The Black Box 10

The Black Box 10

The boats drew nearer, until at length we could make out a thick array

of sword-hilts, pistol stocks, and muskets. Then, indeed, the crowd

buzzed with excitement, and glancing at the Mayor I saw that he fairly

quaked with fear, and that his face was deathly white. He tried to

speak to Dassell, but he could not.

 

But there was little time to think of Master Alford, for now the

foremost boat had grounded on the shingle, and in a twinkling those

aboard were leaping for the shore. Some reached it dry-shod, others

jumped short and splashed into the water; but one and all were quickly

on the beach. For the most part they were white-wigged, fine-dressed

gentlemen, with swords at their sides and pistols in their belts, while

many carried muskets also.

 

They took no heed of us, save that one of them, who seemed to be a

leader, turned, and holding up his hand, bade us fall back to make more

room--the which we straightway did.

 

[Illustration: THE LANDING OF THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH]

 

Meanwhile the other boats had drawn close in, and those aboard were

leaping shoreward with a will. Eighty odd in all I counted. In the

stern of the last boat a man sat all alone. He was arrayed in purple

and a big plumed hat, with a single glittering star upon his breast, and

wore a jewel-hilted sword. When all else had landed, and he came

forward to the bows to follow, someone ran back into the sea, and,

uncovering, made a knee for him, in order that he might not wet his

feet, and with a gracious bow of thanks he stepped lightly from it to

the shore. And then I knew him; for notwithstanding that five years had

left some mark upon it, there could be no mistake about that face of

almost girlish beauty: and as he stood there for a moment in the slow of

the sunset methought it was small wonder that the common people

worshipped him.

 

"Monmouth!"

 

At first the magic word sped through the crowd from mouth to mouth in

startled whispers; then, suddenly, as though by one consent, a great

shout rent the air:

 

"A Monmouth! A Monmouth! Liberty! The Protestant religion!"

 

Again and yet again the ringing cry uprose, until the grey old cliffs

behind us seemed mad with echoes; then, as the last shout died away, a

voice which sounded like a puling child’s after such tumult broke out

upon the outskirts of the throng:

 

"Traitors! Treason!"

 

Looking round that way I saw good Master Gregory Alford speeding for the

town as fast as two fat legs could carry him, his coat-tails flying wide

upon the wind.

 

Verily the Mayor of Lyme had proved full bitterly that high estate is

apt to have its drawbacks; and also that "A Certain Person" had made no

bad choice of landing-places.

 

The drums and town guard had already disappeared; so also had friend

Dassell.

 

 

 

 

*CHAPTER V*

 

*The Man with the King’s Evil*

 

 

’Twas plain to see by the glowing look upon his handsome face how

touched the Duke was by these joyous acclamations. Doffing his hat he

bowed both graciously and long; then, as he raised his hand for silence,

a sudden hush fell on the eager throng before him.

 

"Dear friends," said he, in a voice that rang out clear and sweet upon

the stillness, "I thank you more than words can tell for the

thrice-hearty welcome ye have given me back to that country from which,

as ye know, I have so long been exiled. Dear people, this is neither

time nor place for speech-making, but as for the reason of my

coming--well, methinks the cries which just now fell upon mine ears

proclaim how thoroughly ye are aware of it. Truth, like good wine,

needs little bush, and certainly those words of yours rang true as

Spanish steel; for verily, dear friends, I am Monmouth, your Monmouth,

son of your late beloved King, the champion of that Protestant religion

which ye hold so dear, and of those liberties which are the very

birthright of our country."

 

At this another mighty shout went up of "Monmouth! our Monmouth!

Liberty! The Protestant religion!" and while the air still rang with

it, a woman, well advanced in years, ran from the crowd, and kneeling at

the Duke’s feet, caught up his hand and kissed it. At first he started

back, then, having looked keenly at her face, raised her tenderly and

kissed her on the cheek.

 

It turned out afterwards that she was some old servant who had known him

when a boy; and you may be sure that this gracious act endeared him

still more greatly to the simple-hearted folk who witnessed it. Indeed,

it seemed as if they were all bent on following the ancient dame’s

example, for with a loud, glad cry the crowd surged towards the Duke,

and had not those about him held them back he must have been wellnigh

pressed into the sea.

 

Then Monmouth once more raised his hand for silence.

 

"Good people all," said he, "ere we set forth upon our enterprise I

would have you join in giving thanks to God for merciful deliverance

vouchsafed us from the King’s ships while at sea."

 

Uncovering, the Duke knelt down upon the shore, and nearly all the rest

did likewise.

 

To me he seemed to pray both well and earnestly, and none the less so

for that his prayer was short. Ah, how little did we think just then

that in a few short months many of us would hear prayers and speeches on

that very spot from lips which would soon be closed for ever!

 

On either side of Monmouth knelt two men, who, by the look of them,

might also well have let go a prayer, for both were dressed as

ministers. He on the right was short and stout, with a rounded, happy

face. His eyes and mouth were tightly closed; his hands were clasped

before him. The man upon the left was tall and bony, with a face that

ill accorded with his garb, being sharp and crafty, and, as I found out

when he turned it suddenly towards the glowing sky, blotched scarlet

with king’s evil. A tousled wig hung down upon his forehead, and

beneath it two small villainous black eyes went to and fro as though

they were on wires. Throughout the prayer he never ceased to rub his

bony hands together like one who washed; while, ever and anon, he jerked

forth hallelujahs through his nose. I knew him not from Adam then (I

was to know him all too well thereafter!), but, verily, I hated him upon

the spot.

 

Prayer being ended, the Duke unsheathed his sword, and holding it high

above his head, cried:

 

"I draw this weapon in the cause of liberty and true religion, and may

God bless the work that lies before us!"

 

A loud "Amen!" broke from the crowd, and Monmouth said:

 

"Forward, and let those who are well disposed towards us follow!"

 

Then Monmouth’s men formed up in double file, a blue flag was unfurled,

in front of which the Duke took up his place, with a fine-dressed

gentleman on either side of him; then those of our townsmen who had the

courage of their voices (some hundred odd) fell in behind, and so they

all went marching to the market-place.

 

Here beneath the flag, which bore the motto, _Pro religione et

libertate_, a proclamation was read aloud by the lanky, black-eyed

minister, whose evil looks had struck me so upon the shore; and as he

read he fell at times into the broadest Scotch, which it is quite beyond

me to describe. Moreover, what he read was far too long to set down

here. Suffice it to say that ’twas one long indictment of the King (or,

as they put it, James, Duke of York), charging him, among other crimes,

with having poisoned his brother, the late King Charles, and ending with

these words:

 

"Now let us play the men for our people, and for the cities of our God;

and the Lord do that which seemeth good unto Him."

 

While the reading of this long tirade was going forward I sought some

information.

 

"Who are those two fine-dressed men who stand on either side the Duke?"

I asked of a sour-faced fellow at my elbow.

 

"Those are Monmouth’s generals," he answered with a snivel. "He on the

right is Lord Grey of Wark, of whom I cannot say much; but he on the

left is Master Fletcher of Saltoun, a man well skilled in carnal

warfare, a godly man to boot."

 

"Ah, and that round-faced minister who tries to look so solemn and yet

cannot. Who is he?"

 

"’Tis Master Hooke, the Duke’s private chaplain, a worthy man, I trow,

though somewhat Popish of appearance."

 

Just then the reader of the declaration turned himself to get a better

light, and the setting sun fell full upon his blotched, scorbutic cheek

and made it look as though ’twere stained with blood.

 

I gazed upon him spellbound for a moment, then I asked:

 

"And prithee, who is he that reads?"

 

The voice of my informant dropped into a solemn whisper, as though

’twere something sacred that he spoke of, as he answered:

 

"That is Doctor Robert Ferguson, chaplain to Monmouth’s army, and a

terror to all workers of iniquity."

 

On hearing this I started round as though the man had struck me, and

barely saved myself from crying out.

 

"What’s that?" I gasped. "Ferguson the Plotter?"