The Black Box 32

The Black Box 32

During those awful days I saw such sights as make this quill of mine

pause, shuddering, when I think of them. I will not harrow you by

dwelling on them, but here is one instance, out of many, which will go

to prove my statement. A youth, but little older than myself, was taken

prisoner, and, being famous as a runner, begged for a chance to save his

life by racing with a wild moor colt. This, to the captain of the troop

which captured him, seemed something of a merry jest. A colt was

straightway caught, and they were started off together. Ye will scarce

credit it, but the youth kept well ahead for half a mile or more, then

dropped. When they came up with him he rose and claimed his life for

having won the race. But, no. The cruel brutes made haste to hang him

for his pains upon the nearest tree!

 

Enough--let us leave these awful matters. They are among the blackest

annals of our country, and one man at any rate still goes hot with shame

to think he only saw such horrors.

 

After the battle my Lord Feversham posted up to London, there to receive

his honours, and left one Colonel Kirke in command at Bridgewater. This

fellow was as vile and merciless a wretch as e’er drew sword, while the

men of his own regiment (called Kirke’s Lambs in bitter mockery) were

not a whit less cruel than their master. Nor age nor sex was spared by

them.

 

To this monster (man I cannot call him) was left the task of hunting

down the wretched fugitives, and I, perforce, served under him; though

’tis something to my comfort to remember that, at the risk of life

itself, I helped more than one poor creature to escape; nor was I in

Kirke’s service long, as you will see.

 

Having worked his will at Bridgewater, he moved on to Taunton, taking

with him a long string of prisoners, chained two and two, while others

who were wounded lay with their wounds undressed (heaped in a wagon).

More were caught upon the way, and so, when at last we marched into the

town, whose people, not a month before, had strewn flowers in Monmouth’s

path, and given him a rich-worked banner, we drove before us such a herd

of poor distracted creatures, of all ages, as might have made a Spartan

pitiful.

 

And now there happened that which made me think it shame instead of

honour, to be serving as a soldier of King James.

 

At Taunton Kirke took up his quarters at the White Hart Inn, and

straightway turned the very sign thereof into a gibbet. Thus, seated at

the window, drinking with his officers, he laughed and jested while

dozens of his hapless fellow-countrymen were swung to death upon this

homely gallows. And when they kicked and struggled in their agony he

bade the drums beat, saying he would give them music for their dancing.

 

Nor was this all. On pain of instant death, if he refused, they had

forced a hapless yokel to be quarterer (Tom Boilman, as he was

thenceforward known throughout that countryside by shuddering men and

women, who would not go within a yard of him). And there he stood

beneath the gallows, working for very life amid the blood and boiling

pitch. That was enough for me. Rushing to Kirke’s room, I told him

hotly that I would not serve another hour on such a frightful business.

 

He sprang up, and, with his sword half-drawn, cried:

 

"What’s that, you saucy dog?"

 

"Why, this," I thundered, "that I will not serve another minute under

such a bloody-minded wretch as you! Here is my commission." And I

threw it on the table.

 

His face and head went red with anger; the veins upon his neck stood out

like cords; and for a time he could not speak.

 

"Whelp!" he hissed at last. "You shall smart for this! Yea, verily,"

he added, with an awful oath, "but you shall dance like yonder rebel!"

He pointed to a struggling figure which had just been raised aloft.

 

"My Lord Feversham may have a word to say on that point," I answered

coldly. "For the rest, I take my chance."

 

Just then the drums began to beat, and so I turned upon my heel and left

him, as he stood there clawing at the air with rage.

 

Going out I mounted Kitty, and, with my back towards those scenes of

butchery, galloped forth for Lyme.

 

 

 

 

*CHAPTER XXII*

 

*In which I become a Prisoner*

 

 

I found all well at home, though Lyme itself was trembling with fear; as

well it might, considering the active part which it had played in

Monmouth’s luckless venture. The little town, which but a month before

had been as blithe as any in the kingdom, now lay beneath a cloud of

jeopardy. Indeed, the place seemed half-deserted, for scores of its

inhabitants had fled the wrath to come; while those who still remained

crept in and out with frightened looks, and trembled when a horseman

clattered through the cobbled streets.

 

Many questioned me about the late rebellion, and not a few, with tearful

eyes, implored me to protect them; but, though I strove to soothe them,

the comfort that I could offer was a poor, cold thing indeed. For what

was I? A youth who, without zeal therein--to serve his own ends, that

is--had fought upon the winning side; then, for good reasons, had thrown

up the business, and thereby brought upon his head the dire displeasure

of a man who, by acts of vilest, wanton cruelty, was mounting higher

every day into the royal pleasure. I, who had started out from Lyme

three weeks before in search of great revenge, had found it--or at least

a part thereof--yet what had it availed me? Nothing. And here, as one

who proved its truth to the uttermost, I put on record that revenge when

won is but an empty husk. The striving after it is all that counts

(that well may stir the blood and make a man a demon, as indeed it

does); but the thing itself, when gained, is worse than vanity.

 

Thus when news came that Ferguson (plotting to the end) had managed to

escape from England, the tidings moved me little, and though, had I met

him then, I would still have killed him, the keen desire to hunt him

down at any price had vanished.

 

The days and weeks sped by, and I (sad at heart and feeling older by

some years) went to and fro, unhindered, on my business, until at last

it seemed that, after all, Kirke’s threat had either been an empty one

or clean forgotten. But like a thunder-clap there came the proof that

this was not so; and also that one Robert Ferguson, for all his dash for

life, had yet contrived to work me mischief.

 

One day towards the end of August (on the twenty-seventh of that month,

to be exact) a troop of horse drew up before The Havering, and, when I

went forth to enquire the cause of it, a captain, with a paper in his

hand, strode up to me.

 

"Are you Cornet Michael Fane?" he asked.

 

"I am Michael Fane, but cannot claim the rank," I answered coldly, for

his bearing was both bold and insolent.

 

"That matters not," quoth he. "I hold a warrant here for your arrest."

 

"Ah, so! And, prithee, on what grounds?" I asked.

 

"Why, on the best of grounds," he answered, opening the paper with a

flourish. "For having aided and abetted rebels; for having spoken

seditious words against His Majesty, King James, et cetera, et cetera."

 

"It is a lie!" I thundered.

 

"Then come and prove it so before my Lord Chief Justice Jeffreys, at

Dorchester," said he, folding up the paper with great care.

 

Dorchester, whose prison was already full to overflowing! and Jeffreys,

the heartless monster, who had just sent grey-haired, saintly Alice

Lisle to death! I stood and stared until the horsemen, sitting there

before me, seemed to vanish like a vision. But I was soon brought back

to the grim reality of things.

 

"Come!" said the captain, striking his jack-boot with the warrant.

"There is no time to lose. We have a spare horse here; so, when you’re

ready----"

 

There was nothing for it but to go. Calling Tom, the groom, I told him

quickly how things stood, at which his terror and amazement were such

that he could only stand there dumb and gaping. So I mounted, and away

we went.

 

As we passed through the town the people stared at me as though the end

of everything was come: but I took no heed of them; the world and

everything therein seemed as nothing to me then. Thus that night found

me in the jail at Dorchester.

 

On the terrors of that pestilential place I will not dwell. Over three

hundred prisoners were crowded there like cattle in a pen, and almost

every one of them was doomed to certain death. The air was foul and

stifling, while cries and groans of anguish made up such a scene of

horror as no pen could properly describe.

 

There were several faces there well known to me, and barely had I

entered when a little wizened man came darting through the crowd and

seized my hands. ’Twas old Samuel Robins, who, as you will remember,

sold fish to Monmouth’s men aboard the frigate and was kept there. That

was his crime.

 

"Oh, Master Fane," he cried, looking up at me with wild imploring eyes,

"what do it mean? What be Oi here for? I sold them fish as fair and

straight as any man; fore-right I did, and how were Oi to know as it

were Monmouth’s ship? Zur, zur! My pretty boo-at! What be they

a-goin’ to do wi’ me and her? Get back, zur; go you to the King and tell

en old Sam Robins ne’er did harm to any man."

 

He tried to drag me to the door. Alas! he did not understand that I was

just as helpless as himself. I tried to comfort him as best I could,

but he only raved the louder, wringing his hands and asking God to save

him and his "pretty boo-at".

 

Many of the prisoners were sick, and some still suffering from wounds.

Amongst these moved a grey-haired gentleman, endeavouring, by word and

touch, to give relief. His name was Dr. Temple, and he told me that he

hailed from Nottingham, but had been in the Netherlands some years; that