The Black Box 34

The Black Box 34

"The prisoner pleads not guilty, your lordship."

 

"What!" shrieked the judge, addressing me. "You dare to make so false a

plea? Are ye not afraid of instant judgment from above for uttering so

black a lie? Zounds! if I think not that this very court is in rank

peril from avenging thunderbolts while we share it with such a Jonah of

a villain! Not guilty, quotha? You, who like a wolf in sheep’s skin,

made pretence to fight at Sedgemoor, and, as I’ll warrant me, killed

many a king’s man under cover of the darkness! You, who aided and

abetted rebels! You, who defied that zealous soldier, Colonel Kirke,

and strove to stop him in his duty! You, who with rank insolence

deserted your sovereign’s service! What say ye to these charges,

fellow?"

 

"It seems as though ’twere folly to say anything," I answered. "Yet

will I swear that I fought not treacherously at Sedgemoor, but fair and

straight, and that ’twas only Colonel Kirke’s abominable cruelty to

helpless prisoners which made me----"

 

"Stop! stop!" shrieked the judge, thumping the desk before him with both

hands. "Such brazen, lying impudence beats everything! I will not

listen to it!"

 

And, as he plugged his ears up with his fingers, ’twas useless for me to

proceed.

 

"Ye hear him, gentlemen, ye hear him!" he continued, perceiving I was

silent. "Mark well his words. Remember them; yet know that what

already hath been said is not the twentieth, nay, nor the hundredth part

of that which stands against him. Listen! On a morning in June last,

yon wretch, while holding guilty converse with his villain of a father,

was overheard to utter vile, seditious words against his king. But even

that is nothing when compared with this, for here I have such evidence

against him as would hang a hundred men."

 

Then, indeed, I started, for in the parchment which Jeffreys waved

triumphantly above his head I recognized the Black Box documents.

 

"Ah! ye may well turn white and tremble," quoth the judge, regarding me

with a malicious grin which bared his teeth. "Behold him, gentlemen,

and see how even such brazen wickedness and cunning is at last brought

low. Here is the corner-stone of his amazing falsity. For what are

these?" he added, spreading out the parchments. "Why, nothing more nor

less than written lies which seek to prove that Monmouth (who hath

already met so well-deserved a fate) was the rightful heir to England’s

throne. Ye have all heard that monstrous story of a Black Box. Well,

here at last we have the secret of it. Forgeries, rank forgeries! the

work of that prince of plotters, that sink of falsity, one Robert

Ferguson, who hath not thought it shame thus to forge the signature of

our late sovereign, King Charles of blessed memory; and who, Heaven

grant, may yet be caught. Again, with these vile productions there is a

letter to a man, one Jones of Lyme (who, by my life, shall swing for it

on a tree in his own garden), warning him secretly of Monmouth’s

landing. And where, think ye, gentlemen, all these accursed documents

were found? Ah! ye may well shake your heads, and ye will scarce credit

it when I tell ye that they were found in yonder false, designing

miscreant’s house! They reached me but this very morning, coming from

one unknown, who signs himself ’a friend of good King James’--and truly

so, for a friend he is indeed; yea, and ’tis a thousand pities that he

hides himself, for otherwise he should have been most handsomely

rewarded. Take them, read them for yourselves, and then tell me if ye

ever saw so villainous a piece of make-believe."

 

While the jury, with heads clubbed together, were examining the

documents, Jeffreys fixed me with a murderous look and hissed:

 

"Well, sirrah, and what say ye now? Wilt, perhaps, deny that they were

found inside your house, eh?"

 

"I do nothing of the kind," I answered. "They were there, and they were

stolen from it by one of Ferguson’s tools."

 

"Ah! a pretty tale, quotha! But, say, how came ye by the Black Box

which, as reported, held these treasonable things?"

 

"My father took it years ago from Ferguson himself by force."

 

"What!" cried Jeffreys, starting upright in his chair. "Attention,

gentlemen, attention! Ah! so your father was a friend of Ferguson?"

 

"He was no friend of his," I answered curtly. "My father met Ferguson in

London, not knowing that ’twas he, for he called himself Elijah Annabat,

and professed to be a scrivener in the city. My father trusted him with

money, and, when robbed of it, took the Black Box instead."

 

"Lies! lies! lies!" broke in Jeffreys like a maniac, waving his hands

and fairly frothing at the mouth. "Oh, Michael Fane, thou wicked son of

Anak! Truly, thou art the child of Ananias, of whom we read in Holy

scripture, and, like him, shalt pay the penalty. Ye hear him, gentlemen,

how he doth add unto his infamy by mocking us with lying tongue. Was

ever so much villainy encompassed in one man before? It seems scarce

possible that only eighteen years can have borne so great a crop of evil

fruit. The very sight of such a monster of iniquity doth make my eyes

sore and my blood run cold. To think that our all-generous, wise, and

loving king hath this creature for his subject is more than I can bear;

yea, verily, it bursts my heart."

 

With that he leaned forward, with his head upon his arms, and broke out

sobbing.

 

While he was thus engaged in grieving for my many sins, a man came

pushing through the crowded court until he reached a place in front. To

my astonishment I found that it was Dassell, who, as ye well remember,

was so much to the fore at Monmouth’s landing. He turned and gave me

one swift, meaning glance, then stood waiting till the judge at length

looked up; then he spoke.

 

"My lord," said he, "by your leave, I would say a word for yonder

prisoner."

 

"What’s that!" roared Jeffreys, glaring at him fiercely. "Have my

senses left me? Ye would speak for yonder heap of infamy! Who are ye,

fellow?"

 

"I am Samuel Dassell, my lord, deputy searcher of the port of Lyme."

 

"Ah, and what would ye say?" asked Jeffreys, with a heavy frown.

 

"Why, this, my lord," said Dassell with great haste, "that I have known

the prisoner, Michael Fane, and his father many years, and have ever

found them true and loyal gentlemen. I never heard a whisper against

either of them, and if----"

 

"Stop!" roared the judge, bringing a fist down on the desk. "What fresh

infamy is this, that you should dare to speak in favour of yon villain?

Think ye it not a burning shame that you, who serve the King and eat his

very bread, should raise your voice in favour of his enemies? Ah!

Samuel Dassell, you are surely in the wrong place; ye should be either

in the dock or else in prison. Yea, verily, methinks I see you dancing

at a rope-end even now. Deputy searcher, quotha! Go ye and search for

the loyalty ye lack! Away with ye! I say, before my zeal doth tempt me

to lay hands upon you. Go!"

 

And with a long sad look at me, poor Dassell left the court-house.

 

Then Jeffreys swept the hall with one swift, flashing glance, and,

turning to the jury, said:

 

"Gentlemen, ye have surely heard enough, aye, and far more than that,

concerning yonder giant of iniquity. Have ye, then, your verdict ready?"

 

"We have, your lordship," said the foreman, rising with eager readiness.

 

"And it is----"

 

"Guilty, your lordship."

 

"Ah, by my life, and I should think so," roared Jeffreys. "Guilty,

indeed! guilty as any man who ever faced a judge. Listen, Michael Fane!

Ye have tried lying, brazen impudence, and every other wile to save your

neck, but all have failed you. One more question: Where is the box in

which ’tis said these documents were stored?"

 

"How should I know, seeing they were stolen from us?" I answered warily,

not meaning to enlighten him on that point. "Ask those who stole them."

 

"Ah! so we flout and snarl unto the end, eh? Well, well, it matters

not, for verily that mocking tongue of yours will soon be put to

silence. Listen, Michael Fane! Ye die, and would that I only had your

wicked father here, that I might send him to his death along with you.

He hath sorely cheated me by dying of his own accord. Ye die, I say,

and as ye hail from Lyme--that sink of rank rebellion--there ye hang,

and that as near as may be to the spot where Monmouth landed. If ye be

not quartered also, ’twill be marvellous. I have already twelve more

knaves to hang at Lyme--some who came ashore there with their pretty

Duke, and some who waited for his coming. Ye make thirteen--a good round

baker’s dozen! (Make a note of that, clerk--Michael Fane to hang at Lyme

with others on the twelfth of this month; and mark it that he dies the

last of them.) Oh, Michael Fane, thou lusty scoundrel, doth not even a

heart so base as yours feel some small gratitude that I have it in my

power to end a life so wicked in its early days? Consider what ye would

have grown to, and use what little time remains to you on earth in

thinking deeply on your awful sins. Away with ye!"

 

He waved his hands, the warders seized me, and so, like one a-dreaming,

I was hurried back to prison. I found it much less crowded than it had

been, for many had already gone to death. Many, also, were to die upon

the morrow, and for all of us who gathered there that night there was

not left a single ray of hope.

 

 

 

 

*CHAPTER XXIV*

 

*Beneath the Gallows*

 

 

Early in the morning on the twelfth, those who were to die at Lyme (Sam

Robins, the fisherman, Sampson Larke, the minister, Dr. Temple, and

myself among them) were brought forth from the prison, placed in two

carts, and driven on our way to death.

 

As we rumbled through the ancient streets of Dorchester, the trembling,

sad-faced townsfolk watched us go, and many tears were shed. Thus we

passed out into the silence of the lanes. ’Twas a glorious, sunny