on condition\nthat he should deliver into our hands what he described as one of the\nstoutest soldiers in the rebel army. Truly you have thews and sinews\nenough, though you are surely too young to have seen much service.'\n\n'This hath been my first campaign,' I answered.\n\n'And is like to be your last,' he remarked, with soldierly frankness. 'I\nhear that the Privy Council intend to make such an example as will take\nthe heart out of the Whigs for twenty years to come. They have a lawyer\ncoming from London whose wig is more to be feared than our helmets. He\nwill slay more men in a day than a troop of horse in a ten-mile chase.\nFaith! I would sooner they took this butcher-work into their own hands.\nSee those bodies on yonder tree. It is an evil season when such acorns\ngrow upon English oaks.'\n\n'It is an evil season,' said I, 'when men who call themselves Christians\ninflict such vengeance upon poor simple peasants, who have done no more\nthan their conscience urged them. That the leaders and officers should\nsuffer is but fair. They stood to win in case of success, and should pay\nforfeit now that they have lost. But it goes to my heart to see those\npoor godly country folk so treated.'\n\n'Aye, there is truth in that,' said the sergeant. 'Now if it were some\nof these snuffle-nosed preachers, the old lank-haired bell-wethers who\nhave led their flocks to the devil, it would be another thing. Why\ncan they not conform to the Church, and be plagued to them? It is good\nenough for the King, so surely it is good enough for them; or are their\nsouls so delicate that they cannot satisfy themselves with that on which\nevery honest Englishman thrives? The main road to Heaven is too common\nfor them. They must needs have each a by-path of their own, and cry out\nagainst all who will not follow it.'\n\n'Why,' said I, 'there are pious men of all creeds. If a man lead a life\nof virtue, what matter what he believes?\n\n'Let a man keep his virtue in his heart,' quoth Sergeant Gredder. 'Let\nhim pack it deep in the knapsack of his soul. I suspect godliness\nwhich shows upon the surface, the snuffling talk, the rolling eyes, the\ngroaning and the hawking. It is like the forged money, which can be told\nby its being more bright and more showy than the real.'\n\n'An apt comparison!' said I. 'But how comes it, sergeant, that you have\ngiven attention to these matters? Unless they are much belied, the Royal\nDragoons find other things to think of.'\n\n'I was one of Mackay's foot,' he answered shortly. 'I have heard of\nhim,' said I. 'A man, I believe, both of parts and of piety.'\n\n'That, indeed, he is,' cried Sergeant Gredder warmly. 'He is a man stern\nand soldierly to the outer eye, but with the heart of a saint within\nhim. I promise you there was little need of the strapado in his\nregiment, for there was not a man who did not fear the look of sorrow in\nhis Colonel's eyes far more than he did the provost-marshal.'\n\nDuring the whole of our long ride I found the worthy sergeant a true\nfollower of the excellent Colonel Mackay, for he proved to be a man of\nmore than ordinary intelligence, and of serious and thoughtful habit.\nAs to the two troopers, they rode on either side of me as silent as\nstatues; for the common dragoons of those days could but talk of wine\nand women, and were helpless and speechless when aught else was to the\nfore. When we at last rode into the little village of Gommatch, which\noverlooks the plain of Sedgemoor, it was with regret on each side that I\nbade my guardian adieu. As a parting favour I begged him to take charge\nof Covenant for me, promising to pay a certain sum by the month for his\nkeep, and commissioning him to retain the horse for his own use should I\nfail to claim him within the year. It was a load off my mind when I saw\nmy trusty companion led away, staring back at me with questioning eyes,\nas though unable to understand the separation. Come what might, I knew\nnow that, he was in the keeping of a good man who would see that no harm\nbefell him.\n\n\n\nChapter XXXIV. Of the Coming of Solomon Sprent\n\nThe church of Gommatch was a small ivy-clad building with a square\nNorman tower, standing in the centre of the hamlet of that name. Its\ngreat oaken doors, studded with iron, and high narrow windows, fitted\nit well for the use to which it was now turned. Two companies of\nDumbarton's Foot had been quartered in the village, with a portly Major\nat their head, to whom I was handed over by Sergeant Gredder, with some\naccount of my capture, and of the reasons which had prevented my summary\nexecution.\n\nNight was now drawing in, but a few dim lamps, hung here and there upon\nthe walls, cast an uncertain, flickering light over the scene. A hundred\nor more prisoners were scattered about upon the stone floor, many of\nthem wounded, and some evidently dying. The hale had gathered in silent,\nsubdued groups round their stricken friends, and were doing what they\ncould to lessen their sufferings. Some had even removed the greater part\nof their clothing in order to furnish head-rests and pallets for the\nwounded. Here and there in the shadows dark kneeling figures might be\nseen, and the measured sound of their prayers rang through the aisles,\nwith a groan now and again, or a choking gasp as some poor sufferer\nbattled for breath. The dim, yellow light streaming over the earnest\npain-drawn faces, and the tattered mud-coloured figures, would have made\nit a fitting study for any of those Low Country painters whose pictures\nI saw long afterwards at The Hague.\n\nOn Thursday morning, the third day after the battle, we were all\nconveyed into Bridgewater, where we were confined for the remainder\nof the week in St. Mary's Church, the very one from the tower of which\nMonmouth and his commanders had inspected Feversham's position. The more\nwe heard of the fight from the soldiers and others, the more clear it\nbecame that, but for the most unfortunate accidents, there was every\nchance that our night attack might have succeeded. There was scarcely a\nfault which a General could commit which Feversham had not been guilty\nof. He had thought too lightly of his enemy, and left his camp entirely\nopen to a surprise. When the firing broke out he sprang from his couch,\nbut failing to find his wig, he had groped about his tent while the\nbattle was being decided, and only came out when it was well-nigh over.\nAll were agreed that had it not been for the chance of the Bussex Rhine\nhaving been overlooked by our guides and scouts, we should have been\namong the tents before the men could have been called to arms. Only\nthis and the fiery energy of John Churchill, the second in command,\nafterwards better known under a higher name, both to French and to\nEnglish history, prevented the Royal army from meeting with a reverse\nwhich might have altered the result of the campaign.(Note K, Appendix.)\nShould ye hear or read, then, my dear children, that Monmouth's rising\nwas easily put down, or that it was hopeless from the first, remember\nthat I, who was concerned in it, say confidently that it really trembled\nin the balance, and that this handful of resolute peasants with their\npikes and their scythes were within an ace of altering the whole\ncourse of English history. The ferocity of the Privy Council, after the\nrebellion was quelled, arose from their knowledge of how very close it\nhad been to success.\n\nI do not wish to say too much of the cruelty and barbarity of the\nvictors, for it is not good for your childish ears to hear of such\ndoings. The sluggard Feversham and the brutal Kirke have earned\nthemselves a name in the West, which is second only to that of the arch\nvillain who came after them. As for their victims, when they had hanged\nand quartered and done their wicked worst upon them, at least they left\ntheir names in their own little villages, to be treasured up and handed\nfrom generation to generation, as brave men and true who had died for a\nnoble cause. Go now to Milverton, or to Wiveliscombe, or to Minehead, or\nto Colyford, or to any village through the whole breadth and length of\nSomersetshire, and you will find that they have not forgotten what\nthey proudly call their martyrs. But where now is Kirke and where is\nFeversham? Their names are preserved, it is true, but preserved in a\ncounty's hatred. Who can fail to see now that these men in punishing\nothers brought a far heavier punishment upon themselves? Their sin hath\nindeed found them out.\n\nThey did all that wicked and callous-hearted men could do, knowing well\nthat such deeds were acceptable to the cold-blooded, bigoted hypocrite\nwho sat upon the throne. They worked to win his favour, and they won it.\nMen were hanged and cut down and hanged again. Every cross-road in the\ncountry was ghastly with gibbets. There was not an insult or a contumely\nwhich might make the pangs of death more unendurable, which was not\nheaped upon these long-suffering men; yet it is proudly recounted in\ntheir native shire that of all the host of victims there was not one who\ndid not meet his end with a firm lip, protesting that if the thing were\nto do again he was ready to do it.\n\nAt the end of a week or two news came of the fugitives. Monmouth, it\nseems, had been captured by Portman's yellow coats when trying to make\nhis way to the New Forest, whence he hoped to escape to the Continent.\nHe was dragged, gaunt, unshaven, and trembling, out of a bean-field in\nwhich he had taken refuge, and was carried to Ringwood, in Hampshire.\nStrange rumours reached us concerning his behaviour--rumours which came\nto our ears through the coarse jests of our guards. Some said that he\nhad gone on his knees to the yokels who had seized him. Others that he\nhad written to the King offering to do anything, even to throw over the\nProtestant cause, to save his head from the scaffold.(Note L, Appendix.)\nWe laughed at these stories at the time, and set them down as inventions\nof our enemies. It seemed too impossible that at a time when his\nsupporters were so sternly and so loyally standing true to him, he,\ntheir leader, with the eyes of all men upon him, should be showing less\ncourage than every little drummer-boy displays, who trips along at the\nhead of his regiment upon the field of battle. Alas! time showed that\nthe stories were indeed true, and that there was no depth of infamy to\nwhich this unhappy man would not descend, in the hope of prolonging\nfor a few years that existence which had proved a curse to so many who\ntrusted him.\n\nOf Saxon no news had come, good or bad, which encouraged me to hope that\nhe had found a hiding-place for himself. Reuben was still confined to\nhis couch by his wound, and was under the care and protection of\nMajor Ogilvy. The good gentleman came to see me more than once, and\nendeavoured to add to my comfort, until I made him understand that it\npained me to find myself upon a different footing to the brave fellows\nwith whom I had shared the perils of the campaign. One great favour he\ndid me in writing to my father, and informing him that I was well and\nin no pressing danger. In reply to this letter I had a stout Christian\nanswer from the old man, bidding me to be of good courage, and quoting\nlargely from a sermon on patience by the Reverend Josiah Seaton of\nPetersfield. My mother, he said, was in deep distress at my position,\nbut was held up by her confidence in the decrees of Providence. He\nenclosed a draft for Major Ogilvy, commissioning him to use it in\nwhatever way I should suggest. This money, together with the small hoard\nwhich my mother had sewed into my collar, proved to be invaluable, for\nwhen the gaol fever broke out amongst us I was able to get fitting food\nfor the sick, and also to pay for the services of physicians, so that\nthe disease was stamped out ere it had time to spread.\n\nEarly in August we were brought from Bridgewater to Taunton, where we\nwere thrown with hundreds of others into the same wool storehouse where\nour regiment had been quartered in the early days of the campaign. We\ngained little by the change, save that we found that our new guards\nwere somewhat more satiated with cruelty than our old ones, and were\ntherefore less exacting upon their prisoners. Not only were friends\nallowed in occasionally to see us, but books and papers could be\nobtained by the aid of a small present to the sergeant on duty. We were\nable, therefore, to spend our time with some degree of comfort during\nthe month or more which passed before our trial.\n\nOne evening I was standing listlessly with my back against the wall,\nlooking up at a thin slit of blue sky which showed itself through the\nnarrow window, and fancying myself back in the meadows of Havant once\nmore, when a voice fell upon my ear which did, indeed, recall me to my\nHampshire home. Those deep, husky tones, rising at times into an angry\nroar, could belong to none other than my old friend the seaman. I\napproached the door from which the uproar came, and all doubt vanished\nas I listened to the conversation.\n\n'Won't let me pass, won't ye?' he was shouting. 'Let me tell you\nI've held on my course when better men than you have asked me to veil\ntopsails. I tell you I have the admiral's permit, and I won't clew up\nfor a bit of a red-painted cock-boat; so move from athwart my hawse, or\nI may chance to run you down.'\n\n'We don't know nothing about admirals here,' said the sergeant of the\nguard. 'The time for seeing prisoners is over for the day, and if you do\nnot take your ill-favoured body out of this I may try the weight o' my\nhalberd on your back.'\n\n'I have taken blows and given them ere you were ever thought of, you\nland-swab,' roared old Solomon. 'I was yardarm and yardarm with De\nRuyter when you were learning to suck milk; but, old as I am, I would\nhave you know that I am not condemned yet, and that I am fit to exchange\nbroadsides with any lobster-tailed piccaroon that ever was triced up to\na triangle and had the King's diamonds cut in his back. If I tack back\nto Major Ogilvy and signal him the way that I have been welcomed, he'll\nmake your hide redder than ever your coat was.'\n\n'Major Ogilvy!' exclaimed the sergeant, in a more respectful voice. 'If\nyou had said that your permit was from Major Ogilvy it would have been\nanother thing, but you did rave of admirals and commodores, and God\nknows what other outlandish talk!'\n\n'Shame on your parents that they should have reared you with so slight\na knowledge o' the King's English!' grumbled Solomon. 'In truth, friend,\nit is a marvel to me why sailor men should be able to show a lead to\nthose on shore in the matter of lingo. For out of seven hundred men in\nthe ship _Worcester_--the same that sank in the Bay of Funchal--there\nwas not so much as a powder-boy but could understand every word that I\nsaid, whereas on shore there is many a great jolterhead, like thyself,\nwho might be a Portugee for all the English that he knows, and who\nstares at me like a pig in a hurricane if I do lint ask him what he\nmakes the reckoning, or how many bells have gone.'\n\n'Whom is it that you would see?' asked the sergeant gruffly. 'You have a\nmost infernally long tongue.'\n\n'Aye, and a rough one, too, when I have fools to deal with,' returned\nthe seaman. 'If I had you in my watch, lad, for a three years' cruise, I\nwould make a man of you yet.'\n\n'Pass the old man through!' cried the sergeant furiously, and the sailor\ncame stumping in, with his bronzed face all screwed up and twisted,\npartly with amusement at his victory over the sergeant, and partly from\na great chunk of tobacco which he was wont to stow within his cheek.\nHaving glanced round without perceiving me, he put his hands to his\nmouth and bellowed out my name, with a string of 'Ahoys!' which rang\nthrough the building.\n\n'Here I am, Solomon,' said I, touching him on the shoulder.\n\n'God bless you, lad! God bless you!' he cried, wringing my hand. 'I\ncould not see you, for my port eye is as foggy as the Newfoundland\nbanks, and has been ever since Long Sue Williams of the Point hove a\nquart pot at it in the Tiger inn nigh thirty year agone. How are you?\nAll sound, alow and aloft?'\n\n'As well as might be,' I answered. 'I have little to complain of.'\n\n'None of your standing rigging shot away!' said he. 'No spars crippled?\nNo shots between wind and water, eh? You have not been hulled, nor\nraked, nor laid aboard of?'\n\n'None of these things,' said I, laughing.\n\n'Faith! you are leaner than of old, and have aged ten years in two\nmonths. You did go forth as smart and trim a fighting ship as over\nanswered helm, and now you are like the same ship when the battle and\nthe storm have taken the gloss from her sides and torn the love-pennants\nfrom her peak. Yet am I right glad to see you sound in wind and limb.'\n\n'I have looked upon sights,' said I, 'which might well add ten years to\na man's age.'\n\n'Aye, aye!' he answered, with a hollow groan, shaking his head from side\nto side. 'It is a most accursed affair. Yet, bad as the tempest is, the\ncalm will ever come afterwards if you will but ride it out with your\nanchor placed deep in Providence. Ah, lad, that is good holding ground!\nBut if I know you aright, your grief is more for these poor wretches\naround you than for yourself.'\n\n'It is, indeed, a sore sight to see them suffer so patiently and\nuncomplainingly,' I answered, 'and for such a man, too!'\n\n'Aye, the chicken-livered swab!' growled the seaman, grinding his teeth.\n\n'How are my mother and my father,' I asked, 'and how came you so far\nfrom home?'\n\n'Nay, I should have grounded on my beef bones had I waited longer at my\nmoorings. I cut my cable, therefore, and, making a northerly tack as far\nas Salisbury, I run down with a fair wind. Thy father hath set his face\nhard, and goes about his work as usual, though much troubled by the\nJustices, who have twice had him up to Winchester for examination, but\nhave found his papers all right and no charge to be brought against him.\nYour mother, poor soul, hath little time to mope or to pipe her eye, for\nshe hath such a sense of duty that, were the ship to founder under her,\nit is a plate galleon to a china orange that she would stand fast in the\ncaboose curing marigolds or rolling pastry. They have taken to prayer\nas some would to rum, and warm their hearts with it when the wind of\nmisfortune blows chill. They were right glad that I should come down to\nyou, and I gave them the word of a sailor that I would get you out of\nthe bilboes if it might anyhow be done.'\n\n'Get me out, Solomon!' said I; 'nay, that may be put outside the\nquestion. How could you get me out?'\n\n'There are many ways,' he answered, sinking his voice to a whisper, and\nnodding his grizzled head as one who talks upon what has cost him much\ntime and thought. 'There is scuttling.'\n\n'Scuttling?'\n\n'Aye, lad! When I was quartermaster of the galley _Providence_ in the\nsecond Dutch war, we were caught betwixt a lee shore and Van Tromp's\nsquadron, so that after fighting until our sticks were shot away and our\nscuppers were arun with blood, we were carried by boarding and sent as\nprisoners to the Texel. We were stowed away in irons in the afterhold,\namongst the bilge water and the rats, with hatches battened down and\nguards atop, but even then they could not keep us, for the irons got\nadrift, and Will Adams, the carpenter's mate, picked a hole in the seams\nso that the vessel nearly foundered, and in the confusion we fell upon\nthe prize crew, and, using our fetters as cudgels, regained possession\nof the vessel. But you smile, as though there were little hopes from any\nsuch plan!'\n\n'If this wool-house were the galley _Providence_ and Taunton Deane were\nthe Bay of Biscay, it might be attempted,' I said.\n\n'I have indeed got out o' the channel,' he answered, with a wrinkled\nbrow. 'There is, however, another most excellent plan which I have\nconceived, which is to blow up the building.'\n\n'To blow it up!' I cried.\n\n'Aye! A brace of kegs and a slow match would do it any dark night. Then\nwhere would be these walls which now shut ye in?'\n\n'Where would be the folk that are now inside them!' I asked. 'Would you\nnot blow them up as well?'\n\n'Plague take it, I had forgot that,' cried Solomon. 'Nay, then, I leave\nit with you. What have you to propose? Do but give your sailing orders,\nand, with or without a consort, you will find that I will steer by them\nas long as this old hulk can answer to her helm.'\n\n'Then my advice is, my dear old friend,' said I, 'that you leave matters\nto take their course, and hie back to Havant with a message from me to\nthose who know me, telling them to be of good cheer, and to hope for the\nbest. Neither you nor any other man can help me now, for I have thrown\nin my lot with these poor folk, and I would not leave them if I could.\nDo what you can to cheer my mother's heart, and commend me to Zachary\nPalmer. Your visit hath been a joy to me, and your return will be the\nsame to them. You can serve me better so than by biding here.'\n\n'Sink me if I like going back without a blow struck,' he growled. 'Yet\nif it is your will there is an end of the matter. Tell me, lad. Has\nthat lank-sparred, slab-sided, herring-gutted friend of yours played\nyou false? for if he has, by the eternal, old as I am, my hanger shall\nscrape acquaintance with the longshore tuck which hangs at his girdle. I\nknow where he hath laid himself up, moored stem and stern, all snug and\nshipshape, waiting for the turn of the tide.'\n\n'What, Saxon!' I cried. 'Do you indeed know where he is? For God's sake\nspeak low, for it would mean a commission and five hundred good pounds\nto any one of these soldiers could he lay hands upon him.'\n\n'They are scarce like to do that,' said Solomon. 'On my journey hither I\nchanced to put into port at a place called Bruton, where there is an\ninn that will compare with most, and the skipper is a wench with a glib\ntongue and a merry eye. I was drinking a glass of spiced ale, as is my\ncustom about six bells of the middle watch, when I chanced to notice a\ngreat lanky carter, who was loading up a waggon in the yard with a cargo\no' beer casks. Looking closer it seemed to me that the man's nose,\nlike the beak of a goshawk, and his glinting eyes with the lids only\nhalf-reefed, were known to me, but when I overheard him swearing to\nhimself in good High Dutch, then his figurehead came back to me in\na moment. I put out into the yard, and touched him on the shoulder.\nZounds, lad! you should have seen him spring back and spit at me like\na wildcat with every hair of his head in a bristle. He whipped a knife\nfrom under his smock, for he thought, doubtless, that I was about to\nearn the reward by handing him over to the red-coats. I told him that\nhis secret was safe with me, and I asked him if he had heard that you\nwere laid by the heels. He answered that he knew it, and that he would\nbe answerable that no harm befell you, though in truth it seemed to me\nthat he had his hands full in trimming his own sails, without acting as\npilot to another. However, there I left him, and there I shall find him\nagain if so be as he has done you an injury.'\n\n'Nay,' I answered, 'I am right glad that he has found this refuge.\nWe did separate upon a difference of opinion, but I have no cause\nto complain of him. In many ways he hath shown me both kindness and\ngoodwill.'\n\n'He is as crafty as a purser's clerk,' quoth Solomon. 'I have seen\nReuben Lockarby, who sends his love to you. He is still kept in his bunk\nfrom his wound, but he meets with good treatment. Major Ogilvy tells me\nthat he has made such interest for him that there is every chance that\nhe will gain his discharge, the more particularly since he was not\npresent at the battle. Your own chance of pardon would, he thinks, be\ngreater if you had fought less stoutly, but you have marked yourself\nas a dangerous man, more especially as you have the love of many of the\ncommon folk among the rebels.'\n\nThe good old seaman stayed with me until late in the night, listening to\nmy adventures, and narrating in return the simple gossip of the village,\nwhich is of more interest to the absent wanderer than the rise and fall\nof empires. Before he left he drew a great handful of silver pieces\nfrom his pouch, and went round amongst the prisoners, listening to their\nwants, and doing what he could with rough sailor talk and dropping coins\nto lighten their troubles. There is a language in the kindly eye and\nthe honest brow which all men may understand; and though the seaman's\nspeeches might have been in Greek, for all that they conveyed to the\nSomersetshire peasants, yet they crowded round him as he departed and\ncalled blessings upon his head. I felt as though he had brought a whiff\nof his own pure ocean breezes into our close and noisome prison, and\nleft us the sweeter and the healthier.\n\nLate in August the judges started from London upon that wicked journey\nwhich blighted the lives and the homes of so many, and hath left a\nmemory in the counties through which they passed which shall never fade\nwhile a father can speak to a son. We heard reports of them from day to\nday, for the guards took pleasure in detailing them with many coarse and\nfoul jests, that we might know what was in store for us, and lose none\nof what they called the pleasures of anticipation. At Winchester the\nsainted and honoured Lady Alice Lisle was sentenced by Chief Justice\nJeffreys to be burned alive, and the exertions and prayers of her\nfriends could scarce prevail upon him to allow her the small boon of\nthe axe instead of the faggot. Her graceful head was hewn from her\nbody amidst the groans and the cries of a weeping multitude in the\nmarket-place of the town. At Dorchester the slaughter was wholesale.\nThree hundred were condemned to death, and seventy-four were actually\nexecuted, until the most loyal and Tory of the country squires had to\ncomplain of the universal presence of the dangling bodies. Thence the\njudges proceeded to Exeter and thence to Taunton, which they reached in\nthe first week of September, more like furious and ravenous beasts which\nhave tasted blood and cannot quench their cravings for slaughter, than\njust-minded men, trained to distinguish the various degrees of guilt, or\nto pick out the innocent and screen him from injustice. A rare field\nwas open for their cruelty, for in Taunton alone there lay a thousand\nhapless prisoners, many of whom were so little trained to express their\nthoughts, and so hampered by the strange dialect in which they spoke,\nthat they might have been born dumb for all the chance they had of\nmaking either judge or counsel understand the pleadings which they\nwished to lay before them.\n\nIt was on a Monday evening that the Lord Chief Justice made his entry.\nFrom one of the windows of the room in which we were confined I saw him\npass. First rode the dragoons with their standards and kettledrums, then\nthe javelin-men with their halberds, and behind them the line of coaches\nfull of the high dignitaries of the law. Last of all, drawn by six\nlong-tailed Flemish mares, came a great open coach, thickly crusted\nwith gold, in which, reclining amidst velvet cushions, sat the infamous\nJudge, wrapped in a cloak of crimson plush with a heavy white periwig\nupon his head, which was so long that it dropped down over his\nshoulders. They say that he wore scarlet in order to strike terror into\nthe hearts of the people, and that his courts were for the same reason\ndraped in the colour of blood. As for himself, it hath ever been the\ncustom, since his wickedness hath come to be known to all men, to\npicture him as a man whose expression and features were as monstrous and\nas hideous as was the mind behind them. This is by no means the case.\nOn the contrary, he was a man who, in his younger days, must have been\nremarkable for his extreme beauty.(1) He was not, it is true, very old,\nas years go, when I saw him, but debauchery and low living had left\ntheir traces upon his countenance, without, however entirely destroying\nthe regularity and the beauty of his features. He was dark, more like a\nSpaniard than an Englishman, with black eyes and olive complexion. His\nexpression was lofty and noble, but his temper was so easily aflame that\nthe slightest cross or annoyance would set him raving like a madman,\nwith blazing eyes and foaming mouth. I have seen him myself with the\nfroth upon his lips and his whole face twitching with passion, like\none who hath the falling sickness. Yet his other emotions were under as\nlittle control, for I have heard say that a very little would cause him\nto sob and to weep, more especially when he had himself been slighted by\nthose who were above him. He was, I believe, a man who had great powers\neither for good or for evil, but by pandering to the darker side of\nhis nature and neglecting the other, he brought himself to be as near\na fiend as it is possible for a man to be. It must indeed have been an\nevil government where so vile and foul-mouthed a wretch was chosen out\nto hold the scales of justice. As he drove past, a Tory gentleman\nriding by the side of his coach drew his attention to the faces of\nthe prisoners looking out at him. He glanced up at them with a quick,\nmalicious gleam of his white teeth, then settled down again amongst the\ncushions. I observed that as he passed not a hat was raised among the\ncrowd, and that even the rude soldiers appeared to look upon him half\nin terror, half in disgust, as a lion might look upon some foul,\nblood-sucking bat which battened upon the prey which he had himself\nstruck down.\n\n(1) The painting of Jeffreys in the National Portrait Gallery more\nthan bears out Micah Clarke's remarks. He is the handsomest man in the\ncollection.\n\n\n\nChapter XXXV. Of the Devil in Wig and Gown\n\nThere was no delay in the work of slaughter. That very night the great\ngallows was erected outside the White Hart inn. Hour after hour we could\nhear the blows of mallets and the sawing of beams, mingled with the\nshoutings and the ribald choruses of the Chief Justice's suite, who were\ncarousing with the officers of the Tangiers regiment in the front room,\nwhich overlooked the gibbet. Amongst the prisoners the night was passed\nin prayer and meditation, the stout-hearted holding forth to their\nweaker brethren, and exhorting them to play the man, and to go to\ntheir death in a fashion which should be an example to true Protestants\nthroughout the world. The Puritan divines had been mostly strung up\noff-hand immediately after the battle, but a few were left to sustain\nthe courage of their flocks, and to show them the way upon the scaffold.\nNever have I seen anything so admirable as the cool and cheerful bravery\nwherewith these poor clowns faced their fate. Their courage on the\nbattlefield paled before that which they showed in the shambles of the\nlaw. So amid the low murmur of prayer and appeals for mercy to God from\ntongues which never yet asked mercy from man, the morning broke, the\nlast morning which many of us were to spend upon earth.\n\nThe court should have opened at nine, but my Lord Chief Justice was\nindisposed, having sat up somewhat late with Colonel Kirke. It was\nnearly eleven before the trumpeters and criers announced that he had\ntaken his seat. One by one my fellow-prisoners were called out by name,\nthe more prominent being chosen first. They went out from amongst us\namid hand-shakings and blessings, but we saw and heard no more of them,\nsave that a sudden fierce rattle of kettledrums would rise up now and\nagain, which was, as our guards told us, to drown any dying words which\nmight fall from the sufferers and bear fruit in the breasts of those who\nheard them. With firm steps and smiling faces the roll of martyrs went\nforth to their fate during the whole of that long autumn day, until the\nrough soldiers of the guard stood silent and awed in the presence of\na courage which they could not but recognise as higher and nobler than\ntheir own. Folk may call it a trial that they received, and a trial it\nreally was, but not in the sense that we Englishmen use it. It was but\nbeing haled before a Judge, and insulted before being dragged to the\ngibbet. The court-house was the thorny path which led to the scaffold.\nWhat use to put a witness up, when he was shouted down, cursed at,\nand threatened by the Chief Justice, who bellowed and swore until the\nfrightened burghers in Fore Street could hear him? I have heard from\nthose who were there that day that he raved like a demoniac, and that\nhis black eyes shone with a vivid vindictive brightness which was scarce\nhuman. The jury shrank from him as from a venomous thing when he\nturned his baleful glance upon them. At times, as I have been told, his\nsternness gave place to a still more terrible merriment, and he would\nlean back in his seat of justice and laugh until the tears hopped down\nupon his ermine. Nearly a hundred were either executed or condemned to\ndeath upon that opening day.\n\nI had expected to be amongst the first of those called, and no doubt I\nshould have been so but for the exertions of Major Ogilvy. As it was,\nthe second day passed, but I still found myself overlooked. On the\nthird and fourth days the slaughter was slackened, not on account of\nany awakening grace on the part of the Judge, but because the great Tory\nlandowners, and the chief supporters of the Government, had still some\nbowels of compassion, which revolted at this butchery of defenceless\nmen. Had it not been for the influence which these gentlemen brought\nto bear upon the Judge, I have no doubt at all that Jeffreys would have\nhung the whole eleven hundred prisoners then confined in Taunton. As\nit was, two hundred and fifty fell victims to this accursed monster's\nthirst for human blood.\n\nOn the eighth day of the assizes there were but fifty of us left in\nthe wool warehouse. For the last few days prisoners had been tried\nin batches of ten and twenty, but now the whole of us were taken in\na drove, under escort, to the court-house, where as many as could be\nsqueezed in were ranged in the dock, while the rest were penned, like\ncalves in the market, in the body of the hall. The Judge reclined in a\nhigh chair, with a scarlet dais above him, while two other Judges, in\nless elevated seats, were stationed on either side of him. On the right\nhand was the jury-box, containing twelve carefully picked men--Tories\nof the old school--firm upholders of the doctrines of non-resistance and\nthe divine right of kings. Much care had been taken by the Crown in\nthe choice of these men, and there was not one of them but would have\nsentenced his own father had there been so much as a suspicion that he\nleaned to Presbyterianism or to Whiggery. Just under the Judge was a\nbroad table, covered with green cloth and strewn with papers. On\nthe right hand of this were a long array of Crown lawyers, grim,\nferret-faced men, each with a sheaf of papers in his hands, which they\nsniffed through again and again, as though they were so many bloodhounds\npicking up the trail along which they were to hunt us down. On the other\nside of the table sat a single fresh-faced young man, in silk gown and\nwig, with a nervous, shuffling manner. This was the barrister, Master\nHelstrop, whom the Crown in its clemency had allowed us for our defence,\nlest any should be bold enough to say that we had not had every fairness\nin our trial. The remainder of the court was filled with the servants\nof the Justices' retinue and the soldiers of the garrison, who used the\nplace as their common lounge, looking on the whole thing as a mighty\ncheap form of sport, and roaring with laughter at the rude banter and\ncoarse pleasantries of his Lordship.\n\nThe clerk having gabbled through the usual form that we, the prisoners\nat the bar, having shaken off the fear of God, had unlawfully and\ntraitorously assembled, and so onwards, the Lord Justice proceeded to\ntake matters into his own hands, as was his wont.\n\n'I trust that we shall come well out of this!' he broke out. 'I\ntrust that no judgment will fall upon this building! Was ever so much\nwickedness fitted into one court-house before? Who ever saw such an\narray of villainous faces? Ah, rogues, I see a rope ready for every\none of ye! Art not afraid of judgment? Art not afraid of hell-fire? You\ngrey-bearded rascal in the corner, how comes it that you have not had\nmore of the grace of God in you than to take up arms against your most\ngracious and loving sovereign?'\n\n'I have followed the guidance of my conscience, my Lord,' said the\nvenerable cloth-worker of Wellington, to whom he spoke.\n\n'Ha, your conscience!' howled Jeffreys. 'A ranter with a conscience!\nWhere has your conscience been these two months back, you villain and\nrogue? Your conscience will stand you in little stead, sirrah, when\nyou are dancing on nothing with a rope round your neck. Was ever such\nwickedness? Who ever heard such effrontery? And you, you great hulking\nrebel, have you not grace enough to cast your eyes down, but must needs\nlook justice in the face as though you were an honest man? Are you not\nafeared, sirrah? Do you not see death close upon you?'\n\n'I have seen that before now, my Lord, and I was not afeared,' I\nanswered.\n\n'Generation of vipers!' he cried, throwing up his hands. 'The best of\nfathers! The kindest of kings! See that my words are placed upon the\nrecord, clerk! The most indulgent of parents! But wayward children\nmust, with all kindness, be flogged into obedience. Here he broke into\na savage grin. 'The King will save your own natural parents all further\ncare on your account. If they had wished to keep ye, they should have\nbrought ye up in better principles. Rogues, we shall be merciful to\nye--oh, merciful, merciful! How many are here, recorder?'\n\n'Fifty and one, my Lord.'\n\n'Oh, sink of villainy! Fifty and one as arrant knaves as ever lay on\na hurdle! Oh, what a mass of corruption have we here! Who defends the\nvillains?'\n\n'I defend the prisoners, your Lordship,' replied the young lawyer.\n\n'Master Helstrop, Master Helstrop!' cried Jeffreys, shaking his great\nwig until the powder flew out of it; 'you are in all these dirty cases,\nMaster Helstrop. You might find yourself in a parlous condition, Master\nHelstrop. I think sometimes that I see you yourself in the dock, Master\nHelstrop. You may yourself soon need the help of a gentleman of the long\nrobe, Master Helstrop. Oh, have a care! Have a care!'\n\n'The brief is from the Crown, your Lordship,' the lawyer answered, in a\nquavering voice.\n\n'Must I be answered back, then!' roared Jeffreys, his black eyes blazing\nwith the rage of a demon. 'Am I to be insulted in my own court? Is every\nfive-groat piece of a pleader, because he chance to have a wig and a\ngown, to browbeat the Lord Justice, and to fly in the face of the ruling\nof the Court? Oh, Master Helstrop, I fear that I shall live to see some\nevil come upon you!'\n\n'I crave your Lordship's pardon!' cried the faint-hearted barrister,\nwith his face the colour of his brief.\n\n'Keep a guard upon your words and upon your actions?' Jeffreys answered,\nin a menacing voice. 'See that you are not too zealous in the cause\nof the scum of the earth. How now, then? What do these one and fifty\nvillains desire to say for themselves? What is their lie? Gentlemen of\nthe jury, I beg that ye will take particular notice of the cut-throat\nfaces of these men. 'Tis well that Colonel Kirke hath afforded the Court\na sufficient guard, for neither justice nor the Church is safe at their\nhands.'\n\n'Forty of them desire to plead guilty to the charge of taking up arms\nagainst the King,' replied our barrister.\n\n'Ah!' roared the Judge. 'Was ever such unparalleled impudence? Was there\never such brazen effrontery? Guilty, quotha! Have they expressed their\nrepentance for this sin against a most kind and long-suffering monarch!\nPut down those words on the record, clerk!'\n\n'They have refused to express repentance, your Lordship!' replied the\ncounsel for the defence.\n\n'Oh, the parricides! Oh, the shameless rogues!' cried the Judge. 'Put\nthe forty together on this side of the enclosure. Oh, gentlemen, have ye\never seen such a concentration of vice? See how baseness and wickedness\ncan stand with head erect! Oh, hardened monsters! But the other eleven.\nHow can they expect us to believe this transparent falsehood--this\npalpable device? How can they foist it upon the Court?'\n\n'My Lord, their defence hath not yet been advanced!' stammered Master\nHelstrop.\n\n'I can sniff a lie before it is uttered,' roared the Judge, by no means\nabashed. 'I can read it as quick as ye can think it. Come, come, the\nCourt's time is precious. Put forward a defence, or seat yourself, and\nlet judgment be passed.'\n\n'These men, my Lord,' said the counsel, who was trembling until the\nparchment rattled in his hand. 'These eleven men, my Lord--'\n\n'Eleven devils, my Lord,' interrupted Jeffreys.\n\n'They are innocent peasants, my Lord, who love God and the King, and\nhave in no wise mingled themselves in this recent business. They have\nbeen dragged from their homes, my Lord, not because there was suspicion\nagainst them, but because they could not satisfy the greed of certain\ncommon soldiers who were balked of plunder in--'\n\n'Oh, shame, shame!' cried Jeffreys, in a voice of thunder. 'Oh,\nthreefold shame, Master Helstrop! Are you not content with bolstering\nup rebels, but you must go out of your way to slander the King's troops?\nWhat is this world coming to? What, in a word, is the defence of these\nrogues?'\n\n'An alibi, your Lordship.'\n\n'Ha! The common plea of every scoundrel. Have they witnesses?'\n\n'We have here a list of forty witnesses, your Lordship. They are waiting\nbelow, many of them having come great distances, and with much toil and\ntrouble.'\n\n'Who are they? What are they?' cried Jeffreys.\n\n'They are country folk, your Lordship. Cottagers and farmers, the\nneighbours of these poor men, who knew them well, and can speak as to\ntheir doings.'\n\n'Cottagers and farmers!' the Judge shouted. 'Why, then, they are drawn\nfrom the very class from which these men come. Would you have us believe\nthe oath of those who are themselves Whigs, Presbyterians, Somersetshire\nranters, the pothouse companions of the men whom we are trying? I\nwarrant they have arranged it all snugly over their beer--snugly,\nsnugly, the rogues!'\n\n'Will you not hear the witnesses, your Lordship?' cried our counsel,\nshamed into some little sense of manhood by this outrage.\n\n'Not a word from them, sirrah,' said Jeffreys. 'It is a question whether\nmy duty towards my kind master the King--write down \"kind master,\"\nclerk--doth not warrant me in placing all your witnesses in the dock as\nthe aiders and abettors of treason.'\n\n'If it please your Lordship,' cried one of the prisoners, 'I have for\nwitnesses Mr. Johnson, of Nether Stowey, who is a good Tory, and also\nMr. Shepperton, the clergyman.'\n\n'The more shame to them to appear in such a cause,' replied Jeffreys.\n'What are we to say, gentlemen of the jury, when we see county gentry\nand the clergy of the Established Church supporting treason and\nrebellion in this fashion? Surely the last days are at hand! You are a\nmost malignant and dangerous Whig to have so far drawn them from their\nduty.'\n\n'But hear me, my Lord!' cried one of the prisoners.\n\n'Hear you, you bellowing calf!' shouted the Judge. 'We can hear naught\nelse. Do you think that you are back in your conventicle, that you\nshould dare to raise your voice in such a fashion? Hear you, quotha! We\nshall hear you at the end of a rope, ere many days.'\n\n'We scarce think, your Lordship,' said one of the Crown lawyers,\nspringing to his feet amid a great rustling of papers, 'we scarce think\nthat it is necessary for the Crown to state any case. We have already\nheard the whole tale of this most damnable and execrable attempt many\ntimes over. The men in the dock before your Lordship have for the most\npart confessed to their guilt, and of those who hold out there is not\none who has given us any reason to believe that he is innocent of\nthe foul crime laid to his charge. The gentlemen of the long robe are\ntherefore unanimously of opinion that the jury may at once be required\nto pronounce a single verdict upon the whole of the prisoners.'\n\n'Which is--?' asked Jeffreys, glancing round at the foreman--\n\n'Guilty, your Lordship,' said he, with a grin, while his brother jurymen\nnodded their heads and laughed to one another.\n\n'Of course, of course! guilty as Judas Iscariot!' cried the Judge,\nlooking down with exultant eyes at the throng of peasants and burghers\nbefore him. 'Move them a little forwards, ushers, that I may see them\nto more advantage. Oh, ye cunning ones! Are ye not taken? Are ye not\ncompassed around? Where now can ye fly? Do ye not see hell opening\nat your feet? Eh? Are ye not afraid? Oh, short, short shall be your\nshrift!' The very devil seemed to be in the man, for as he spoke he\nwrithed with unholy laughter, and drummed his hand upon the red cushion\nin front of him. I glanced round at my companions, but their faces were\nall as though they had been chiselled out of marble. If he had hoped to\nsee a moist eye or a quivering lip, the satisfaction was denied him.\n\n'Had I my way,' said he, 'there is not one of ye but should swing for\nit. Aye, and if I had my way, some of those whose stomachs are too nice\nfor this work, and who profess to serve the King with their lips while\nthey intercede for his worst enemies, should themselves have cause to\nremember Taunton assizes. Oh, most ungrateful rebels! Have ye not\nheard how your most soft-hearted and compassionate monarch, the best of\nmen--put it down in the record, clerk--on the intercession of that great\nand charitable statesman, Lord Sunderland--mark it down, clerk--hath\nhad pity on ye? Hath it not melted ye? Hath it not made ye loathe\nyourselves? I declare, when I think of it'--here, with a sudden catching\nof the breath, he burst out a-sobbing, the tears running down his\ncheeks--'when I think of it, the Christian forbearance, the ineffable\nmercy, it doth bring forcibly to my mind that great Judge before whom\nall of us--even I--shall one day have to render an account. Shall I\nrepeat it, clerk, or have you it down?'\n\n'I have it down, your Lordship.'\n\n'Then write \"sobs\" in the margin. 'Tis well that the King should\nknow our opinion on such matters. Know, then, you most traitorous and\nunnatural rebels, that this good father whom ye have spurned has stepped\nin between yourselves and the laws which ye have offended. At his\ncommand we withhold from ye the chastisement which ye have merited.\nIf ye can indeed pray, and if your soul-cursing conventicles have not\ndriven all grace out of ye, drop on your knees and offer up thanks when\nI tell ye that he hath ordained that ye shall all have a free pardon.'\nHere the Judge rose from his seat as though about to descend from the\ntribunal, and we gazed upon each other in the utmost astonishment at\nthis most unlooked-for end to the trial. The soldiers and lawyers were\nequally amazed, while a hum of joy and applause rose up from the few\ncountry folk who had dared to venture within the accursed precincts.\n\n'This pardon, however,' continued Jeffreys, turning round with a\nmalicious smile upon his face, 'is coupled with certain conditions and\nlimitations. Ye shall all be removed from here to Poole, in chains,\nwhere ye shall find a vessel awaiting ye. With others ye shall be stowed\naway in the hold of the said vessel, and conveyed at the King's expense\nto the Plantations, there to be sold as slaves. God send ye masters who\nwill know by the free use of wood and leather to soften your stubborn\nthoughts and incline your mind to better things.' He was again about to\nwithdraw, when one of the Crown lawyers whispered something across to\nhim.\n\n'Well thought of, coz,' cried the Judge. 'I had forgot. Bring back the\nprisoners, ushers! Perhaps ye think that by the Plantations I mean his\nMajesty's American dominions. Unhappily, there are too many of your\nbreed in that part already. Ye would fall among friends who might\nstrengthen ye in your evil courses, and so risk your salvation. To send\nye there would be to add one brand to another and yet hope to put\nout the fire. By the Plantations, therefore, I mean Barbadoes and the\nIndies, where ye shall live with the other slaves, whose skins may be\nblacker than yours, but I dare warrant that their souls are more white.'\nWith this concluding speech the trial ended, and we were led back\nthrough the crowded streets to the prison from which we had been\nbrought. On either side of the street, as we passed, we could see\nthe limbs of former companions dangling in the wind, and their heads\ngrinning at us from the tops of poles and pikes. No savage country in\nthe heart of heathen Africa could have presented a more dreadful sight\nthan did the old English town of Taunton when Jeffreys and Kirke had\nthe ordering of it. There was death in the air, and the townsfolk crept\nsilently about, scarcely daring to wear black for those whom they had\nloved and lost, lest it should be twisted into an act of treason.\n\nWe were scarce back in the wool-house once more when a file of\nguards with a sergeant entered, escorting a long, pale-faced man with\nprotruding teeth, whose bright blue coat and white silk breeches,\ngold-headed sword, and glancing shoe-buckles, proclaimed him to be one\nof those London exquisites whom interest or curiosity had brought down\nto the scene of the rebellion. He tripped along upon his tiptoes like a\nFrench dancing-master, waving his scented kerchief in front of his\nthin high nose, and inhaling aromatic salts from a blue phial which he\ncarried in his left hand.\n\n'By the Lard!' he cried, 'but the stench of these filthy wretches is\nenough to stap one's breath. It is, by the Lard! Smite my vitals if\nI would venture among them if I were not a very rake hell. Is there a\ndanger of prison fever, sergeant? Heh?'\n\n'They are all sound as roaches, your honour,' said the under-officer,\ntouching his cap.\n\n'Heh, heh!' cried the exquisite, with a shrill treble laugh. 'It is\nnot often ye have a visit from a person of quality, I'll warrant. It\nis business, sergeant, business! \"Auri sacra fames\"--you remember what\nVirgilius Maro says, sergeant?'\n\n'Never heard the gentleman speak, sir--at least not to my knowledge,\nsir,' said the sergeant.\n\n'Heh, heh! Never heard him speak, heh? That will do for Slaughter's,\nsergeant. That will set them all in a titter at Slaughter's. Pink my\nsoul! but when I venture on a story the folk complain that they can't\nget served, for the drawers laugh until there is no work to be got out\nof them. Oh, lay me bleeding, but these are a filthy and most ungodly\ncrew! Let the musqueteers stand close, sergeant, lest they fly at me.'\n\n'We shall see to that, your honour.'\n\n'I have a grant of a dozen of them, and Captain Pogram hath offered me\ntwelve pounds a head. But they must be brawny rogues--strong and brawny,\nfor the voyage kills many, sergeant, and the climate doth also tell upon\nthem. Now here is one whom I must have. Yes, in very truth he is a\nyoung man, and hath much life in him and much strength. Tick him off,\nsergeant, tick him off!'\n\n'His name is Clarke,' said the soldier. 'I have marked him down.'\n\n'If this is the clerk I would I had a parson to match him,' cried the\nfop, sniffing at his bottle. 'Do you see the pleasantry, sergeant. Heh,\nheh! Does your sluggish mind rise to the occasion? Strike me purple, but\nI am in excellent fettle! There is yonder man with the brown face, you\ncan mark him down. And the young man beside him, also. Tick him off. Ha,\nhe waves his hand towards me! Stand firm, sergeant! Where are my salts?\nWhat is it, man, what is it?'\n\n'If it plaize your han'r,' said the young peasant, 'if so be as you\nhave chose me to be of a pairty, I trust that you will allow my vaither\nyander to go with us also.'\n\n'Pshaw, pshaw!' cried the fop, 'you are beyond reason, you are indeed!\nWho ever heard of such a thing? Honour forbids it! How could I foist\nan old man upon mine honest friend, Captain Pogram. Fie, fie! Split\nme asunder if he would not say that I had choused him! There is yonder\nlusty fellow with the red head, sergeant! The blacks will think he is\na-fire. Those, and these six stout yokels, will make up my dozen.'\n\n'You have indeed the pick of them,' said the sergeant.\n\n'Aye, sink me, but I have a quick eye for horse, man, or woman! I'll\npick the best of a batch with most. Twelve twelves, close on a hundred\nand fifty pieces, sergeant, and all for a few words, my friend, all for\na few words. I did but send my wife, a demmed handsome woman, mark you,\nand dresses in the mode, to my good friend the secretary to ask for some\nrebels. \"How many?\" says he. \"A dozen will do,\" says she. It was all\ndone in a penstroke. What a cursed fool she was not to have asked for a\nhundred! But what is this, sergeant, what is this?'\n\nA small, brisk, pippin-faced fellow in a riding-coat and high boots had\ncome clanking into the wool-house with much assurance and authority,\nwith a great old-fashioned sword trailing behind him, and a riding-whip\nswitching in his hand.\n\n'Morning, sergeant!' said he, in a loud, overbearing voice. 'You may\nhave heard my name? I am Master John Wooton, of Langmere House, near\nDulverton, who bestirred himself so for the King, and hath been termed\nby Mr. Godolphin, in the House of Commons, one of the local pillars of\nthe State. Those were his words. Fine, were they not? Pillars, mark ye,\nthe conceit being that the State was, as it were, a palace or a temple,\nand the loyal men so many pillars, amongst whom I also was one. I am a\nlocal pillar. I have received a Royal permit, sergeant, to choose from\namongst your prisoners ten sturdy rogues whom I may sell as a reward\nto me for my exertions. Draw them up, therefore, that I may make my\nchoice!'\n\n'Then, sir, we are upon the same errand,' quoth the Londoner, bowing\nwith his hand over his heart, until his sword seemed to point straight\nup to the ceiling. 'The Honourable George Dawnish, at your service! Your\nvery humble and devoted servant, sir! Yours to command in any or\nall ways. It is a real joy and privilege to me, sir, to make your\ndistinguished acquaintance. Hem!'\n\nThe country squire appeared to be somewhat taken aback at this shower\nof London compliments. 'Ahem, sir! Yes, sir!' said he, bobbing his head.\n'Glad to see you, sir! Most damnably so! But these men, sergeant? Time\npresses, for to-morrow is Shepton market, and I would fain see my old\ntwenty-score boar once more before he is sold. There is a beefy one.\nI'll have him.'\n\n'Ged, I've forestalled you,' cried the courtier. 'Sink me, but it gives\nme real pain. He is mine.'\n\n'Then this,' said the other, pointing with his whip.\n\n'He is mine, too. Heh, heh, heh! Strike me stiff, but this is too\nfunny!'\n\n'Od's wounds! How many are yours!' cried the Dulverton squire.\n\n'A dozen. Heh, heh! A round dozen. All those who stand upon this side.\nPink me, but I have got the best of you there! The early bird--you know\nthe old saw!'\n\n'It is a disgrace,' the squire cried hotly. 'A shame and a disgrace. We\nmust needs fight for the King and risk our skins, and then when all is\ndone, down come a drove of lacqueys in waiting, and snap up the pickings\nbefore their betters are served.'\n\n'Lacqueys in waiting, sir!' shrieked the exquisite. 'S'death, sir! This\ntoucheth mine honour very nearly! I have seen blood flow, yes, sir, and\nwounds gape on less provocation. Retract, sir, retract!'\n\n'Away, you clothes-pole!' cried the other contemptuously. 'You are come\nlike the other birds of carrion when the fight is o'er. Have you been\nnamed in full Parliament? Are you a local pillar? Away, away, you\ntailor's dummy!'\n\n'You insolent clodhopper!' cried the fop. 'You most foul-mouthed\nbumpkin! The only local pillar that you have ever deserved to make\nacquaintance with is the whipping-post. Ha, sergeant, he lays his\nhand upon his sword! Stop him, sergeant, stop him, or I may do him an\ninjury.'\n\n'Nay, gentlemen,' cried the under officer. 'This quarrel must not\ncontinue here. We must have no brawling within the prison. Yet there is\na level turf without, and as fine elbow-room as a gentleman could wish\nfor a breather.'\n\nThis proposal did not appear to commend itself to either of the angry\ngentlemen, who proceeded to exchange the length of their swords, and to\npromise that each should hear from the other before sunset. Our owner,\nas I may call him, the fop, took his departure at last, and the country\nsquire having chosen the next ton swaggered off, cursing the courtiers,\nthe Londoners, the sergeant, the prisoners, and above all, the\ningratitude of the Government which had made him so small a return\nfor his exertions. This was but the first of many such scenes, for the\nGovernment, in endeavouring to satisfy the claims of its supporters, had\npromised many more than there were prisoners. I am grieved to say that\nI have seen not only men, but even my own countrywomen, and ladies of\ntitle to boot, wringing their hands and bewailing themselves because\nthey were unable to get any of the poor Somersetshire folk to sell as\nslaves. Indeed, it was only with difficulty that they could be made\nto see that their claim upon Government did not give them the right of\nseizing any burgher or peasant who might come in their way, and shipping\nhim right off for the Plantations.\n\nWell, my dear grandchildren, from night to night through this long and\nweary winter I have taken you back with me into the past, and made you\nsee scenes the players in which are all beneath the turf, save\nthat perhaps here and there some greybeard like myself may have a\nrecollection of them. I understand that you, Joseph, have every morning\nset down upon paper that which I have narrated the night before. It is\nas well that you should do so, for your own children and your children's\nchildren may find it of interest, and even perhaps take a pride in\nhearing that their ancestors played a part in such scenes. But now\nthe spring is coming, and the green is bare of snow, so that there are\nbetter things for you to do than to sit listening to the stories of\na garrulous old man. Nay, nay, you shake your heads, but indeed those\nyoung limbs want exercising and strengthening and knitting together,\nwhich can never come from sitting toasting round the blaze. Besides, my\nstory draws quickly to an end now, for I had never intended to tell you\nmore than the events connected with the Western rising. If the closing\npart hath been of the dreariest, and if all doth not wind up with\nthe ringing of bells and the joining of hands, like the tales in the\nchap-books, you must blame history and not me. For Truth is a stern\nmistress, and when one hath once started off with her one must follow\non after the jade, though she lead in flat defiance of all the rules and\nconditions which would fain turn that tangled wilderness the world into\nthe trim Dutch garden of the story-tellers.\n\nThree days after our trial we were drawn up in North Street in front\nof the Castle with others from the other prisons who were to share our\nfate. We were placed four abreast, with a rope connecting each rank,\nand of these ranks I counted fifty, which would bring our total to two\nhundred. On each side of us rode dragoons, and in front and behind were\ncompanies of musqueteers to prevent any attempt at rescue or escape.\nIn this order we set off upon the tenth day of September, amidst the\nweeping and wailing of the townsfolk, many of whom saw their sons or\nbrothers marching off into exile without their being able to exchange a\nlast word or embrace with them. Some of these poor folk, doddering old\nmen and wrinkled, decrepit women, toiled for miles after us down the\nhigh-road, until the rearguard of foot faced round upon them, and drove\nthem away with curses and blows from their ramrods.\n\nThat day we made our way through Yeovil and Sherborne, and on the morrow\nproceeded over the North Downs as far as Blandford, where we were penned\ntogether like cattle and left for the night. On the third day we\nresumed our march through Wimbourne and a line of pretty Dorsetshire\nvillages--the last English villages which most of us were destined to\nsee for many a long year to come. Late in the afternoon the spars and\nrigging of the shipping in Poole Harbour rose up before us, and in\nanother hour we had descended the steep and craggy path which leads to\nthe town. Here we were drawn up upon the quay opposite the broad-decked,\nheavy-sparred brig which was destined to carry us into slavery. Through\nall this march we met with the greatest kindness from the common people,\nwho flocked out from their cottages with fruit and with milk, which\nthey divided amongst us. At other places, at, the risk of their lives,\nDissenting ministers came forth and stood by the wayside, blessing us as\nwe passed, in spite of the rough jeers and oaths of the soldiers.\n\nWe were marched aboard and led below by the mate of the vessel, a tall\nred-faced seaman with ear-rings in his ears, while the captain stood on\nthe poop with his legs apart and a pipe in his mouth, checking us off\none by one by means of a list which he held in his hand. As he looked\nat the sturdy build and rustic health of the peasants, which even their\nlong confinement had been unable to break down, his eyes glistened, and\nhe rubbed his big red hands together with delight.\n\n'Show them down, Jem!' he kept shouting to the mate. 'Stow them safe,\nJem! There's lodgings for a duchess down there, s'help me, there's\nlodgings for a duchess! Pack 'em away!'\n\nOne by one we passed before the delighted captain, and down the steep\nladder which led into the hold. Here we were led along a narrow passage,\non either side of which opened the stalls which were prepared for us. As\neach man came opposite to the one set aside for him he was thrown into\nit by the brawny mate, and fastened down with anklets of iron by the\nseaman armourer in attendance. It was dark before we were all secured,\nbut the captain came round with a lanthorn to satisfy himself that all\nhis property was really safe. I could hear the mate and him reckoning\nthe value of each prisoner, and counting what he would fetch in the\nBarbadoes market.\n\n'Have you served out their fodder, Jem?' he asked, flashing his light\ninto each stall in turn. 'Have you seen that they had their rations?'\n\n'A rye bread loaf and a pint o' water,' answered the mate.\n\n'Fit for a duchess, s'help me!' cried the captain. 'Look to this one,\nJem. He is a lusty rogue. Look to his great hands. He might work for\nyears in the rice-swamps ere the land crabs have the picking of him.'\n\n'Aye, we'll have smart bidding amid the settlers for this lot. 'Cod,\ncaptain, but you have made a bargain of it! Od's bud! you have done\nthese London fools to some purpose.'\n\n'What is this?' roared the captain. 'Here is one who hath not touched\nhis allowance. How now, sirrah, art too dainty in the stomach to eat\nwhat your betters have eaten before you?'\n\n'I have no hairt for food, zur,' the prisoner answered.\n\n'What, you must have your whims and fancies! You must pick and you must\nchoose! I tell you, sirrah, that you are mine, body and soul! Twelve\ngood pieces I paid for you, and now, forsooth, I am to be told that you\nwill not eat! Turn to it at this instant, you saucy rogue, or I shall\nhave you triced to the triangles!'\n\n'Here is another,' said the mate, 'who sits ever with his head sunk upon\nhis breast without spirit or life.'\n\n'Mutinous, obstinate dog!' cried the captain. 'What ails you then? Why\nhave you a face like an underwriter in a tempest?'\n\n'If it plaize you, zur,' the prisoner answered, 'Oi do but think o' m'\nould mother at Wellington, and woonder who will kape her now that Oi'm\ngone!'\n\n'And what is that to me?' shouted the brutal seaman. 'How can you arrive\nat your journey's end sound and hearty if you sit like a sick fowl upon\na perch? Laugh, man, and be merry, or I will give you something to weep\nfor. Out on you, you chicken-hearted swab, to sulk and fret like a babe\nnew weaned! Have you not all that heart could desire? Give him a touch\nwith the rope's-end, Jem, if ever you do observe him fretting. It is but\nto spite us that he doth it.'\n\n'If it please your honour,' said a seaman, coming hurriedly down from\nthe deck, 'there is a stranger upon the poop who will have speech with\nyour honour.'\n\n'What manner of man, sirrah?'\n\n'Surely he is a person of quality, your honour. He is as free wi' his\nwords as though he were the captain o' the ship. The boatswain did but\njog against him, and he swore so woundily at him and stared at him so,\nwi' een like a tiger-cat, that Job Harrison says we have shipped the\ndevil himsel.' The men don't like the look of him, your honour!'\n\n'Who the plague can this spark be?' said the skipper. 'Go on deck, Jem,\nand tell him that I am counting my live stock, and that I shall be with\nhim anon.'\n\n'Nay, your honour! There will trouble come of it unless you come up. He\nswears that he will not bear to be put off, and that he must see you on\nthe instant.'\n\n'Curse his blood, whoever he be!' growled the seaman. 'Every cock on\nhis own dunghill. What doth the rogue mean? Were he the Lord High Privy\nSeal, I would have him to know that I am lord of my own quarter-deck!'\nSo saying, with many snorts of indignation, the mate and the captain\nwithdrew together up the ladder, banging the heavy hatchways down as\nthey passed through.\n\nA single oil-lamp swinging from a beam in the centre of the gangway\nwhich led between the rows of cells was the only light which was\nvouchsafed us. By its yellow, murky glimmer we could dimly see the great\nwooden ribs of the vessel, arching up on either side of us, and crossed\nby the huge beams which held the deck. A grievous stench from foul bilge\nwater poisoned the close, heavy air. Every now and then, with a squeak\nand a clutter, a rat would dart across the little zone of light and\nvanish in the gloom upon the further side. Heavy breathing all round\nme showed that my companions, wearied out by their journey and their\nsufferings, had dropped into a slumber. From time to time one could hear\nthe dismal clank of fetters, and the start and incatching of the breath,\nas some poor peasant, fresh from dreams of his humble homestead amid the\ngroves of the Mendips, awoke of a sudden to see the great wooden coffin\naround him, and to breathe the venomous air of the prison ship.\n\nI lay long awake full of thought both for myself and for the poor souls\naround me. At last, however, the measured swash of the water against\nthe side of the vessel and the slight rise and fall had lulled me into\na sleep, from which I was suddenly aroused by the flashing of a light\nin my eyes. Sitting up, I found several sailors gathered about me, and\na tall man with a black cloak swathed round him swinging a lanthorn over\nme.\n\n'That is the man,' he said.\n\n'Come, mate, you are to come on deck!' said the seaman armourer. With a\nfew blows from his hammer he knocked the irons from my feet.\n\n'Follow me!' said the tall stranger, and led the way up the hatchway\nladder. It was heavenly to come out into the pure air once more. The\nstars were shining brightly overhead. A fresh breeze blew from the\nshore, and hummed a pleasant tune among the cordage. Close beside us\nthe lights of the town gleamed yellow and cheery. Beyond, the moon was\npeeping over the Bournemouth hills.\n\n'This way, sir,' said the sailor, 'right aft into the cabin, sir.'\n\nStill following my guide, I found myself in the low cabin of the brig.\nA square shining table stood in the centre, with a bright swinging\nlamp above it. At the further end in the glare of the light sat the\ncaptain--his face shining with greed and expectation. On the table stood\na small pile of gold pieces, a rum-flask, glasses, a tobacco-box, and\ntwo long pipes.\n\n'My compliments to you, Captain Clarke,' said the skipper, bobbing his\nround bristling head. 'An honest seaman's compliments to you. It seems\nthat we are not to be shipmates this voyage, after all.'\n\n'Captain Micah Clarke must do a voyage of his own,' said the stranger.\n\nAt the sound of his voice I sprang round in amazement. 'Good Heavens!' I\ncried, 'Saxon!'\n\n'You have nicked it,' said he, throwing down his mantle and showing the\nwell-known face and figure of the soldier of fortune. 'Zounds, man! if\nyou can pick me out of the Solent, I suppose that I may pick you out of\nthis accursed rat-trap in which I find you. Tie and tie, as we say at\nthe green table. In truth, I was huffed with you when last we parted,\nbut I have had you in my mind for all that.'\n\n'A seat and a glass, Captain Clarke,' cried the skipper. 'Od's bud! I\nshould think that you would be glad to raise your little finger and wet\nyour whistle after what you have gone through.'\n\nI seated myself by the table with my brain in a whirl. 'This is more\nthan I can fathom,' said I. 'What is the meaning of it, and how comes it\nabout?'\n\n'For my own part, the meaning is as clear as the glass of my binnacle,'\nquoth the seaman. 'Your good friend Colonel Saxon, as I understand his\nname to be, has offered me as much as I could hope to gain by selling\nyou in the Indies. Sink it, I may be rough and ready, but my heart is in\nthe right place! Aye, aye! I would not maroon a man if I could set him\nfree. But we have all to look for ourselves, and trade is dull.'\n\n'Then I am free!' said I.\n\n'You are free,' he answered. 'There is your purchase-money upon the\ntable. You can go where you will, save only upon the land of England,\nwhere you are still an outlaw under sentence.'\n\n'How have you done this, Saxon?' I asked. 'Are you not afraid for\nyourself?'\n\n'Ho, ho!' laughed the old soldier. 'I am a free man, my lad! I hold my\npardon, and care not a maravedi for spy or informer. Who should I meet\nbut Colonel Kirke a day or so back. Yes, lad! I met him in the street,\nand I cocked my hat in his face. The villain laid his hand upon his\nhilt, and I should have out bilbo and sent his soul to hell had they not\ncome between us. I care not the ashes of this pipe for Jeffreys or any\nother of them. I can snap this finger and thumb at them, so! They would\nrather see Decimus Saxon's back than his face, I promise ye!'\n\n'But how comes this about?' I asked.\n\n'Why, marry, it is no mystery. Cunning old birds are not to be caught\nwith chaff. When I left you I made for a certain inn where I could count\nupon finding a friend. There I lay by for a while, en cachette, as the\nMessieurs call it, while I could work out the plan that was in my head.\nDonner wetter! but I got a fright from that old seaman friend of yours,\nwho should be sold as a picture, for he is of little use as a man. Well,\nI bethought me early in the affair of your visit to Badminton, and of\nthe Duke of B. We shall mention no names, but you can follow my meaning.\nTo him I sent a messenger, to the effect that I purposed to purchase my\nown pardon by letting out all that I knew concerning his double dealing\nwith the rebels. The message was carried to him secretly, and his\nanswer was that I should meet him at a certain spot by night. I sent my\nmessenger instead of myself, and he was found in the morning stiff and\nstark, with more holes in his doublet than ever the tailor made. On\nthis I sent again, raising my demands, and insisting upon a speedy\nsettlement. He asked my conditions. I replied, a free pardon and a\ncommand for myself. For you, money enough to land you safely in some\nforeign country where you can pursue the noble profession of arms. I got\nthem both, though it was like drawing teeth from his head. His name hath\nmuch power at Court just now, and the King can refuse him nothing. I\nhave my pardon and a command of troops in New England. For you I have\ntwo hundred pieces, of which thirty have been paid in ransom to the\ncaptain, while twenty are due to me for my disbursements over the\nmatter. In this bag you will find the odd hundred and fifty, of which\nyou will pay fifteen to the fishermen who have promised to see you safe\nto Flushing.'\n\nI was, as you may readily believe, my dear children, bewildered by this\nsudden and most unlooked-for turn which events had taken. When Saxon had\nceased to speak I sat as one stunned, trying to realise what he had said\nto me. There came a thought into my head, however, which chilled the\nglow of hope and of happiness which had sprung up in me at the thought\nof recovering my freedom. My presence had been a support and a comfort\nto my unhappy companions. Would it not be a cruel thing to leave them in\ntheir distress? There was not one of them who did not look to me in his\ntrouble, and to the best of my poor power I had befriended and consoled\nthem. How could I desert them now?\n\n'I am much beholden to you, Saxon,' I said at last, speaking slowly and\nwith some difficulty, for the words were hard to utter. 'But I fear that\nyour pains have been thrown away. These poor country folk have none to\nlook after or assist them. They are as simple as babes, and as little\nfitted to be landed in a strange country. I cannot find it in my heart\nto leave them!'\n\nSaxon burst out laughing, and leaned back in his seat with his long legs\nstretched straight out and his hands in his breeches pockets.\n\n'This is too much!' he said at last. 'I saw many difficulties in my way,\nyet I did not foresee this one. You are in very truth the most contrary\nman that ever stood in neat's leather. You have ever some outlandish\nreason for jibbing and shying like a hot-blooded, half-broken colt. Yet\nI think that I can overcome these strange scruples of yours by a little\npersuasion.'\n\n'As to the prisoners, Captain Clarke,' said the seaman, 'I'll be as good\nas a father to them. S'help me, I will, on the word of an honest sailor!\nIf you should choose to lay out a trifle of twenty pieces upon their\ncomfort, I shall see that their food is such as mayhap many of them\nnever got at their own tables. They shall come on deck, too, in watches,\nand have an hour or two o' fresh air in the day. I can't say fairer!'\n\n'A word or two with you on deck!' said Saxon. He walked out of the cabin\nand I followed him to the far end of the poop, where we stood leaning\nagainst the bulwarks. One by one the lights had gone out in the town,\nuntil the black ocean beat against a blacker shore.\n\n'You need not have any fear of the future of the prisoners,' he said,\nin a low whisper. 'They are not bound for the Barbadoes, nor will this\nskinflint of a captain have the selling of them, for all that he is so\ncocksure. If he can bring his own skin out of the business, it will be\nmore than I expect. He hath a man aboard his ship who would think no\nmore of giving him a tilt over the side than I should.'\n\n'What mean you, Saxon?' I cried.\n\n'Hast ever heard of a man named Marot?'\n\n'Hector Marot! Yes, surely I knew him well. A highwayman he was, but a\nmighty stout man with a kind heart beneath a thief's jacket.'\n\n'The same. He is as you say a stout man and a resolute swordsman, though\nfrom what I have seen of his play he is weak in stoccado, and perhaps\nsomewhat too much attached to the edge, and doth not give prominence\nenough to the point, in which respect he neglects the advice and\nteaching of the most noteworthy fencers in Europe. Well, well, folk\ndiffer on this as on every other subject! Yet it seems to me that I\nwould sooner be carried off the field after using my weapon secundum\nartem, than walk off unscathed after breaking the laws d'escrime.\nQuarte, tierce, and saccoon, say I, and the devil take your estramacons\nand passados!'\n\n'But what of Marot?' I asked impatiently.\n\n'He is aboard,' said Saxon. 'It appears that he was much disturbed in\nhis mind over the cruelties which were inflicted on the country folk\nafter the battle at Bridgewater. Being a man of a somewhat stern and\nfierce turn of mind, his disapproval did vent itself in actions rather\nthan words. Soldiers were found here and there over the countryside\npistolled or stabbed, and no trace left of their assailant. A dozen or\nmore were cut off in this way, and soon it came to be whispered about\nthat Marot the highwayman was the man that did it, and the chase became\nhot at his heels.'\n\n'Well, and what then?' I asked, for Saxon had stopped to light his pipe\nat the same old metal tinder-box which he had used when first I met\nhim. When I picture Saxon to myself it is usually of that moment that I\nthink, when the red glow beat upon his hard, eager, hawk-like face, and\nshowed up the thousand little seams and wrinkles which time and care had\nimprinted upon his brown, weather-beaten skin. Sometimes in my dreams\nthat face in the darkness comes back to me, and his half-closed eyelids\nand shifting, blinky eyes are turned towards me in his sidelong fashion,\nuntil I find myself sitting up and holding out my hand into empty space,\nhalf expecting to feel another thin sinewy hand close round it. A bad\nman he was in many ways, my dears, cunning and wily, with little scruple\nor conscience; and yet so strange a thing is human nature, and so\ndifficult is it for us to control our feelings, that my heart warms when\nI think of him, and that fifty years have increased rather than weakened\nthe kindliness which I hear to him.\n\n'I had heard,' quoth he, puffing slowly at his pipe, 'that Marot was a\nman of this kidney, and also that he was so compassed round that he was\nin peril of capture. I sought him out, therefore, and held council with\nhim. His mare, it seems, had been slain by some chance shot, and as he\nwas much attached to the brute, the accident made him more savage and\nmore dangerous than ever. He had no heart, he said, to continue in his\nold trade. Indeed, he was ripe for anything--the very stuff out of which\nuseful tools are made. I found that in his youth he had had a training\nfor the sea. When I heard that, I saw my way in the snap of a petronel.'\n\n'What then?' I asked. 'I am still in the dark.'\n\n'Nay, it is surely plain enough to you now. Marot's end was to baffle\nhis pursuers and to benefit the exiles. How could he do this better than\nby engaging as a seaman aboard this brig, the _Dorothy Fox_, and sailing\naway from England in her? There are but thirty of a crew. Below hatches\nare close on two hundred men, who, simple as they may be, are, as you\nand I know, second to none in the cut-and-thrust work, without order or\ndiscipline, which will be needed in such an affair. Marot has but to go\ndown amongst them some dark night, knock off their anklets, and fit them\nup with a few stanchions or cudgels. Ho, ho, Micah! what think you? The\nplanters may dig their plantations themselves for all the help they are\nlike to get from West countrymen this bout.'\n\n'It is, indeed, a well-conceived plan,' said I. 'It is a pity, Saxon,\nthat your ready wit and quick invention hath not had a fair field. You\nare, us I know well, as fit to command armies and to order campaigns as\nany man that ever bore a truncheon.'\n\n'Mark ye there!' whispered Saxon, grasping me by the arm. 'See where\nthe moonlight falls beside the hatchway! Do you not see that short squat\nseaman who stands alone, lost in thought, with his head sunk upon his\nbreast? It is Marot! I tell you that if I were Captain Pogram I would\nrather have the devil himself, horns, hoofs, and tail, for my first\nmate and bunk companion, than have that man aboard my ship. You need not\nconcern yourself about the prisoners, Micah. Their future is decided.'\n\n'Then, Saxon,' I answered, 'it only remains for me to thank you, and to\naccept the means of safety which you have placed within my reach.'\n\n'Spoken like a man,' said he; 'is there aught which I may do for thee in\nEngland? though, by the Mass, I may not be here very long myself, for,\nas I understand, I am to be entrusted with the command of an expedition\nthat is fitting out against the Indians, who have ravaged the\nplantations of our settlers. It will be good to get to some profitable\nemployment, for such a war, without either fighting or plunder, I have\nnever seen. I give you my word that I have scarce fingered silver since\nthe beginning of it. I would not for the sacking of London go through\nwith it again.'\n\n'There is a friend whom Sir Gervas Jerome did commend to my care,' I\nremarked; 'I have, however, already taken measures to have his wishes\ncarried out. There is naught else save to assure all in Havant that a\nKing who hath battened upon his subjects, as this one of ours hath done,\nis not one who is like to keep his seat very long upon the throne of\nEngland. When he falls I shall return, and perhaps it may be sooner than\nfolk think.'\n\n'These doings in the West have indeed stirred up much ill-feeling all\nover the country,' said my companion. 'On all hands I hear that there is\nmore hatred of the King and of his ministers than before the outbreak.\nWhat ho, Captain Pogram, this way! We have settled the matter, and my\nfriend is willing to go.'\n\n'I thought he would tack round,' the captain said, staggering towards us\nwith a gait which showed that he had made the rum bottle his companion\nsince we had left him. 'S'help me, I was sure of it! Though, by the\nMass, I don't wonder that he thought twice before leaving the _Dorothy\nFox_, for she is fitted up fit for a duchess, s'help me! Where is your\nboat?'\n\n'Alongside,' replied Saxon; 'my friend joins with me in hoping that you,\nCaptain Pogram, will have a pleasant and profitable voyage.'\n\n'I am cursedly beholden to him,' said the captain, with a flourish of\nhis three-cornered hat.\n\n'Also that you will reach Barbadoes in safety.'\n\n'Little doubt of that!' quoth the captain.\n\n'And that you will dispose of your wares in a manner which will repay\nyou for your charity and humanity.'\n\n'Nay, these are handsome words,' cried the captain. 'Sir, I am your\ndebtor.'\n\nA fishing-boat was lying alongside the brig. By the murky light of the\npoop lanterns I could see the figures upon her deck, and the great brown\nsail all ready for hoisting. I climbed the bulwark and set my foot upon\nthe rope-ladder which led down to her.\n\n'Good-bye, Decimus!' said I.\n\n'Good-bye, my lad! You have your pieces all safe?'\n\n'I have them.'\n\n'Then I have one other present to make you. It was brought to me by a\nsergeant of the Royal Horse. It is that, Micah, on which you must now\ndepend for food, lodging, raiment, and all which you would have. It\nis that to which a brave man can always look for his living. It is the\nknife wherewith you can open the world's oyster. See, lad, it is your\nsword!'\n\n'The old sword! My father's sword!' I cried in delight, as Saxon drew\nfrom under his mantle and handed to me the discoloured, old-fashioned\nleathern sheath with the heavy brass hilt which I knew so well.\n\n'You are now,' said he, 'one of the old and honourable guild of soldiers\nof fortune. While the Turk is still snarling at the gates of Vienna\nthere will ever be work for strong arms and brave hearts. You will find\nthat among these wandering, fighting men, drawn from all climes and\nnations, the name of Englishman stands high. Well I know that it will\nstand none the lower for your having joined the brotherhood. I would\nthat I could come with you, but I am promised pay and position which it\nwould be ill to set aside. Farewell, lad, and may fortune go with you!'\n\nI pressed the rough soldier's horny hand, and descended into the\nfishing-boat. The rope that held us was cast off, the sail mounted up,\nand the boat shot out across the bay. Onward she went and on, through\nthe gathering gloom--a gloom as dark and impenetrable as the future\ntowards which my life's bark was driving. Soon the long rise and fall\ntold us that we were over the harbour bar and out in the open channel.\nOn the land, scattered twinkling lights at long stretches marked the\nline of the coast. As I gazed backwards a cloud trailed off from the\nmoon, and I saw the hard lines of the brig's rigging stand out against\nthe white cold disk. By the shrouds stood the veteran, holding to a\nrope with one hand, and waving the other in farewell and encouragement.\nAnother groat cloud blurred out the light, and that lean sinewy figure\nwith its long extended arm was the last which I saw for a weary time of\nthe dear country where I was born and bred.\n\n\n\nChapter XXXVI. Of the End of it All\n\nAnd so, my dear children, I come to the end of the history of a\nfailure--a brave failure and a noble one, but a failure none the less.\nIn three more years England was to come to herself, to tear the fetters\nfrom her free limbs, and to send James and his poisonous brood flying\nfrom her shores even as I was flying then. We had made the error of\nbeing before our time. Yet there came days when folk thought kindly of\nthe lads who had fought so stoutly in the West, and when their limbs,\ngathered from many a hangman's pit and waste place, were borne amid the\nsilent sorrow of a nation to the pretty country burial-grounds where\nthey would have chosen to lie. There, within the sound of the bell which\nfrom infancy had called them to prayer, beneath the turf over which they\nhad wandered, under the shadow of those Mendip and Quantock Hills which\nthey loved so well, these brave hearts lie still and peaceful, like\ntired children in the bosom of their mother. Requiescant-requiescant in\npace!\n\nNot another word about myself, dear children. This narrative doth\nalready bristle with I's, as though it were an Argus which is a flash\nof wit, though I doubt if ye will understand it. I set myself to tell ye\nthe tale of the war in the West, and that tale ye have heard, nor will\nI be coaxed or cajoled into one word further. Ah! ye know well how\ngarrulous the old man is, and that if you could but get to Flushing with\nhim he would take ye to the wars of the Empire, to William's Court, and\nto the second invasion of the West, which had a better outcome than the\nfirst. But not an inch further will I budge. On to the green, ye young\nrogues! Have ye not other limbs to exercise besides your ears, that ye\nshould be so fond of squatting round grandad's chair? If I am spared to\nnext winter, and if the rheumatiz keeps away, it is like that I may take\nup once more the broken thread of my story.\n\nOf the others I can only tell ye what I know. Some slipped out of my\nken entirely. Of others I have heard vague and incomplete accounts.\nThe leaders of the insurrection got off much more lightly than their\nfollowers, for they found that the passion of greed was even stronger\nthan the passion of cruelty. Grey, Buyse, Wade, and others bought\nthemselves free at the price of all their possessions. Ferguson escaped.\nMonmouth was executed on Tower Hill, and showed in his last moments\nsome faint traces of that spirit which spurted up now and again from his\nfeeble nature, like the momentary flash of an expiring fire.\n\nMy father and my mother lived to see the Protestant religion regain its\nplace once more, and to see England become the champion of the reformed\nfaith upon the Continent. Three years later I found them in Havant much\nas I had left them, save that there were more silver hairs amongst the\nbrown braided tresses of my mother, and that my father's great shoulders\nwere a trifle bowed and his brow furrowed with the lines of care. Hand\nin hand they passed onwards down life's journey, the Puritan and the\nChurch woman, and I have never despaired of the healing of religious\nfeud in England since I have seen how easy it is for two folks to retain\nthe strongest belief in their own creeds, and yet to bear the heartiest\nlove and respect for the professor of another. The days may come when\nthe Church and the Chapel may be as a younger and an elder brother,\neach working to one end, and each joying in the other's success. Let\nthe contest between them be not with pike and pistol, not with court and\nprison; but let the strife be which shall lead the higher life, which\nshall take the broader view, which shall boast the happiest and best\ncared-for poor. Then their rivalry shall be not a curse, but a blessing\nto this land of England.\n\nReuben Lockarby was ill for many months, but when he at last recovered\nhe found a pardon awaiting him through the interest of Major Ogilvy.\nAfter a time, when the troubles were all blown over, he married the\ndaughter of Mayor Timewell, and he still lives in Taunton, a well-to-do\nand prosperous citizen. Thirty years ago there was a little Micah\nLockarby, and now I am told that there is another, the son of the first,\nwho promises to be as arrant a little Roundhead as ever marched to the\ntuck of drum.\n\nOf Saxon I have heard more than once. So skilfully did he use his hold\nover the Duke of Beaufort, that he was appointed through his interest to\nthe command of an expedition which had been sent to chastise the savages\nof Virginia, who had wrought great cruelties upon the settlers. There\nhe did so out-ambush their ambushes, and out-trick their most cunning\nwarriors, that he hath left a great name among them, and is still\nremembered there by an Indian word which signifieth 'The long-legged\nwily one with the eye of a rat.' Having at last driven the tribes far\ninto the wilderness he was presented with a tract of country for his\nservices, where he settled down. There he married, and spent the rest of\nhis days in rearing tobacco and in teaching the principles of war to a\nlong line of gaunt and slab-sided children. They tell me that a great\nnation of exceeding strength and of wondrous size promises some day to\nrise up on the other side of the water. If this should indeed come to\npass, it may perhaps happen that these young Saxons or their children\nmay have a hand in the building of it. God grant that they may never\nlet their hearts harden to the little isle of the sea, which is and must\never be the cradle of their race.\n\nSolomon Sprent married and lived for many years as happily as his\nfriends could wish. I had a letter from him when I was abroad, in which\nhe said that though his consort and he had started alone on the voyage\nof wedlock, they were now accompanied by a jolly-boat and a gig. One\nwinter's night when the snow was on the ground he sent down for my\nfather, who hurried up to his house. He found the old man sitting up in\nbed, with his flask of rumbo within reach, his tobacco-box beside him,\nand a great brown Bible balanced against his updrawn knees. He was\nbreathing heavily, and was in sore distress.\n\n'I've strained a plank, and have nine feet in the well,' said he. 'It\ncomes in quicker than I can put it out. In truth, friend, I have not\nbeen seaworthy this many a day, and it is time that I was condemned and\nbroken up.'\n\nMy father shook his head sadly as he marked his dusky face and laboured\nbreathing. 'How of your soul?' he asked.\n\n'Aye!' said Solomon, 'that's a cargo that we carry under our hatches,\nthough we can't see it, and had no hand in the stowing of it. I've been\noverhauling the sailing orders here, and the ten articles of war, but I\ncan't find that I've gone so far out of my course that I may not hope to\ncome into the channel again.'\n\n'Trust not in yourself, but in Christ,' said my father.\n\n'He is the pilot, in course,' replied the old seaman. 'When I had a\npilot aboard o' my ship, however, it was my way always to keep my own\nweather eye open, d'ye see, and so I'll do now. The pilot don't think\nnone the worse of ye for it. So I'll throw my own lead line, though I\nhear as how there are no soundings in the ocean of God's mercy. Say,\nfriend, d'ye think this very body, this same hull o' mine, will rise\nagain?'\n\n'So we are taught,' my father answered.\n\n'I'd know it anywhere from the tattoo marks,' said Solomon. 'They was\ndone when I was with Sir Christopher in the West Indies, and I'd be\nsorry to part with them. For myself, d'ye see, I've never borne ill-will\nto any one, not even to the Dutch lubbers, though I fought three wars\nwi' them, and they carried off one of my spars, and be hanged to them!\nIf I've let daylight into a few of them, d'ye see, it's all in good\npart and by way of duty. I've drunk my share--enough to sweeten my\nbilge-water--but there are few that have seen me cranky in the\nupper rigging or refusing to answer to my helm. I never drew pay or\nprize-money that my mate in distress was not welcome to the half of it.\nAs to the Polls, the less said the better. I've been a true consort\nto my Phoebe since she agreed to look to me for signals. Those are my\npapers, all clear and aboveboard. If I'm summoned aft this very night by\nthe great Lord High Admiral of all, I ain't afeared that He'll clap me\ninto the bilboes, for though I'm only a poor sailor man, I've got His\npromise in this here book, and I'm not afraid of His going back from\nit.'\n\nMy father sat with the old man for some hours and did all that he could\nto comfort and assist him, for it was clear that he was sinking rapidly.\nWhen he at last left him, with his faithful wife beside him, he grasped\nthe brown but wasted hand which lay above the clothes.\n\n'I'll see you again soon,' he said.\n\n'Yes. In the latitude of heaven,' replied the dying seaman. His\nforeboding was right, for in the early hours of the morning his wife,\nbending over him, saw a bright smile upon his tanned, weather-beaten\nface. Raising himself upon his pillow he touched his forelock, as is\nthe habit of sailor-men, and so sank slowly and peacefully back into the\nlong sleep which wakes when the night has ceased to be.\n\nYou will ask me doubtless what became of Hector Marot and of the strange\nshipload which had set sail from Poole Harbour. There was never a word\nheard of them again, unless indeed a story which was spread some months\nafterwards by Captain Elias Hopkins, of the Bristol ship _Caroline_, may\nbe taken as bearing upon their fate. For Captain Hopkins relates that,\nbeing on his homeward voyage from our settlements, he chanced to meet\nwith thick fogs and a head wind in the neighbourhood of the great cod\nbanks. One night as he was beating about, with the weather so thick that\nhe could scarce see the truck of his own mast, a most strange passage\nbefell him. For as he and others stood upon the deck, they heard to\ntheir astonishment the sound of many voices joined in a great chorus,\nwhich was at first faint and distant, but which presently waxed and\nincreased until it appeared to pass within a stone-throw of his vessel,\nwhen it slowly died away once more and was lost in the distance. There\nwere some among the crew who set the matter down as the doing of the\nevil one, but, as Captain Elias Hopkins was wont to remark, it was a\nstrange thing that the foul fiend should choose West-country hymns for\nhis nightly exercise, and stranger still that the dwellers in the pit\nshould sing with a strong Somersetshire burr. For myself, I have little\ndoubt that it was indeed the _Dorothy Fox_ which had swept past in the\nfog, and that the prisoners, having won their freedom, were celebrating\ntheir delivery in true Puritan style. Whether they were driven on to the\nrocky coast of Labrador, or whether they found a home in some desolate\nland whence no kingly cruelty could harry them, is what must remain for\never unknown.\n\nZachariah Palmer lived for many years, a venerable and honoured old man,\nbefore he, too, was called to his fathers. A sweet and simple village\nphilosopher he was, with a child's heart in his aged breast. The very\nthought of him is to me as the smell of violets; for if in my views of\nlife and in my hopes of the future I differ somewhat from the hard and\ngloomy teaching of my father, I know that I owe it to the wise words\nand kindly training of the carpenter. If, as he was himself wont to\nsay, deeds are everything in this world and dogma is nothing, then his\nsinless, blameless life might be a pattern to you and to all. May the\ndust lie light upon him!\n\nOne word of another friend--the last mentioned, but not the least\nvalued. When Dutch William had been ten years upon the English throne\nthere was still to be seen in the field by my father's house a tall,\nstrong-boned horse, whose grey skin was flecked with dashes of white.\nAnd it was ever observed that, should the soldiers be passing from\nPortsmouth, or should the clank of trumpet or the rattle of drum break\nupon his ear, he would arch his old neck, throw out his grey-streaked\ntail, and raise his stiff knees in a pompous and pedantic canter. The\ncountry folk would stop to watch these antics of the old horse, and then\nthe chances are that one of them would tell the rest how that charger\nhad borne one of their own village lads to the wars, and how, when the\nrider had to fly the country, a kindly sergeant in the King's troops\nhad brought the steed as a remembrance of him to his father at home. So\nCovenant passed the last years of his life, a veteran among steeds, well\nfed and cared for, and much given, mayhap, to telling in equine language\nto all the poor, silly country steeds the wonderful passages which had\nbefallen him in the West.\n\n\n\nAPPENDIX\n\n\nNote A.--Hatred of Learning among the Puritans.\n\nIn spite of the presence in their ranks of such ripe scholars as John\nMilton, Colonel Hutchinson, and others, there was among the Independents\nand Anabaptists a profound distrust of learning, which is commented upon\nby writers of all shades of politics. Dr. South in his sermons remarks\nthat 'All learning was cried down, so that with them the best preachers\nwere such as could not read, and the best divines such as could not\nwrite. In all their preachments they so highly pretended to the Spirit,\nthat some of them could hardly spell a letter. To be blind with them was\na proper qualification of a spiritual guide, and to be book-learned, as\nthey called it, and to be irreligious, were almost convertible terms.\nNone save tradesmen and mechanics were allowed to have the Spirit, and\nthose only were accounted like St. Paul who could work with their hands,\nand were able to make a pulpit before preaching in it.'\n\nIn the collection of loyal ballads reprinted in 1731, the Royalist bard\nharps upon the same characteristic:\n\n          'We'll down with universities\n            Where learning is professed,\n           Because they practise and maintain\n            The language of the beast.\n           We'll drive the doctors out of doors,\n            And parts, whate'er they be,\n           We'll cry all parts and learning down,\n            And heigh, then up go we!'\n\n\nNote B.--On the Speed of Couriers.\n\nIt is difficult for us in these days of steam and electricity to realise\nhow long it took to despatch a message in the seventeenth century, even\nwhen the occasion was most pressing. Thus, Monmouth landed at Lyme on\nthe morning of Thursday, the 11th of June. Gregory Alford, the Tory\nmayor of Lyme, instantly fled to Honiton, whence he despatched a\nmessenger to the Privy Council. Yet it was five o'clock in the morning\nof Saturday, the 13th, before the news reached London, though the\ndistance is but 156 miles.\n\n\nNote C.--On the Claims of the Lender of a Horse.\n\nThe difficulty touched upon by Decimus Saxon, as to the claim of the\nlender of a horse upon the booty gained by the rider, is one frequently\ndiscussed by writers of that date upon the usages of war. One\ndistinguished authority says: Praefectus turmae equitum Hispanorum, cum\nproelio tuba caneret, unum ex equitibus suae turmae obvium habuit; qui\nquestus est quod paucis ante diebus equum suum in certamine amiserat,\npropter quod non poterat imminenti proelio interesse; unde jussit\nPraefectus ut unum ex suis equis conscenderet et ipsum comitaretur.\nMiles, equo conscenso, inter fugandum hostes, incidit in ipsum ducem\nhostilis exercitus, quem cepit et consignavit Duci exercitus Hispani,\nqui a captivo vicena aureorum millia est consequutus. Dicebat Praefectus\npartem pretii hujus redemptionis sibi debere, quod miles equo suo\ndimicaverat, qui alias proelio interesse non potuit. Petrinus Bellus\naffirmat se, cum esset Bruxellis in curia Hispaniarum Regis de hac\nquaestione consultum, et censuisse, pro Praefecto facere aequitatem quae\npraecipue respicitur inter milites, quorum controversiae ex aequo et\nbono dirimendae sunt; unde ultra conventa quis obligatur ad id quod\nalterum alteri prasstare oportet.' The case, it appears, ultimately went\nagainst the horse-lending praefect.\n\n\nNote D.--On the Pronunciation of Exquisites.\n\nThe substitution of the a for the o was a common affectation in\nthe speech of the fops of the period, as may be found in Vanbrugh's\n_Relapse_. The notorious Titus Oates, in his efforts to be in the mode,\npushed this trick to excess, and his cries of 'Oh Lard! Oh Lard!' were\nfamiliar sounds in Westminster Hall at the time when the Salamanca\ndoctor was at the flood of his fortune.\n\n\nNote E.--Hour-glasses in Pulpits.\n\nIn those days it was customary to have an hour-glass stationed in\na frame of iron at the side of the pulpit, and visible to the whole\ncongregation. It was turned up as soon as the text was announced, and a\nminister earned a name as a lazy preacher if he did not hold out until\nthe sand had ceased to run. If, on the other hand, he exceeded that\nlimit, his audience would signify by gapes and yawns that they had\nhad as much spiritual food as they could digest. Sir Roger L'Estrange\n(_Fables_, Part II. Fab. 262) tells of a notorious spin-text who, having\nexhausted his glass and being half-way through a second one, was at\nlast arrested in his career by a valiant sexton, who rose and departed,\nremarking as he did so, 'Pray, sir, be pleased when you have done to\nleave the key under the door.'\n\n\nNote F.--Disturbances at the old Gast House of Little Burton.\n\nThe circumstances referred to by the Mayor of Taunton in his allusion\nto the Drummer of Tedsworth are probably too well known to require\nelucidation. The haunting of the old Gast House at Burton would,\nhowever, be fresh at that time in the minds of Somersetshire folk,\noccurring as it did in 1677. Some short account from documents of that\ndate may be of interest.\n\n'The first night that I was there, with Hugh Mellmore and Edward Smith,\nthey heard as it were the washing of water over their heads. Then,\ntaking the candle and going up the stairs, there was a wet cloth thrown\nat them, but it fell on the stairs. They, going up further, there was\nanother thrown as before. And when they were come up into the chamber\nthere stood a bowl of water, looking white, as though soap had been used\nin it. The bowl just before was in the kitchen, and could not be carried\nup but through the room where they were. The next thing was a terrible\nnoise, like a clap of thunder, and shortly afterwards they heard a great\nscratching about the bedstead, and after that great knocking with a\nhammer against the bed's-head, so that the two maids that were in bed\ncried out for help. Then they ran up the stairs, and there lay the\nhammer on the bed, and on the bed's-head there were near a thousand\nprints of the hammer. The maids said that they were scratched and\npinched with a hand which had exceeding long nails.\n\n'The second night that James Sherring and Thomas Hillary were there,\nJames Sherring sat down in the chimney to fill a pipe of tobacco. He\nused the tongs to lift a coal to light his pipe, and by-and-by the tongs\nwere drawn up the stairs and were cast upon the bed. The same night one\nof the maids left her shoes by the fire, and they were carried up into\nthe chamber, and the old man's brought down and set in their places.\nAs they were going upstairs there were many things thrown at them which\nwere just before in the low room, and when they went down the stairs the\nold man's breeches were thrown down after them.\n\n'On another night a saddle did come into the house from a pin in the\nentry, and did hop about the place from table to table. It was very\ntroublesome to them, until they broke it into small pieces and threw\nit out into the roadway. So for some weeks the haunting continued,\nwith rappings, scratching, movements of heavy articles, and many other\nstrange things, as are attested by all who were in the village, until at\nlast they ceased as suddenly as they had begun.'\n\n\nNote G.--Monmouth's Progress in the West.\n\nDuring his triumphal progress through the western shires, some years\nbefore the rebellion, Monmouth first ventured to exhibit upon his\nescutcheon the lions of England and the lilies of France, without the\nbaton sinister. A still more ominous sign was that he ventured to touch\nfor the king's evil. The appended letter, extracted from the collection\nof tracts in the British Museum, may be of interest as first-hand\nevidence of the occasional efficacy of that curious ceremony.\n\n'His Grace the Duke of Monmouth honoured in his progress in the West of\nEngland, in an account of an extraordinary cure of the king's evil.\n\n'Given in a letter from Crewkhorn, in Somerset, from the minister of the\nparish and many others.\n\n'We, whose names are underwritten, do certify the miraculous cure of\na girl of this town, about twenty, by name Elizabeth Parcet, a poor\nwidow's daughter, who hath languished under sad affliction from that\ndistemper of the king's evil termed the joint evil, being said to be\nthe worst evil. For about ten or twelve years' time she had in her right\nhand four running wounds, one on the inside, three on the back of her\nhand, as well as two more in the same arm, one above her hand-wrist,\nthe other above the bending of her arm. She had betwixt her arm-pits a\nswollen bunch, which the doctors said fed those six running wounds. She\nhad the same distemper also on her left eye, so she was almost blind.\nHer mother, despairing of preserving her sight, and being not of ability\nto send her to London to be touched by the king, being miserably poor,\nhaving many poor children, and this girl not being able to work, her\nmother, desirous to have her daughter cured, sent to the chirurgeons for\nhelp, who tampered with it for some time, but could do no good. She\nwent likewise ten or eleven miles to a seventh son, but all in vain. No\nvisible hopes remained, and she expected nothing but the grave.\n\n'But now, in this the girl's great extremity, God, the great physician,\ndictates to her, then languishing in her miserable, hopeless condition,\nwhat course to take and what to do for a cure, which was to go and touch\nthe Duke of Monmouth. The girl told her mother that, if she could\nbut touch the Duke she would be well. The mother reproved her for her\nfoolish conceit, but the girl did often persuade her mother to go to\nLackington to the Duke, who then lay with Mr. Speaks. \"Certainly,\" said\nshe, \"I should be well if I could touch him.\" The mother slighted these\npressing requests, but the more she slighted and reproved, the more\nearnest the girl was for it. A few days after, the girl having noticed\nthat Sir John Sydenham intended to treat the Duke at White Lodge in\nHenton Park, this girl with many of her neighbours went to the said\npark. She being there timely waited the Duke's coming. When first she\nobserved the Duke she pressed in among a crowd of people and caught\nhim by the hand, his glove being on, and she likewise having a glove to\ncover her wounds. She not being herewith satisfied at the first attempt\nof touching his glove only, but her mind was she must touch some part\nof his bare skin, she, weighing his coming forth, intended a second\nattempt. The poor girl, thus between hope and fear, waited his motion.\nOn a sudden there was news of the Duke's coming on, which she to be\nprepared rent off her glove, that was clung to the sores, in such haste\nthat she broke her glove, and brought away not only the sores but the\nskin. The Duke's glove, as Providence would have it, the upper part hung\ndown, so that his hand-wrist was bare. She pressed on, and caught him\nby the bare hand-wrist with her running hand, crying, \"God bless your\nhighness!\" and the Duke said \"God bless you!\" The girl, not a little\ntransported at her good success, came and assured her friends that she\nwould now be well. She came home to her mother in great joy, and told\nher that she had touched the Duke's hand. The mother, hearing what she\nhad done, reproved her sharply for her boldness, asked how she durst\ndo such a thing, and threatened to beat her for it. She cried out, \"Oh,\nmother, I shall be well again, and healed of my wounds!\" And as God\nAlmighty would have it, to the wonder and admiration of all, the six\nwounds were speedily dried up, the eye became perfectly well, and the\ngirl was in good health. All which has been discovered to us by the\nmother and daughter, and by neighbours that know her.\n\n'Henry Clark, minister; Captain James Bale, &c &c. Whoever doubts the\ntruth of this relation may see the original under the hands of the\npersons mentioned at the Amsterdam Coffee House, Bartholomew Lane, Royal\nExchange.'\n\nIn spite of the uncouth verbiage of the old narrative, there is a touch\nof human pathos about it which makes it worthy of reproduction.\n\n\nNote H.--Monmouth's Contention of Legitimacy.\n\nSir Patrick Hume, relating a talk with Monmouth before his expedition,\nsays: 'I urged if he considered himself as lawful son of King Charles,\nlate deceased. He said he did. I asked him if he were able to make out\nand prove the marriage of his mother to King Charles, and whether he\nintended to lay claim to the crown. He answered that he had been able\nlately to prove the marriage, and if some persons are not lately dead,\nof which he would inform himself, he would yet be able to prove it.\nAs for his claiming the crown, he intended not to do it unless it were\nadvised to be done by those who should concern themselves and join for\nthe delivery of the nations.'\n\nIt may be remarked that in Monmouth's commission to be general, dated\nApril 1668, he is styled 'our most entirely beloved and natural son.'\nAgain, in a commission for the government of Hull, April 1673, he is\n'our well-beloved natural son.'\n\n\nNote I.--Dragooners and Chargers.\n\nThe dragoons, being really mounted infantry, were provided with very\ninferior animals to the real cavalry. From a letter of Cromwell's\n('Squire Correspondence,' April 3, 1643), it will be seen that a\ndragooner was worth twenty pieces, while a charger could not be obtained\nunder sixty.\n\nNote J.--Battle of Sedgemoor.\n\nA curious little sidelight upon the battle is afforded by the two\nfollowing letters exhibited to the Royal Archaeological Institute by the\nRev. C. W. Bingham.\n\n'To Mrs. Chaffin at Chettle House.'\n\n'Monday, about ye forenoon, July 6, 1685.'\n\n'My dearest creature,--This morning about one o'clock the rebbells fell\nupon us whilest we were in our tents in King's Sedgemoor, with their\nwhole army.... We have killed and taken at least 1000 of them. They are\nfled into Bridgewater. It is said that we have taken all their cannon,\nbut sure it is that most are, if all be not. A coat with stars on 't is\ntaken. ''Tis run through the back. By some 'tis thought that the Duke\nrebbell had it on and is killed, but most doe think that a servant wore\nit. I wish he were called, that the wars may be ended. It's thought\nhe'll never be able to make his men fight again. I thank God I am very\nwell without the least hurt, soe are our Dorsetshire friends. Prythee\nlet Biddy know this by the first opportunity. I am thyne onely deare,\nTOSSEY.'\n\nBRIDGEWATER: July 7, 1685.\n\n'We have totally routed the enemies of God and the King, and can't hear\nof fifty men together of the whole rebel army. We pick them up every\nhoure in cornfields and ditches. Williams, the late Duke's valet de\nchambre, is taken, who gives a very ingenious account of the whole\naffair, which is too long to write. The last word that he said to him\nwas at the time when his army fled, that he was undone and must shift\nfor himself. We think to march with the General this day to Wells, on\nhis way homeward. At present he is 3 miles off at the camp, soe I can't\ncertainly tell whether he intends for Wells. I shall be home certainly\non Saturday at farthest. I believe my deare Nan would for 500 pounds\nthat her Tossey had served the King to the end of the war.\n\nI am thyne, my deare childe, for ever.'\n\n\nNote K.--Lord Grey and the Horse at Sedgemoor.\n\nIt is only fair to state that Ferguson is held by many to have been\nas doughty a soldier as he was zealous in religion. His own account of\nSedgemoor is interesting, as showing what was thought by those who were\nactually engaged on the causes of their failure.\n\n'Now besides these two troops, whose officers though they had no great\nskill yet had courage enough to have done something honourably, had they\nnot for want of a guide met with the aforesaid obstruction, there was\nno one of all the rest of our troops that ever advanced to charge or\napproached as near to the enemy as to give or receive a wound. Mr.\nHacker, one of our captains, came no sooner within view of their camp\nthan he villainously fired a pistol to give them notice of our approach,\nand then forsook his charge and rode oft with all the speed he could, to\ntake the benefit of a proclamation emitted by the King, offering pardon\nto all such as should return home within such a time. And this he\npleaded at his tryal, but was answered by Jeffreys \"that he above all\nother men deserved to be hanged, and that for his treachery to Monmouth\nas well as his treason to the King.\" And though no other of our officers\nacted so villainously, yet they were useless and unserviceable, as never\nonce attempting to charge, nor so much as keeping their men in a body.\nAnd I dare affirm that if our horse had never fired a pistol, but only\nstood in a posture to have given jealousy and apprehension to the enemy,\nour foot alone would have carried the day and been triumphant. But our\nhorse standing scattered and disunited, and flying upon every approach\nof a squadron of theirs, commanded by Oglethorpe, gave that body of\ntheir cavalry an advantage, after they had hovered up and down in the\nfield without thinking it necessary to attack those whom their own fears\nhad dispersed, to fall in at last in the rear of our battalions, and to\nwrest that victory out of their hands which they were grasping at, and\nstood almost possessed of. Nor was that party of their horse above\nthree hundred at most, whereas we had more than enough had they had any\ncourage, and been commanded by a gallant man, to have attacked them\nwith ease both in front and flank. These things I can declare with\nmore certainty, because I was a doleful spectator of them; for having\ncontrary to my custom left attending upon the Duke, who advanced with\nthe foot, I betook myself to the horse, because the first of that\nmorning's action was expected from them, which was to break in and\ndisorder the enemy's camp. Against the time that our battalions should\ncome up, I endeavoured whatsoever I was capable of performing, for I\nnot only struck at several troopers who had forsaken their station, but\nupbraided divers of the captains for being wanting in their duty. But I\nspoke with great warmth to my Lord Grey, and conjured him to charge, and\nnot suffer the victory, which our foot had in a manner taken hold of,\nto be ravished from us. But instead of hearkening, he not only as an\nunworthy man and cowardly poltroon deserted that part of the field and\nforsook his command, but rode with the utmost speed to the Duke, telling\nhim that all was lost and it was more than time to shift for himself.\nWherebye, as an addition to all the mischief he had been the occasion\nof before, he drew the easy and unfortunate gentleman to leave the\nbattalions while they were courageously disputing on which side the\nvictory should fall. And this fell most unhappily out, while a certain\nperson was endeavouring to find out the Duke to have begged of him to\ncome and charge at the head of his own troops. However, this I dare\naffirm, that if the Duke had been but master of two hundred horse,\nwell mounted, completely armed, personally valiant, and commanded\nby experienced officers, they would have been victorious. This is\nacknowledged by our enemies, who have often confessed they were ready\nto fly through the impressions made upon them by our foot, and must have\nbeen beaten had our horse done their part, and not tamely looked on\ntill their cavalry retrieved the day by falling into the rear of our\nbattalions. Nor was the fault in the private men, who had courage\nto have followed their leaders, but it was in those who led them,\nparticularly my Lord Grey, in whom, if cowardice may be called\ntreachery, we may safely charge him with betraying our cause.'\n\nExtract from MS. of Dr. Ferguson, quoted in 'Ferguson the Plotter,' an\ninteresting work by his immediate descendant, an advocate of Edinburgh.\n\n\nNote L.--Monmouth's Attitude after Capture.\n\nThe following letter, written by Monmouth to the Queen from the Tower,\nis indicative of his abject state of mind.\n\n'Madam,--I would not take the boldness of writing to your Majesty till\nI had shown the King how I do abhor the thing that I have done, and how\nmuch I desire to live to serve him. I hope, madam, by what I have said\nto the King to-day will satisfy how sincere I am, and how much I detest\nall those people who have brought me to this. Having done this, madam,\nI thought I was in a fitt condition to beg your intercession, which I am\nsure you never refuse to the distressed, and I am sure, madam, that I\nam an object of your pity, having been cousened and cheated into this\nhorrid business. Did I wish, madam, to live for living sake I would\nnever give you this trouble, but it is to have life to serve the\nKing, which I am able to doe, and will doe beyond what I can express.\nTherefore, madam, upon such an account as I may take the boldness to\npress you and beg of you to intersaid for me, for I am sure, madam, the\nKing will hearken to you. Your prairs can never be refused, especially\nwhen it is begging for a life only to serve the King. I hope, madam, by\nthe King's generosity and goodness, and your intercession, I may hope\nfor my life which if I have shall be ever employed in showing to your\nMajesty all the sense immaginable of gratitude, and in serving of the\nKing like a true subject. And ever be your Majesty's most dutiful and\nobedient servant, MONMOUTH.'\n\nTHE END"