CHAPTER XXIVBeneath the GallowsEarly in the morning on the twelfth, those who were to die at Lyme (Sam Robins, the fisherman, Sampson Larke, the minister, Dr. Temple, and myself among them) were brought forth from the prison, placed in two carts, and driven on our way to death.As we rumbled through the ancient streets of Dorchester, the trembling, sad-faced townsfolk watched us go, and many tears were shed. Thus we passed out into the silence of the lanes. 'Twas a glorious, sunny morning, and to me the world had never seemed so fair a place as it did then."'Tis hard," said Dr. Temple, who stood next me, "that we should have to say good-bye to all this brightness."He waved his hand around."'Tis hard, indeed," I answered. "Naught is left us now, except to go through bravely with the business.""True, true," he murmured: "and I, who have seen death, and fought him too in almost every ugly form, should be the last to fear him now. Sir, my thoughts are chiefly set upon my native town of Nottingham. Wast ever there?""Nay, sir, but my father was, and he hath told me of it.""Ah! 'tis a lovely place, set high upon the hills, with a noble river winding by it through the meadows. And on its highest hill there stands a fine old church--St. Mary's it is called. Its great tower rises up before me even now. There was I baptized, confirmed, and married; and there my young wife lieth buried. Ah! if I could but see that spot once more, methinks I should die happier!"He turned his face away, and I was silent. There was much singing on the way, and Sampson Larke, the minister, spoke many ringing words of hope; for though his poor old wife lay dying even then in Lyme, he hid his own grief manfully, and strove amain to comfort those about him. He was a fine, upstanding fellow, and as he stood there in the cart behind us with his long hair streaming in the wind, his hand raised, and his face aglow with zeal, he made a picture that brought into my mind the ancient prophets.As for little Samuel Robins, he bore up bravely, joining with a high shrill voice in hymn and psalm, until at last the great blue bay of Lyme burst suddenly in view. But this was too much for him. Stretching out his hands towards it, he broke down utterly and sobbed like any child.Soon after this a strange thing happened; for as we gained the bottom of the hill and neared the sea, the horses utterly refused to face it. They kicked and plunged, and neither word nor blow could urge them forward. It seemed as if the poor dumb beasts rebelled against the duty forced upon them. So, in the end, we were taken out and marched on foot down to the place of death.The gallows (two stout uprights with a cross-beam) had been set up behind the Cobb--that is, upon the western side of it, not twenty paces from the spot where Monmouth landed. Here a silent, awe-struck crowd was gathered, and as we passed between the lines of saddened, tearful faces, 'twas like a funeral procession.Around the gallows stood the sheriff and his officers, together with some soldiers with a captain in command. The latter had a list of victims ready in his hand, and no time was lost in going forward with the brutal business. The way of it was this. Standing ready, with the noose around his neck, the prisoner was asked if he had aught to say. If he had, he said it (providing it was not too long or violent), then he climbed up a ladder reared against the scaffold, and was at once turned off therefrom.Ye may guess how sickening a sight this was to me who came the last of them! 'Twas worse than death itself to see my friends swung thus into eternity; yet though I tried to look another way I could not.Number ten was Sampson Larke, and he, who had fought with Cromwell, and had girded on his sword again for Monmouth, was not the man to tremble now. He spoke both fearlessly and long--so long, in fact, that the captain stopped him."Then," said he, "I will speak to One who I am sure will hear me."With that he uttered one swift prayer, and having blessed the people, climbed the ladder and went bravely to his death.A gasping groan ran through the crowd and sobs broke out on all sides, for he was much beloved, and not a few there would have gladly died for him."Number eleven! Benjamin Temple."The doctor grasped my hand, said "God bless thee, friend. Farewell!" then stepped firmly to his place. He told the people what was known to me already--namely, that he hailed from Nottingham, and was entirely innocent, having had no knowledge that the Duke was bent upon rebellion when he sailed with him from the Texel; also, that he died at peace with all men. This done, he made a simple prayer, then climbed to death.Little Sam Robins was the next to go, and to me, at least, he was the saddest sight of any. He showed no fear, he neither spoke nor faced the people, but turning to the sea he said a long good-bye to what had been so dear to him, and with his eyes still fixed thereon he died."Number thirteen! Michael Fane."My turn had come at last, and I was more than glad. A murmur ran among the people, for I had been known to most of them since childhood; yet when I stood beneath the gallows with the noose about my neck, it was as though the crowd had vanished into space. I saw them not at all. My whole life flashed before me like a dazzling blaze, and, strange as it may seem to you, the only thing I noted was a certain far-off spot where, as a boy, I had first climbed the cliffs."Have you aught to say, sir?" asked the captain.No, I was there to die and not to speak, and therefore had naught to say; or rather, what I had to say was said full swiftly underneath my breath, to Someone else. Then I turned to mount the ladder: but I never did it, for even as I set my foot upon the bottom rung, a distant cry broke out behind me; and glancing round, as everyone was doing, I saw a horseman coming headlong down the hill towards us, waving a paper high above his head and shouting as he rode.Soon he was near enough for us to catch his words."Stop! in the King's name, stop!" he shrieked.And then I knew him. It was Dassell. The crowd made instant way for him, as well they might, for such was his furious speed that otherwise he would most certainly have rushed straight into them. In the shadow of the gallows he drew up. His horse was lathered in sweat, and dripping foam, while he himself was wellnigh fighting for his breath."Well, and what now, sir?" asked the captain, staring in amazement."A--pardon--from--His--Majesty--the--King--for--Michael Fane!" gasped Dassell.What followed is not very clear to me, but I know a mighty shout of joy arose, and that, later on, I walked, like one a-dreaming, with good friend Dassell to my home, The Havering. And there I heard from him the story of my wonderful deliverance. Here it is, exactly as he told it me:--After being snuffed out by Jeffreys in the courthouse at Dorchester, he lingered till my fate was settled, then posted up to London. There he sought and found Lord Feversham, whom he urged to plead with James on my behalf: and his lordship, having known my father well, and also me, was not averse to doing it. So he went straightway to the King, bearing Dassell with him.They found His Majesty in no great mood for pardoning anyone just then, but hearing that my father had served his father (King Charles I) with zeal; and, moreover, wishing to please Lord Feversham, who then stood in high favour, he gave his gracious promise to think carefully upon my case.Two other things there were which favoured me: one was the fact that Kirke had gone too far, and had been recalled to London in disgrace; the other, that the King was mighty glad to think that the mystery of the Black Box had been solved. Thus the outcome of it was that my pleaders were to call at Whitehall on the morrow, for His Majesty's decision. This they did, and found him in a rare good humour. The Black Box documents had come to hand, and so the King was pleased to sign my pardon.Then Dassell started on his journey westward with a will. One horse fell dead beneath him; but he got another, and riding through the night, was just in time to save me. How near a thing it was, and how he snatched me from the very jaws of death, ye know already.I fought no more for King James--indeed, there was no chance of doing so, even had I wished it; for, until the Prince of Orange landed at Torbay and drove his faithless uncle flying from the kingdom, England was at peace, if persecution can be called so. But for good King William I have, thank God (along with Kitty, who still flourishes), fought much; and as I am still upon the sunny side of forty, may I have the chance to draw sword for him again! Aye, verily, my father's words ring often in my ears: "There is no finer work for any man than fighting for his king and country".Yet, sometimes, when I pace the Cobb or shore, I see again the fine brave landing of Duke Monmouth, whose coming brought such suffering and disaster to the West. Or, when wind and sea moan plaintively, I seem to hear the mournful voices of those brave, misguided men whom I so nearly followed to a violent death. Then, with a heavy heart, I come back to The Havering and think sadly of it all.What more is there to say? Well, very little, for now I have reached the end of that which I set out to tell you. If it hath been done clumsily, forgive me, for, indeed, I have small skill in writing. But at any rate, I swear it is a fore-right statement, as we say in Lyme. I have left nothing out, nor have I added anything.... Stay, though! Yes, by my life, I have left something out; for as I sit here writing in the quiet study where, seventeen years ago, I took the first step in the strange adventures here recorded, there stands that at my very elbow which seems to cry aloud for notice. It bears clear signs of mending; it is, in fact, a small Black Box; but though the sight of it brings back dark memories, it holds no terrors for me now.PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAINBy Blackie & Son, Limited, Glasgow*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOKTHE BLACK BOX***
CHAPTER XXIV
Beneath the Gallows
Early in the morning on the twelfth, those who were to die at Lyme (Sam Robins, the fisherman, Sampson Larke, the minister, Dr. Temple, and myself among them) were brought forth from the prison, placed in two carts, and driven on our way to death.
As we rumbled through the ancient streets of Dorchester, the trembling, sad-faced townsfolk watched us go, and many tears were shed. Thus we passed out into the silence of the lanes. 'Twas a glorious, sunny morning, and to me the world had never seemed so fair a place as it did then.
"'Tis hard," said Dr. Temple, who stood next me, "that we should have to say good-bye to all this brightness."
He waved his hand around.
"'Tis hard, indeed," I answered. "Naught is left us now, except to go through bravely with the business."
"True, true," he murmured: "and I, who have seen death, and fought him too in almost every ugly form, should be the last to fear him now. Sir, my thoughts are chiefly set upon my native town of Nottingham. Wast ever there?"
"Nay, sir, but my father was, and he hath told me of it."
"Ah! 'tis a lovely place, set high upon the hills, with a noble river winding by it through the meadows. And on its highest hill there stands a fine old church--St. Mary's it is called. Its great tower rises up before me even now. There was I baptized, confirmed, and married; and there my young wife lieth buried. Ah! if I could but see that spot once more, methinks I should die happier!"
He turned his face away, and I was silent. There was much singing on the way, and Sampson Larke, the minister, spoke many ringing words of hope; for though his poor old wife lay dying even then in Lyme, he hid his own grief manfully, and strove amain to comfort those about him. He was a fine, upstanding fellow, and as he stood there in the cart behind us with his long hair streaming in the wind, his hand raised, and his face aglow with zeal, he made a picture that brought into my mind the ancient prophets.
As for little Samuel Robins, he bore up bravely, joining with a high shrill voice in hymn and psalm, until at last the great blue bay of Lyme burst suddenly in view. But this was too much for him. Stretching out his hands towards it, he broke down utterly and sobbed like any child.
Soon after this a strange thing happened; for as we gained the bottom of the hill and neared the sea, the horses utterly refused to face it. They kicked and plunged, and neither word nor blow could urge them forward. It seemed as if the poor dumb beasts rebelled against the duty forced upon them. So, in the end, we were taken out and marched on foot down to the place of death.
The gallows (two stout uprights with a cross-beam) had been set up behind the Cobb--that is, upon the western side of it, not twenty paces from the spot where Monmouth landed. Here a silent, awe-struck crowd was gathered, and as we passed between the lines of saddened, tearful faces, 'twas like a funeral procession.
Around the gallows stood the sheriff and his officers, together with some soldiers with a captain in command. The latter had a list of victims ready in his hand, and no time was lost in going forward with the brutal business. The way of it was this. Standing ready, with the noose around his neck, the prisoner was asked if he had aught to say. If he had, he said it (providing it was not too long or violent), then he climbed up a ladder reared against the scaffold, and was at once turned off therefrom.
Ye may guess how sickening a sight this was to me who came the last of them! 'Twas worse than death itself to see my friends swung thus into eternity; yet though I tried to look another way I could not.
Number ten was Sampson Larke, and he, who had fought with Cromwell, and had girded on his sword again for Monmouth, was not the man to tremble now. He spoke both fearlessly and long--so long, in fact, that the captain stopped him.
"Then," said he, "I will speak to One who I am sure will hear me."
With that he uttered one swift prayer, and having blessed the people, climbed the ladder and went bravely to his death.
A gasping groan ran through the crowd and sobs broke out on all sides, for he was much beloved, and not a few there would have gladly died for him.
"Number eleven! Benjamin Temple."
The doctor grasped my hand, said "God bless thee, friend. Farewell!" then stepped firmly to his place. He told the people what was known to me already--namely, that he hailed from Nottingham, and was entirely innocent, having had no knowledge that the Duke was bent upon rebellion when he sailed with him from the Texel; also, that he died at peace with all men. This done, he made a simple prayer, then climbed to death.
Little Sam Robins was the next to go, and to me, at least, he was the saddest sight of any. He showed no fear, he neither spoke nor faced the people, but turning to the sea he said a long good-bye to what had been so dear to him, and with his eyes still fixed thereon he died.
"Number thirteen! Michael Fane."
My turn had come at last, and I was more than glad. A murmur ran among the people, for I had been known to most of them since childhood; yet when I stood beneath the gallows with the noose about my neck, it was as though the crowd had vanished into space. I saw them not at all. My whole life flashed before me like a dazzling blaze, and, strange as it may seem to you, the only thing I noted was a certain far-off spot where, as a boy, I had first climbed the cliffs.
"Have you aught to say, sir?" asked the captain.
No, I was there to die and not to speak, and therefore had naught to say; or rather, what I had to say was said full swiftly underneath my breath, to Someone else. Then I turned to mount the ladder: but I never did it, for even as I set my foot upon the bottom rung, a distant cry broke out behind me; and glancing round, as everyone was doing, I saw a horseman coming headlong down the hill towards us, waving a paper high above his head and shouting as he rode.
Soon he was near enough for us to catch his words.
"Stop! in the King's name, stop!" he shrieked.
And then I knew him. It was Dassell. The crowd made instant way for him, as well they might, for such was his furious speed that otherwise he would most certainly have rushed straight into them. In the shadow of the gallows he drew up. His horse was lathered in sweat, and dripping foam, while he himself was wellnigh fighting for his breath.
"Well, and what now, sir?" asked the captain, staring in amazement.
"A--pardon--from--His--Majesty--the--King--for--Michael Fane!" gasped Dassell.
What followed is not very clear to me, but I know a mighty shout of joy arose, and that, later on, I walked, like one a-dreaming, with good friend Dassell to my home, The Havering. And there I heard from him the story of my wonderful deliverance. Here it is, exactly as he told it me:--
After being snuffed out by Jeffreys in the courthouse at Dorchester, he lingered till my fate was settled, then posted up to London. There he sought and found Lord Feversham, whom he urged to plead with James on my behalf: and his lordship, having known my father well, and also me, was not averse to doing it. So he went straightway to the King, bearing Dassell with him.
They found His Majesty in no great mood for pardoning anyone just then, but hearing that my father had served his father (King Charles I) with zeal; and, moreover, wishing to please Lord Feversham, who then stood in high favour, he gave his gracious promise to think carefully upon my case.
Two other things there were which favoured me: one was the fact that Kirke had gone too far, and had been recalled to London in disgrace; the other, that the King was mighty glad to think that the mystery of the Black Box had been solved. Thus the outcome of it was that my pleaders were to call at Whitehall on the morrow, for His Majesty's decision. This they did, and found him in a rare good humour. The Black Box documents had come to hand, and so the King was pleased to sign my pardon.
Then Dassell started on his journey westward with a will. One horse fell dead beneath him; but he got another, and riding through the night, was just in time to save me. How near a thing it was, and how he snatched me from the very jaws of death, ye know already.
I fought no more for King James--indeed, there was no chance of doing so, even had I wished it; for, until the Prince of Orange landed at Torbay and drove his faithless uncle flying from the kingdom, England was at peace, if persecution can be called so. But for good King William I have, thank God (along with Kitty, who still flourishes), fought much; and as I am still upon the sunny side of forty, may I have the chance to draw sword for him again! Aye, verily, my father's words ring often in my ears: "There is no finer work for any man than fighting for his king and country".
Yet, sometimes, when I pace the Cobb or shore, I see again the fine brave landing of Duke Monmouth, whose coming brought such suffering and disaster to the West. Or, when wind and sea moan plaintively, I seem to hear the mournful voices of those brave, misguided men whom I so nearly followed to a violent death. Then, with a heavy heart, I come back to The Havering and think sadly of it all.
What more is there to say? Well, very little, for now I have reached the end of that which I set out to tell you. If it hath been done clumsily, forgive me, for, indeed, I have small skill in writing. But at any rate, I swear it is a fore-right statement, as we say in Lyme. I have left nothing out, nor have I added anything.... Stay, though! Yes, by my life, I have left something out; for as I sit here writing in the quiet study where, seventeen years ago, I took the first step in the strange adventures here recorded, there stands that at my very elbow which seems to cry aloud for notice. It bears clear signs of mending; it is, in fact, a small Black Box; but though the sight of it brings back dark memories, it holds no terrors for me now.
PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAINBy Blackie & Son, Limited, Glasgow
*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOKTHE BLACK BOX***