The Black Box 21

The Black Box 21

"No; there is little chance of that, methinks."

 

"And what if he be beaten, Michael?"

 

"Why, then ’twill be a case of hunt and hunted. But say, Miriam, are

many of the gentry coming in to join him?"

 

"Nay, very few, if any. They are nearly all rough country men, more

used to scythes than swords. I pity them, for verily they look like

stupid boys let loose from school."

 

"Yes, yes," I murmured, for my mind was set on other things just then.

"Is Ferguson the chaplain with the Duke?"

 

"Yes; but him I like not," answered Miriam with a little frown. "He may

be great and clever as they say, but I go by faces, Michael, and never

saw I such an ugly, evil one as his. His little eyes glint out beneath

his old torn wig like those of rats, and when he walks he shuffles like

a camel. Why the Duke makes so much of him, and trusts him so, ’tis

past me to imagine, for verily I would not trust him with my shoes."

 

"Ah, then he must be bad," said I; then fearing lest my face might tell

a tale, I added quickly: "Now for the Great Room, Miriam; I would go

there."

 

She started back from me, glanced fearfully about her, then with a

searching look said:

 

"You would not join these rebels, surely, Michael?"

 

"Nay, I would only see the fun," I answered carelessly.

 

"But even that might well be dangerous," said she. "Remember there be

wicked, desperate men abroad just now."

 

I could have told her so much, but I only laughed and said:

 

"Nay, have no fear, sweet girl, for, look you, I am fully armed and care

for no man. But, say, how shall I get into the room through such a

press?"

 

"Why, if you must really go," said she, "I will take you through the

antechamber, and that will bring you well into the room, not far from

where the Duke is sitting."

 

"Most excellent!" quoth I. "I pray you lead the way at once, dear

Miriam."

 

She turned as if to go, then stopped and gazed upon me in a sad,

reproachful fashion.

 

"Michael," she murmured, "how can you talk of seeing fun when your poor

father is thus lying----"

 

"Stop! stop!" I broke in swiftly. "We will not speak of that, dear

girl. You do not understand. It may be that I seek to drown my

thoughts. Lead on, I pray you."

 

And so I followed Miriam, and was ushered in.

 

 

 

 

*CHAPTER XIII*

 

*In the Great Room--and Afterwards*

 

 

The room was packed; and never saw I such a piteous sight as was

presented by that crowd of gaping, moon-struck faces, which, as it

seemed to me, stared forth like poor penned cattle into certain doom.

On each was writ in fatal characters the one word--Death! Yet all were

mighty eager to be signing on; in truth, by the pressing and the

jostling it might have been the statutes at a fair.

 

On a little platform at one end of the room, and not far from where I

was standing, sat Monmouth with his officers--Lord Grey, Fletcher of

Saltoun, Old Dare (as he was called), the Taunton goldsmith, and others

whom I knew not. The Duke, all smiles and bows, watched everything with

eager, anxious eyes, and even spoke a word or two when one big strapping

fellow, towering high above the rest of them, stepped up to volunteer.

 

But for me there was small interest either in Monmouth or those who

flocked to serve him. My eyes were fixed upon a wry-wigged gentleman

who sat before a little table taking down the names. Yes, there, in all

his blotch-faced ugliness--a hulking, bony, ill-dressed heap of

perfidy--sat Robert Ferguson, the Plotter. His pen was whirling like a

windmill; he seemed to catch a name up with the feather of his quill and

run it down on paper wellnigh as soon as it was spoken; and all the time

he never ceased to jerk forth jests and mock encouragement to those who,

in their ignorance, were little more than clay within his hands. Thus,

as I entered, he was saying:

 

"Come on, my friends, come on! Ah, what amazing, lovely zeal is this

which moves your hearts! Fear not, the Lord of Hosts is with us, as the

scripture hath it, and verily we must prevail. The next--the next! ...

Now, by my life, if such a fine upstanding man as thou shouldst not be

captain in a month or so! Yes ... yes ... or more, perchance. Come on!

the next! Oh, who shall stand against such zeal as this upon the day of

battle? Ah, who, indeed? Not those, I trow, whose hands are stained

with blood! Not those who have forsworn the Lord of Hosts and set up

their abominations in high places. Not those, I say, not those! The

next, the next! Come on, I pray you, speedily, or we shall hear the

cock crow ere we’ve finished. What’s that you say, friend? Yes, yes, I

have you down quite clearly to the very letter: Uriah Smite--and may you

smite full lustily! That is a merry jest, but something to the point, I

vow. Back, friend, I pray you, and make room for him who stands

behind.... Ah, what’s that? You fought with Cromwell, say you? Truly,

a handsome warrant for your zeal; and may you fight as well for us.

Grey hairs, when mixed with zeal and wisdom, count for much. And as for

that sword-cut on your face, well, what adornment could outvie it in

true loveliness? ...

 

"Next, next! Remember that there is something for you all. Here a

little--there a little--everywhere a little, and much for those as are

right valiant. The Duke is not one to forget, I tell you. No, no, the

sowers shall indeed reap heavily! What now, there, you who hold back,

muttering? Hath Satan put a craven fear within your hearts? If so,

take courage from my case. Look on me! I’m that man, that Ferguson,

for whose unworthy life five hundred pounds were offered. Yea, I am he

who years ago was driven forth from England, as a thing accurst, by

those whose wickedness rose up to heaven like foul black smoke. I say

again, I am that man, that Ferguson, who was accounted carrion for the

evil-doers, a thing to be cast out and trodden underfoot like Jezebel of

old. Yet here am I this day among you, called forth to be the scourge

of them who would have slain me. What then! will you, whose road to

victory is as broad and easy as the king’s highway--will you, I say,

hold back like frightened sheep when such a work is calling? Nay, nay,

methinks I read a better tale than that upon your faces! Again, I say

the Lord of Hosts is on our side, and your enemies shall crumple up

before you like a scroll of parchment. Hark to the shouts of them who

press behind you in the street! ’A Monmouth! True religion! Liberty!

Down with the Scarlet Woman!’ Ah, friends, what sweet, melodious,

heavenly music! It sounds like Miriam’s song of victory in mine ears!

Come on, come boldly on, and let there be no Didymus among us!"

 

I will not weary you with more of the amazing wretch’s sayings; but for

me, who watched and listened, and knew him for the foul, cold-blooded

murderer he was, his every word and movement were alive with grim

suggestiveness. In very truth he held me spellbound as a thing scarce

human. It seemed as though the Evil One himself sat there taking toll

for Hades.

 

Nor was it less astonishing to note the swaying power he exercised upon

a crowd of stalwart, sinewy fellows, who, had they known him rightly,

might have torn him limb from limb. His strength in this respect made

Monmouth and the rest of them appear like grinning images, whose fate

this wicked, frowsy villain juggled with like dice. And as I watched

him the desire to put a bullet through his wicked head grew stronger

every moment. His ugly, working mouth was what I would have aimed for,

and more than once my fingers crept towards a pistol-stock; but, verily,

the crowd which was for ever moving straight in front of me would have

made shooting something of a risky business even had the power of

self-restraint been lacking; and so I stood there with my back against

the wall and feasted greedily on Ferguson’s each word and movement.

 

When he had filled a sheet ’twas handed to a messenger, who took it to

the town hall, followed by the men whose names it bore, who there

received their arms and so passed on to drill.

 

It was during one of these short breaks that the Duke held up his hand

and said:

 

"Remember, we have arms for all who join--that is, for any number."

 

"Yes, yes," cried Ferguson, "for thousands! Muskets, pistols, armour

plates, and swords for all! And will ye not look fine, my bonnie men?

Arms for thousands, arms for thousands, as His Grace the Duke hath

said!"

 

Now this was very far from being true, as those who had to fight with

scythes and sickles, bound on staves, were soon to prove; but now the

statement was received with shouts of joy, and as the news passed out

into the street a deafening babel rent the air.

 

The Duke smiled glowingly; the chaplain waved his pen; while those in

front, whose heads had spoilt my view, moved quickly to the table. At

the same time Monmouth raised his eyes in my direction, looked at me

enquiringly a moment, then, seeing that I did not move, held up a

beckoning hand and said:

 

"What now, young man? You are the very kind we need. Why, then, hold

back? Are you not for us?"

 

The chaplain’s pen stopped writing, and all eyes were turned upon me.

Uncovering, I stepped up to the table.

 

"No, my lord," I answered with a sweeping bow. "I am for neither side at

present."

 

"Ah, that is badly put, young man," said Monmouth smiling. "For, look

you, friend, the middle of the road is empty in this matter."

 

"Aye, verily," snapped Ferguson, casting a swift glance at me from

beneath his ragged wig. "His Grace speaks truly. ’Choose ye this day

whom ye will serve’--friend--as the scripture hath it."