The Black Box 3

The Black Box 3

CHAPTER I*

 

*Concerning "A Certain Person"*

 

 

It was on the tenth day of June, in the year sixteen hundred and

eighty-five (and three days after my first meeting with Tubal Ammon),

when, as you know, King James the Second had scarce been three months on

his quaking throne, that I, Michael Fane, of Lyme Regis, in the county

of Dorset, fell headlong, as it were, and quite unwittingly, into such a

pother of adventure, mystery, and trouble, as few men--let alone a

youth, as I then was--may hope to come through with their lives. That,

however, by a rare good fortune, having been my lot, I am minded, now in

these peaceful days, when good King William rules us with a firm, wise

hand, to set down, for all of you who care to read it, a full and true

account of what befell me in those throbbing months of blood and

warfare.

 

To begin, then (as my old preceptor, Master Pencraft, used to put it),

at the right end of the rope, I was summoned before breakfast on that

bright June morning to my father’s study, in our old house, The

Havering, just outside the town, where we two lived together, my mother

having died three years before.

 

Now, although we were ever early risers at The Havering, I had never

known my father require me to attend on him at such an hour (it being

scarcely half-past six); but recollecting that I was eighteen that very

day, the thought of some present being at the bottom of the matter added

speed to the steps of filial duty as I hurried to the study.

 

I found my father seated, quill in hand, very stiff and upright at his

table, on which some papers were spread out before him; while at his

elbow stood the hour-glass to which he still clung, because, as he said,

the ticking of a clock disturbed his thoughts. The sunlight falling on

his whitened hair and beard made them shine like silver; and I remember,

too, that through the open window came the gladsome morning song of

birds. In truth, there could scarce have been a sight which promised

more of peace and less of violence.

 

As I entered, my father looked up at me with those keen, deep-set eyes

which could still flash fire for all their nearly seventy years of use.

 

"Good morning to you, Michael!" said he.

 

"Good morning to you, sir!" I answered, feeling some uneasiness, for the

flickering smile with which he greeted me had scarcely touched his face

before it vanished, leaving him grave and solemn as a judge; so that I

stood there with my hand upon the door-latch, wondering swiftly which of

my many sins had found me out.

 

"Be seated, Michael," said my lather, pointing with his pen-point to a

chair in front of him; and down I sat, with some such qualms as I was

used to have when paying those private visits to my schoolmaster which

were wont to end in certain flagellation.

 

For what seemed quite an age, my father sat there looking at me in a

fixed, abstracted way which made me feel still more uncomfortable; then,

having laid down his pen and turned the hour-glass, he leaned back in

his chair with folded hands and said:

 

"Michael, my son, you have passed another milestone on life’s road; you

are eighteen to-day--a man, in fact."

 

Here he paused, as though expecting me to speak: but although his words

had mightily relieved me, and made me feel a good inch taller, too, I

could think of no answer for them; and so I only nodded--sat a little

straighter in my chair, and wondered what was coming next. Perceiving

this, he thus continued:

 

"Yes, Michael, you are now old enough to play the man in right good

earnest. ’Tis high time that you were up and doing in the world. For,

mark you, I would not have a son of mine an idle, useless popinjay."

 

"Nor would I choose the part," I put in bluntly.

 

"Nay, I am sure you would not," rejoined my father proudly. "You come

of a wrong stock for that. But, look you, you spoke of choosing parts;

what part, what calling, would you choose if you were able?"

 

"Fighting--soldiering, that is," I answered readily.

 

A blazing, warlike gleam leapt suddenly into the old man’s eyes, and as

he sat bolt upright in his chair, and glanced with glowing pride at that

well-tried sword of his which hung upon the wall, I thought I never saw

so fine a man.

 

"’Tis well and bravely said," he murmured. "Fighting--soldiering! A

young man could not make a better choice than that. And, as you know,

Michael, I speak from great experience. In the days of good King

Charles the Martyr--God rest his soul!--I fought in nigh a dozen

battles, counting skirmishes. And gladly would I fight again if I were

able. Ah, yes! there is no finer work for any man than fighting for his

king."

 

"His king!" I echoed. "Must I then fight for James?"

 

"Certes," replied my father with an astonished look. "For whom else

would you fight, my son?"

 

"I know not, but I hate King James," I blurted out. "He is a cruel man,

a poltroon, and a----"

 

"Hush!" broke in my father, raising a warning hand; and even as he spoke

there came a sound like that of someone stirring stealthily among the

shrubs outside the window.

 

We both rose and looked out searchingly, but as there was nothing to be

seen, sat down again.

 

"What was it, think you?" I asked.

 

"A cat, perhaps; or maybe the dog," replied my father.

 

But I was far from satisfied; for I had distinctly heard that which, his

hearing being somewhat hard, had escaped the old man’s notice--to wit,

what sounded like cautious, slinking footsteps. However, as the thing

could not be proved, I let it pass.

 

"You spake without due thought, son Michael," said my father gravely.

"Such words as you just now used are as dangerous as wild. Kings must

vary, even as mankind itself doth vary. There must be good and bad in

everything; and sometimes ’tis the kingship that we fight for, not the

man. And mark you, Michael, even a bad king were far better than no

king at all--aye, a thousand times!"

 

I felt far from sure of that, but my father was no man to argue with,

especially upon one’s birthday, so I did not press the matter.

 

"But is there no other king that I can fight for?" I asked. "John

Cornish went from Lyme here, as you know, into the Netherlands, fought

for the Prince of Orange, and became a captain. Can I not do the same,

sir?"

 

My father frowned and stroked his beard, as was his wont when not well

pleased.

 

"That is fortune-soldiering," he answered gravely; "a thing I do not

favour. For although it certainly hath bred good fighters, ’tis apt to

lead to looseness--selling the sword, that is, for money to the highest

bidder. Nay, Michael, I would not have my son do that. Fight for your

king and country when the time comes, and let that suffice."

 

"But how and where, then, shall I fight?" I asked. "Since Monmouth cut

the Covenanters up at Bothwell Brig there hath been naught worth the

name of fighting; and although ’tis said the Duke of Argyle is in

Scotland with some followers, that will not touch us: he will soon be

done for. Nay, sir, I see no chance of fighting here in England. All

is peace."

 

"Yes, but methinks it will not be so long, Michael," rejoined my father

with a knowing look.

 

"What mean you, sir?" I asked.

 

"I mean," he answered, leaning forward with his arms upon the table and

speaking in a whisper, "I mean that I have certain knowledge that at any

moment bloody civil war may again break out among us."

 

"How, sir, and what proof?" I cried, springing to my feet.

 

"Sit down," replied my father quietly. Then, opening a drawer, he drew

therefrom a letter. "Here is my proof," he said, unfolding it, "though

certes it was not for me; I found it wedged inside a larger document

which came by post last night. Thus it had been overlooked. I opened

it unthinkingly, and, when I saw the nature of its contents, kept it;

and that rightly, as it seems to me. Read it," he added, holding the

paper out across the table.

 

’Twas addressed to a man well known to us; one who had fought with Blake

when he held Lyme so stoutly against Prince Maurice in the Civil Wars.

 

The writing was a poor scrawl enough, and hard to read in parts, but

this is how it ran:--

 

 

"Dated from London, 8th June, 1685.

 

"FRIEND,

 

"These are to advise thee that honest Protestants forthwith prepare and

make themselves very ready, for they have notice here at Court that a

Certain Person will forthwith appear in the West, which puts them here

at Court into a most dreadful fear and confusion; ’tis hoped, therefore,

that all honest men who are true Protestants will stick together and

make ready for the trumpet call of Freedom. Argyle have had great

success in Scotland, and have already destroyed great part of the King’s

forces there; and we hear from good hands that he hath sure an army that

doth increase so mightily daily that nothing can oppose them; and if

they be once up in the West they would suddenly be up in all parts of

England, all Protestants being certainly prepared and resolved rather to

die than to live Slaves and Papists. Therefore make good use hereof,

and impart it to such as you can trust, that you may all be prepared and

ready against the appearance of a Certain Person, which will be

forthwith if not already.

 

"From your friend,

"F.R."