The Black Box 26

The Black Box 26

"That I will," I answered wonderingly.

 

Talking of many things, we reached at length the place where he must

turn aside into the town, while I, who thought it wisdom to avoid the

haunts of men, intended to go home along the shore. There he took my

hand, and said:

 

"I would crave one favour ere we part."

 

"Aye, twenty, and they are granted if ’tis in my power to do it," I

answered warmly.

 

"Nay, ’tis but a little one," said he. "I would know the name of one

who used his sword so well."

 

"My name is Michael Fane; and may I, too, know that of one who saved my

life?"

 

"Dan Foe--a name unknown at present, but one which, as I told you, shall

hereafter be as common and familiar as the King’s. And so, friend Fane,

good night; and if we meet in battle, may we fight fair and bravely,

like true Englishmen!"

 

With that he grasped my hand again, then turned and sped towards the

town.

 

And thus it was that I met one who, as Defoe (a name he took long

afterwards), is known to all of you as the writer of that wondrous

history of a shipwrecked man upon a lonely island.[1]

 

 

[1] The author of _Robinson Crusoe_ was out in the Monmouth Rebellion

joining the Duke at Lyme.

 

 

On leaving him I hurried on my way along the silent shore with strangest

thoughts for company. Once someone shouted from the cliffs, and, yet

again, some fellows hailed me from a boat which lay close inshore; but I

heeded not, save to increase my speed, for, truly, my adventures for

that night were all-sufficient.

 

So, in the end, I reached The Havering without mishap, and there, tired

out in body and in mind, I sought my bed, and slept like any dog.

 

 

 

 

*CHAPTER XVII*

 

*Tells how I had Speech of Ferguson*

 

 

Sound sleep works wonders on a healthy body, and so the morning found me

mightily refreshed; nor did it trouble me to think that three dead men

lay out upon the eastern shore. I had not sought the quarrel, but had

only fought for life and liberty; therefore I felt no guiltiness, and

let the matter rest: and, truly, there was quite enough to occupy my

thoughts in other ways.

 

I will not dwell upon the saddened doings of that day. Ere noon we laid

my father in his grave, high up above the sea--fit resting-place for one

who had been born and bred in hearing of its solemn music, and who had

ever loved it dearly.

 

Few people (scarce a dozen) gathered round us in the churchyard; nor was

I sorry, for at such times a crowd of staring eyes is little to my

liking. A week before it had been vastly different; scores would then

have flocked to see the last of him who had been known by everyone. But

now the town was rife with rank rebellion. Its people had gone mad with

frenzied hopes as vain and empty as a shadow, but which, alas! within a

few short weeks were turned into a scourge of death too horrible to

contemplate. Yes, verily, Lyme Regis had gone daft in Monmouth’s cause.

The turmoil of it reached us like a sound of mockery in which we had no

part; and, gazing down into the silent grave, I felt that it was well

indeed with him who lay therein. And so we left him there, in peace,

beside my mother.

 

That sad business done, the hours dragged by in dreary fashion, for at

such times the mourners lag behind to mope and weep, as though ’twere

sinful to be brave and cheerful, as though, in fact, there were no hope

beyond the tomb. The only time I caught a change--a glint of

hopefulness upon their dolorous faces--was at the reading of the will;

and even that soon passed, for everything was left to me.

 

But all things, whether good or evil, have an end, and ere sunset I had

waved a glad good-bye unto the last of those my doleful guests, and so

was free to dwell in silence on my future plans. And truly there was

plenty to be done, and little time in which to do it; for I had resolved

to ride forth with the dawn to Exeter, where lay the Royalist army,

commanded by the Duke of Albemarle.

 

I had come suddenly to this decision after that affair upon the shore,

though not from any great love of the King’s cause; rather had I reached

it on account of what, to me, at any rate, seemed three good reasons.

First, having once drawn my sword I felt that I must either go on

fighting or go daft; secondly, I could no more fight for Monmouth,

knowing what I did, than for the Evil One himself; and thirdly, I had a

growing hope that I might meet both Ferguson and Tubal Ammon on the

battlefield. Truly, I might kill the former while he yet stalked

bare-faced in our midst; but that would mean sure death, and life had

still some sweetness left for me. As for Ammon, well, it was far from

likely that he would show himself in Lyme again. And even if he did,

and we were favoured with a meeting, my killing of him would, I felt

assured, be just as fatal to me as the slaying of his wicked master.

 

Thus you will see that I had no desire to draw my sword against my

wretched and misguided fellow-countrymen; but to compass the destruction

of the two arch-villains who, by their abominable machinations, had thus

turned my life into a barren wilderness. ’Twas not a very clear or

hopeful plan, I own, but still it was the best that I could frame; and

at any rate, it would afford me plenteous room for vigorous action--the

thing I needed most of all just then.

 

Meanwhile, as I have said before, there was a great deal to be done, and

very little time in which to do it. First of all I called up Anne, the

housekeeper, and Tom, the groom, into the study, and swiftly told them

that I was going to leave them for a space, and that The Havering would

be in their sole charge till my return. They were amazed, but seeing

how firm-set and sharp I was about the business, they swore fidelity and

asked no questions. That done, I locked up my father’s papers, together

with the broken Black Box, in our iron-bound deed-chest, and then

bethought me to pay a final visit to the town; partly to learn the

latest news concerning Monmouth, and partly (let me freely own it) that

I might say farewell to Miriam at the "George". In doing this I ran

some risk, but what were risks to one who had already fought, and killed

three men?

 

Thus, when the dusk began to fall, I walked down into Lyme, as bold as

brass. My mission to the "George" proved unavailing, for Miriam was not

in; and though her father was I did not tarry. He had strong views upon

the Monmouth rising (as indeed he had on everything), and would fain

have set them out before me at great length, but time was far too

precious. So, leaving messages for Miriam, I betook me to the Market

Place, and found it full of soldiery and gaping townsfolk.

 

News had come in that the Dorset militia had marched into Bridport (a

town some eight miles east of Lyme), and after hasty counsel with his

generals, Monmouth had decided to attack them. As near as I could judge

the force drawn up within the market square consisted of about five

hundred foot, including fifty musketeers, together with some fourscore

or so of horsemen. They were commanded by Lord Grey, and for the most

part were trained soldiers who had seen hard fighting in the past.

 

The bright blue banner floated bravely in the wind, and beneath it sat

the Duke on horseback. Just as I arrived upon the scene, he raised his

hand; the crowd was hushed to sudden silence; and then, in a few clear,

ringing words, he wished his little army God-speed, victory, and a safe

return. At that a great shout rent the air; kerchiefs and hats were

waved aloft, while on all sides the cry uprose:

 

"Monmouth! Our Monmouth! Liberty! The Protestant religion!"

 

It was, indeed, a stirring scene, and as I think upon it now, and see

again the Duke, all gracious smiles and bows, deep sadness holds me that

the consummation of such zeal and great devotion should have been the

hangman’s rope--the headsman’s axe!

 

But at the time I had small thought for anything save him who stood a

few yards from the Duke, waving his hat, and shouting till his

red-blotched face seemed like to burst into a ravening fire. Yes,

Ferguson, the plotter, led the loud hosannas with a will; his voice rang

high above the rest; and when the cries began to lull ’twas he who

started fresh ones. I watched him for a moment, then, scarce knowing

why, pressed through the crowd until I stood beside him. Turning my way,

he saw me, ceased shouting, put on his hat, and drawing his cloak about

him, moved away. Following, I plucked him by the sleeve, and, with a

mocking smile, said:

 

"Good evening to you, Master Ferguson! That plot of yours last night

proved somewhat of a failure, did it not?"

 

The face he turned upon me at those words was such as I shall ne’er

forget; if looks could kill a man, I had most surely been dead then, as,

with one fierce, hateful glance, and dog-like baring of the teeth, he

turned his back upon me. But for all that I had not done with him.

Following, I caught him by the sleeve again, and said:

 

"Stay, one moment, reverend sir, I pray you! Listen, I have at home a

sweet memorial of your godliness; to wit, a small black box. And you

hold that which lay therein; use such power against me as you will--I

care not; but be assured of this, that you and I will meet again, and

that I will have vengeance on those black-souled, murderous villains,

Tubal Ammon and Elijah Annabat."

 

He started at that latter name, and so, with one long meaning stare I

strode away, and took my stand right opposite the Duke.

 

From thence I saw friend Ferguson speak hurriedly to four rough,

evil-looking men, the while he pointed at me; I saw them nod and rub

their chins; I saw them move away. Then someone touched me on the

shoulder and a voice said in my ear:

 

"Fool! Why run this risk? Was not last night enough?"

 

Turning, I found Dan Foe behind me.