The Black Box 35

The Black Box 35

He turned his face away, and I was silent. There was much singing on the

way, and Sampson Larke, the minister, spoke many ringing words of hope;

for though his poor old wife lay dying even then in Lyme, he hid his own

grief manfully, and strove amain to comfort those about him. He was a

fine, upstanding fellow, and as he stood there in the cart behind us

with his long hair streaming in the wind, his hand raised, and his face

aglow with zeal, he made a picture that brought into my mind the ancient

prophets.

 

As for little Samuel Robins, he bore up bravely, joining with a high

shrill voice in hymn and psalm, until at last the great blue bay of Lyme

burst suddenly in view. But this was too much for him. Stretching out

his hands towards it, he broke down utterly and sobbed like any child.

 

Soon after this a strange thing happened; for as we gained the bottom of

the hill and neared the sea, the horses utterly refused to face it.

They kicked and plunged, and neither word nor blow could urge them

forward. It seemed as if the poor dumb beasts rebelled against the duty

forced upon them. So, in the end, we were taken out and marched on foot

down to the place of death.

 

The gallows (two stout uprights with a cross-beam) had been set up

behind the Cobb--that is, upon the western side of it, not twenty paces

from the spot where Monmouth landed. Here a silent, awe-struck crowd

was gathered, and as we passed between the lines of saddened, tearful

faces, ’twas like a funeral procession.

 

Around the gallows stood the sheriff and his officers, together with

some soldiers with a captain in command. The latter had a list of

victims ready in his hand, and no time was lost in going forward with

the brutal business. The way of it was this. Standing ready, with the

noose around his neck, the prisoner was asked if he had aught to say.

If he had, he said it (providing it was not too long or violent), then

he climbed up a ladder reared against the scaffold, and was at once

turned off therefrom.

 

Ye may guess how sickening a sight this was to me who came the last of

them! ’Twas worse than death itself to see my friends swung thus into

eternity; yet though I tried to look another way I could not.

 

Number ten was Sampson Larke, and he, who had fought with Cromwell, and

had girded on his sword again for Monmouth, was not the man to tremble

now. He spoke both fearlessly and long--so long, in fact, that the

captain stopped him.

 

"Then," said he, "I will speak to One who I am sure will hear me."

 

With that he uttered one swift prayer, and having blessed the people,

climbed the ladder and went bravely to his death.

 

A gasping groan ran through the crowd and sobs broke out on all sides,

for he was much beloved, and not a few there would have gladly died for

him.

 

"Number eleven! Benjamin Temple."

 

The doctor grasped my hand, said "God bless thee, friend. Farewell!"

then stepped firmly to his place. He told the people what was known to

me already--namely, that he hailed from Nottingham, and was entirely

innocent, having had no knowledge that the Duke was bent upon rebellion

when he sailed with him from the Texel; also, that he died at peace with

all men. This done, he made a simple prayer, then climbed to death.

 

Little Sam Robins was the next to go, and to me, at least, he was the

saddest sight of any. He showed no fear, he neither spoke nor faced the

people, but turning to the sea he said a long good-bye to what had been

so dear to him, and with his eyes still fixed thereon he died.

 

"Number thirteen! Michael Fane."

 

My turn had come at last, and I was more than glad. A murmur ran among

the people, for I had been known to most of them since childhood; yet

when I stood beneath the gallows with the noose about my neck, it was as

though the crowd had vanished into space. I saw them not at all. My

whole life flashed before me like a dazzling blaze, and, strange as it

may seem to you, the only thing I noted was a certain far-off spot

where, as a boy, I had first climbed the cliffs.

 

"Have you aught to say, sir?" asked the captain.

 

No, I was there to die and not to speak, and therefore had naught to

say; or rather, what I had to say was said full swiftly underneath my

breath, to Someone else. Then I turned to mount the ladder: but I never

did it, for even as I set my foot upon the bottom rung, a distant cry

broke out behind me; and glancing round, as everyone was doing, I saw a

horseman coming headlong down the hill towards us, waving a paper high

above his head and shouting as he rode.

 

Soon he was near enough for us to catch his words.

 

"Stop! in the King’s name, stop!" he shrieked.

 

And then I knew him. It was Dassell. The crowd made instant way for

him, as well they might, for such was his furious speed that otherwise

he would most certainly have rushed straight into them. In the shadow

of the gallows he drew up. His horse was lathered in sweat, and

dripping foam, while he himself was wellnigh fighting for his breath.

 

"Well, and what now, sir?" asked the captain, staring in amazement.

 

"A--pardon--from--His--Majesty--the--King--for--Michael Fane!" gasped

Dassell.

 

What followed is not very clear to me, but I know a mighty shout of joy

arose, and that, later on, I walked, like one a-dreaming, with good

friend Dassell to my home, The Havering. And there I heard from him the

story of my wonderful deliverance. Here it is, exactly as he told it

me:--

 

After being snuffed out by Jeffreys in the courthouse at Dorchester, he

lingered till my fate was settled, then posted up to London. There he

sought and found Lord Feversham, whom he urged to plead with James on my

behalf: and his lordship, having known my father well, and also me, was

not averse to doing it. So he went straightway to the King, bearing

Dassell with him.

 

They found His Majesty in no great mood for pardoning anyone just then,

but hearing that my father had served his father (King Charles I) with

zeal; and, moreover, wishing to please Lord Feversham, who then stood in

high favour, he gave his gracious promise to think carefully upon my

case.

 

Two other things there were which favoured me: one was the fact that

Kirke had gone too far, and had been recalled to London in disgrace; the

other, that the King was mighty glad to think that the mystery of the

Black Box had been solved. Thus the outcome of it was that my pleaders

were to call at Whitehall on the morrow, for His Majesty’s decision.

This they did, and found him in a rare good humour. The Black Box

documents had come to hand, and so the King was pleased to sign my

pardon.

 

Then Dassell started on his journey westward with a will. One horse

fell dead beneath him; but he got another, and riding through the night,

was just in time to save me. How near a thing it was, and how he

snatched me from the very jaws of death, ye know already.

 

I fought no more for King James--indeed, there was no chance of doing

so, even had I wished it; for, until the Prince of Orange landed at

Torbay and drove his faithless uncle flying from the kingdom, England

was at peace, if persecution can be called so. But for good King William

I have, thank God (along with Kitty, who still flourishes), fought much;

and as I am still upon the sunny side of forty, may I have the chance to

draw sword for him again! Aye, verily, my father’s words ring often in

my ears: "There is no finer work for any man than fighting for his king

and country".

 

Yet, sometimes, when I pace the Cobb or shore, I see again the fine

brave landing of Duke Monmouth, whose coming brought such suffering and

disaster to the West. Or, when wind and sea moan plaintively, I seem to

hear the mournful voices of those brave, misguided men whom I so nearly

followed to a violent death. Then, with a heavy heart, I come back to

The Havering and think sadly of it all.

 

What more is there to say? Well, very little, for now I have reached

the end of that which I set out to tell you. If it hath been done

clumsily, forgive me, for, indeed, I have small skill in writing. But

at any rate, I swear it is a fore-right statement, as we say in Lyme. I

have left nothing out, nor have I added anything.... Stay, though!

Yes, by my life, I have left something out; for as I sit here writing in

the quiet study where, seventeen years ago, I took the first step in the

strange adventures here recorded, there stands that at my very elbow

which seems to cry aloud for notice. It bears clear signs of mending;

it is, in fact, a small Black Box; but though the sight of it brings

back dark memories, it holds no terrors for me now.