" He seized me by both hands, looking in my face curiously and
eagerly." See page 76
For Faith and Freedom
BY
WALTER BESANT
Author of "All in a Garden Fair," etc.
FIFTH AVENUE PUBLISHING COMPANY
NEW YORK
? A
FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
CHAPTER L
FAREWELL SUNDAY.
The morning of Sunday, August the 23d, in the year ot
grace 1662, should have been black and gloomy, with the
artillery of rolling thunder, dreadful flashes of lightning,
and driving hail and wind to strip the orchards and lay low
the corn. For on that day was done a thing which filled
the whole country with grief, and bore bitter fruit, in after-
years, of revenge and rebellion. Because it was the day
before that formerly named after Bartholomew, the dis-
ciple, it hath been called the Black Bartholomew of England,
thus being likened with that famous day (approved by the
pope) when the Frencn l^rotestants were treacherously
massacred by their king. It should rather be called " Fare-
well Sunday," or "Exile Sunday," because on that day two
thousand godly ministers preached their last sermon in the
churches where they had labored worthily and with good
fruit, some during the time of the Protector, and some even
longer, because among them were a few who possessed their
benefices even in the time of the late King Charles the First,
And, since on that day two thousand ministers left their
churches and their houses, and laid down their worldly
wealth for conscience' sake, there were also as many wives
who went with them, and, I dare say, three or four times as
many innocent and helpless babes. And, further (it is said
that the time was fixed by design and deliberate malice of our
enemies), the ministers were called upon to make their
choice only a week or two before the day of the collection
of their tithes. In other words, they were sent forth to the
4 t^Ok FATTH AND FREEDOM.
world al the season when their purses were the leanest ; iii-
deed, with most country clergymen, their purses shortly
before the collection of tithes become well-nigh empty. It
was also unjust that their successors should be permitted to
collect tithes due to those who were ejected.
It is fitting to begin this history with the Black Bartholo-
mew, because all the troubles and adventures which after-
wards befell us were surely caused by that accursed day.
One knows not, certainly, what other rubs might have been
ordained for us by a wise Providence (always with the
merciful design of keeping before our eyes the vanity of
worldly things, the instability of fortune, the uncertainty of
life, and the wisdom of looking for a hereafter which shall
be lasting, stable, and satisfying to the soul. ) Still it must
be confessed, such trials as were appointed unto us were,
in severity and continuance, far beyond those appointed to
the ordinary sort, so that I cannot but feel at times uplifted
(I hope not sinfully) at having been called upon to endure
so much. Let me not, however, be proud. Had it not
been for this day, for certain our boys would not have been
tempted to strike a blow — vain and useless as it proved —
for the Protestant religion and for liberty of conscience :
while perhaps I should now be forbidden to relate our suf-
ferings, were it not for the glorious revolution which has re-
stored toleration, secured the Protestant ascendency, and
driven into banishment a prince, concerning whom all
honest men pray that he and his son (if he have, indeed, a
son of his own) may never again have authority over this
realm.
This Sunday, I say, should have wept tears of rain over
the havoc which it witnessed ; yet it was fine and clear, the
sun riding in splendor, and a warm summer air blowing
among the orchards and over the hills and around the vil-
lage of Bradford Orcas, in the shire of Somerset. The
wheat (for the season was late) stood gold-colored in the
fields, ready at last for the reaper ; the light breeze bent
down the ears so that they showed like waves over which
the passing clouds make light and shade ; the apples in the
orchards were red and yellow and nearly ripe for the press ,
in the gardens of the ]\Ianor House, hard by the church, the
sunflowers and the hollyhocks were at their tallest and their
best ; the yellow roses on the wall were still in clusters ; the
sweet-peas hung with tangles of vine and flower upon their
stalks ; the bachelors' buttons, the sweet mignonette, the
nasturtium, the gillyflowers and stocks, the sweetwilliam*
FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. j
and the pansies, offered their late summer blossoms to the
hot sun among the lavender, thyme, parsley, sage, feverfew
and vervain of my lady's garden. Oh ! I know how it all
looked, though I was as yet unborn. How many times
have I stood in the churchyard and watched the same scene
at the same sweet season ! On a week-day one hears the
thumping and the groaning of the mill below the church ;
there are the voices of the men at work, the yo-hoing of
the boys who drive, and the lumbering of the carts. You
can even hear the spinning-wheels at work in the cottages.
On Sunday morning everything is still, save for the war-
bling of the winged tribe in the wood, the cooing of the
doves in the cot, the clucking of the hens, the grunting of
the pigs, and the droning of the bees. These things dis-
turb not the meditations of one who is accustomed to them.
At eight o'clock in the morning, the sexton, an ancient
man and rheumatic, hobbled slowly through the village,
key in hand, and opened the church door. Then he went
into the tower and rang the first bell. I suppose this bell is
designed to hurry housewives with their morning work, and
to admonish the men that they incline their hearts to a
spiritual disposition. This done, the sexton set open the
doors of the pews, swept out the squire's and the rector's in
the chancel, dusted the cushions of the pulpit (the reading-
desk at this time was not used), opened the clasps of the
great Bible, and swept down the aisle : as he had done
Sunday after Sunday for fifty years. When he had thus
made the church ready for the day's service, he went into
the vestry, which had only been used since the establish-
ment of the Commonwealth for the registers of birth, death,
and marriage.
At one side of the vestry stood an ancient black-oak
coffer, the sides curiously graven, and a great rusty key in
the lock. The sexton turned the key with some difficulty,
threw open the lid, and looked in.
"Ay," he said, chuckling, "the old surplice and the old
Book of Common Prayer. Ye have had a long rest ; 'tis
time for both to come out again. When the surplice is out
the book will stay no longer locked up. These two go in and
out together. I mind me now — "' Here he sat down, and
his thoughts wandered for a space ; perhaps he saw himself
once more a boy running in the fields, or a young man
courting a maid. Presently he returned to the task befor«r
him, and drew forth an old and yellow roll which he shook
cut It was the surplice which had oncp been white.
t FOX FAITH AND FREEDOM.
''Here you are," he said; "put you away for a matter of
twelve year and more and you bide your time ; you know
you will come back again ; you are not in any hurry. Even
the sexton dies ; but you die not, you bide your time.
Everything comes again. The old woman shall give you
a taste o' the suds and the hot iron. Thus we go up and
thus we go down.' He put back the surplice and locked
the great Book of Common Prayer — musty and damp after
twelve years' imprisonment. " Fie 1 " he said, " the leather
is parting from the boards, and the leaves they do stick to-
gether, Shalt have a pot of paste, and then lie in the sun
before thou goest back to the desk ; whether 'tis mass or
Common Prayer, whether 'tis Independent or Presbyterian,
folk mun still die and be buried — ay, and married and born
— whatever they do say. Parson goes and preacher comes ;
preacher goes and parson comes; but sexton stays." He
chuckled again, put back the surplice and the book, and
locked the coffer.
Then he slowly went down the church and came out of
the porch, blinking in the sun and shading his old eyss.
He sat down upon the flat stones of the old cross, and pres-
ently nodded his head and dropped off asleep.
It was a strange indifference in the man. A great and
truly notable thing was to be accomplished that day. But
he cared nothing. Two thousand godly and learned men
were to go forth into poverty for liberty of conscience — this
man's own minister was one of them. He cared nothing.
The king was sowing the seed from which should spring a
rod to drive forth his successor from the kingdom. In the
village the common sort were not moved. Nothing con-
cerns the village folk but the weather and the market prices.
As for the good sexton, he was very old : he had seen the
Church of England displaced by the Presbyterians and the
Presbyterians by the Independents, and now these were
again to be supplanted by the Church of England. He had
been sexton through all these changes. He heeded them
not ; why, his father, sexton before him, could remember
when the mass was said in the church and the Virgin was
worshipped, and the folk were driven like sheep to confes-
sion. All the time the people went on being born, and
marrying, and dying. Creed doth not, truly, affect these
things nor the sexton's work. Therefore this old gaffer,
having made sure that the surplice was in the place where
it had lain undisturbed for a dozen years, and remembering
that it must be washed and ironed fur the following Sunday,
FOR FAITFI AND FREEDOM. j
sat down to bask in the sun, his mind at rest, and dropped
off into a gentle sleep.
At ten o'clock the bell-ringers came trampling up the stone
steps from the road, and the sexton woke up. At ten they
used to begin their chimes, but at the hour they ring for live
minutes only, ending with the clash of all five bells together.
At a quarter-past ten they chime again, for the service,
which begins at half-past ten.
At the sound of these chimes the whole village begins to
move slowly towards the church. First come the children,
the bigger ones leading those who are little by the hand ;
the boys come next, but unwillingly, because the sexton is
diligent with his cane, and some of those who now go up
the steps to the church will comedown with smarting backs,
the reward of those who play or laugh during the service.
Then come the young men, who stand about the church-
yard and whisper to each other. After them follow the
elders and the married men, with the women and the girls.
Five minutes before the half-hour the ringers change the
chime for a single bell. Then those who are outside gather
in the porch and wait for the quality
When the single bell began, there came forth from the rec-
tory the rector himself, Mr. Comfort Eykin, Doctor of
Divinity, who was this day to deliver his soul and lay down
his charge. He wore the black gown and Geneva bands,
for the use of which he contended. At this time he was a
young man of thirty — tall and thin. He stooped in the
shoulders because he was continually reading ; his face was
grave and austere ; his nose thin and aquiline ; his eyes
bright — never was any man with brighter eyes than my
father ; his hair, which he wore long, was brown and curly ;
his forehead high, rather than broad ; his lips were firm.
In these days, as my mother hath told me, and as I well be-
lieve, he was a man of singular comeliness, concerninj^
which he cared nothing. Always from childhood upwarcl
he had been grave in conversation and seriously inclined in
mind. If I think of my father as a boy (no one ever seems
to thmk that his father was once a boy), I am fain to com-
pare him with Humphrey, save for certain bodily defects,
my father having been like a priest of the altar for bodily
perfection. That is to say, I am sure that, like Humphrey,
he had no need of rod or ferule to make him learn his lessons,
and, like that dear and fond friend of my childhood, he
would willingly sit in a corner and read a book while the
the other boys played and \\cnt a-lumting or a-nesting.
8 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
And very early in life he was smitten with the conviction
of sin, and blessed with such an inward assurance of salva-
tion as made him afterwards steadfast in all afflictions.
He was not a native of this country, having been born in
New England. He came over, being then eighteen years
of age, to study at Oxford, that university being purged of
malignants, and, at the time, entirely in the hands of the
godly. He was entered of BaUiol College, of which society
he became a fellow, and was greatly esteemed for his
learning, wherein he excelled most of the scholars of his
time. He knew and could read Hebrew, Chaldee, and the
ancient Syriac, as well as Latin and Greek. Of modern
languages he had acquired Arabic, by the help of which he
had read the book which is called the Koran of the False
Prophet Mohammed ; French and Italian he also knew and
could read easily. As for his opinions, he was an In-
dependent, and that not meekly or with hesitation, but with
such zeal and vehemence that he considered all who dif-
lered from him as his personal enemies — nay, the very
enemies of God, For this reason, and because his personal
habits were too austere for those who attained not to his
spiritual height, he was more feared than loved. Yet his
party looked upon him as their greatest and stoutest cham-
pion.
He left Oxford at the age ot five or six and twenty, and
accepted the living of Bradford Orcas, offered him by Sir
Christopher Challis at that place. Here he had preached for
six years, looking forward to nothing else than to remain
there, advancing in grace and wisdom, until the end of his
days. So much was ordered, indeed, for him ; but not
quite as he had designed. Let no man say that he knoweth
the future, or that he can shape out his destiny. You shall
hear presently how Benjamin arrogantly resolved that his
future should be what he chose, and what came of that im-
pious resolution.
My father's face was always austere ; this morning it was
more serious and sterner than customary, because the day was
to him the most important in his life, and he was about to
pass from a position of plenty (the Rectory of Bradford
Orcas is not rich, but it affords asut^ciency) to one of penury.
Those who knew him, however, had no doubt of the course
he was about to take. Even the rustics knew that their
minister would never consent to wear a surplice or to read
the Book of Common Prayer, or to keep holy days — you
have seen how the sextoii opened the box and took out th?
POR FAITH AND FREEDO.\t. ^
surplice ; yet my father had said nothing to him concerning
his intentions.
In his hand he carried his Bible — his own copy, I have it
still, the margins covered with notes in his writing — bound
in black leather, worn by constant handling, with brass
clasps. Upon his head he had a plain black silk cap, which
he wore constantly in his study and at meals to keep ofi
draughts. Indeed, I loved to see him with his silk cap
rather than with his tall steeple-hat, with neither ribbon nor
ornament of any kind, in which he rode when he after-
wards went about the country to break the law in exhort-
ing and praying with his friends.
Beside him walked my mother, holding in her hand her
boy, my brother Barnaby, then three years of age. As for
me, I was not yet born. She had been weeping ; her eyes
were red and swollen with tears ; but when she entered the
church she wept no more, bravely listening to the words
which condemned to poverty and hardship herself and her
children, if any more should be born to her. Alas, poor
soul I What had she done that this affliction should befall
her ? What had her innocent boy done } For upon her —
not upon her husband — would fall the heavy burden of
poverty, and on her children the loss. Yet never by a sin-
gle word of complaint did she make her husband sorry that
he had obeyed the voice of conscience, even when there
was nothing left in the house, not so much as the widow's
cruse of oil. Alas, poor mother, once so free from care \
what sorrow and anxiety wert thou destined to endure for
the tender conscience of thy husband !
At the same time — namely, at the ringing of the single
bell — there came from the manor-house, hard by the church,
his honor, Sir Christopher, with his family. The worthy
knight was then about fifty years of age, tall and handsome
still — in his later years there was something of a heavenly
sweetness in his face, created, I doubt not, by a long life
of pious thoughts and worthy deeds. His hair was streaked
with gray, but not yet white ; he wore a beard of the kind
called stiletto, which was even then an ancient fashion, and
he was dressed more soberly than is common with gentle-
men of his rank, having no feather in his hat, but a simple
ribbon round it, and though his ruffles were of lace and the
kerchief round his neck was lace, the color of his coat was
plain brown. He leaned upon a gold-headed cane on ac-
count of an old wound (it was inflicted by a Cavalier's mus-
ket-ball when he was a captain in the army of Lord Essex).
10 FOR FATTH AXD FREEDOM.
The wound left him somewhat lame, yet not so lame bui
that he could very Avell walk about his fields and could ride
his horse, and even hunt with the otter-hounds. By his side
walked madame, his wife. After him came his son, Hum-
phrey, newly married, and with Humphrey his wife ; and
last came his son-in-law, the Rev. Philip Boscorel, M, A.,
late fellow of All-Souls' College, Oxford, also newly married,
with his wife, Sir Christopher's daughter, Patience. Mr.
Boscorel, like my father, was at that time thirty years of
age. Like him, too, his face was comely and his features
fine ; yet they lacked the fire and the earnestness which
marked my father's. And in his silken cassock, his small
white bands, his lace ruffles, and his dainty walk, it seemed
as if Mr. Boscorel thought himself above the common run
of mankind and of superior clay. 'Tis sometimes the way
with scholars and those who survey the world from the
eminence of a library.
Sir Christopher's face was full of concern, because he
loved the young man who was this day to throw away his
livelihood ; and although he was ready himself to worship
after the manner prescribed by law, his opinions were rather
Independent than Episcopalian. As for ]Mr. Boscorel, who
was about to succeed to the ejected minister, his face wore
no look of triumph, which would have been ungenerous.
He was observed, indeed, after he had silently gone through
with the service of the day with the help of a prayer-book,
to listen diligently unto the preacher.
The people, I have already said, knew already what was
about to happen. Perhaps sc;/ie of them (but I think not)
possessed a copy of the old prayer-book. This, they knew,
was to be restored, with the surplice, and the observance of
holy days, feasts, and fasts, and the kneeling at the admin-
istration of the Holy Communion. Our people are crafts-
men as much as they are rustics ; every week the master
clothiers' men drive their pack-horses into the village laden
with wool, and return with yarn ; ihey are not, therefore,
so brutish and sluggish as most ; yet they made no outward
show of caring whether Prelacy or Independence was to
have the sway. Perhaps the abstruse doctrines which my
father loved to discuss were too high for them ; perhaps
his austerity was too strict for them, so that he was not be-
loved by them. Perhaps, even, they would have cared
little if they had heard that Bishop Bonner himself was
coming back. Religion, to country folk, means, mostly,
the going to church on Sunday morning. That done,
For faith and freedom. i t
man's sendee of prayer and praise to his Creator is also
done. If the form be changed the church remains, and the
churchyard ; one shepherd followeth another, but the flock
is always the same. Revolutions overthrow kings, and
send great heads to the block ; but the village heedeth not
unless civil war pass that way. To country folk what dif-
ference } The sky and the fields are unchanged. Under
Queen Mary they are Papists ; under Queen Elizabeth they
are Protestants. They have the Prayer Book under King
James and King Charles ; under Oliver they have had the
Presbyterian and Independent ; now they have the book of
Common Prayer and the surplice again. Yet they remain
the same people, and tell the same stories, and, so far as I
know, believe the same things — viz., that Christ Jesus saves
the soul of every man who truly believes in him. Why, if
it were not for his immortal soul — concerning which he
takes but little thought — the rustic might be likened unto the
patient beast whom he harnesseth to his plough and to his
muck-cart. He changeth no more ; he works as hard ; he
is as long-enduring ; his eyes and his thoughts are as much
bound by the hedge, the lane, and the field ; he thinks and
invents and advances no more. Were it not, I say, for the
Church, he would take as little heed of any thingas his ox
or his ass; his village would become his country ; his squire
would become his king ; the nearest village would become
the camp of an enemy ; and he would fall into the condi-
tion of the ancient Briton when Julius Caesar found every
tribe fighting against every other.
I talk as a fool. For sometimes there falls upon the tor-
pid soul of the rustic a spark which causes a mighty flame
to blaze up and burn fiercely within him. I have read how
a simple monk, called Peter the Hermit, drew thousands of
poor, illiterate, credulous persons from their homes and letl
them, a mob armed with scythes and pikes, across Europe
to the deserts of Asia Minor, where tliey miserably perished.
I have read also of Jack Cade, and how he drew the multi-
tudes after him, crying aloud for justice or death. And I
myself have seen these sluggish spirits suddenly fired with
a spirit which nothing could subdue. The sleeping soul I
have seen suddenly starting into life : strength and swift-
ness have I seen suddenly put into sluggish limbs : light
and fire have I seen gleaming suddenly in dull and heavy
eyes. Oh ! it was a miracle : but I have seen it. Anc^
having seen it, I cannot despise these lads of the plough.
J 3 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
these honest boys of Somerset, nor can I endure to heac
them laug-hed at or contemned.
Bradford Orcas, in the Hundred of Horethorne, Somerset,
is a village so far from the great towns that one would think
a minister might have gone on praying and preaching after
his own fashion without being discovered. But the arm of
the law is long.
The nearest town is Sherborne, in Dorsetshire, to which
there is a bridle-path across the fields ; it is the market-town
for the villages round it Bradford Orcas is a very obscure
little village, with no history and no antiquities. It stands
in the southeastern corner of the county, close to the western
declivity of the Corton Hills, which here sweep round so as
to form a valley, in which the village is built along the
banks of a stream. The houses are for the most part of
stone, with thatched roofs, as is the custom in our country ;
the slopes of the hills are covered with trees, and round the
village there stand goodly orchards, the cider from which
cannot be surpassed. As for the land, but little of it is ara-
ble ; the greater part is a sandy loam or stone brash. The
church, which in the superstitious days was dedicated to
St. Nicolas, is built upon a hillock, a rising ground in the
west of the village. This building of churches upon hil-
locks is a common custom in our parts, and seemeth laud-
able, because a church should stand where it can be seen
by all the people, and by its presence remind them of death
and of the judgment. This practice doth obtain at Sher-
borne, where there is a very noble church, and at Huish
Episcopi, and at many other places in our county. Our
church is fair and commodious, not too large for tiie con-
gregation, having in the west a stone tower embattled, and
consisting of a nave and chancel with a very fine roof of
carved woodwork. There is an ancient yew-tree in the
churchyard, from which in old times bows were cut ; some
of the bows yet hang in the great hall of the manor-house.
Among the graves is an ancient stone cross, put up no man
knows when, standing in a six-sided slab of stone, but the
top was broken off at the time of the Reformation ; two or
three tombs are in the churchyard, and the rest is covered
with mounds, beneath which lie the bones and dust of
former generations.
Close to the churchyard, and at the northeast corner, is
the manor-house, as large as the. church itself, but not so
ancient It was built in the reign of Henry VII. A broad
arched gateway leads into a c^urt, wherein is the entrance
POk FAITH AND FREEDOM.
n
to the house. Over the gateway is a kind of tower, but not
detached from the house. In the wall of the tower is a
panel, lozenge shaped, in which are carved the arms of the
Challis family. The house is stately, with many gables,
and in each casement windows set in richly carved stone
tracery. As for the rooms within the house, I will speak of
them hereafter. At present I have the churchyard in my
mind. There is no place upon the earth which more I love.
To stand in the long grass among the graves ; to gaze upon
the wooded hills beyond, the orchards, the meadows, the
old house, the venerable church, the yew-tree ; to listen to
the murmur of the stream below and the singing of the lark
above ; to feel the fresh breeze upon my cheek — oh ! I do
this daily. It makes me feel young once more ; it brings
back the days when I stood here with the boys, and when
Sir Christopher would lean over the wall and discourse with
us gravely and sweetly upon the love of God and the fleeting
joys of earth (which yet, he said, we should accept and be
happy withal in thankfulness), and the happiness unspeak-
able that awaiteth the Lord's saints. Or, if my thoughts
continue in the past, the graveyard brings back the presence
and the voice of Mr. Boscorel.
"In such a spot as this," he would say, speaking softly
and slowly, "the pastorals of Virgil or Theocritus might
have been written. Here would the shepherds hold their
contests. Certainly they could find no place, even in sunny
Sicily or at Mantua itself, where (save for three months in
the year) the air is more delightful. Here they need not to
avoid the burning heat of a sun which gently warms but
never burns ; here they would find the shade of the grove
pleasant in the soft summer season. Innocent lambs in-
stead of kids (which are tasteless) play in our meadows ;
the cider which we drink is, I take it, more pleasing to the
palate than was their wine flavored with turpentine. And
our viols, violins, and spinnets are instruments more de-
lightful than the oaten pipe, or the cithara itself." Then
would he wave his hand, and quote some poet in praise of
a country life —
" There 13 no man but may make his paradise,
And it is nothing but his love and dotage
Upon the world's foul joys that keeps Inm out on 'it.
For he that lives retired in mind and spirit
Is still in Paradise."
"But, child," he would add, with a sigh, "one may not
u
FOR FAITH AND FKEEDOM.
always wish to be in Paradise. The world's joys lie else*
where. Only, when youth is gone — then Paradise is best"
The service began after the manner of the Independents,
with a long- prayer, during which the people sat. JMr. Bos-
corel, as I have said, went through his own service in
silence, the Book of Common Prayer in his hand. After the
prayer, the minister read a portion of Scripture, which he
expounded at length and with great learning. Then the
congregation sang that Psalm which begins —
" Triumphing songs with glorious tongues
Let's oifer unto Him."
This done, the rector ascended the pulpit for the last time,
gave out his text, turned his hour-glass, and began his
sermon.
He took for his text those verses in St. Paul's second epistle
to the Corinthians, vi., 3-10, in which the apostle speaks of
his own ministry as if he were actually predicting the tribu-
lation which was to fall upon these faithful preachers of a
later time — "In much patience, in affliction, in necessities,
in distresses, in stripes, in imprisonments, in tumults, in
labor, in watchings, in fastings — "could not the very words
be applied to my father ?
He read the text three times, so that everybody might
fully understand the subject upon which he was to preach —
namely, the faithfulness required of a minister of the gospel.
I need not set down the arguments he used or the reasons
he gave for his resolution not to conform with the Act of
Uniformity. The rustics sat patiently listening, with no
outward sign of assent or of sympathy. But their conduct
afterwards proved abundantly to which side their minds in-
clined. As for me, I am a woman, and therefore inclined
to obey the voice of authority, so that, had I been born a
Papist, such I should have continued ; and I am now a
member of the Church of England because my husband is
of that church, yet not of the kind which is called high.
It behooves us all to listen with respect when scholars
and Avise men inquire into the reasons of things. Yet the
preachings and ex])ositions which such as my father be-
stowed upon their flocks did certainly awaken men's minds
to consider by themselves the things which many think too
high for them. It is a habit which may lead to the foun-
dation of false and pernicious sects. And it certainly is not
good that men should preach the doctrines of the Anabap*
FOk FAITH AiVp FREEDOM. 15
tists, the Fifth Monarchy men, or the Quakers. Yet it is
better that some should be deceived than that all should be
slaves. I have been assured by one — I mean Humphrey —
who hath travelled, that in those countries where the priest
taketh upon himself the religion of the people, so that they
think to be saved by attending mass, by fasting, confession,
penance, and so forth, that not only does religion itself be-
come formal, mechanical, and inanimate, but in the very
daily concerns and business of life men grow slothful and
lack spirit. Their religion, which is the very heat of the
body, the sustaining and vital force of all man's actions, is
cold and dead. Therefore, all the virtues are cold also, and
with them the courage and the spirit of the people. Thus
it is that Italy hath fallen aside into so many small and
divided kingdoms. And for this reason, Spain, in the opin-
ion of those who know her best, is now falling rapidly into
decay.
I am well assured by those who can remember that the
intelligence of the village-folk greatly increased during the
period when they were encouraged to search the Scriptures
for themselves. Many taught themselves to read, others
had their children taught, in order that they might read or
hear, daily, portions of the Scriptures. It is now thirty
years since authority resumed the rule ; the village-folk
have again become, to outward seeming, sheep who obey
without questioning. Yet it is observed that when they are
within reach of a town — that is to say, of a meeting-house
— they willingly flock to the service in the afternoon and
evening.
It was with the following brave words that my father
concluded his discourse :
" Seeing, therefore, my brethren, how clear is the Word
of God on these points ; and considering that we must
always obey God rather than man ; and observing that here
we plainly see the finger of God pointing to disobedience
and its consequences, I am constrained to disobey. The
consequence will be to me that I shall stand in this place
no more : to you, that you will have a stranger in your
church. I pray that he may be a godly person, able to
divide the Word, learned and acceptable.
" As for me, I must go forth, perhaps from among you
altogether. ^ If persecutions arise, it may behoove me and
mine to seek again that land beyond the seas whither my
fathers fled for the sake of religious liberty. Whatever
happens, I must fain preach the gospel. It is laid upon m*
tl5 Jt-'OR FAiril AXD JREEDOM.
to preach. If I am silent, it will be as if death itself had
fallen upon me. My brethren, there have been times—
and those times may return — when the elect have had to meet,
secretly, on the sides of barren hills and in the heart of the
forest, to pray together and to hear the Word. I say that
these times may return. If they do, you M'ill find m^
willing, I hope and pray, to brave for you the worst that
our enemies can devise. Perhaps, however, this tyranny
may pass over. Already the Lord hath achieved one great
deliverance for this ancient realm. Perhaps another may
be in his secret purposes when we have been chastened,
as, for our many sins, we richly deserve. Whether in
affliction or in prosperity, let us always say, ' The Lord's
name be praised ! '
" Now, therefore, for the sand is running low and I may
not weary the young and the impatient, let me conclude.
Farewell, sweet Sabbaths ! Farewell, the sweet expound-
ing of the Word ! Farewell, sweet pulpit ! Farewell, sweet
faces of the souls which I have yearned to present pure
and washed clean before the throne ! Islj brethren, I go
about, henceforth, as a dog which is muzzled ; another man
will fill this pulpit ; our simple form of worship is gone ;
the prayer-book and the surplice have come back again.
Pray God we see not confession, penance, the mass, the
inquisition, the enslavement of conscience, the stake, and
the martyrs' axe ! "
Then he paused and bowed his head, and everybody
thought that he had finished.
He had not. He raised it again, and threw out his arms
and shouted aloud, while his eyes glowed like fire
''No! I will not be silent. I will not. I am sent nito
the world to preach the gospel. I have no other business.
I must proclaim the Word as I hope for everlasting life :
brethren, we shall meet again. In the woods and on the
hills we shall find a temple ; there are houses where two or
three may be gathered together, the Lord himself being in
their midst Never doubt that I am ready, in season and
out of season, whatever be the law, to preach the gospel of
the Lord ! "
He end»d, and straightway descended the pulpit stair, and
stalked out of the church, the people looking after him with
awe and wonder. But Mr. Boscorel smiled and wagged his
head, with a kind of pity.
FOX FAITH AND FREEDOM, ij
CHAPTER IL
OUR HOME.
Thus did my father, by his own act and deed, strip him-
self of all his worldly wealth. Yet, having nothing-, he
ceased not to put his trust in the Lord, and continued to sit
among his books, never asking whence came the food pro-
vided for him. I think, indeed, so wrapped was he in
thought, that he knew not. As for procuring his daily food,
my mother it was who found out the way.
Those who live in other parts of this kingdom do not know
what a busy and populous country is that of Somerset.
Apart from the shipping and the great trade with Ireland,
Spain, and the West Indies carried on from the port of
Bristol, we have our great manufactures of cloth, in which
we are surpassed by no country in the world. The town of
Taunton alone can boast of eleven hundred looms always
at work making sagathies and Des Roys ; there are many
looms at Bristol, where they make for the most part druggets
and cantaloons ; there they are in great numbers at that
rich and populous town of Frome Selwood, where they
manufacture the Spanish medleys. Besides the cloth workers,
we have, in addition, our knitted-stocking trade, which is
carried on mostly at Glastonbury and Shepton Mallet. Not
only does this flourishing trade make the masters rich and
prosperous (it is not uncommon to find a master with his
twenty — ay, and his forty — thousand pounds), but it tills all
the country with work, so that the towns are frequent,
populous, and full of everything that men can want ; and
the very villages are not like those which may be seen
in other parts, poor and squalid, but well built and com-
fortable.
Every cottage has its spinning-wheel. The mother, wheiv
she is not doing the work of the house, sits at the wheel ; thf
girls, when they have nothing else to do, are made to knil
stockings. Every week the master-clothier sends round his
men among the villages, their pack-horses laden with wool ,
every week they return, their y *u:ks laden with yarn, ready
for the loom.
1 8 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
There is no part of England where the people are more
prosperous and more contented. Nowhere are there more
towns, and all thriving : nowhere are the villages better
built : nor can one find anywhere else more beautiful
churches. Because the people make good wages they are
independent in their manners ; they have learned things sup-
posed to be above the station of the humble ; most of them
in the towns, and many in the villages, are able to read.
This enables them to search the Scriptures, and examine
into doctrine by the light of their own reason, guided by
grace. And to me, the daughter of a Nonconforming
preacher, it does not seem wonderful that so many of them
should have become stiff and sturdy Nonconformists.
This was seen in the year 1685, and, again, two or three
years later, when a greater than Monmouth landed on the
western shores.
My mother, then, seeing no hope that her husband would
earn, by any work of his own, the daily bread of the house-
hold, bravely followed the example of the women in the vil-
lage. That is to say, she set up her spinning-wheel, and
spent all the time that she could spare spinning the wool
into yarn ; while she taught her little boy first, and after-
wards her daughter — as soon as I was old enough — to
manage the needles, to knit stockings. What trade, indeed,
could her husband follow save one — and that, by law, pro-
hibited ? He could not dig; he could not make anything ;
he knew not how to buy or sell ; he could only study,
write, and preach. Therefore, while he sat among his
books in one room, she sat over her wheel in the other,
working for the master-clothiers of Frome Selwood. It still
makes my heart to swell with pity and with love when 1
think upon my mother, thus spending herself and being
spent, working all day, huckstering with the rough pack-
horsemen more accustomed to exchange rude jests with the
rustics than to talk with gentle-women. And this she con-
tinued to do year after year, cheerful and contented, so that
her husband should never feel the pinch of poverty. Love
makes us willing slaves.
My father, happily, was not a man whose mind was
troubled about food. He paid no heed at all to what he
ate, provided that it was sufficient for his needs ; he would
sup his broth of pork and turnips and bread, after thanks
rendered, as if it were the finest dish in the world ; and a
piece of cold bacon with a hot cabbage would be a least for
him. The cider which he drank was brewed by my mother
1^'OR FAITH AND PJiEEDOAf.
^
fr(im her own apples ; to him it was as good as if it had
been Sherris or Rhenish. I say that he did not even know
how his food was provided for him ; his mind was at all
^ mes occupied with subjects so lofty that he knew not what
was done under his very eyes. The hand of God, he said,
doth still support his faithful. Doubtless we cannot look
back upon those years without owning- that we were so
supported. But my mother was the instrument ; nay, my
father sometimes even compared himself with satisfaction
unto the prophet Elijah whom the ravens fed in the Brook
Cherith, bringing him flesh and bread in the morning, and
flesh and bread in the evening. I suppose my father thought
that his bacon and beans came to him in the same manner.
Yet we should sometimes have fared but poorly had it not
been for the charity of our friends. Many a fat capon, green
goose, side of bacon, and young grunter came to us from
the manor-house, with tobacco, which my father loved, and
wine to comfort his soul ; yea, and clothes for us all, else
had we gone barefoot and in rags. In this way was many
an ejected Elijah at that time nourished and supported.
Fresh meat we should never have tasted, any more than
the humblest around us, had it not been for our good
friends at the manor-house. Those who live in towns can-
not understand how frugal and yet sufficient may be the
fare of those who live in the country and have gardens and
orchards. Cider was our drink, which we made ourselves ;
we had some sweet apple-trees, which gave us a stock of
russets and pippins for winter use; we had bees (but we
sold most of our honey) ; our garden grew salads and
onions, beans and the like ; skim milk we could have from
the manor-house for the fetching ; for breakfast we had
bread and milk, for dinner bread and soft cheese, with a
lettuce or an apple ; and bread or bread-and-butter for sup-
per. For my father there was always kept a piece of bacon
or fat pork.
Our house was one of the cottages in the village ; it is a
stane house (often I sit down to look at it, and to remem-
ber those days of humility) with a thick thatch. It had two
rooms below and two garrets above. One room was made
into a study or library for my father, where also he slept
!ipon a pallet. The other was kitchen, spinning-room, parlor,
all in one. The door opened upon the garden, and the floor
was of stone, so that it was cold. But when Barnaby be-
gan to find the use of his hands, he procured some boards,
which he laid upon the stones, and so we had a wooden
•O FOR FAITir AND FREEDOM.
floor ; and in winter across the door was hung a curtaiu t4
keep off the wind.
The walls were whitewashed, and over all my mother
had written texts of Scripture with charcoal, so that godly
admonition w^as ever present to our eyes and minds. She
also embroidered short texts upon our garments, and I have
still the cradle in which I was laid, carved (but I do not
know by whose hand) with a verse from the Word of God.
My father used himself, and would have us employ, the
words of the Bible even for the smaller occasions of daily
use ; nor would he allow that anything was lawful unless it
was sanctioned by the Bible, holding that in the Word was
everything necessary or lawful. Did Barnaby go shooting
with Sir Christopher and bring him a rabbit .' — Lo ! David
bade the children of Israel teach the use of the bow. Did
my mother inscruct and amuse me with riddles .<* — She had
the warrant of Scripture for it in the example of Samson.
Did she sing psalms and spiritual songs to while away the
time and make her w^ork less irksome and please her little
daughter.? — In the congregation of Nehemiah there were
two hundred forty and five singing men and singing wo>
men.
My father read and expounded the Bible to us twice a day
— morning and evening. Besides the Bible we had few
books which we could read. As for my mother, poor soul,
she had no time to read. As for me, when I grew older I
borrowed books from the manor-house or Mr. Boscorel.
And there were " Old IMr. Dod's Sayings " and "Plain Di-
rections by Joseph Large" always on the shelf beside the
Bible.
Now, while my father worked in his study and my
brother Barnaby either sat over his lesson-book, his hands
rammed into his hair, as if determined to lose nothing, not
the least scrap of his portion (yet knowing full well that on
the morrow there w^ould not be a word left in his poor un-
lucky noddle, and once more the whip), my mother would
sit at her wheel earning the daily bread. And, when I was
little, she would tell me, speaking very softly, so as not to
disturb the wrestling of her husband with a knotty argu-
ment, all the things which you have heard — how my father
chose rather poverty than to worship at the altar of Baal ; and
who two thousand pious ministers, like-minded with himselt,
left their pulpits and went out into the cold for conscience'
sake. So that I was easily led to think that there were no
Christian martyrs and confessors more excellent and praise-
FOR FAITH AND FREFDOAf. 2 X
worthy than these ejected ministers (which still I believe),
Then would she tell me further of how they fared, and how
the co'nmon people do still reverence them. There was
the history of John Norman, of Bridge water : Joseph Chad-
wick, of Wrenford ; Felix Howe, of West Torrington ;
George Minton, and many others. She also instructed me
very early in the history of the Protestant uprising over the
best half of Europe, and showed me how against fearful
odds, and after burnings and tortures unspeakable, the good
people of Germany, the Netherlands, and Great Britain 'A^on
their freedom from the pope, so that my heart glowed with-
in me to think of the great goodness and mercy which caused
me to be born in a Protestant country. She also instructed
me, later, m the wickedness of King Charles, whom they now
called a martyr, and in the plots of that king, and Laud
his archbishop, and how king and archbishop were both
overthrowii ancl perished when the people arose and would
bear no more. In line, my mother made me, from the
beginning, a Puritan. As I remember my rr.other always
she was paie of cheek and thin, her voice was gentle ;
yet with her very gentleness she would make the blood to
run quick in the veins and the heart to beat.
How have I seen the boys spring to their feet when she
has talked with them of the great civil war and the Restora-
tion ! But always soft and gentle ; her blue eyes never
flashing ; no wrath in her heart ; but the truth, which often
causeth righteous anger, always upon her tongue.
One day, I remember, when I was a little girl playing in
the garden, Mr. Boscorel walked down the village in his
great silken gown, which seemed always new, his lace ruffs,
and his white bands, looking like a bishop at least, and
Walking delicately, holding up his gown to keep it from the
dust and mud. When he spoke it was in a mincing speech,
«ot like our rough Somersetshire ways. He stopped at our
»-ate, and looked down the garden. It was a summer day,
the doors and windows of the cottage were open ; at our
ivindow sat my father bending over his books, in his rusty
g'own and black cap, thin and lank ; at the door sat my
mother at her wheel.
"Child," said the rector, " take heed thou never forget
In thine age the thing which thou seest daily in thy child-
hood. "
1 knew not what he meant.
" Read and mark," he said ; " yea, learn by heart what
tjie Wise M^n h^th said uf the good woman : 'She layei}]
22 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
her hand to the spindle . . . she maketh fine linen and
selleth it . . . she eateth not the bread of idleness
Let her works praise her in the gates.' "
CHAPTER III.
THE BOYS.
The family of Challis, of Bradford Orcas, is well known;
here there has always been a Challis from time immemorial.
They are said to have been on the land before the time of
the Conqueror. But because they have never been a great
family like the Mohuns of Dunster, but only modest gentle-
folk with some four or five hundred pounds a year, they
have not suffered, like those great houses, from the civil wars,
which when they raged in the land, brought in their train so
many attainders, sequestrations, beheadings, imprisonments,
and fines. Whether the barons fought, or whether Cava-
liers and Koundheads, the Challises remained at Bradford
Orcas.
Since the lands is theirs and the village, it is reasonable
that they should have done everything that has been done
for the place. One of them built the church, but I know
not when; another built the tower; another gave the peal
of bells. He who reigned here in the time of Henry VII.
built the manor-house; another built the mill; the monu-
ments in the church are all put up to the memory of Chal-
lises dead and gone; there is one, a very stately tomb, which
figures to the life Sir William Challis (who died in the time
of Queen Elizabeth), carved in marble, and colored, kneel-
ing at a desk; opposite to him is his second wife, Grace,
also kneeling. Behind the husband are three boys on their
knees, and behind the wife are three girls. Apart from this
group is the effigy of Filipa, Sir Christopher's first wife, with
four daughters kneeling behind her. I was always sorry
for Filipa, thus separated and cut off from the society of her
husband. There are brasses on the floor with figures of
other Challises, and tablets in the wall, and the Challis coat-
of-arms is everywhere cut in lozenges, painted in wood,
and shining in the east window. It always seemed to me,
in my young days, that it was the grandest thing in the
world to be a Challis.
FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 23
In this family there was a laudable practice with the
younger sons that they stayed not at home, as is too often
their custom, leading- indolent lives without ambition or
fortune, but they sallied forth and sought fortune in trade,
or in the law, or in the Church, or in foreign service — wher-
ever fortune is to be honorably won — so that, though I dare
say some have proved dead and dry branches, others have
put forth flowers and fruit abundantly, forming new and
vigorous trees sprung from the ancient root. Thus, some
have become judges, and some bishops, and some great
merchants ; some have crossed the ocean, and are now set-
tled in the Plantations ; some have attained rank and estates
in the service of Austria. Thus, Sir. Christopher's brother
Humphrey went to London and became a Levant merchant
and adventurer, rising to great honor and becoming alder-
man. I doubt not that he would have been made lord mayor
but for his untimely death. And as for his wealth, which
was rumored to be so great — but you shall hear of this in
due time.
That goodly following of his household which you have
seen enter the church on Farewell Sunday, was shortly
afterwards broken into by death. There fell upon the vil-
lage (I think it was in the year 1665) the scourge of a putrid
fever, of which there died, besides numbers of the village
folk, madame herself — the honored wife of Sir Christopher
— Humphrey his son, and Madame Patience Boscorel, his
daughter. There were left to Sir Christopher, therefore,
only his daughter-in-law and his infant grandson Robin.
And in that year his household was increased by the arrival
of his grand-nephew Humphrey. This child was the grand-
son of Sir Christopher's brother, the Turkey or Levant mer-
chant of whom I have spoken. He was rich and prosper-
ous ; his ships sailed out every year laden with I know not
what, and returned with tigs, dates, spices, gums, silks, and
all kinds of precious commodities from Eastern parts. It is,
I have been told, a profitable trade, but subject to terrible
dangers from Moorish pirates, who must be bravely fought
and beaten off, otherwise ship and cargo will be taken, and
captain and crew driven into slavery. Mr. Challis lived in
Thames Street, close to Tower Hill. It is said that he lived
here in great splendor, as betits a rich merchant who is also
an alderman.
Now, in the year 1665, as is very well known, the plague
broke out in the City. There were living in the house the
alderman, his wife, his son, his son's wife, « daughter, and
24 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
his grandson, little Humphrey. On the first outbreak of
the pestilence they took counsel together, and resolved that
the child should be first sent away to be out of danger, and
that they would follow if the plague spread.
This was done, and a sober man, one of their porters or
warehousemen, carried the child, with his nurse, all the
way from London to Bradford Orcas. Alas ! Before the
boy reached his great-uncle, the house in Thames Street
was attacked by the plague, and every one therein perished.
Thus was poor little Humphrey deprived of his parents. I
know not who were his guardians or trustees, or what steps,
if any, were taken to inquire into the alderman's estate ; but
when, next year, the Great Fire of London destroyed the
house in Thames Street, with so many others, all the estate,
whatever it had been, vanished, and could no more be
traced. There must have been large moneys owing. It is
certain that he had shares in ships. It has been supposed
that he owned many houses in the City, but they were de-
stroyed and their very sites forgotten, and no deeds or papers,
or any proof of ownership, were left. Moreover, there was
nobody charged with inquiring into this orphan's affairs.
Therefore, in the general confusion nothing at all was saved
out of what had been a goodly property, and the child
Humphrey was left without a guinea in the world. Thus
unstable is Fortune.
I know not whether Humphrey received a fall in his in-
fancy, or whether he was born with his deformity, but the
poor lad grew up with a crooked figure, one shoulder being
higher than the other, and his legs short, so that he looked
as if his arms were too long for him. We, who saw him
thus every day, paid no heed, nor did he suffer from any
of those cruel gibes and taunts which are often passed upon
lads thus afflicted. As he was by nature or misfortune
debarred from the rough sports which pleased his cousins,
the boy gave himself up to reading and study, and to music.
His manner of speech was soft and gentle ; his voice was
always sweet, and afterwards became strong as well, so
that I have never heard a better singer. His face — ah ! my
brother Humphrey, what a lovely face was thine ! All
goodness, surely, was stamped upon that face. Never, never
did an un-worthy thought defile that candid soul, or a bad
action cast a cloud upon that brow ! Where art thou now,
oh, Humphrey! brother and fond companion — whither hast
thou fled?
As for Robin, Sir Christopher's grandson, 1 think he was
!■ OR FAITH A.\D I-KEEDOM. 2i>
always what he is still, namely, a man of a joyous heart
and a cheerful countenance. As a boy he laughed con-
tinually, would sing more willingly than read, would play
rather than work, loved to course and shoot and ride bettei
than to learn Latin grammar, and would readily off coat and
fight with any who invited him. Yet not a fool or a clown,
but always a gentleman in manners, and one who read such
things as behoove a country gentleman, and scrupulous as
to the point of honor. Such as he is still such he was
always. And of a comely presence, with a rosy cheek and
bright eyes, and the strength of a young David, as well as his
ruddy and goodly countenance. The name of David I am
told, David means "darling." Therefore, ought my Robin to
have been named David. There were two other boys — Barn-
aby, my brother, who was six years older than myself, and
therefore, always a great boy ; and Benjamin, the son of
the Rev. INIr. Boscorel, the rector. Barnaby grew up so
broad and strong that at twelve he would have passed easily
for seventeen ; his square shoulders, deep chest, and big
limbs made him like a bull for strength. Yet he was
shorter than most, and looked shorter than he was by rea-
son of his great breadth. He was always exercising his
strength ; he would toss the hay with the haymakers, and
carry the corn for the reapers, and thresh with the flail, and
guide the plough. He loved to climb great trees, and to
fell them with an axe. Everybody in the village admired
his wonderful strength. Unfortunately, he loved not books,
and could never learn anything, so that when, by dint of
great application and many repetitions, he had learned a
little piece of a Latin verb, he straightway forgot it in the
night, and so, next day, there was another flogging. But
that he heeded little. He was five years older than Robin,
and taught him all his woodcraft — where to find pheasants'
eggs, how to catch squirrels, how to trap weasels and
stoats, how to hunt the otter, how to make a goldfinch
whistle and a raven talk — never was there such a master of
that wisdom which doth not advance a man in the world.
Now, before Barnaby's birth, his mother, after the man-
ner of Hannah, gave him solemnly unto the Lord all the
days of his life, and after his birth, her husband, after the
manner of Elkanah, said "Do what seemeth thee good;
only the Lord establish his word." He was, therefore, ic/
become a minister, like his father before him. Alas ! po*/
Barnaby could not even learn the Latin verbs, and hj9
heart, it was found, as he grew older, was wholly set upon
9^ FOR FAITH AA'D FREEDOi%f.
the things of this world. Wherefore, my mother praytei
for him daily while she sat at her work, that his heart might
be turned, and that he might get understanding.
As for the fourth of the boys, Benjamin Boscorel, he was
about two years younger than Barnaby, a boy who, for want
of a mother, and because his father was careless of him,
grew up rough and coarse in manners and in speech, and
boastful of his powers. To hear Ben talk you would
think that all the boys of his school (the grammar-school
of Sherborne) were heroes ; that the Latin taught was of a
quality superior to that which Robin and Humphrey learned
of my father ; and that when he himself went out into the
world superiority of his parts would be immediately pre-
ceived and acknowledged.
Those who watch boys at play together — girls more
early learn to govern themselves and to conceal their
thoughts, if not their tempers — may, after a manner, pre-
dict the future character of every one. There is the man
who wants all for himself, and still wants more, and will take
all and yield nothing, save on compulsion, and cares not a
straw about his neighbor — such was Benjamin as a boy.
There is the man who gives all generously — such as Robin.
There is, again, the man whose mind is raised above the
petty cares of the multitude, and dwells apart, occupied
with great thoughts — such was Humphrey. Lastly, there
is the man who can act, but cannot think, who is born to
be led, who is full of courage and of strength, and leavesall
to his commander, captain, or master — such was Barnaby.
As I think of these lads it seems as if the kind of man
into which each would grow must have been stamped upon
their foreheads. Perhaps to the elders this prognostic was
easy to read.
They suffered me to play with them or to watch them at
play. When the boys went off to the woods I went with
ihom. I watched them set their traps — I ran when they
ran. And then, as now, I loved Robin and Humphrey.
But I could not endure — no ; not even the touch of him —
Benjamin, with the loud laugh and the braggart voice, who
laughed at me because I was a girl and could not fight
The time came when he did not laugh at me because I was
a girl. And oh ! to think — only to think — of the time that
came after that 1
Jl^OR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
27
CHAPTER IV.
SIR CHRISTOPHER.
At the mere remembrance of Sir Christopher, I am fain to
lay down my pen and to weep, as for one whose goodness
was unsurpassed, and whose end was undeserved. Good
works, I know, are rags, and men cannot deserve the mercy
of God by any merits of their own ; but a good man — a man
whose heart is full of justice, mercy, virtue, and truth — is so
rare a creature, that when there is found such an one his
salvation seems assured. Is it not wonderful that there are
among us so many good Christians, but so few good men 1
I am, indeed, in private duty bound to acknowledge Sir
Christopher's goodness to me and to mine. He was, as I
have said, the mainstay of our household. Had we de-
pended wholly on my mother's work, we should sometimes
have fared miserably indeed. Nay, he did more. Though
a justice of the peace, he invited my father every Sunday
evening to the manse-house for spiritual conversation, not
©nly for his own profit, but knowing that to expound was
to my father the breath of his nostrils, so that if he could
not expound he must die. In person. Sir Christopher was
tall ; after the fashion (which I love) of the days when he
was a young man, he wore his own hair, which, being now
white and long, became his venerable face much better than
any wig — white, black, or brown. He was generally
dressed, as became his station of simple country gentleman,
in a plush coat with silver buttons, and for the most part he
wore boots, being of an active habit and always walking;
about his fields or in his garden among his flowers and his
fruit-trees. He was so good a sportsman that with his rod,
his gun, or his hawk he provided his table with everything
except beef, mutton, and pork. In religion he inclined to
Independency, being above all things an upholder of private
judgment ; in politics, he denied the divine right, and
openly said that a Challis might be a king as well as a
Stuart ; he abhorred the pope and all his works ; and though
he was now for a monarchy, he would have the kiM;;^'s own
power limited by the Parlian^ent \\\ his manners he was
28 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
grave and dignified ; not austere, but one who loved a
cheerful companion. He rode once a week, on market day,
to Sherborne, where he dined with his brother justices, hear-
ing and discussing the news, though news comes but slowly
from London to these parts — it was fourteen days after the
landing of the king, in the year 1660, that the bells of Sher-
borne Minster rang for that event. Sometimes a copy o{
the London Gazette came down by the Exeter coach, or some
of the company had lately passed a night where the coacl:
stopped, and conversed with travellers from London and
heard the news. For the rest of the week, his honor was
at home. For the most part he sat in the hall. In the
middle stands the great oak table where all the household
sit at meals together. There was little difference between
the dishes served above and those below the salt, save that
those above had each a glass of strong ale or of wine after
dinner and supper. One side of the hall was hung with
arras worked with representations of herbs, beasts, and
birds. On the other side was a great chimney, where in
the winter a noble fire was kept up all day long. On either
side of it hung fox skins, otter skins, polecat skins, with
fishing-rods, stags'-heads, horns, and other trophies of the
chase. At the end was a screen covered with old coats-of-
mail, helmets, bucklers, lances, pikes, pistols, guns with
match-locks, and a trophy of swords arranged in form of a
star. Below the cornice hung a row of leathern jerkins,
black and dusty, which had formerly been worn in place of
armor by the common sort. In the oriel window was a
sloping desk, having on one side the Bible, and on the
other Fox's "Book of IMartyrs." Below was a shelf with
other books, such as Vincent Wing's Almanack, King
Charles's " Golden Rules," "Glanville on Apparitions," the
"Complete Justice," and the "Book of Farriery." There
was also in the hall a great sideboard, covered with Turkey
work, pewter, brass, and fine linen. In the cupboard be
low was his honor's plate, reported to be worth a grea'
deal of money.
Sir Christopher sat in a high chair, curiously carved, with
arms and a triangular seat. It had belonged to the family
for many generations. Within reach of the chair v'as the
tobacco-jar, his pipe, and his favorite book — namely, "The
Gentleman's Academic : or the Book of St. Alban's, being a
work on Hunting, Hawking, and Armorie," by Dame
Juliana Berners, who wrote it two hundred and fifty years
ago. Sir Christopher loved especially to read aloud a
POR PAITH AND Jp-REEDOM.
2g
chapter in which it was proved that the distinction between
gentleman and churl began soon after the creation, when
Cain proved himself a churl, and Seth was created gentle-
man and esquire, or armiger, by Adam, his father. This
distinction was renewed after the flood by Noah himself, a
gentleman by lineal descent from Seth. In the case of his
sons, Ham was the churl, and the other two were the gentle-
men. I have sometimes thought that, according to this
author, all of us who are descended from Shem or Japhet
should be gentlemen, in which case there would be 110
churl in Great Britain at all. But certainly there are many ;
so that, to my poor thinking. Dame Juliana Berners must
be wrong.
There is, in addition to the great hall, the best parlor. But
as this was never wanted, the door of it was never opened
except at cleaning time. Then, to be sure, one saw a room
furnished very grand, with chairs in Turkey work, and
hung round with family portraits. The men were clad in
armor, as if they had all been soldiers or commanders ; the
women were mostly dressed as shepherdesses, with crooks
in their hands and flowing robes. In the garden was a long
bowling green, where in summer Sir Christopher took great
pleasure in that ancient game ; below the garden was a
broad fish-pond, made by damming the stream ; above and
below the pond there are trout, and in the pond are carp and
jack. A part of the garden was laid out for flowers, a part
for the stillroom, and a part for fruit. I have never seen
anywhere a better ordered garden for the stillroom. Every-
thing grew therein that the housewife wants : sweet cicely,
rosemary, burnet, sweet basil, chives, dill, clary, angelica,
lipwort, tarragon, thyme, and mint ; there were, as T-ord
Bacon, in his " Essay on Gardens," would have, "whole
alleys of them to have the pleasure when you walkor tread. "
There were thick hedges to keep off the east wind in spring,
so that one would enjoy the sun when that cold wind was
blowing. But in Somerset that wind hath not the bitterness
that it possesses along the eastern shores of the land.
Every morning Sir Christopher sat in his justice's chair
under the helmets and the coats of armor. Sometimes
gypsies would be brought before him, charged with stealing
poultry or poisoning pigs; or a rogue and vagabond would
stray into the parish ; these gentry were very speedily whip-
ped out of it. As for our own people, there is nowhere a
more quiet and orderly village ; quarrels there are with the
clothiers' men, who will still try to beat down the value of
so
FOI! FAITH AND FREEDOM.
the women's work, and bickerings sometimes between the
women themselves. Sir Christopher was judge for all.
Truly he was a patriarch like unto Abraham, andafather to
his people. Never was sick man suffered to want for medi-
cines and succor ; never was aged man suffered to lack
food and fire ; did any youth show leanings towards sloth,
profligacy, or drunkenness, he was straightway admonished,
and that right soundly, so that his back and shoulders would
remind him for many days of his sin. By evil-doers Sir
Christopher was feared as much as he was beloved by all
good men and true. This also is proper to one in high
station and authority.
In the evening he amused himself in playing backgam-
mon with the boys, or chess with his son-in-law, Mr.
Boscorel ; but the latter with less pleasure, because he was
generally defeated in the game. He greatly delighted in
the conversation and society of that learned and ingenious
gentleman, though on matters of religion and of politics his
son-in-law belonged to the opposite way of thinking
I do not know why Mr. Boscorel took upon himself holy
orders. God forbid that I should speak ill of any in author-
ity, and especially of one who was kind and charitable to
all, and refused to become a persecutor of those who de-
sired freedom of conscience and of speech. But if the chief
duty of a minister of the gospel is to preach, then was Mr.
Boscorel little better than a dog who cannot bark. He did
not preach ; that is to say, he could not, like my father,
mount the pulpit, Bible in hand, and teach, admonish, argue,
and convince without a written word. He read every Sun-
day morning a brief discourse, which might, perhaps, have
instructed Oxford scholars, but would not be understood by
the common people. As for arguments on religion, spiritual
conversation, or personal experience of grace, he would
lever suffer such talk in his presence, because it argued
private judgment and caused, he said, the growth of spiritual
pride. And of those hot Gospellers whose zeal brings them
to prison and the pillory, he spoke with contempt. His
conversation, I must acknowledge, was full of delight and
instruction, if the things which one learned of him were not
vanities. He had travelled in Italy and in France, and he
loved to talk of poetry, architecture, statuary, medals and
coins, antiquities and so forth — things harmless, and, per-
haps, laudable in themselves, but for a preacher of the
gospel, who ought to think of nothing but his sacred call-
ing, they are surely superfluities. Or he would talk of th*
POR j-AJTJI A.XD 2-REEDOM. X\
manners and customs of strange countries, and especially
of the pope. This person, whom I have been taught to look
upon as from the very nature of his pretensions the most
wicked of living men, Mr. Boscorel regarded with as much
toleration as he bestowed upon an Independent. Thus he
would tell us of London and the manners of the great ; of
the king, whom he had seen, and the court, seeming to
wink at things which one ought to hold in abhorrence. He
even told us of the playhouse, which, according to my
father, is the most subtle engine ever invented by the devil
for the destruction of souls. Yet Mr. Boscorel sighed to
think that he could no longer visit that place of amusement.
He loved also music, and played movingly upon the vio-
loncello ; and he could make pictures with pen, pencil, or
brush. I have some of his pamtings still, especially a
picture which he drew of Humphrey playing the fiddle, his
great eyes looking upward as if the music were drawing
his soul to heaven. I know not why he painted a halo about
his face. Mr. Boscorel also loved poetry, and quoted
Shakespeare and Ben Jonson more readily than the word
God.
In person he was of a goodly countenance, having clear-
cut features ; a straight nose, rather long ; soft eyes, and a
gentle voice. He was dainty in his apparel, loving fine
clean linen, and laced neckerchiefs, but was not a gross
feeder ; he drank but little wine, but would discourse upon
fine wines, such as the Tokay of Hungary, Commandery
wine from Cyprus, and the like, and he seemed ])etter
pleased to watch the color of the wine in the glass, and to
breathe its perfume, than to drink it. Above all things he
hated coarse speech and rude manners. He spoke of men
as if he stood on an eminence watching them, and always
with pity, as if he belonged to a nobler creation. How
ciouki such a man have such a son ?
FOR FAITH AND FREELOM.
CHAPTER V.
THE RUNAWAY.
Everybody hath heard, and old people still remember, how
one act after the other was passed for the suppression of
the Nonconformists, whom the Church of England tried to
extirpate, but could not. Had these laws been truly carried
into effect there would have been great suffering among the
Dissenters ; but, in order to enforce them, every man's hand
would have been turned against his neighbor, and this —
thank God ? — is not possible in Somerset.
For example, the Act of Conformity provided not only for
the ejectment of Nonconforming ministers (which was duly
carried out), but also enacted that none of them should take
scholars without the license of the bishop. Yet many of the
ejected ministers maintained themselves in this way, openly,
without the bishop's license. They were not molested,
though they might be threatened by some hot Episcopalian ;
nor were the bishops anxious to set the country afire by
attempting to enforce this law. One must not take from an
honest neighbor, whatever an unjust law may command,
his only way of living.
Again, the act passed two years later punished all per-
sons with fine and imprisonment who attended conventi-
cles. Yet the conventicles continued to be held over the
whole country, because it was impossible for the justices to
fine and imprison men with whom they sat at dinner every
T^arket-day. with whom they took their punch and tobacco,
whom they knew to be honest and God-fearing folk. Agaim,
how could they fine and imprison their own flesh and
blood .? Why, in every family there were some who loved
the meeting-house better than the steeple-house. Laws
have little power when they are against the conscience of
the people.
Thirdly, there was an act prohibiting ministers from re-
siding within five miles of the village or town where they
had preached. This was a most cruel and barbarous act,
because it sent the poor ministers away from the help of
tbeir friends. Yet how was it regarded? My father, for
FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM, 7,^
his part, continued to live at Bradford Orcas without let oi
Hindrance, and so, no doubt, did many more.
Again, another act was passed giving authority to justices
of the peaci; to break open doors and to take in custody per-
sons found assembling for worship. I have heard of dis-
turbances at Taunton, where the magistrates carried things
with a high hand ; but I think the people who met to wor-
ship after their own fashion were little disturbed. Among
the Churchmen were some, no doubt, who remembered the
snubs and rubs they had themselves experienced, and the
memory may have made them revengeful. All the persecu-
tion, it is certain, was not on this side of the Church.
There was, for instance, the case of Dr. Walter Raleigh,
Dean of Wells, who was clapped into a noisome prison
where the plague had broken out. He did not die of that
disease, but was done to death in the jail, barbarously, by
one David Barrett, shoemaker, who was never punished for
the murder, but was afterwards made constable of the City.
There was also the case of the Rev. Dr. Piers, whom I have
myself seen, for he lived to a good old age. He was a pre-
bendary of Wells and, being driven forth, was compelled to
turn farmer, and to work with his own hands — digging, hoe-
ing, ploughing, reaping, and threshing — when he should
have been in his study. Every week this reverend and
learned doctor of divinity was to be seen at Ilminster Mar-
ket, standing beside the pillars with his cart, among the
farmers and their wives, selling his apples, cheese, and
cabbages.
I say that no doubt many remembered these things. Yet
the affection of the people went forth to the Nonconformists
and the ejected ministers, as was afterwards but too well
proved. I have been speaking of things which happened
before my recollection. It was in the year 1665, four years
after the ejection, that I was born. My father named me
Grace Abounding, but I have never been called by any other
name than my first. 1 was thus six years younger than my
brother Barnaby, and two years younger than Robin and
Humphrey.
The first thing that I can recollect is a kind of picture,
preserved, so to speak, in my head. At the open door is a
woman spinning at the wheel. She is a woman with a pale,
grave face ; she v/orks diligently, and for the most part in
silence ; if she speaks, it is to encourage or to admonish a
little girl who plays in the garden outside. Her lips move
as she works, because she communes with her thoutj;hts all
34
FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
day long-. From time to time she turns her head and looks
with anxiety into the other room, where sits her husband
at his table.
Before him stand three boys. They are Barnaby, Robin,
and Humphrey. They are learning- Latin. The room is
piled with books on shelves and books on the floor. In the
corner is a pallet, which is the master's bed by night I hear
the voices of the boys who repeat their lessons, and the
admonishing of their master. I can see through the open
door the boys themselves. One, a stout and broad lad, is
my brother Barnaby ; he hangs his head and forgets his les-
son, and causes his father to punish him every day. He
recei*. es admonition with patience, yet profiteth nothing.
The next is Humphrey ; he is already a lad of grave and
modest carriage, who loves his books and learns diligently.
The third is Robin, whose parts are good, were his applica-
tion equal to his intelligence. He is impatient, and longs
for the time when he may close his book and go to play
again.
Poor Barnaby ! at the sight of a Latin grammar he would
feel sick. He would willingly have taken a flogging every
day — to be sure, that generally happened to him — in order
to escape his lessons and be off to the fields and woods.
It was the sight of his rueful face — yet never sad except
at lessons — which made my mother sigh when she saw him
dull but patient over his book. Had he stayed at home I
know not what could have been done with him, seeing that
to become a preacher of the gospel was beyond even the
power of prayer (the Lord having clearly expressed his will
in this matter). He would have had to clap on a leathern
apron, and become a wheelwright or blacksmith ; nothing
better than an honest trade was possible for him.
But (whether happily or not) a strange whim seized the
boy when he was fpurteen years of age. He would go tc
sea. How he came to think of the sea I know not ; he
had never seen the sea ; there were no sailors in the vil-
lag-e ; there was no talk of the sea. Perhaps Humphrey,
wno read many books, told him of the great doings of our
sailors on the Spanish main and elsewhere. Perhaps some
of the clothiers' men, who are a roving and unsettled crew,
had been sailors ; some, I know, bad been soldiers under
Oliver. However, this matters not, Barnaby must needs
become a sailor.
When first he broke this resolution, which he did secretly,
to fiis mother, she began to weep and lament, because
FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 35
everybody knows how dreadful is the life of a sailor, and
how full of dangers. She begged him to put the thought
out of his head, and to apply himself again to his books.
" Mother," he said, "it is no use. What comes in at one
ear goes out at the other. Nothing sticks ; I shall never be
a scholar."
" Then, my son, learn an honest trade."
" What 1 Become the village cobbler — or the black-
smith ? Go hat in hand to his honor, when my father should
have been a bishop, and my mother is a gentlewoman }
That will I not. I will go and be a sailor. All sailors are
gentlemen. 1 shall rise, and become first mate, and then
second captain, and lastly, captain in command. Who
knows ? I may go and tight the Spaniard, if I am lucky."
" Oh, my son, canst thou not stay at home and go to
church, and consider the condition of thine immortal soul ?
Of sailors it is well known that their language is made up
of profane oaths, and that they are all profligates and drunk-
ards. Consider, my son " — my mother laid her hand upon
his arm — "what were heaven to me, if I have not my dear
children with me as well as my husband .? How could I
praise the Lord if I were thinking of my son who was not
with me .? but — ah ! Heaven forbid the thought ! "
Barnaby made no reply. What could he say in answer
to my mother's tears .-* Yet I think she must have under-
stood very well that her son, having got this resolution in-
to Ms head, would never give it up.
" Oh ! " she said, " when thou wast a little baby in my
arms, Barnaby — who are now so big and strong " — she
looked at him with the wonder and admiration that women
feel when their sons grow big and stout — "I prayed that
God would accept thee as an offering for his service. Thou
art vowed unto the Lord, my son, as much as Samuel. Do
you think he complained of his lessons ? What would have
happened, think you, to Samuel, if he had taken off his
ephod and declared that he would serve no longer at the
altar, but must take spear and shield, and go to fight the
Amalekite .'' "
Said Barnaby, in reply, speaking from an unregenerate
heart, " Mother, had I been Samuel, to wear an cphod and
to learn the Latin syntax every day, I should have done
that. Ay ! I would have done it, even if I knew that at
the first skirmish an arrow would pierce my heart."
It was after a great flogging, on account of the passive
voice or some wrestling with the syntax that Barnaby
^6 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM
plucked up courage to tell his father what he wished to da
" With my consent," said my father, sternly, "thou shalt
never become a sailor. As soon would I send thee to be-
come a buffoon in a playhouse. Never dare to speak of it
again. "
Barnaby hung his head and said nothing.
Then my mother, who knew his obstinate disposition,
took him to Sir Christopher, who chid him roundly, telling
him that there was work for him on land, else he would
liave been born beside the coast, where the lads take nat-
urally to the sea ; that being, as he was, only an ignorant
hoy, and landborn, he could not know the dangers which
he would encounter ; that some ships are cast away on
desert islands, where the survivors remain in misery until
they died, and some on lands where savages devour them,
and some are dragged down by calamries and other dread-
ful monsters, and some are burned at sea, their crews having
to choose miserably between burning and drowning, and
some are taken by the enemy, and the sailors clapped into
dungeons and tortured by the accursed Inquisition.
Many more things did Sir Christopher set forth, showing
the miserable life and the wretched end of the sailor. But
Barnaby never changed countenance ; and though my
mother bade him note this and mark that, and take heed
unto his honor's words, his face showed no melting. 'Twas
always an obstinate lad ; nay, it was his obstinacy alone
which kept him from his learning. Otherwise, he might
perhaps have become as great a scholar as Humphrey.
"Sir," he said, when Sir Christopher had no other word to
say, " with submission, I would still choose to be a sailor,
if I could."
In the end he obtained his wish. That is to say, since
no one would help him towards it, he helped himself. And
this, I think, is the only way in which men do ever get what
they want
It happened one evening that there passed through the
village a man with a pipe and tabor, on which he played
so movingly that all the people turned out to listen. For
my own part I was with my mother, yet I ran to the garden-
gate and leaned my head over, drawn by the sound of the
music. Presently the boys and girls began to take hands
and to dance. I dare not say that to dance is sinful, because
David danced. But it was so regarded by my father, so
that when he passed by them, on his way home from taking
the »Af, and actually saw his own son Barnaby in the middle
FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 37
of the dancers, footing it with them all, leading one girl up
and the other down at "John come and kiss me now," he
was seized with a mighty wrath, and, catching his son
sharply by the ear, led him out of the throng and so home.
For that evening Barnaby went supperless to bed, with the
promise of such a flogging in the morning as would cause
him to remember for the rest of his life the sinfulness of
dancing. Never had I seen my father so angry. I trembled
before his wrathful eyes. But Barnaby faced him with
steady looks, making answer none, yet not showing the
least repentance or fear. I thought it was because a flog-
ging had no terrors for him. The event proved that I was
wrong, for when we awoke in the morning he was gone.
He had crept down-stairs in the night ; he had taken half a
loaf of bread and a great cantle of soft cheese, and had
gone away. I knew for my part, very well, that he had not
gone for fear of the rod ; he had run away with design to
go to sea. Perhaps he had gone to Bristol ; perhaps to
Plymouth ; perhaps to Lyme. My mother wept, and my
father sighed ; and for ten years more we neither saw nor
heard anything of Barnaby, not even whether he was dead
or living.
CHAPTER VI.
BENJAMIN, LORD CHANCELLOR.
Summer follows winter, and winter summer, in due course,
turning children into young men and maidens, changing
school into work, and play into love, and love into marriage,
and so onwards to the churchyard, where we all presently
lie, hopeful of heaven's mercy, whether Mr. Boscorel did
stand beside our open grave in his white surplice, or my
father in his black gown.
Barnaby was gone ; the other three grew tall, and would
still be talking of the lives before them. Girls do never look
forward to the future with the eagerness and joy of boys.
To the dullest boy it seems a fine thing to be master of his
own actions, even if that liberty lead to whipping-post,
pillory, or gallows. To boys of ambition and imagination
the ^ifts of Fortune show like the splendid visions of ^
38 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
prophet They think that earthly fame will satisfy the
soul. Perhaps women see these glories and their true worth
with clearer eye, as not desiring them. And truly it seems
a small thing, after a life spent in arduous toil, and with
one foot already in the grave, to obtain fortune, rank, or
title.
Benjamin and Humphrey were lads of ambition. To
them, but in fields which lay far apart, the best life seemed
to be that which is spent among men on the ant-hill where
all are driving and being driven, loading each other with
burdens intolerable, or with wealth or with honors, and
then dying and being forgotten in a moment — which we call
London. In the kindly country one stands apart and sees
the vanity of human wishes. Yet the ambition of Hum-
phrey, it must be confessed, was noble, because it was not
for his own advancement, but for the good of mankind.
"I shall stay at home," said Robin. '-'You two may go
if you please. Perhaps you v.'ill like the noise of London,
where a man cannot hear himself speak, they say, for the
roaring of the crowd, the ringing of the bells, and the rum-
bling of the carts. As for me, what is good enough for my
grandfather will be surely good enough for me."
It should, indeed, be good enough for anybody to spend
his days after the manner of Sir Christopher, administering
justice for the villagers, with the weekly ordinary at Sher-
borne for company, the green fields and his garden for
pleasure and for exercise, and the welfare of his soul for
prayer. Robin, besides, loved to go forth with hawk and
gun ; to snare the wild creatures ; to hunt the otter and the
fox ; to bait the badger, and trap the stoat and weasel ; to
course the hares. But cities and crowds, even if they
should be shouting in his honor, did never draw him, even
after he had seen them. Nor was he ever tempted to believe
any ma):iner of life more full of delight and more consistent
with the end of man's creation than the rural life, the air of
the fields, the following of the plough for the men, and the
spinning-wheel for the women.
" I shall be a lawyer," said Benjamin, puffing out his
cheeks and squaring his shoulders. "Very well, then, I
shall be a great lawyer. What ? None of your pettifog-
ging tribe for me : I shall step to the front, and stay there.
What? Some one must have the prizes and the promotion.
There are always places falling vacant and honors to be
g-iver* away : they shall be given to me. ^^ hy not to me
as well as another ? "
FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 3^
"Well," said Robin, "you are strong enough to take
them, willy-nilly."
" I am strong enough," he replied, with conviction.
" First, I shall be called to the outer bar, where I shall plead
in stuff — I saw them at Exeter last 'sizes. Next, I shall be
summoned to become king's counsel, when I shall flaunt it
in silk. Who but 1 1 " Then he seemed to grow actually
three inches taller, so great is the power of imagination.
He M''as already six feet in height, his shoulders broad, and
his face red and tiery, so that now he looked very big and
tall. " Then my inn will make me a bencher, and I shall
sit at the high table in term-time. And the attorneys shall
run after me and fight with each other for my services in
court, so that in every great case I shall be heard thunder-
ing before the jury, and making the witnesses perjure them-
selves with terror — for which they will be afterwards flogged.
I shall belong to. the king's party — none of your canting
Whigs for me. When the high-treason cases come on, I
shall be the counsel for the crown. That is the high-road
to advancement. "
"This is very well, so far," said Robin, laughing. "Ben
is too modest, however. He does not get on fast enough."
" All in good time," Ben replied. " I mean to get on as
fast as anybody. But I shall follow the beaten road. First
favor with attorneys and those who have suits in the courts ;
then the ear of the judge. I know not how one gets the ear
of the judge — " he looked despondent for a moment, then
he held up his head again — "Ijut I shall find out. Others
have found out — why not I 'i What } I am no fool, am 1 ? "
" Certainly not, Ben. But as yet we stick at king's
counsel."
" After the car of the judge, the favor of the crown. What
do I care who is king ? It is the king who hath preferment
and place and honors in his gift. Where these are given
away, there shall I be found. Next am I made sergeant-at-
'aw. Then I am saluted as 'brother' by the judges on the
bench, while all the others burst with envy. After that I
shall myself be called to the bench. I am already ' my lord
— ' why do you laugh, Robin.? — and a knight : Sir Benjamin
Boscorel — Sir Benjamin." Here he puffed out his checks
again and swung his shoulders like a very great person
indeed.
" Proceed, Sir Benjamin," said Humphrey, gravely, while
Robin laughed.
•* When I am a judge J promise ;{ou I will rate the bar-
40
FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
risters and storm at the witnesses and admonish the jury uiv
til there shall be no other question in their minds but to find
out first what is my will in the case, and then to govern
themselves accordingly. I will be myself judge and jury
and all. Oh ! I have seen the judge at last Exeter 'sizes.
He made all to shake in their shoes. I shall not stop there.
Chief baron I shall be, perhaps — but on that point I have
not yet made up my mind — and then lord chancellor." He
paused to take breath, and looked around him, grandeur
and authority upon his brow. "Lord chancellor," he re-
peated, "on the woolsack ! "
"You will then," said Robin, "be raised to the peerage
— first Lord Boscorel ; or perhaps, if your lordship will so
honor this poor village, Lord Bradford Orcas — "
" Earl of Sherborne I have chosen for title, " said Benja-
min. "And while I am climbing up the ladder, where
wilt thou be, Humphrey } Grovelling in the mud with the
poor devils who cannot rise } "
"Nay, I shall have a small ladder of my own, Ben. I
find great corrifort in the thought that when your lordship
is roaring and bawling with the gout — your noble toe being
like a ball of fire and your illustrious foot swathed in flannel
— I shall be called upon to drive away the pain, and you
will honor me with the title not only of humble cousin, but
also of rescuer and preserver. Will it not be honor enough
to cure the Right Honorable the Earl of Sherborne
(first of the name), the lord chancellor, of his gout and to
restore him to the duties of his great office, so that once
more he shall be the dread of evil-doers and of all who have
to appear before him ? As yet, my lord, your extremities,
I perceive, are free from that disease — the result, too often,
of that excess in wine which besets the great."
Here Robin laughed again, and so did Benjamin. No-
body could use finer language than Humphrey, if he
pleased.
"A fine ambition I " said Ben. "To wear a black velvet
coat and a great wig ; to carry a gold-headed cane ; all day
long to listen while the patient tells of his gripes and pains ;
to mix boluses and to compound nauseous draughts !
" Well," Humphrey laughed," if you are lord chancellor,
Ben, you will, I hope, give us good laws, and so make the
nation happy and prosperous. While you are doing this. I
will be keeping you in health for the good of the country.
I say that this is a fine ambition."
"An4 Robin, here, will sit in the great chair, and have
tOk I-'A/TH AA^D freedom. 4 1
he rogues haled before him, and order the head-borough to
bring out his cat-o'-nine-tails. In the winter evenings he
will play backgammon, and in the summer bowls. Then
a posset, and to bed. And never any change from year to
year. A fine life, truly ? "
"Truly, I think it is a very fine life," said Robin ; "while
you make the laws, I will take care that they are obeyed.
What better service is there than to cause good laws to be
obeyed? Make good laws, my lord chancellor, and be
t!iankful that you will have faithful, law-abiding men to
carry them out."
Thus they talked. Presently the time came when the
l:i(ls must leave the village and go forth to prepare for such
course as should be allotted to them, whether it led to great-
ness or to obscurity.
Benjamin went first, being sixteen years of age and a
{;reat fellow as I have said, broad-shouldered and lusty, with
a red face, a strong voice and a loud laugh. In no respect
(lid he resemble his father, who was delicate in manner and
in speech. He was to be entered at Gray's Inn, where, under
some counsel learned in the law, he was to read until such
lime as he should be called.
He came to bid me farewell, which at first, until he
frightened me with the things he said, I took kindly of
him.
"Child," he said, "I am going to London, and, I sup'
pose, I shall not come back to this village for a long time,
Nay, were it not for thee, I should not wish to come back
at all."
" Why for me, Ben ? "
"Because — " here his red face became redder, and he
stammered a little ; but not much, for he was ever a lad of
confidence — "because, child, thou art notyet turned twelve
which is young to be hearing of such a thing. Yet a body
may as well make things safe. And as for Humphrey or
Robin interfenng, I will break their heads with my cudgel
if they do. Remember that, then." He shook his finger at
me, threatening.
" In what business should they interfere .-' " I asked.
"Kiss me, Grace" — here he tried to lay his arm round
my neck, but I ran away. "Oh! if thou art skittish, I
care not : all in good time. Very well, then ; let us make
things safe. Grace, when I am come back thou wilt be
seventeen or eighteen, which is an age when girls should
marry — "
42
FOk FATTir AMD FREEDOM.
" I will have nothing to do with marrying, Ben.''
"Not yet. If I mistake not, child, thou wilt then be as
beautiful as a rose in June."
" I want no foolish talk, Ben. Let me go."
"Then I shall be twenty-one years of age, practising in
the courts. I shall go the Western Circuit, in order to see
thee often — partly to keep an eye upon thee and partly to
warn off other men. Because, child, it is my purpose to
marry thee myself. Think upon that, now."
At this I laughed.
"Laugh if you please, my dear ; I shall marry thee as
soon as the way is open to the bench and the Avoolsack.
What.'* I can see a long way ahead. I will tell thee what
I see. There is a monstrous great crowd of people in the
street staring at a glass coach. ' Who is the lovely lady .? '
they ask. ' The lovely lady ' — that is you, Grace ; none
other — ' with the diamonds at her neck and the gold chain,
in the glass coach ? ' says one who knows her liveries ;
" 'tis the lady of the great lord chancellor, the Earl of Sher-
borne. ' And the women fall green with envy of her hap-
piness and great good-fortune and her splendor. Courage,
child ; I go to prepare the way. Oh ! thou knowest not
the grand things that I shall pour into thy lap when I am a
judge."
This was the first time that any man spoke to me of love.
But Benjamin was always masterful, and had no respect for
such a nice point as the wooing of a maiden — which, me-
thinks, should be gentle and respectful, not as if a woman
was like a savage to be tempted by a string of beads, or so
foolish as to desire with her husband such gauds as
diamonds, or gold chains, or a glass coach. Nor doth a
woman like to be treated as if she was to be carried off by
force like the Sabine women of old.
The rector rode to London with his son. It is a long
journey, over rough ways ; but it pleased him once more
to see that great city, where there are pictures and statues
and books to gladden the hearts of such as love these things.
And on the way home he sojourned for a few days at his
old college of All-Souls, where were still left one or two of
his old friends. Then he rode back to his village. " There
are but two places in this country," he said, " or perhaps
three, at most, where a gentleman and a scholar, or one
who loveth the fine arts, would choose to live. They are
London and Oxford, and perhaps the sister university upon
the Granta. Well, I have once more been privileged tc
FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
43
•vitness the humors of the court and the town ; I have once
more been permitted to sniff the air of a great library. Let
us be thankful. " He showed his thankfulness with a sigh
which was almost a groan.
It was three years before we saw Benjamin again. Then
he returned, but not for long. Like his father, he loved
London better than the country, but for other reasons.
Certainly, he cared nothing for those arts which so much
delighted the rector, and the air of a coffee-house pleased
him more than the perfume of books in a library. When
he left us he was a rustic ; when he came back he was
already what they call a fopling : that is to say, when he
went to pay his respects to Sir Christopher, his grandfather,
he wore a very fine cravat of Flanders lace, with silken
hos- ; and lace and ribbons at his wrist. He was also scented
with bergamot, and wore a peruke, which, while he talked,
he combed and curled, to keep the curls of this monstrous
head-dress in place. Gentlemen must, I '-uppose, wear
this invention, and one of the learned professions must
show the extent of the learning by the splendors of his full-
bottomed wig. Yet I think that a young man looks most
comely while he wears his own hair. He had cocked his
hat, on which were bows, and he wore a sword. He spoke
also in a mincing London manner, having forsworn the
honest broad speech of Somerset ; and (but not in the pres-
ence of his elders) he used strange oaths and ejaculations.
" Behold him !" said his father, by no means displeased
at his son's foppery, because he ever loved the city fashions
and thought that a young man did well to dress and to
comport himself after the way of the world. "Behold liim !
Thus he sits in the coffee-house ; thus he shows himself in
the pit Youth is the time for finery and for folly. Alas I
would that we could bring back that time ! What saith
John Dryden — glorious John — of Sir Fopling.? —
' His various modes from various fashions follow :
One taught the toss, ami one the new French wallow ;
His sword-knot this, his cravat that, designed,
And this the yard-long snal<e he twirls behind
From one the sacred periwig he gained.
Which wind ne'er blew, nor touch of hat profaned.' "
"Well, Ben," said Sir Christopher, " if the mode can help
*hee to the bench why not follow the mode? "
"It will not hinder, sir," Ben replied. "A man who
yiath his fortune to make does well to be scon everywhere,
and to be dressed like other men of his time."
44 FOR FAITir AND FREEDOM.
One must do Benjamin the justice to acknowledge that
though, like the young gentlemen his friends and com-
panions his dress was foppish, and his talk was of the
pleasures of the town, he suffered nothing to stand in the
way of his advancement. He was resolved upon being a
great lawyer, and, therefore, if he spent the evening iii
drinking, singing, and making merry, he was reading in
chambers or else attending the courts all the day, ana
neglected nothing that would make him master of Ir.i;
profession. And, though of learning he had little, hi^
natural parts were so good, and his resolution was so
strong, that I doubt not he would have achieved his
ambition had it not been for the circumstances whicb.
afterwards cut short his career. His cours« of life,
by his own boasting, was profligate ; his friends were
drinkers and revellers ; his favorite haunt was the tavern,
where they all drank punch and sang ungodly songs, and
smoked tobacco ; and of religion he seemed to have no
care whatever.
I was afraid fhat he would return to the nauseous subject
which he had opened three years before. Therefore, I con-
tinued with my mother, and would give him no chance to
speak with me. But he found me, and caught me return-
ing home one evening.
"Grace," he said, "I feared that I might have to go away
without a word alone with thee."
" I want no words alone, Benjamin. Let me pass ! " for
he stood before me in the way.
"Not so fast, pretty ! " — he caught me by the wrist, and,
being a young man so strong and determined, he held me
as by a vice. "Not so fast, Mistress Grace. First, my
dear, let me tell thee that my purpose still holds — nay " —
here he swore a most dreadful, impious oath — " I am more
resolved than ever. There is not a woman, even m Lon-
don, that is to be compared with thee, child. Whet ?
Compared with thee .'' Why, they are like the twinkling
stars compared with the glorious queen of night. What
did I say? — that at nineteen thou wouldst be a miracle of
beauty? Nay, that time hath come already ! I love thee,
child 1 I love thee, I say, ten times as much as ever I
lored thee before ! "
He gasped, and then breathed hard ; but still he held me
fast.
"Idle compliments cost a man nothing, Benjamin. Say
irfiat you meant to say and let me go. If you hold me
hVR FAITH AND FJikEDOM. ^ J
any longer I will cry out and bring your father to learn the
the reason."
"Well," he said, "I will not keep thee. I have said what
I wanted to say. My time hath not yet arrived. I am short-
ly to be called, and shall then begin to practise. When I
come back here again, 'twill be with a ring in one hand,
and in the other the prospect of the woolsack. Think upon
that while I am gone. ' Your ladyship ' is finer than plain
'madame,' and the court is more delightful than a village
green among the pigs and ducks. Think upon it well :
thou art a lucky girl ; a plain village girl to be promoted
to a coronet ! However, I have no fears for thee ; thou
wilt adorn the highest fortune. Thou wilt be worthy of
the great place whither I shall lead thee. What? Is Sir
George Jeffreys a better man than I ? Is he of better
family? Had he better interest ? Is he a bolder man ? Not
so. Yet was Sir George a common sergeant at twenty-
three, and recorder at thirty : chief justice of Chester at
thirty-two. What he has done I can do. Moreover, Sir
George hath done me the honor to admit me to his com-
pany, and will advance me. This he hath promised, both
in his cups and when he is sober. Think it over, child :
a ring in one hand and a title in the other ! "
So Benjamin went away again. I was afraid when I
thought of him and his promise, because I knew him of
old ; and his eyes were as full of determination as when he
would fight a lad of his own age and go on fighting till the
other had had enough. Yet he could not marry me against
my will. His own father would protect me, to say nothing
of mine.
I should have told him then — as I had told him before —
that I would never marry him. Then, perhaps, he would
have been shaken in his purpose. The very thought of
marrying him filled me with terror unspeakable. I was
afraid of him not only because he was so masterful — nay,
women like a man to be strong of will — but because he had
no religion in him and lived like an atheist, if such a wretch
there be ; at all events, with unconcern about his soul ;
and because his life was profligate, his tastes were gross, and
he was a drinker of much wine. Even at the manor-house
I had seen him at supper drinking until his cheeks were
puffed out and his voice grew thick. What kind of happi-
ness would there be for a wife whose husband has to be
carried home by his varlets too heavy with drink to stand
or to speak ?
46 FOR FAITH AND FKEFDOM.
Alas ! there is one thing which girls, happily, do nevei
apprehend. They cannot understand how it is possible for
a man to become so possessed with the idea of their charms
(which they hold themselves as of small account, knowing
how fleeting they are, and of what small value) that he will
go through tire and water for that woman ; yea; and break
all the commandments, heedless of his immortal soul, rather
than suffer another man to take her — and that even though
he knows that the poor creature loves him not, or loves an-
other man. If maidens knew this, I think that they would go
in fear and trembling lest they should be coveted by some
wild beast in human shape, and prove the death of the gal-
lant gentleman, whom they would choose for their lover.
Or they would make for themselves convents and hide in
them, so great would be their fear. But it is idle to speak
of this, because, say what one will, girls can never under-
stand the power and the vehemence of love, when once it
hath seized and doth thoroughly possess a man.
CHAPTER VIL
MEDICINE DOCTOR.
Humphrey did not, like Benjamin, brag of the things he
would do when he should go forth into the world. Never-
theless, he thought much about his future, and frequently
he discoursed with me about the life that he fain would lead.
A young man, I think, wants some one with whom he may
speak freely concerning the thoughts which fill his soul.
We who belong to the sex which receives but does not create
or invent, which profits by man's good work, and suffers
from the evil which he too often does, have no such thoughts
and ambitions.
"I cannot," he would say, "take upon me holy orders,
as Mr. Boscorel would have me, promising, in my cousin
Robin's name, this living after his death, because, though I
am in truth a mere pauper and dependant, there are in me
none of those prickings of the Spirit which I could interpret
into a divine call for the ministry ; next, because I could
not in conscience sign the Thirty-nine Articles while I still
keld that the Nonconformist way of worship was more con-
FOR FA I 'fir AND FRFFDOA/. 47
sonant with the Word of God. And, again, I am of the
opinion that the law, which forbids any but a well-formed
man from serving at the altar, hath in it something eternal.
It denotes that as no cripple may serve at the earthly altar,
so in heaven, of which the altar is an emblem, all those
who dwell therein shall be perfect in body as in soul. What,
then, is such an one as myself, who hath some learning
and no fortune, to do } Sir Christopher, my benefactor will
maintain me at Oxford until I have taken a degree. This
\s more than I could have expected. Therefore, I am re-
solved to take a degree in medicine. It is the only profes-
sion fit for a misshapen creature like mc. They will not
laugh at me when I alleviate their pains."
"Could any one laugh at you, Humphrey } "
"Pray Heaven I frighten not the ladies at the first aspect
of me." He laughed, but not with merriment ; for, indeed,
a cripple or a hunchback cannot laugh mirthfully over his
own misfortune. "Some men speak scornfully of the pro-
fession," he went on. "The great French playwright,
Monsieur Moliere, hath made the physicians the butt and
laughing-stock of all Paris. Yet consider. It is medicine
which prolongs our days and relieves our pains. Before
the science was studied, the wretch who caught a fever in
the marshy forest lay down and died ; an ague lasted all
one's life ; a sore throat putrefied and killed ; a rheumatism
threw a man upon the bed from which he would never rise.
The physician is man's chief friend. If our sovereigns
studied the welfare of humanity as deeply as the art of war,
they would maintain, at a vast expense, great colleges of
learned men continually engaged in discovering the secrets
of nature — the causes and the remedies of disease. What
better use can a man make of his life than to discover one
—only one — sacret which will drive away part of the agony
of disease ? The Jews, more merciful than the Romans,
stupefied their criminals after they were crucified ; so they
died, indeed, but their sufferings were less. So the physi-
cian, though in the end all men must die, may help them
to die without pain. Nay, I have even thought that we
might devise means of causing the patient by some potent
drug to fall into so deep a sleep that even the surgeon's
knife shall not cause him to awaken."
He therefore, before he entered at Oxford, read with my
father many learned books of the ancients on the science
and practice of medicine, and studied botany with the help,
of such books as he could procure.
4§ FOR IAIT?f AND FREEbOM,
Some men have but one side to them — that is to say, th«
only active part of them is engaged in but one study ; the
rest is given up to rest or indolence. Thus Benjamin
studied law diligently, but nothing else. Humphrey, for
his part, read his Galen and his Celsus, but he neglected
not the cultivation of those arts and accomplishments in
which Mr. Boscorel was as ready a teacher as he was a
ready scholar. He thus learned the history of painting and
sculpture and architecture, and that of coins and medals, so
that at eighteen Humphrey might already have set up as a
virtuoso.
Nor was this all. Still, by the help of the rector, he
learned the use of the pencil and the brush, and could both
draw prettily and paint in water-colors, whether the cottages
or the church, the cows in the fields, or the woods and hills.
I have many pictures of his painting which he gave me
from time to time. And he could play sweetly, whether on
the spinnet, or the violin, or the guitar, spending many
hours every week with Mr. Boscorel playing duettos to-
gether ; and willingly he would sing, having a rich and full
voice very delightful to hear. When I grew a great girl,
and had advanced far enough, I was permitted to play with
them. There was no end to the music which Mr. Boscorel
possessed. First, he had a great store of English ditties
such as country-people love — as, "Sing all a green willow,"'
"Gather ye rosebuds while ye may," or " Once I loved a
maiden fair," There was nothing rough or rude in these
songs, though I am informed that much wickedness is
taught by the ribald songs that are sung in playhouses and
coffee-rooms. And when we were not playing or singing,
Mr. Boscorel would read us poetry — portions from Shake-
speare or Ben Jonson, or out of Milton's " Paradise Lost ; "
or from Herrick, who is surely the sweetest poet that ever
lived, " yet marred," said Mr. Boscorel, "by much coarse-
ness and corruption." Now, one day, after we had been
thus reading — one winter afternoon, when the sun lay upon
the meadows — Humphrey walked home with me, and on
the way confessed, with many blushes, that he, too, had
been writing verses. And with that he lugged a paper out
of his pocket.
"They are for thine own eyes only, Grace. Truly, my
dear, thou hast the finest eyes in the world. They are for
no other eyes than thine," he repeated. " Not for Robin,
mind, lest he laugh ; poetry hath in it something sacred, so
that even the writer of bad verses cannot bear to have them
FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
4^
laughed at When thou art a year or two older thou wilt
understand that they were written for thy heart as well as
for thine eyes. Yet, if thou like the verses, they may be
seen by Mr. Boscorel, but in private ; and if he laug;h at
them do not tell me. Yet, again, one would like to know
what he said ; wherefore, tell me, though his words be like
a knife in my side."
Thus he wavered between wishing to show them to his
master in art, and fearing.
In the end, when I showed them to Mr. Boscorel, he said
ftiat, for a beginner, they were very well — very well, in-
deed ; that the rhymes were correct, and the metre true ;
that years and practice would give greater firmness, and
that the crafty interlacing of thought and passion, which
was the characteristic of Italian verse, could only be learned
by much reading of the Italian poets. More he said, speak-
ing upon the slight subject of rhyme and poetry with as
much seriousness and earnestness as if he were weighing
and comparing texts of Scripture.
Then he gave me back the verses with a sigh.
"Child,'" he said. "To none of us is given what most
we desire. For my part, I longed in his infancy that my
son should grow up even as Humphrey, as quick to learn ;
with as true a taste ; with as correct an ear ; with a hand so
skillful. But — you see, I complain not, though Benjamin
loves the noisy tavern better than the quiet coffee-house
where the wits resort. To him such things as verses, art,
and music are foolishness. I say that I complain not ; but
I would to Heaven that Humphrey were my own, and that
his shoulders were straight, poor lad ! Thy father hath made
him a Puritan ; he is such as John Milton in his youth — and
as beautiful in face as that stout Republican. I doubt not
that we shall have from the hand of Humphrey, if he live
and prosper, something tine, the nature of which, whether
it is to be in painting, or in music, or in poetry, I know
not Take the verses, and take care that thou lose them
not ; and, child — remember — the poet is allowed to say what
he pleases about a woman's eyes. Be not deceived into
thinking — But no — no — there is no fear. Good-night,
thou sweet and innocent saint."
I knew not then what he meant, but these are the verses ;
and I truly think that they are very moving and religious.
For if woman be truly the most beautiful work of the Creator
(which all men aver), then it behoove* her all the morestili
to point upwaxU. I read them with a pleasure and surprise
4
5°
FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
that filled my whole soul, and inflamed my heart with pious
joy:
" Around, above, and everywhere
The earlh haih many a lovely thing;
The zephyrs sofl, the flowers fair,
The babbling brook, the bubbling springy
" The gray of dawn, the azure sky,
The sunset glow, the evening gloom;
The warbling thrush, the skylark high,
The blossoming hedge, the garden's bloom.
** The sun in state, the moon in pride,
The twinkling stars in order laid;
The winds that ever race and ride.
The shadows flying o'er the glade.
** Oh! many a lovely thing hath earth,
To charm the eye and witch the soul;
Yet one there is of passing worth —
For that one thing I give the whole.
*' The crowning work, the last thing made,
Creation's masterpiece to be —
Bend o'er yon stream, and there displayed
This wondrous thing reflected see.
" Behold a face for heaven designed;
See how those eyes thy soul betray —
Love — secret love — there sits enshrined;
And upward still doth point the way."
When Humphrey went away, he did not, like Benjamin,
come blustering and declaring that he would marry me,
and that he would break the skull of any other man who
dared to make love to me— not at all; Humphrey, with
tears in his eyes, told me that he was sorry I could not go
to Oxford as well ; that he was going to lose the sweetest
companion ; and that he should always love me : and then
he kissed me on the forehead, and so departed. Why should
he not always love me ? 1 knew very well that he loved
me, and that I loved him. Although he was so young,
being only seventeen when he was entered at Exeter Col-
lege, I suppose there never was a young gentleman went
to the University of Oxford with so many accomplishments
and so much learning. By my father's testimony he read
Greek as if it were his mother tongue, and he wrote and
conversed easily in Latin ; and you have heard what arts
and accomplishments he added to this solid learning. He
was elected to a scholarship at his college, that of Exeter,
find, after he took his degree as bachelor of medicine, he
FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 5I
was made a fellow of All-Souls, where Mr. Boscorel him-
self had also been a fellow. This election was not only a
great distinction for him, but it gave him what a learned
young man especially desires — the means of living and of
pursuing his studies.
While he was at Oxford he wrote letters to Sir Christo-
pher, to Mr. Boscorel, and to my father (to whom also he
sent such new books and pamphlets as he thought would
interest him). To me he sent sometimes drawings and
sometimes books, but never verses.
Now (to make an end of Humphrey for the present) when
he had obtained his fellowship, he ask-ed for and obtained
leave of absence and permission to study medicine in those
great schools which far surpass, they say, our English
schools of medicine. These are that of Montpellier; the
yet more famous school of Padua, in Italy ; and that of
Leyden, whither many Englishmen resort for study, no-
tably Mr. Evelyn, whose book called "Sylva" wasin the
rector's library.
He carried on during the whole of this time a correspond-
ence with Mr. Boscorel on the painting, statues, and archi-
tecture to be seen wherever his travels carried him. These
letters Mr. Boscorel read aloud, with a map spread before
him, discoursing on the history of the place and the chief
things to be seen there, before he began to read. Surely
there never was a man so much taken up with the fine arts,
especially as they were practised by the ancients.
There remains the last of the boys — Robin, Sir Christo-
pher's grandson and heir. I should like this book to be all
about Robin — yet one must needs speak of the others. I
declare that from the beginning there never was a boy more
happy, more jolly ; never any one more willing to be al-
ways making some one happy. He loved the open air,
the wild creatures, the trees, the birds, everything that lives
beneath the sky; yet not like my poor brother Barnaby — a
hater of books. He read all the books which told about
creatures, or hunting, or country life ; and all voyages and
travels. A fresh-colored, wholesome lad, not so grave as
Humphrey, nor so moody as Benjamin, who always seemed
to carry with him the scent of woods and fields. He was
to Sir Christopher what Benjamin was to Jacob. Even my
father loved him though he was so poor a scholar.
Those who stayed at home have homely wits — therefore
Robin must follow Humphrey to Oxford. He went thither
^e year after his cousiii, I never learned that he obtained
yi POA' PAirir AND t'^REkDO.\t.
a scholarship, or that he was considered one of the youngei
pillars of that learned and ancient university ; or, indeed,
that he took a degree at all.
After he left Oxford he must go to London, there to study
juslice's law and fit himself for the duties h« would have
to fulfill. Also his grandfather would have him acquire
some knowledge of the court and the city, and the ways of
the great and the rich. This, too, he did ; though he never
learned to prefer those ways to the simple customs and hab-
its of his Somerset village.
He, too, like the other two, bade me a tender farewell.
" Poor Grace !" he said, taking both my hands in his.
' ' What wilt thou do when I am gone .? '
Indeed, since Humphrey went away, we had been daily
companions ; and at the thought of being thus left alone the
tears were running down my cheeks.
" Why, sweetheart," he said, " to think that I should ever
make thee cry — I who desire nothing but to make thee al-
ways laugh and be happy ! What wilt thou do ? Go often
to my mother. She loves thee as if her own daughter. Go
and talk to her concerning me. It pleaseth the poor soul
to be still talking of her son. And forget not my grand-
father. Play backgammon with him ; fill his pipe for him ;
sing to the spinnet for him ; talk to him about Humphrey
and me. And forget not Mr. Boscorel, my uncle. The poor
man looks as melancholy since Humphrey went away as a
turtle robbed of her nest. I saw him yesterday opening one
of his drawers full of medals, and he sighed over them fit to
break his heart. He sighed for Humphrey, not for Ben.
Well, child, what more ? Take Lance" — 'twas his dog —
" for a run every day ? make George Sparrow keep an eye
upon the stream for otters ; and — there are a thousand things
but I will write them down. Have patience with the dear
old man when he will be still talking about me."
"Patience, Robin," I said. "Why, we all love to talk
about thee."
" Do you alllove to talk about me.? 'Dost thou, too
Grace? Oh, my dear, my dear?' Here he took me in his
arms and kissed me on the lips. "Dost thou also love to
talk about me? Why, my dear, I shall think of nothing but
of thee. Because — oh ! my dear — my dear I I love thee
with all my heart."
Well, I was still so foolish that I understood nothing
more than that we all loved him, and he loved us all.
" Grace I will write letters to thee. I will put them in
FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
53
the packet for my mother. Thus thou wilt understand that
I am always thinking of thee."
He was as good as his word. But the letters were so full
of the things he was doing and seeing that it was quite clear
that his mind had plenty of room for more than one object.
To be sure, I should have been foolish, indeed, had I de-
sired that his letters should tell me that he was always
thinking about me, when he should have been attending to
his business.
After a year in London his grandfather thought that he
should travel. Therefore, he went abroad and joined Hum-
phrey at Montpellier, and with him rode northward to Ley-
den, where he sojourned while his cousin attended the lec-
tures of that famous school.
CHAPTER Vni.
A ROYAL PROGRESS.
When all the boys were gone the time was quiet, indeed,
for those who were left behind. My mother's wheel went
spinning still, but I think that some kindness on the part of
Mr. Boscorel as well as Sir Christopher caused her weekly
tale of yarn to be of less importance. And as for me, not
only would she never suffer me to sit at the spinning-wheel,
but there was so much request of me (to replace the boys)
that I was nearly all the day either with Sir Christopher or
with madame, or with Mr. Boscorel.
Up to the year 1680, or thereabouts I paid no more atten-
tion to political matters than any young woman with n-o
knowledge may be supposed to give. Yet, of course, I was
on the side of liberty, both civil and religious. How should
that be otherwise, my father being such as he was, muzzled
for all these years, the work of his life prevented and de-
stroyed.
It was in that year, however, that I became a most zeal-
ous partisan and lover of the Protestant cause in the way
that I am about to relate.
Everybody knows that there is no part of Great Britian
(not even Scotland) where the Protestant religion hath sui>
portcrs more stout and stanch than Somerset and Devon-
54 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
shire. I hope I shall not be accused of disloyalty to Queen
Anne, under whom we flourish and are happy, when I say
that in the West ot England we had grown — I know not
how — to regard the late misguided Duke of Monmouth as
the champion of the Protestant faith. When, therefore, the
duke came into the West of England in the year 1680, five
years befora the Rebellion, he was everywhere received
with acclamations and by crowds who gathered round him
to witness their loyalty to the Protestant faith. They came
also to look upon the gallant commander who had defeated
the French and the Dutch, and was said (but erroneously)
to be as wise as he was brave, and as religious as he was
beautiful to look upon. As for his wisdom, those who
knew him best have since assured the world that he had lit-
tle or none, his judgment being always swayed and deter-
mined for him by crafty and subtle persons seeking their
own interests. And as for his religion, whatever .iiay have
been his profession, good works were wanting — as is now
very well known. But at that time, and among our people,
the wicked ways of courts were only half understood.
And there can be no doubt that, whether he was wise or
religious, the show of affection with which the duke was
received upon this journey turned his head, and caused him
to think that these people would rally round him if he called
upon them. And I suppose that there is nothing which
more delights a prince than to believe that his friends are
ready even to lay down their lives in his behalf.
At that time the country was greatly agitated by anxiety
concerning the succession. Those who were nearest the
throne knew that King Charles was secretly a papist. We
in the country had not learned that dismal circumstance :
yet we knew the religion of the Duke of York. Thousands
there were, like Sir Christopher himself, who now lamented
the return of the king, considering the disgraces which had'
fallen upon the country. But what was done could not be
undone. They, therefore, asked themselves if the nation
would suffer an avowed papist to ascend a Protestant
throne. If not, what should be done.? And here, as every-
body knows, was opinion divided. For some declared
that the Duke of Monmouth, had he his rights, was the
lawful heir ; and others maintained in the king's own word
that he was never married to Mistress Lucy Waters. There-
fore they would have the Duke of York's daughter, a Prot-
estant princess, married to William of Orange, proclaimed
queen, The Monmouth party were strong, however, and
FOR FA 1 77/ AND FREEDOM. 55
ft was even said — Mr. Henry Clark, minisier of Crewkern,
wrote a pamphlet to prove it — that a poor woman, Eliza-
beth Parcet by name, touched the duke (he being
ignorant of the thing) for king's evil, and was straight-
way healed. Sir Christopher laughed at the story, saying
that the king himself, whether he was descended from a
Scot ish Stuart or from King Solomon himself, could no more
cure that dreadful disease than the seventh son of a seventh
5on (as oome foolish people believe), or the rubbing of the
partaffec ted by the hand of a man that had been hanged (as
others do foolishly believe), which is the reason why on
the gibbets the hanging corpses are always handless.
I' was noised abroad beforehand that the duke was going
to ride through the West Country in order to visit his
friends. The progress (it was more like a royal progress
than the journey of a private nobleman) began with his
visit to Mr. Thomas Thynne, of Longleat House. It is
said that his chief reason for going to that house was to
connect himself with the obligation of the tenant of Lor^g-
leat to give the king and his suite a night's lodging when
they visited that part of the country, jNIr. Thynne, who
entertained the duke on this occasion, was the same who
was afterwards murdered in London by Count Konigsmark.
They called him "Tom of Ten Thousand. " The poet Dry-
den hath written of this progress in that poem wherein,
under the fabled name of Absalom, he figures the duke :
" Me now begins his progross to ordain,
"With chariots, hoisonicn, and a niuijeroiis train.
Fame runs before him as th(^ morning star,
And shouts of joy sakile him from afar.
Each housfi rooi'ives him as a guardian god.
And consecrates the place of his abode."
It was for his hospitable treatment of the duke thai Mr,
Thynne was immediately afterwards deprived of the com-
mand of the Wiltshire militia.
"Son-in-law," said Sir Christopher, "I would ride out to
meet the duke in respect to his Protestant professions. As
for any pretensions he may have to the succession, I know
nothing of them."
" I will 'ide with you, sir," said the rector, " to meet the
son of the king. And as for any Protestant professions, 1
know nothing of them. His grace remains, I believe, with-
in the pale of the Church as by law established. Let us all
ride out together."
5(5 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
Seeing that my father also rode with them, it is certaii\
that there were many and diverse reasons why so many
thousands gathered together to welcome the duke. Madame,
Will's mother, out of her kind heart, invited me to accom-
pany her, and gave me a white frock to wear and blue
ribbons to put into it.
We n>ade, with our servants, a large party. We were al-
so joined by many of the tenants, with their sons and wives,
so that when we came to Ilchester, Sir Christopher was
riding at the head of a great company of sixty or more, and
very fine they looked, all provided with blue favors in
honor of the duke.
From Bradford Orcas to Ilchester is but six miles as the
crow flies, but the ways (which are narrow and foul in
winter) do so wind and turn about that they add two miles
at least to the distance. Fortunately the season was sum-
mer — namely, August — when the sun is hottest and the
earth is dry so that no one was bogged on the way.
We started betimes — namely, at six in the morning — be-
cause we knew not for certain at what time the duke would
arrive at Ilchester. When we came forth from the manor-
house the farmers were already waiting for us, and so, after
greetings from his honor, they fell in, and followed. We
first took the narrow and rough lane which leads to the
high-road ; but, when we reached it, we found it full of
people riding, like ourselves, or trudging, staff in hand, all
m the same direction. They were going to gaze upon the
Protestant duke, who, if he had his way, would restore
freedom of conscience and abolish the acts against the Non-
conformists. We rode through Marston Magna, but only
the old people and the little children were left there ; in the
fields the ripe corn stood waiting to be cut ; in the farm-
yards the beasts were standing idle ; all the hinds were gone
to Ilchester to see the duke. And I began to fear lest when ■
we got to Ilchester we should be too late. At Marston we
left the main road and entered upon a road (call it a track
rather than a road) across the country, which is here flat
and open. In winter it is miry and boggy, but it was row
dry and hard. This path brought us again to the main road
in two miles, or thereabouts, and here we were but a mile
or so from Ilchester. Now, such a glorious sight as await-
ed us here I never expected to see. Once again, after five
years, I was to see a welcome still more splendid ; but
nothing can ever efface from my memory that day. For
first the roadSj as I have said, were thronged with rustics,
FOJ^ FAITJf AXD FREEDOM. 57
and next, when we rode into the town we found it filled
with gentlemen most richly dressed, and ladies so beautiful
and with such splendid attire that it dazzled my eyes to
look upon them. It was a grand thing to see the gentle-
men take off their hats and cry, "Huzza for brave Sir
Christopher ! " Everybody knew his opinions and on what
side he had fought in the Civil War. The old man bent his
head, and I thmk that he Avas pleased with this mark of
honor.
The town which, though ancient, is now decayed and
hath but few good houses in it, was now made glorious
with bright-colored cloths, carpets, flags, and ribbons. There
were bands of music ; the bells of the church \vere ringing ;
the main street was like a fair with booths and stalls, and
in the market-place there were benches set up with white
canvas covering, where sat ladies in their fine dresses, some
of them with naked shoulders, unseemly to behold. Yet it
was pretty to see the long curls lying on their white shoul-
ders. Some of them sat with half-closed eyes, which, I
have since learned, is a fashion of the court. Mostly, they
wore satin petticoats, and demi-gownsalso of satin, furnish-
ed with a long train. Our place was beside the old cross
with its gilt ball and vane. The people who filled the streets
rame from Sherborne, from Bruton, from Shepton, from
Glastonbury, from Langport, from Somerton, and from all the
villages round. It was computed that there were twenty
thousand of them. Two thousand at least rode out to meet
the duke and followed after him when he rode through the
town. And, oh ! the shouting as he drew near, the clashing of
bells, the beating of the drums, the blowing of the horns,
the firing of the guns, as if the more noise they made the
greater would be the duke.
Since that day I have not wondered at the power which
a prince hath of drawing men after him, even to the death.
Never was heir to the crown received with such joy and
welcome as was this young man, who had no title to the
crown, and was base-born. Yet, because he was a brave
young man, and comely aboveall other young men, gracious
©f speech, and ready with a laugh and a joke, and because
he was the son of the king, and the reputed champion of the
Protestant faith, the people could not shout too loud for
him.
The duke was at this time in the ])rime of manhood, be-
ing thirty-five years of age. "At that age," Mr. Boscorel
used to say, "one would desire to remain if the body of
^S FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
clay were immortal. For then the volatile humors of youth
have been dissipated The time of follies has passed ; love
is regarded with the sober eyes of experience ; knowledge
has been acquired ; skill of eye and hand has been gained,
if one is so happy as to be a follower of art and music ;
wisdom hath been reached, if wisdom is ever to be attained.
But wisdom," he would add, " is a quality generally lack-
ing at every period of life."
" When last I saw the duke," he told us while we waited,
" was fifteen years ago, in St. James's Park. He was walk-
ing with the king, his father, who had his arm about his
son's shoulders, and regarded him fondly. At that time he
was, indeed, a very David for beauty. I suppose that he
hath not kept that singular loveliness which made him the
darling of the court. That, indeed, were not a thing to be
desired or expected. He is now the hero of Maestricht, and
the Chancellor of Cambridge University."
And then all hats were pulled off, and the ladies waved
their handkerchiefs, and the men shouted, and you would
have thought the bells would have pulled the old tower
down with the vehemence of their ringing ; for the duke
was riding into the town.
He was no longer a beautiful boy, but a man at whose
aspect every heart was softened. His enemies, in his pres-
ence, could not blame him ; his friends, at sight of him,
could not praise him, of such singular beauty was he pos-
sessed. Softness, gentleness, kindness, and good will
reigned in his large soft eyes ; graciousness sat upon his
lips, and all his face seemed to smile as he rode slowly be-
tween the lane formed by the crowd on either hand.
What said the poet Dryden in that same poem of his from
which I have already quoted } —
" Early in foreign fields he won renown
With Kings and States allied to Israel's crown;
In peace tlie thoughts of war he could remove,
And seemed as he were only born for love.
Whate'er he did was done with so much ease,
In him alone 'twas natural to please;
His motions all accompanied with grace,
And Paradise was opened in his face."
Now I hare to tell of what happened to me — of all people
in the world, to me — the most insignificant person in the
whole crowd. It chanced that as the duke came near the
spot beside the cross where we were standing, the press irt
front obliged him to stop. He looked about him while he
FOE FAITH AND FREEDOM.
1%
waited, smiling still and bowing to the people. Presently
his eyes fell upon me, and he whispered a gentleman who
rode beside him, yet a little in the rear. This gentleman
laughed, and dismounted. What was my confusion when
he advanced towards me and spoke to me !
"Madame," he said, calling me " madame ! " "His
grace would say one word to you, with permission of your
friends."
"Go with this gentleman, child," said Sir Christopher,
laughing. Everybody laughs — I know not why — when a
girl is led out to be kissed.
"Fair white rose of Somerset," said his grace — 'twas the
most musical voice in the world, and the softest. "Fair
white rose " — he repeated the words — "let me be assured
of the welcome of llchester by a kiss from your sweet lips,
which I will return in token of my gratitude."
All the people who heard these words shouted as if they
would burst themselves asunder. And the gentleman who
had led me forth lifted me so that my foot rested on the
duke's boot, while his grace laid his arm tenderly round my
waist and kissed me twice.
" Sweet child," he said, " what is thy name .? "
" By your grace's leave," I said, the words being very
strange, " I am the daughter of Dr. Comfort Eykin, an
ejected minister. I have come with Sir Christopher Challis,
who stands yonder."
" Sir Christopher ! " said the duke, as if surprised. " Let
me shake hands with Sir Christo])hcr. I take it kindly, Sir
Christopher, that you have so far honored me." So he gave
the old man, who stepped forward bareheaded, his hand,
still holding me by the waist. " I pray that we may meet
again, Sir Christopher, and that before long." Then he drew
a gold ring, set with emeralds, from his forefiiiger, and
placed it upon mine, and kissed me again, and then suffered
me to be lifted down. And you may be sure that it was
with red cheeks that I took my place among my friends.
Yet Sir Christopher was pleased at the notice taken of him
by the duke, and my father was not displeased at the part I
had been made to play.
When the duke had ridden through the town, many of the
people followed after, as far as White Lackington, which is
close to Ilminster. So many were they that they took
down a great piece of the park paling to admit them all :
and there, under a Spanish chestnut-tree, the duke drank to
the health of all the people.
So FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
At Ilminster, whither he rode a few days later ; at Chard, ■
at Ford Abbey, at Wkyton, and at Exeter — wherever h«
went, he was received with the same shouts and acclama-
tions. It is no wonder, therefore, that he should believe, a
few years later, that those people would follow him when
he drew the sword for the Protestant religion.
One thing is certain — that in the west of England, from
the progress of Monmouth to the rebellion, there was un-
easiness, with an anxious lookmg forward to troubled times.
The people of Taunton kept as a day of holiday and thanks-
giving the anniversary of the raising of Charles's siege.
When the mayor, in 1683, tried to stop the celebration,
they nearly stoned him to death. After this, Sir George
Jeffreys, afterwards Lord Jeffreys, who took the spring
circuit in 1684, was called upon to report on the loyalty of
the west country. He reported that the gentry were loyal
and well disposed. But he knew not the mind of the
weavers and spinners of the country.
It was this progress, the sight of the duke's sweet face,
his flattery of me, and his soft words, and the ring he gave
me, which made me from that moment such a partisan of
his cause as only a woman can be. Women cannot fight,
but they can feel ; and they cannot only ardently desire, but
they can despise and contemn those who think otherwise.
I cannot say that it was I who persuaded our boys five years
later to join the duke ; but I can truly say that I did and
said all that a woman can ; that I rejoiced when they did so ;
and that I should never have forgiven Robin had he joined
the forces of the Papist king.
CHAPTER IX.
WITH THE ELDERS.
So we went home again, all well pleased, and I holding
the duke's ring tight, I promise you. It was a most beauti-
ful ring when I came to look at it ; a great emerald was in
the midst of it, with little pearls and emeralds set alternately
around it. Never was such a grand gift to so humble a
person. I tied it to a black ribbon and put it in the box
whJth held my clothes. But sometimes I could not forbeai
1^0 R FAITH AND FREEDOM. 6 1
the pleasure of wearing it round my neck, secretly ; not for
the joy of possessing the ring so much as for remembering
the lovely face and the gracious words of the giver.
At that time I was in my sixteenth year, but well grown
for my age. Like my father, I am above the common
stature of women. We continued for more than four years
longer to live without the company of the boys, which
caused me to be much in the society of my elders, and as
much at the manor-house and the rectory as at home. At
the former place Sir Christopher loved to have me with him
all day long, if my mother would suffer it ; when he walked
in his garden I must be at his side. When he awoke after
his afternoon sleep he liked to see me sitting ready to talk
to him. 1 must play to him and sing to him ; or I must
bring out the backgammon board ; or I must read the last
letters from Robin and Humphrey. Life is dull for an old
man whose friends are mostly dead, unless he have the
company of the young. So David in his old age took to
himself a young wife, when, instead, he should have com-
forted his heart \vith the play and prattle of his grand-
children — of whom, I suppose, there must have been many
families.
Now, as I was so much with his honor, I had much talk
with him upon things on which wise and ancient men do
not often converse with girls, and I was often present when
he discoursed with my father or with his son-in-law, the
rector, on high and serious matters. It was a time of great
anxiety and uncertainty. There were great pope burnings
in the country ; and when some were put in pillory for
riot at these bonfires not a hand was lifted against them.
They had one at Sherborne on November 17, the anniver-
sary of Queen Elizabeth's coronation day, instead of Novem-
ber 5. Boys went about the streets asking for halfpence
and singing —
'* Up with the ladder,
And down with the rope ;
Give us a penny
To burn the old pope."
There were riots in Taunton, where the High-Church
party burned the pulpit of a meeting-house ; people went
about openly saying that the Roundheads would soon
come back again. From Robin we heard of the popish
plots and the flight of the Duke of York, and afterwards of
Monmouth's disgrace and e.xile. At all the market towns
where men gathered together they talked of these things.
t2 FOR FAITH AND FKEEDOkF.
and manywhispered together : a thing which Sir ChristopheT
loved not, because it spoke of conspiracies and secret plots,
whereas he was all for bold declaration of conscience.
In short, it was an anxious time, and everybody undei-
stood that serious things would happen should the king die.
There were not wanting, besides, omens of coming ills — if
you accept such things as omens or warnings. To Taun-
ton (afterwards the town most affected by the Rebellion) a
plain warniiiig was vouchsafed by the rumbling and thun-
dering and shaking of the earth itself, so that dishes were
knocked down and cups broken, and plaster shaken off the
walls of houses. And once (this did I myself see with my
own eyes) the sun rose with four other suns for. com-
panions — a most terrifying sight, though Mr. Boscorel, who
spoke learnedly on omens, had an explanation of this mira-
cle, which he said was due to natural causes alone. And
at He Brewers there was a monstrous birth of two girls with
but one body from the breast downwards ; their names
were Aquila and Priscilla ; but I believe they lived but a
short time.
I needs must tell of Mr. Boscorel because he was a man
the like of whom I have never since beheld. I believe
there can be few men such as he was, who could so readily
exchange the world of heat and argument for the calm and
dispassionate air of art and music. Even religion (if 1 may
venture to say so) seemed of less importance to him than
airt I have said that he taught me to play upon the spin-
net Now that Humphrey was gone, he desired my com-
pany every day, in order, he pretended, that I might grow
perfect in my performance, but in reality because he was
lonely at the rectory, and found pleasure in my company.
We played together — he upon the violoncello and I upon
the spinnet — such music as he chose. It was sometimes
grave and solemn music, such as Lulli's " Miserere " or
his " De Profundis ; " sometimes it was some part of a
Roman Catholic mass : then was my soul uplifted and
wafted heavenwards by the chords, which seemed prayer
and praise fit for the angels to harp before the throne.
Sometimes it was music which spoke of human passions,
when I would be, in like manner, carried out of myself.
My master would watch not only my execution, commend-
ing or correcting, but he would also watch the effect of the
music upon my mind.
"We are ourselves," he said, "like unto the instruments
upon which we play. For as one kind of instrument, ats
FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 63
the drum, produces but one note; and another, as the cym-
bals, but a clashing which is in itself discordant, but made
effective in a band ; so others are, like the most delicate and
sensitive violins — those of Cremona — capable of producing
the finest music that the soul of man hath ever devised.
It is by such music, child, that some of us mount unto
heaven. As for me, indeed, I daily feel more and more
that music leadeth the soul upward, and that, as regards
the disputations on the Word of God, the letter indeed
killeth, but the spirit which music helpeth us to feel — the
spirit, I say, giveth life." He sighed, and drew his bow
gently across the first string of his violoncello. " 'Tis a
time of angry argument. The Word of God is thrown from
one to the other as a pebble is shot from a sling. It wearies
me. In this room, among these books of music, my soul
finds rest, and the spiritual part of me is lifted heaven-
wards. Humphrey and you, my dear, alone can compre-
hend this saying. Thou hast a mind like his, to feel and
understand what music meaiis. Listen!" Here he exe-
cuted a piece of music at which the tears rose to my eyes.
"That is from the Romish mass which we are taught
ignorantly to despise. My child, I am, indeed, no Catholic,
and I hold that ours is the purer church; yet, in losing the
mass we have lost the great music with which the Catholics
sustain the souls. Some of our anthems, truly, are good;
but what is a single anthem, finished in ten minutes, com-
pared with a grand mass which lasts three hours ?"
Then he had portfolios filled with engravings, which he
would bring forth and contemplate with a kind of rapture,
discoursing upon the engraver's art and its difficulties, so
that I should not, as in the case with ignorant persons, sup-
pose that these things were produced without much training
and skill. He had also boxes full of coins, medals, and
transparent gems carved most delicately with heathen gods
and goddesses, shepherds and swains, after the ancient
fashion, unclothed and unashamed. On these things he
would gaze with admiration which he tried to teach me,
but could not, because I caniiot believe that we may with-
out blame look upon such figures. Nevertheless, they were
most beautiful, the hands and faces and the very hair so
delicately and exquisitely carved that you could hardly be-
lieve it possible. And he talked solemnly and scholarly of
these gauds, as if they were things which peculiarly de-
served the attention of wise and learned men. Nay, he
would^'be even lifted out of himself in considering themu
($4 POR FAITH AND FREEDOAf.
"Child," he said, "we know not, and we cannot even
guess, the wonders of art that in heaven we shall learn to
accomplish " — as if carving and painting were the occupa-
tion of angels ! — " or the miracles of beauty and of dexter-
ity that we shall be able to design and execute. Here, the
hand is clumsy and the brain is dull ; we cannot rise above
ourselves ; we are blind to the beauty with which the Lord
hath tilled the earth for the solace of human creatures.
Nay ; we are not even tender with the beauty that we see
and love. We suffer maidens sweet as the dreams of
poets to waste their beauty unpraised and unsung. I am
old, child, or I would praise thee in immortal verse. IMuch
I fear that thou wilt grow old without the praise of sweet
numbers. Well ; there is no doubt more lasting beauty of
face and figure hereafter to joy the souls of the elect. And
thou wilt make his happiness for one man on earth. Pray
Heaven, sweet child, that he look also to thine ! "
He would say such things with so grand an air, speaking
as if his words should command respect, and with so kindly
an eye and a soft smile, while he gently stroked the side of
his nose, which was long, that I was always carried away
with the authority of it, and not till after I left him did I be-
gin to perceive that my father would certainly never allow
that the elect should occupy themselves with the frivolous
pursuits of painting and the fine arts, but only with the
playing of their harps and the singing of praises. It was
this consideration which caused him to consent that his
daughter should learn the spinnet. I did not tell him (God
forgive me for the deceit, if there was any !) that we some-
times played music written for the mass ; nor did I repeat
what Mr. Boscorel said concerning art and the flinging
about of the Word of God, because my father was wholly
occupied in controversy, and his principal, if not his only,
weapon was the Word of God.
Another pleasure which we had was to follow Humphrey
in his travels by the aid of his letters and a 7nappa viiindi,
or atlas, which the rector possessed. Then I remember
when we heard that the boys were ubout to ride together
through France from Montpellier to Leyden in Holland, we
had on the table the great map of France. There were
many drawings, coats-of-arms, and other pretty things on
the map.
"It is now, ' said Mr. Boscorel, finding out the place he
wanted, and keeping his forefinger upon it, "nearly thirty
jrears since I made the grand tour, being then governor tO
FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 65
the young Lord Silchesier who afterwards died of the plague
in London. Else had I been now a bishop, who am forgotten
in this little place. The boys will ride, I take it, by the
same road which we took ; first, because it is the high-road
and the safest ; next, because it is the best provided with
inns and resting-places ; and, lastly, because it passes
through the best part of his most Christian majesty's domin-
ions, and carries the traveller through his finest and most
stately cities. From Montpellier they will ride — follow my
finger, child — to Nismes. Before the Revocation it was a
great place for those of the Reformed religion, and a popu-
lous town. Here they will not fail to visit the Roman
temple which still stands. It is not, indeed, such a noble
monument as one may see in Rome ; but it is in good pres-
ervation, and a fair example of the later style. They will
also visit the great amphitheatre, which should be cleared
of the mean houses which are now built up within it, and
so exposed in all its vastness to the admiration of the world.
After seeing these things they will direct their way across a
desolate piece of country to Avignon, passing on the way
the ancient Roman aqueduct called the Pont de Gard. At
Avignon they will admire the many churches and the walls,
and will not fail to visit the Palace of the Popes during the
Great Schism. Thence they will ride northwards, unless they
wish first to see the Roman remains at Aries. Thence will
they proceed up the valley of the Rhone, through many
stately towns, till they come to Lyons, where, doubtless
they will sojourn for a few dayi. Next they will journey
through the rich country of Burgundy, and from the ancient
town of Dijon will reach Paris through the city of Fontaine-
bleau. On the way they will see many windo'vs, noble
houses and castles, with rich towns and splendid churches.
In no country are there more splendid churches, built
in the Gothic style, which we have now forgotten. Some
of them, alas ! have been defaced in the wars (so-called of re-
ligion), where, as happened also to us, the delicate carved
work, the scrolls and flowers and statues were destroyed,
and the painted windows broken. Alas I that men should
refuse to suffer art to become the minister and handmaid of
religion ! Yet in the first and most glorious temple in
which the glory of the Lord was visibly present, there were
carved and graven lilies, with lions, oxen, chariots, cheru-
bim, palm-trees, and pomej^-ranalcs. "'
He closed his atlas and sat down.
"Child," he said, meditating. "For a scholar, in his
^5 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
youth, there is no pleasure comparable with the pleasure of
travelling in strange countries, among the monuments of
ancient days. My own son did never, to my sorrow, de-
sire the pleasant paths of learning, and did never show any
love for the arts, in which I have always taken so great de-
light. He desireth rather the companionship of men ; he
loveth to drink and sing ; and he nourisheth a huge ambi-
tion. 'Tis best that we are not all alike. Humphrey should
have been my son. Forget not, my child, that he hath
desired to be remembered to thee in every letter which he
hath written."
If the rector spoke much of Humphrey, madam made
amends by talking continually of Robin, and of the great
things that he would do when he returned home. Justice
of the peace, that he would certainly be made ; captain first
and afterwards colonel in the Somerset Militia, that also
should he be; knight of the shire, if he were ambitious — but
that I knew he would never be ; high sheriff of the county,
if his slender means permitted^ — for the estate was not worth
more than six or seven hundred pounds a year. Perhaps
he would marry an heiress : it would be greatly to the ad-
vantage of the family if an heiress were to come into it with
broad acres of her own ; but she was not a woman who
would seek to control her son in the matter of his affections,
and if he chose a girl with no fortune to her back, if she
was a good girl and pious, madam would never say him
nay. And he would soon return. The boy had been at
Oxford and next in London, learning law, such as justices
require. He was now with Humphrey at the University of
Leyden, doubtless learning more law.
"My dear," said madam, "we want him home. His
grandfather groweth old, though still, thank God, in the
full possession of his faculties. Yet a young maa's pres-
ence is needed. I trust and pray that he will return as he
went, innocent, in spite of the many temptations of the
wicked city. And, oh ! child — what if he should have lost
his heart to some designing city hussy ! "
He came — as ye shall hear immediately — Robin came
kome. Would to God that he had waited, if only for a
single month ! Had he not come all our afflictions would
have been spared us ! Had he not come that good old man
Sir Christopher — but it is vain to imagine what might have
been. We are in the hands of the Lord ; nothing that hap-
pens to us is permitted but by him, and for some wise pur-
pose was Sir Christopher in his old age — alas 1 why should
anticipate what I have to narrate .?
}<0R h-AITJI AND FREEDOM.
CHAPTER X
LE ROY EST MORT.
In February of the year 1685 King Charles II. died.
Sir Christopher himself brought us the news from Sher-
borne, whither he had gone, as was his wont, to the weekly
ordinary. He clattered up the lane on his cob, and halted
at our gate.
"Call thy father, child. Give you good-day, Madam
Eykin. Will your husband leave his books and come forth
for a moment? Tell him I have news."
My father rose and obeyed. His gown was in rags ; his
feet were clad in cloth shoon, which I worked for him ; his
cheek was wasted; but his eye was keen. He was lean
and tall ; his hair was as white as Sir Christopher's, though
he was full twenty years younger.
•'Friend and gossip," said Sir Christopher, " the king is
dead. "
"Is Charles Stewart dead.?" my father replied. "He
cumbered the earth too long. For five-and-twenty years
hath he persecuted the saints. Also he hath burnt incense
after the abomination of the heathen. Let his lot be as the
lot of Ahaz."
" Nay ; he is buried by this time. His brother the Duke
of York hath been proclaimed king."
"James the Papist It is as though Manasseh should
succeed to Ahaz. And after him Jehoiakim. "
*• Yet the bells will ring and we shall pray for the king ;
and wise men, Friend Eykin, will do well to keep silence."
" There is a time to speak and a time to keep silence. It
may be that the time is at hand when a godly man must
stretch forth his hand to tear down the Scarlet Woman,
though she slay him in the attempt."
"It may be so, friend Eykin ; yet stretch not forth thy
hand until thou art well assured of the divine command.
The king is dead. Now will my son-in-law ring out the
bells for the new king, and we shall pray for him, as we
prayed for his brother. It is our duty to pray for all in au-
thority, though to the prayers of a whole nation there
It tOR FAITH AND FREEDOM,
seemeth, so far as human reason can perceive, no answer *
" I, for one, will pray no more for a king who is a papist
Rather will I pray daily for his overthrow."
" King Charles is said to have received a priest before he
died. Yet it is worse that the king should be an open than
a secret Catholic. Let us be patient. Dr. Eykin, and await
the time."
So he rode up the village, and presently the bells were
set a-ringing, and they clashed as joyously, echoing around
the Corton Hills, as if the accession of King James II. was
the only thing wanted to make the nation prosperous,
happy, and religious.
My father stood at the gate after Sir Christopher left him.
The wind was cold, and the twilight was falling and his cas-
sock was thin, but he remained there motionless, until my
mother went out and drew him back to the house by the
arm. He went into his own room, but he read no more
that day.
In the evening he came forth and sat with us, and while
I sat sewing, my mother spinning, by the light of the fire,
he discoursed, which was unusual with him, upon things
and peoples and the best form of government, which he
held to be a commonwealth, with a strong man for presi-
dent. But he was to hold his power from the people, and
was to lay it down frequently, lest he should in his turn be
tempted to become a king. And if he were to fall away
from righteousness, or to live in open sin, or to be a merry-
maker, or to suffer his country to fall from a high place
among the nations, he was to be displaced, and be forced
to retire. As for the man Charles, now dead, he would be-
come, my father said, an example to all future ages, and a
warning of what may happen when the doctrine of Divine
Right is generally accepted and acted upon ; the king him-
self being not so much blamed by him as the practice of
hereditary rule which caused him to be seated upon the
throne, when his true place, my father said, was among the
lackeys and varlets of the palace. "His brother James,"
he added, "had now an opportunity which occurred to few
• — for he might become another Josiah. But I think he will
neglect that opportunity," he concluded ; "yea, even if Hil-
kiah the Priest were to bring him a message from Huldah
the Prophetess ; for he doth belong to a family which, by
the divine displeasure, can never perceive the truth. Let
us now read the Word, and wrestle with the Lord iu
prayer. "
FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 5^
Next we heard that loyal addresses were poured in from
all quarters congratulating the king, and promising most
submissive obedience. One would have thought that the
people were rejoiced at the succession of a Roman Catholic ;
it was said that the king had promised liberty of conscience
unto all ; that he claimed that liberty for himself, and that
he went to mass daily and openly.
But many there were who foresaw trouble. Unfortunately,
one of them was Sir Christopher, who spoke his mind at all
times too fiercely for his safety. IMr. Boscorel, also, was of
opinion that civil war would speedily ensue.
" The kings friends," he said, " may for a time buy the
support of the Noncomformists, and make a show of re-
ligious liberty. Thus may they govern for a while. But it
is not in the nature of the Roman Catholic priest to coun-
tenance religious liberty, or to sit down contented with less
than all the pie. They must forever scheme and intrigue
for more power. Religious liberty .? It means to them the
eternal damnation of those who hold themselves free to
think for themselves. They would be less than human if
they did not try to save the souls of the people by docking
their freedom. They must make this country even as
Spain or Italy. Is it to be believed that they will suffer the
Church to retain her revenues, or the universities to remain
out of their control ? Nay, will they allow the grammar
schools to be in the hands of Protestants .' Never ! The
next generation will be wholly CathoUc, imless the present
generation send king and priests packing."
These were treasonable words, but they were uttered in
the hall of the manor-house with no other listeners than Sir
Christopher and the rector.
"Seeing these things, son-in-law, " said Sir Christopher,
"what becomes of Right Divine.' Where is the duty of
non-resistance ! "
"The doctrine of Right Divine, "said Mr. Boscorel, "in-
cludes the divine institutic)n of a monarchy, which, I con-
fes8, is manifestly untenable, because the Lord granted a
king to the people only because they clamored for one.
Also, had the institution been of divine foundation, the Jews
would never have been allowed to live under the rule of
judges, tetrarchs, and Roman governors."
"You have not always spoken so plainly," said Sir
Christopher.
"Nay; why be always proclaiming to the world your
thoug;hts and opinions.'' Besides, even if the doctrine of
JO ^OR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
non-resistance were sound, there may be cases in whicVj
just laws may be justly set aside. I say not that this is
one, as yet. But if there were danger of the ancient super-
stitions being thrust upon us to the destruction of our souls,
I say not. Nay ; if a starving- man take a loaf of bread,
there being no other way possible to save his life, one would
not, therefore, hold him a thief. Yet the law remains."
"Shall the blood which hath been poured out for the
cause of liberty prove to be shed in vain ? " asked Sir Chris-
topher."
"Why, sir," said the rector, " the same question might be
asked in France, where the Protestants fought longer and
against greater odds than we in this country. Yet the blood
of those martyrs hath been shed in vain ; the Church of
Rome is there the conqueror indeed. It is laid upon the
Protestants, even upon us, who hold that we are a true
branch of the ancient Apostolic Church, to defend ourselves
continually against an enemy who is always at unity,
always guided by one man, always knows what he ■wants,
and is always working to get it. We, on the other hand, do
not know our own minds, and must forever be quarrelling
among ourselves. Nevertheless, the heart of the country is
Protestant ; and sooner or later the case of conscience may
arise whether — the law remaining unchanged — we may not
blamelessly break the law? "
That case of conscience was not yet ripe for considera-
tion. There needed first many things — including the mar-
tyrdom of saints and innocent men and poor, ignorant rus-
tics — before the country roused herself once more to seize
her liberties. Then as to that poor doctrine of Divine
Right, they all made a mouthful of it, except only a small
and harmless band of nonjurors.
At the outset, whatever the opinions of the people — who
could have been made to rise as one man — the gentry re-
mained loyal. Above all things, they dreaded another civil
war.
*' We must fain accept the king's professions," said the
rector. "If we have misgivings, let us disguise them.
Let us rather nourish the hope that they are honestly meant ;
and let us wait. England will not become another Spain
in a single day. Let us wait. The stake is not yet set up
in Smithfield, and the Inquisition is not yet established in
the country."
It was in this temper that the king's accession found Sit
Christopher. Afterwards ho was accused of having har*
FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 7!
bored designs against the king from the beginning. That,
indeed, was not the case. He had no thought of entering
into any such enterprise. Yet he never doubted that in the
end there would be an uprising against the rule of the priests.
Nor did he doubt that the king would be pushed on by his
advisers to one pretension after another for the advance-
ment of his own prerogative and the displacement of the
Protestant Church. Nay, he openly predicted that there
would be such attempts ; and he maintained — such was his
wisdom — that, in the long run, the Protestant faith would
beestablished upon a surer foundation than ever. But as for
conspiring or being cognizant of any conspiracy, that was
untrue. Why, he was at this time seventy-five years of age
— a time when such men as Sir Christopher have continual-
ly before their eyes death and the judgment.
As for my father, perhaps I am wrong, but in the daily
prayers of night and morning, and in the "Grace before
meat," he seemed to find a freer utterance, and to wrestle
more vehemently than was his wont on the subject of the
Scarlet Woman, offering himself as a willing martyr and
confessor, if by the shedding of his blood the great day of
her final overthrow might be advanced ; yet always humble,
not daring to think of himself as anything but an instru-
ment to do the will of his Master. In the end, his death
truly helped, with others, to bring a Protestant king to the
throne of these isles. And since we knew him to be so
deep a scholar, always reading and learning, and in no
sense a man of activity, the thing which he presently did
amazed us all. Yet we ought to have known that one who
is under the divine command to preach the Word of God,
and hath been silenced by man for more than twenty years,
so that the strength of his manhood hath run to waste and
is lost — it is a most terrible and grievous thing for a man to
be condemned to idleness — may become like unto one of
those burning mountains of which we sometimes read in
books of voyages. In him, as in them, the inner fires rage
and burn, growing ever stronger and fiercer, until presently
they rend asunder the sides of the mountain and burst forth,
pouring down liquid fire over the unhappy valleys beneath,
with showers of red-hot ashes to destroy and cover up the
smiling homesteads and the fertile meadows.
It is true that my father chafed continually at the inaction
forced upon him, but his impatience was never so strong «s
at this time, namely, after the accession of King James. It
drove him from his books jind out iiUo the fields and lanes.
tj2 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
where he walked to and fro, waving his long arms, and
someti^oes crying aloud and shouting in the woods, as if
compelled to cry out in order to quench some raging fever
or heat of his mind.
About this time, too, I remember, they began to talk of
the exiles in Holland, The Duke of Monmouth was there
with -the Earl of Argyle, and with them a company of fire-
brands eager to get back to England and their property.
I am certain now that my father (and perhaps through
his information. Sir Christopher also) was kept acquainted
with the plots and designs that were carried on in the Low
Countries. Nay ; I am also certain that his informant was
none other than Humphrey, who was still in Leyden. I
have seen a letter from him, written, as I now understand,
in a kind of allegory or parable, in which one thing was said
and another meant. Thus, he pretends to speak of Dutch
gardening : " The gardeners," he says, " take infinite pains
that their secrets shall not be learned or disclosed. I know,
however, that a certain blue tulip much desired by many
gardeners in England, will be taken across the waters this
year, and I hope that by next year the precious bulb may
be fully planted in English soil. The preparation of the
soil necessary for the favorable reception of the bulb is well
known to you, and you will understand how to mix your
soil and to add manure and so forth. I myself expect to
finish what I have to do in a few weeks, when I shall cross
to London, and so ride westwards, and hope to pay my
respects to my revered tutor in the month of June next. It
may be that I shall come with the tulip, but that is not
certain. Many messages have been received offering large
sums of money for the bulb, so that it is hoped that tlie
Dutch gardeners will let it go. — From H. C. "
The tulip, you see, was the Duke of IVIonmouth, and the
Dutch gardeners were the Scotch and English exiles then in
Holland, and the English gardeners were the duke's friends,
and H. C. was Humphrey Challis.
I think that Sir Christopher must have known of this cor-
respondence, because I now remember that my father would
sit with him for many hours looking at a map of England,
and had been conversing earnestly, and making notes in a
book. These n:tes he made in the Arabic character, which
no one but himself could read. I therefore suppose that he
was estimating the number of Nonconformists who might
be disposed to aid in such an enterprise as Humphrey'*
"gardeners" were contemplating.
FOR FAITH Aj\'D FREEDOM.
n
Robin, who certainly was no conspirator, also wrote a
letter from Leyclen about this time saying that something
was expected, nobody knew what ; but that the exiles were
meeting constantly, as if something were brewing.
It was about the first week in June that the news came to
us of Lord Argyle's landing. This was the beginning.
After that, as you will hear, the news came thick and fast ;
every day som ^thing fresh, and something to quicken the
most sluggish pulse. To me, at least, it seemed as if the
breath of God himself was poured out upon the country,
and that the people were everywhere resolved to banish the
accursed thing from their midst. Alas ! that simple country
maid was deceived ! The accursed thing was to be driven
forth, but not yet. The country party hated the pope, but
they dreaded civil war ; and, indeed, there is hardly any
excuse for that most dreadful scourge, except the salvation
of the soul and the safeguarding of liberties. They would
gladly welcome a rising, but it must be general and uni-
versal. They had for five-and-twenty years been taught
the wickedness of rebellion, and now there was no way to
secure the Protestant faith except by rebellion. Unhappily,
the rebellion began before the country gentlemen were
ready to begin.
CHAPTER XI.
BEFORE THE STORM.
Before the storm breaks there sometimes falls upon the
e<irth a brief time when the sun shines in splendor from a
clear sky. The air is balmy and delightsome, the birds sing
in the coppice, and the innocent lambs leap in the meadows.
Then, suddenly, black clouds gather from the north ; the
wind blows cold ; in a minute the sky is black ; the light-
nings flash, the thunders roll, the wind roars, the hail beats
down and strips the orchard of its promise, and silences
the birds cowering in the branches, and drives the trem-
bling sheep to take shelter in the hedges.
This was to be my case. You shall understand how for
a single day — it was no more — I was the happiest girl in all
the world
I may without any shime confess that I have always
r4
POR t'Alrir AND FREEDOM.
loved Robin from my earliest childhood. That was no great
wonder, seeing what manner of boy he was, and how he
was always kind and thoughtful for me. We were at first
only brother and sister together, which is natural and rea-
sonable when children grow up together ; nor can I tell
when or how we ceased to be brother and sister, save that
it may have been when Robin kissed me so tenderly at
parting, and told me that he should always love me. I do
n<^t think that brothers do generaly protestlove and promise
continual affection. Barnaby certainly never declared his
love for me, nor did he ever promise to love me all his life.
Perhaps, had he remained longer, he might have become as
tender as he was good-hearted ; but I think that tenderness
towards a sister is not in the nature of a boy. I loved
Robin, and I loved Humphrey, both as if they were
brothers ; but one of them ceased to be my brother, while
the other, in consequence, remained my brother always.
A girl may be ignorant of the world as I was, and of
lovers and their ways as I was, and yet she cannot grow from
a child to a woman without knowing that when a young man
who hath promised to love her always, speaks of her in
every letter, he means more than common brotherly love.
Nor can any woman be indifferent to a man who thus re-
gards her ; nor can she think upon love without the desire
of being herself loved. Truly, I had always before my eyes
the spectacle of that holy love which consecrates every part
of life. I mean in the case of my mother, whose waking
and sleeping thoughts were all for her husband ; who
worked continually and cheerfully with her hands that he
might be enabled to study without other work, and gave up
her whole life, without grudging — even reckoning it her
happiness and his privilege — in order to provide food and
shelter for him. It was enough reward for her that he
should sometimes lay his hand lovingly upon her head, or
turn his eyes with affection to meet hers.
It was the night of June 12, as I lay in bed, not yet
asleep, though it was already past nine o'clock, that I heard
the trampling of hoofs crossing the stream and passing our
cottage. Had I known who were riding those horses there
would have been but little sleep for me that night. But I
knew not, and did not suspect, and so, supposing that it
was only one of the farmers belated, I closed my eyes, and
presently slept until the morning.
About five o'clock, or a little before that time, I awoke,
the sun having already arisen, and being now well above
FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 7j
the hill. I arose softly, leaving my mother asleep still,
and, having dressed quckly, and prayed a little, I crepl
softly down the stairs. In the house there was such a stillness
that I could even hear the regular breathing of my father as
he slept upon his pallet among his books ; it was chill and
damp (as is the custom in the early morning)in the room
where we lived and worked. Yet, when I threw open door
and shutter and looked outside, the air was full of warmth
and refreshment ; as for the birds, they had long since left
their nests, and now were busy looking for their breakfast ;
the larks were singing overhead, and the bees already hum-
ming and droning. Who would lie abed when he could get up
and enjoy the beauty of the morning? When I had breathed
awhile, with pleasure and satisfaction, the soft air, which
was laden with the scent of flowers and of hay, I went in-
doors again, and swept and dusted the room. Then I
opened the cupboard, and considered the provision for
breakfast. For my father there would be a slice of cold
bacon with a good crust of homemade bread (better bread or
sweeter was nowhere to be had) and a cup of cidei; unarm-
ing to the spirits and good, for one who is no longer young,
against any rawness of the morning air. For my mother
and myself there would be, as soon as our neighbors' cows
were milked, a cup of warm milk and bread soaked in it
'Tis a breakfast good for a grown person as well as for a
child, and it cost us nothing but the trouble of going to
take it.
When I had swept the room and laid everything in its
place I went into the garden, hoe in hand, to weed the beds
and trim the borders. The garden was not very big, it is
true, but it produced many things useful for us ; notably
onions and sallet, besides many herbs good for the house,
for it was a fertile strip of ground, and planted in every
part of it Now, such was the beauty of the morning and
the softness of the air that I presently forgot the work
about which I had come into the garden, and sat down in
the shade upon a bench, suffering my thoughts to wander
hither and thither. Much have I always pitied those poor
folk in towns who can never escape from the noise and
clatter of tongues, and sit somewhere in the sunshine or
the shade, while the cattle low in the meadows and the
summer air makes the leaves to rustle, and suffer their
thoughts to wander here and there. Every morning when
I arose was this spectacle of nature's gladness presented to
my e^es. but not every moniing could my spirit (which
j6 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
sometimes crawls as if fearing the light of day and the face
of the sun) rise to meet and greet it, and to feel it calling
aloud for a hymn of praise and thanksgiving. For, indeed,
this is a beautiful world if we could always suffer its lovli-
ness (which we cannot for the earthliness of our natures) to
sink into our hearts. I know not what I thought this morn-
ing ; but I remember, while I considered the birds, which
neither reap nor sow, nor take any thought of to-morrow,
yet are daily fed by Heaven, that the words were whispered
HI mine ear, " Are ye not much better than they.? " And this,
without doubt, prepared my heart for what should follow.
While I sat thinking of I know not what, there came foot-
steps — quick footsteps — along the road ; and I knew those
footsteps, and sprang to my feet, and ran to the garden-
gate crying "Robin ! — it is Robin ! '.'
Yes ; it was Robin.
He seized me by both hands, looking in my face curiously
and eagerly.
"Grace!" he said, drawing a deep breath; "Oh! but
what hath happened to thee .? "
" What should happen Robin .? "
" Oh ! thou art changed, Grace ! I left thee almost a child,
and now — now — I thought to catch thee in my arms — a
sweet rustic nymph — and now — fain must I go upon my
knees to a goddess."
"Robin!" Who, indeed, would have expected such
language from Robin }
"Grace," he said, still gazing upon me with a kind of
wonder which made me blush, " do you remember when
we parted, four years ago, the words we said .? As for me,
I have never forgotten them. I was to think of thee always ;,
1 was to love thee always. Truly I may say that there is
never a day but thou hast been in my mind. But not like
this. " He continued to look upon me as upon some strange
creature, so that I began to be frightened, and turned away.
"Nay, Grace, forgive me. I am one who is dazzled by
the splendor of the sun. Forgive me ; I cannot speak. I
thought of a village beauty, rosy-cheeked, sweet and whole-
some as an August quarander, and I find — "
" Robin — not a goddess."
"Well, then, a woman tall and stately, and more beauti-
ful than words can sa3^"
" Nay, Robin, you do but flatter. That is not like the old
Robin I remember and" — I should have added — "loved."
but the word stuck.
POR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
77
"I swear, sweet saint — if I may swear — nay, then I do
affirm that I do not flatter.- Hear me tell a plain tale. I
hav€ travelled far since last I saw thee ; I have seen the
great ladies of the court both of St. James's and of the
Louvre ; I have seen the famous beauties of Provence and
the black-eyed witches of Italy ; but nowhere have I seen
a woman half so fair."
" Robin — you must not ! Nay, Robin — you shame me ! "'
Then he knelt at my feet, and seized my hand and kissed
it. Oh, the foolishness of a man in love ! And yet it pleases
us. No woman is worth it. No woman can understand
it; nor can she comprehend the power and might of man's
love, nor why he singles out her alone from all the rest,
and fills his heart wholly with her, so that all other women
are henceforward as his sisters. It is wonderful ; it is most
wonderful. Yet it pleases us. Nay, we thank God for it
with all our heart and with all our soul.
I would not, if I could, set down all the things which
Robin said. First, because the words of love are sacred ;
next, because I would not that other women should know
the extravagance of his praise. It was in broken words, be-
cause love can never be eloquent.
As for me, what could I do ? what could I say .? For I
had loved him from my very childhood, and now all my
heart went out from me and became his. I was all his. I
was his slave to command. That is the quality of earthly love
by which it most clearly resembles the heavenly love ; so
that just as the godly man is wholly devoted to the will of
the Lord in all things great and small, resigned to his chas-
tisements, and always anxious to live and die in his service,
so in earthly love one must be wholly devoted to the per-
son whom one loves.
And Robin was come home again, and I was lying in his
arms, and he was kissing me, and calling me all the sweet
and tender things that he could invent, and laughing and
sighing together as if too happy to be quiet. Oh ! sweetest
moments of my life ! Why did they pass so quickly ? Oh !
sacrament of love, which can be taken only once, and yet
changes the whole of life, and fills it with memory which is
wholly sweet ! In all other earthly things there is some-
thing of bitterness. In this holy joy of pure and sacred
love there is no bitterness — no ; not any. It leaves behind
nothing of reproftch or of repentance, of shame or of sorrow.
It is altogether holy.
Now, when my boy had somewhat recovered from his
78 l^OR FAITH AND FREEDO.Xt.
first rapture, and I had assured him very earnestly that 1
was not, indeed, an angel, but a most sinful woman, daily
offending in my inner thoughts (which he received, indeed,
with an appearance of disbelief and scorn), I was able to
consider his appearance, which was now very fine, though
always, as I learned when I saw him among other gentle-
men, with some soberness as became one whose upbring-
ing inclined him to soberness of dress as well as of speech
and manner, He wore a long wig of brown hair, which
might have been his own but for its length ; his hat was
laced and cocked, which gave him a gallant and martial
appearance ; his neckcloth was long and of fine lace ; beside
him, in my russet gown, I must have looked truly plain and
rustic ; but Robin was pleased not to think so, and love is
a great magician to cheat the eyes.
He was home again ; he told me he should travel no
more (yet you shall hear how far he afterwards travelled) ;
his only desire now was to stay at home and live as his
grandfather had lived, in his native village; he had nothing
to pray for but the continuance of my love — of which, in-
deed, there was no doubt possible.
It was now close upon six o'clock, and I begged him to
go away for the present, and if my father and Sir Christo-
pher should agree, and it should seem to his honor a fit and
proper thing that Robin should marry a girl so penniless as
myself, why — then — we might meet again after breakfast,
or after dinner ; or, indeed, at any other time, and so dis-
course more upon the matter. So he left me, being very
reluctant to go ; and I, forgetting my garden and what 1
had come forth to do, returned to the house.
You must understand that all these things passed in the
garden divided from the lane by a thick hedge, and that
])assers-by — but there were none — could not, very well,
have seen what was done, though they might have heard
what was said. But if my father had looked out of his
window he could have seen, and if my mother had come
down-stairs she also might have seen through the window,
or through the open door. Of this I thought not upon, nor
was there anything to hide ; though one would not willing-
ly suffer any one, even one's own mother, to see and listen
at such a moment. Yet mother has since told me that she
saw Robin on his knees kissing my hands, but she with-
drew and would not look again.
When I stepped within the door she was at work with
her wheel, and looked up with a smile upon her hps, and
FOk FAITH AND h'REEDOM. 79
tears were in her eyes. Had I known what she had seen,
I should have been ashamed.
"Daughter," she said, softly, " thy cheek is burning red.
Hast thou, perchance, been too long in the sun ? "
" No, mother, the sun is not too hot."
" Daughter," she went on, still smiling through tears,
" thine eyes are bright and glowing. Hast thou a touch of
fever by ill chance .? "
"No, mother, I have no fever."
"Child, thy lips are trembling and thy hands are shak-
ing. My dear, my dear, what is it.'' Tell thy mother all."
She held out her arms to me, and I threw myself at her
feet and buried my head in her lap as if I had been again a
child.
"Mother! mother!" I cried, "Robin hath come home
again, and he says he loves me, and nothing will do but
he must marry me."
" My dear," she said, kissing and fondling me, "Robin
hath always been a good lad, and I doubt not that he hath
returned unspotted from the world ; but, nay, do not let us
be tco sure. For, first, his honor must consent, and then
madam ; and thy father must be asked — and he would
never, for any worldly honor suffer thee to marry an ungod-
ly man. As for thy lack of fortune, I know not if it will stand
in the way; and as for family, thy father, though he was
born in New England, cometh of a good stock, and I myself
am a gentlewoman, and on both sides we bear an ancient
coat-of-arms. And as for thyself, my dear, thou art — I
thank God for it ! — of a sweet temper and an obedient dis-
position. From the earliest thou hast never given thy
mother any uneasiness, and I think thy heart hath been
mercifully disposed towards goodness from thy childhood
upward. It is a special grace in this our long poverty and
oppression ; and it consoles me partly for the loss of my
son Barnaby." Here she was silent for a space, and her
eyes filled and brimmed over. "Child," she said, earnest-
ly, " thou art comely in the eyes of men ; that have 1 known
for long. It is partly for thy sweet looks that Sir Christo-
pher loves thee ; Mr. Boscorel plays music with thee be-
cause his eyes love to behold the beauty of woman. Nay,
I mean no reproach, becau.sc it is the nature of men to love
all things beautiful, whether it be the plumage of a bird or
the shape of a woman's head. Yes ; thou art beautiful, my
dear. Beauty passes, but love remains. Thy husband will,
perchance, never cease to think thee lovely if he still proves
,0 FOR FAITIT AA'D FKEEboM.
daily thy goodness and the loveliness of thy heart. My
dear, thou hast long comforted thy mother; now shalt thou
go, with the blessing of the Lord, to be the solace and the
joy of thy husband."
CHAPTER XII.
HUMPHREY.
Presently my father came in, the Bible in his hand. By
his countenance it was plain that he had been already en-
gaged in meditation, and that his mind was charged as with
a message.
Alas ! to think of the many great discourses that he pro-
nounced (being as a dog who must be muzzled should he
leave the farm-yard) to us women alone. If they were
written down the world would lift up its hands with wonder,
and ask if a prophet indeed had been vouchsafed to this un-
happy country. The Roman Church will have that the
time of saints did not end with the last of the apostles ; that
may be, and yet a saint has no more power after death
than remains in his written words and in the memory of his
life. Shall we not, however, grant that there may still be
prophets, who see and apprehend the meaning of words
and of things more fully than others even as spiritually-
minded as themselves } Now, I say, considering what
was immediately to befall us, the passage which my father
read and expounded that m.orning was in a manner truly
prophetic. It was the vision of the basket of summer fruit
^vhich was vouchsafed to the prophet Amos. He read to us
that terrible chapter — everybody knows it, though it hath
but fourteen verses :
"I will turn your feasts into mourning aiid all your songs
into lamentation. ... I will send a famine int he land; not a
famine of bread or a thirst of water, but of hearing the words
of the Lord."
He then applied the chapter to these times, saying that
the Scriptures and the prophecies apply not only to the
Israel of the time when Amos or any other prophet lived,
but to the people of God in all ages, yet so that sometimes
one prophet seems to deliver the message that befits the
time, and sometimes another. All these things prophesied
by Amos had come to pass in this country of Great Britain,
FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. %\
SO that there was, and had now been for twenty-five years,
a grievous famine and a sore thirst for the words of the
Lord. He continued to explain and to enlarge upon this
topic for nearly an hour, when he concluded with a fervent
prayer that the famine would pass away and the sealed
springs be open again for the children of grace to drink and
be refreshed.
This done, he took his breakfast in silence, as was his
wont, loving not to be disturbed by any earthly matters
when his mind was full of his morning discourse. When he
had eaten the bread and meat and taken the cup of cider,
he arose and went back to his own room, and shut the
door. We should have no more speech of him until
dinner-time.
'* I* will speak with him, my dear," said my mother. "But
not yet Let us wait till we hear from Sir Christopher."
" I would that my father had read us a passage of en-
couragement and promise on this morning of all mornings,"
J said.
My mother turned over the leaves of the Bible. "I will
read you a verse of encouragement," she said. "It is the
word of God as much as the Book of the Prophet Amos."
So she found and read for my comfort words which had a
new meaning to me :
"My beloved spake and said unto me, ' Rise up, my love,
my fair one, and come away. For, lo ! the winter is past,
the rain is over and gone ; the flowers appear on the earth ;
the time of the singing of birds is come, and the voice of
the turtle is heard in our land 1 The fig-tree putteth forth her
green figs, and the vines with the tender grape give a good
smell. Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away.' "
And again, these that follow :
"Set me as a seal upon thy heart, as a seal upon thine
arm ; for love is strong as death ; jealousy is cruel as the
grave ; the coals thereof are coals of fire, which hath a most
vehement flame. Many waters cannot quench love, neither
can the floods drown it. If a man would give all the
substaace of his house for love it would utterly be con-
temned."
In these gracious, nay, these enraptured words, doth the
Bible speak of love ; and though I am not so ignorant as
not to know that it is the love of the Church for Christ, yet
I am persuaded by my own spiritual experience — whatever
doctors of divinity may argue — that the earthly love of hus-
band and wii« may be spoktn of in these very words as
$2 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
being the type of that other and higher love. And in this
matter I know that my mother would also confirm my
judgment.
It might have been between nine and ten that Humphrey
came. Surely he was changed more than Robin ; for the
great white periwig which he wore (being a physician) fall-
ing upon his shoulders did partly hide the deformity of his
shoulder, and the black velvet coat did also become him
mightily. As for his face, that was not changed at all. It
had been grave and serious in youth ; it was now more
grave and more serious in manhood. He stood in the door-
way, not seeing me — I was making a pudding for dinner,
with my sleeves rolled up and my arms white with flour.
"Mistress Eykin," he said, "are old friends passed out of
mind?"
"Why," my mother left her wheel and gave him her hand,
"'tis Humphrey! I knew that we should see thee this
morning, Humphrey. Is thy health good, my son, and is
all well with thee?"
" All is well, madam, and my health is good How is
my master — thy husband ? "
"He is always well, and — ^but thou knowest what
fnanner of life he leads. Of late he hath been much dis-
quieted ; he is restless — his mind runs much upon the
prophecies of war and pestilence. It is the news from
London and the return of the mass which keep him uneasy.
Go in and see him, Humphrey. He will willingly suffer
thee to disturb him, though we must not go near him in his
hours of study."
" Presently ; but where is my old playfellow — where is
Grace?"
'* She is behind you, Humphrey. "
He turned, and his pale face flushed when he saw me.
"Grace ?" he cried. "Is this Gra^e ? Nay, she is
changed indeed I I knew not — I could not expect — nay,
how could one expect — "
"There is no change," said my mother, sharply. ' ' Grace
was a child, and is now a woman ; that is all."
" Humphrey expects," I said, " that we should all stop
still while time went on. You were to become a bachelor
of medicine, sir, and a fellow of All-Souls' College, and to
travel in Italy and France, and to come back in a velvet
coat, and a long sword, and a periwig over your shoulders ;
and I was to be a little gin still."
Humphrey shook his heac\
FOR PAITH AI^£> PHEEDOAf. 8^
" It is not only that," he said ; " thoug;h I confess that
one did not make due allowance for the flight of time. It is
that the sweet-faced child has become — "
"No, Humphrey," I said. "I want no compliments.
Go now, sir, and speak with my father. Afterwards you
shall tell me all that you have been doing-."
He obeyed, and opened my father's door.
" Humphrey !" My father sprang to his feet. "Wel-
come, my pupil ! Thou bringest good news .? Nay ; I
have received thy letters : I read the good news in thy
face — I see it in thine eyes. Welcome home 1 "
" Sir, I have, indeed, great news," said Humphrey.
Then the door was closed.
He stayed there for half an hour and more ; and we
heard from within earnest talk — my father's voice some-
limes uplifted, loud and angry, but Humphrey's always
low, as if he did not wish us to overhear them. So, not to
seem unto each other as if we \vere listening, mother and I
talked of other things, such as the lightness of the pudding
and the quantity of suet which should be put into it, and the
time it should boil in the pot, and other things as women
can whose hearts are full, yet they must needs be talking.
" Father hath much to say to Humphrey," I said, after a
time ; " he doth not use to like such interruption V
" Humphrey's conversation is no interruption, my dear.
They think the same thoughts and talk the same language.
Your father may teach and admonish us, but he can only
converse with a scholar such as himself. It is not the least
evil of our oppression that he hath been cut off from the
society of learned men, in which he used to take so much
delight. If Humphrey remains here a little while you
shall see your father lose the eager and anxious look which
hath of late possessed him. He will talk to Humphrey,
and will clear his mind. Then he will be contented again
for a while, or, at least, resigned."
Presently Humphrey came forth. His face was grave
and serious. My father came out of the room after him.
" Let us talk more," he said — " let us resume our talk.
Join me on the hillside, where none can hear us. It is,
indeed, the vision of the basket of summer fruit that we
read this morning." His face was working with some in-
ward excitement, and his eyes were full of a strange light
as of a glad conqueror, or of one — forbid the thought ! who
M'as taking a dire revenge. He strode down the garden
and out into the lanes.
84 FO^ FA/TIT AND FREEDOM.
" Thus," said my mother, " will he walk out and som^
times remain in the woods, walking, preaching to the winds,
and swinging his arms the whole day long. Art thou a
physician, and canst thou heal him, Humphrey ? "
••If the cause be removed, the disease will be cured.
Perhaps before long the cause will be removed. '
" The cause — oh ! the cause — what is the cause but the
tyranny of the law ? He who was ordered by Heaven it-
self to preach, is silent for five-and-twenty years. His very
life hath been taken from him. And you talk of removing
the cause .' "
"Madam, if the law suffer him once more to preach
freely, would that satisfy him — and you .? "
My mother shook her head. ''The law, the law, "she said ;
" now we have a Papist on the throne, it is far more likely
to lead my husband to the stake than to set him free."
"That shall we shortly see," said Humphrey.
My mother bent her head over her wheel as one who
wishes to talk no more upon the subject. She loved not to
speak concerning her husband to any except to me.
I went out into the garden with Humphrey. I was fool-
ish. I laughed at nothing. I talked nonsense. Oh! I was
so happy that if a pipe and tabor had been heard in the vil-
lage I should have danced to the music, like poor Barnaby
the night before he ran away. I regarded not the grave and
serious face of my companion.
"You are merry, Grace," said Humphrey.
"It is because you are come back again — you and Robin.
Oh I the time has been long and dull — and now you have
come back we shall all be happy again. Yes ; my father
will cease to fret and rage : he will talk Latin and Greek
with you ; Sir Christopher will be happy only in looking
upon you ; madam will have her son home again ; and Mr.
Boscorel will bring out all the old music for you. Hum-
phrey, it is a happy day that brings you home again."
" It may be a happy day also for me," he said; "but
there is much to be done. When the business we have in
hand is accomplished — "
"What business, Humphrey.? " For he spoke so graA-'ely
that it startled me.
" 'Tis busmess of which thy father knows, child. Nay,
let us not talk of it. I think and hope that it is as good as
accomplished now before it is well taken in hand. It is
not of that business that I would speak. Grace, thou art so
beautiful and »o tall — "
FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. %^
"Nay, Humphrey. I must not be flattered."
"And I so crooked."
"Humphrey, I will not hear this talk. You, so great a
scholar, thus to speak of yourself! "
" Let me speak of myself, my dear. Hear me for a mo-
ment." I declare that I had not the least thought of what
he was going to say, my mind being wholly occupied with
the idea of Robin.
"I am a physician, as you doubtless know. Medicinae
Doctor of Oxford, of Padua, Montpellier, and Leyden. I
know all — I may fairly say, and without boasting — that
may be learned by one of my age from schools of medicine
and from books on the science and practice of healing. I
believe, in short, that I am as good a physician as can be
found within these seas. I am minded, as soon as tran-
quillity is restored, to set up as a physician in London,
where I have already many friends, and am assured of
some support. I think, humbly speaking, that reasonable'
success awaits me. Grace — you know that I have loved
you all my life — will you marry me, crooked as I am ; Oh !
you cannot but know that I have loved you all my life.
Oh ! child," he stretched forth his hands, and in his eyes
there was a world of longing and of sadness which moved
my heart. "My dear, the crooked in body have no friends
among men ; they cannot join in their rough sports, nor
drink with them, nor fight with them. They have no chance
of happiness but in love, my dear. My dear, give me that
chance .-" I love thee. Oh ! my dear, give me that chance .'' "
Never had I seen Humphrey so moved before. I fell
guilty and ashamed in the presence of this passion of which
1 was the most unworthy cause.
"Oh! Humphrey, stop — for Heaven's sake stop ! because
I am but this very morning promised to Robin, who loves
me, too — and I love Robin, Hum])hrey." He sank 1)ack,
pale and disordered, and I thought that he would swoon,
but he recovered. " Humjihrey, never doubt that I love
you, too. But oh ! I love Robin, and Robin loves me. "
"Yes, dear — yes, child — yes, Grace, " he said, in broken
accents. "I understand. Everything is for Robin — every-
thing for Robin. Why, I might have guessed it ! For
Robin, the straight and comely figure ; for Robin, the
strength; for Robin, the inheritance ; for Robin, happy love.
For me, a crooked body ; for me, a feeble frame ; for me,
the loss of fortune ; for me, contempt and poverty ; for me,
the loss of love — all for Robin — all for Robin ) '"
96 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
"Humphrey — surely thou wouldst not envy or be jealous
of Robin ! " Never had I seen him thus moved, or heard
him thus speak
He made no answer for a while. Then he said slowly
and painfully,
" Grace, I am ashamed. Why should not Robin have
all? Who am I that I should have anything ? Forgive me,
child. I have lived in a paradise which fools create for
themselves. I have suffered myself to dream that what I
ardently desired was possible and even probable. Forgive
me. Let me be as before — your brother. Will you forgive
me, dear ? "
"Oh, Humphrey ! there is nothing for me to forgive."
" Nay, there is much for me to repent of Forget it, then,
if there is nothing to forgive."
" I have forgotten it already, Humphrey."
" So — " he turned upon me his grave, sweet face (to think
of it makes me yearn with tenderness and pity to see that
face again) — "So, farewell, fond dream! Do not think,
my dear, that I envy Robin. 'Tw^as a sweet dream ! Yet
I pray that Heaven in wrath may forget me if ever I suffer
this passion of envy to hurt my cousin Robin or thyself! "
So saying, he burst from me with distraction in his face.
Poor Humphrey ! Alas ! when I look back and consider
this day, there is a doubt which haunts me. Always had I
loved Robin : that is most true. But I had always loved
Humphrey that is most true. What if it had been Humph-
rey instead of Robin who had arisen in the early morning
to find his sweetheart in the garden when the dew was yet
upon the grass ?
CHAPTER XIIL
ONE DAY.
In times of great sorrow the godly person ought to look
forward to the never-ending joy and happiness that will
follow this short life. Yet we still look backward to the
happy time that is past and can never come again. And
then how happy does it seem to have been in comparison
with present affliction !
It pleased Heaven after many trials to restore my earthly
FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 87
happiness, at least, in its principal part, which is earthly
love. Some losses — grievous and lamentable — there were
which could not be restored. Ye^ for a long- time I had no
other comfort (apart from that hope which I trust was never
suffered to harm me) than the recollection of a single day
irom dewy morn till dusky eve. I began that day with
the sweetest joy that a girl can ever experience — namely,
the return of her lover and the happiness of learning that
he loves her more than ever, and the knowledge that her
heart hath gone forth from her and is wholly his. To such
a girl the woods and fields become the very Garden of
Eden ; the breath of the wind is as the voice of the Lord
blessing another Eve ; the very showers are the tears of
gladness and gratitude ; the birds sing hymns of praise ; the
leaves of the trees whisper words of love ; the brook prattles
of kisses ; the flowers offer incense ; the royal course of the
sun in splendor, the glories of the sunrise and sunset, the
twinkling stars of night, the shadows of the flying clouds,
the pageant of the summer day — these are all prepared for
that one happy girl and for her happy lover ! Oh, divine
gift of love ! which thus gives the whole world with its
fruits in season to the pair ! Nay, doth it not create them
anew? What was Adam without Eve.? And was not Eve
created for no other purpose than to be a companion to the
man ?
I say, then, that this day, when Robin took me in his
arms and kissed me — not as he had done when we parted
and I was still a child, but with the fervent kiss of a lover
. — was the happiest day in all my life. I say that I have
never forgotten that day, but, by recalling any point of it,
I remember all ; how he held my hand and how he made
me confess that I loved him : how we kissed and parted.
to meet again. As for poor Humphrey, I hardly gave him
so much as a thought of pity. Then, how we wandered
along the brook hand in hand !
"Never to part again, my dear," said the fond lover.
"Here will we love, and here we will die. Let Benjamin
become, if he please, lord chancellor, and Humphrey a
gfreat physician ; they will have to live among men in
towns, where every other man is a rogue. We shall live
in this sweet country place, where the people may be rude
but they are not knaves. Why, in that great city of London,
where the merchants congregate upon the exchange and
look so full of dignity and wisdom, each man is thinking
p^U the time that, if he fail to overreach his neighbor, that
88 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
neighbor will overrtach him. Who would live such a life
when he can pass it in the fields with such a companion as
my Grace ?
The pleasures of London had only increased his thirst for
the country life. Surely, never was seen a swain more
truly rustic in all his thoughts ! The fine ladies at the play-
house, with their painted fans, made him think of one who
wore a russet frock in Somersetshire, and did not paint hei
sweet face — this was the way he talked. The plays they
acted could never even be read, much less witnessed, by
that dear girl — so full of wickedness they were. At the
assemblies the ladies were jealous of each other, and had
scornful looks when one seemed preferred ; at the taverns
the men drank and bellowed songs and quarrelled ; in the
streets they fought and took the wall and swaggered ;
there was nothing but fighting among the baser sort with
horrid imprecations ; at the coffee-house the politicians
argued and quarrelled. Nay, in the very churches the
sermons were political arguments, and while the clergyman
read his discourse the gallants ogled the ladies. All this
and more he told me.
To hear my boy, one would think there was nothing in
London but what was wicked and odious. No doubt it is
a wicked place, where many men live together ; those who
are wicked easily find each other out, and are encouraged
in their wickedness, "^'et there must be many honest and
God-fearing persons, otherwise the judgment of Heaven
would again fall upon that city as it did in the time of
plague and in the great fire.
"My pretty Puritan, "said Robin, "I am now come away
from that place, and I hope never to see it again. Oh !
native hills, I salute you ! Oh ! woods and meadows, 1
have returned, to wander again in your delightful shade.'
Then, which was unusual in my boy and would have better
become Mr. Boscorel or Humphrey, he began to repeat
verses. I knew not that he had ever learned any :
" As I range these spacious fields,
Feast on all that nature yields ;
Everything inspires delight,
Charms my smell, my taste, my sight ;
Every rural sound 1 hear
Soothes my soul and tunes my ear."
I do not know where Robin found these verses, but as he
repeated them, waving his arin around, I thought that
Humphrey himself never made sweeter lines.
FOR FAirn AND FREEDOM. g^
He then told me how Humphrey would certainly become
the most learned physician of the time, and that he was
already master of a polite and dignified manner which would
procure him the patronage of the great and the confidence
of all. It was pleasant to hear him praise his cousin with-
out jealousy or envy. To be sure, he knew not then —
though afterwards I told him — that Humphrey was his rival.
Even had he known this, such was the candor of my Robin
and the integrity of his soul that he would have praised him
even more loudly.
One must not repeat more of the kind and lovely things
that the dear boy said while we strolled together by the
brookside.
While we walked — 'twas in the forenoon, after Hum-
phrey's visit — Sir Christopher, his grandfather, in his best
coat and his gold-laced hat which he commonly kept for
church, and accompanied by madam, walked from the
manor-house through the village till they came to our cot-
tage. Then, with great ceremony, they entered, Sir Chris-
topher bowing low and madam dropping a deep courtesy
to my mother, who sat humbly at her wheel.
" Madam," said Sir Christopher, ''we would, with your
permission, say a few words with the learned Dr. Eykin
and yourself."
My father, who had now returned and was in his room,
came forth when he was called. His face had recovered
something of its serenity, but his eyes were still troubled.
Madam sat down ; but Sir Christopher and my father stood.
"Sir," said his honor, "I will proceed straight to the
point. My grandson desires to marry your daughter.
Robin is a good lad ; not a scholar if you will ; for his re-
ligion, the root of the matter is in him ; for the goodness of
his heart, I will answer ; for his habit of life, he hath, so
far as we can learn, acquired no vile vices of the city — he
doth neither drink nor gamble, nor waste his health and
strength in riotous living ; and for his means, they are my
own. All that I have will be his. 'Tis no great estate, but
'twill serve him as it hath served me. Dr. Eykin, the boy's
mother and I have come to ask your daughter in marriage.
We know her worth, and we are well satisfied that our boy
hath made so good and wise a choice."
"They were marrying and giving in marriage when the
Flood came ; they will be marrying and giving in marriage
in the great day of the Lord," said my father.
90
FOk FAITH AND FREEDOM.
"Yes, gossip ; but that is no reason why they should not
be marrying and giving in marriage."
"You ask my consent?" said my father. "This surprise4
me. The child is too young : she is not yet of marriageable
"Husband, she is nigh upon her twentieth birthday I
"I thought she had been but twelve or thereabouts!
My consent .'' Why, Sir Christopher, in the eye of the
world this is great condescension on your part to take a pen-
niless girl. I looked, I suppose, to the marriage of my
daughter some time — perhaps to a farmer — yet — yet, we
are told that a virtuous woman has a price far above rubies ;
and that it is she who buildeth up the house, and we are
nowhere told that she must bring her husband a purse of
gold. Sir Christopher, it would be the blackest ingratitude
in us to deny you anything even if this thing were against
the mind of our daughter."
"It is not — it is not," said my mother.
"Wherefore, seeing that the young man is a good man as
youths go, though in the matter of the syntax he hath yet
much to learn ; and that his heart is disposed towards religion,
I am right glad that he should take our girl to wife."
" Bravely said ! cried Sir Christopher. " Hands upon it,
man ! And we will have a merry wedding. But to-day I
bid you both to come and feast with us. We will have
holiday and rejoicing."
"Yes," said my father, "we will feast, though to-mor-
row comes the Deluge." I know now what he meant, but
at that time we knew not, and it seemed to his honor a
poor way of rejoicing at the return of the boys and the
betrothal of his daughter thus to be foretelling woes.
"The vision of the plumb-line is before mine eyes," my
father went on. " Is the land able to bear all this ? We
talk of feasting and of marriages. Yet a few days or per-
haps already. But we will rejoice together, my old friend
and benefactor — we will rejoice together." With these
words he turned and went back to his room, and, after some
tears with my mother, madam went home and Sir Chris-
topher with her. But in honor to the day he kept on his
best coat
Robin suffered me to go home, but only that I might put
on my best frock ( I had but two) and make my hair
straight which had been blown into curls, as was the way
with my hair. And then, learning from my mother with
the utmost satisfaction what had passed, he lead me by the
FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 9 1
hand, as if I were already his bride, and so to the manor-
house, where first Sir Christopher saluted me with great
kindness, calling- me his dear grand-daughter, and saying
that next to Robin's safe return he asked for nothing more
than to see me Robin's wife. And madam kissed me, with
tears in her eyes, and said that she could desire nothing
better for her son, and that she was sure I should do my
best endeavors to make the boy happy. Then Humphrry
as quietly as if he had not also asked me to be his wife,
kissed my hand, and wished me joy ; and Mr. Boscorel
also kissed me, and declared that Robin ought to be the
happiest dog on earth. And so we sat down to our feast.
The conversation at dinner was graver than the occasion
demanded. For though our travellers continually answered
questions about the foreign lands and peoples they had seen
yet the subject returned always to the condition of the
country, and to what would happen.
After dinner we sat in the garden, and the gentlemen
began to talk of right divine and of non-resistance, and here
it seemed to me as if Mr. Boscorel was looking on as from
an eminence apart For when he had once stated the texts
and arguments upon which the High Church party do most
rely he retired and made no further objections, listening in
silence while my father held forth upon the duty of rising
against wicked princes. At last, however, being challenged
to reply by Humphrey, Mr. Boscorel then made answer :
"The doctrine that subjects may or may not rebel against
their sovereign is one which I regard with interest so long
as it remains a question of logic and argument only.
Unfortunately, the times are such that we may be called
upon to make a practical application of it : in which case
there may follow once more civil war, with hard knocks
on both sides, and much loss of things temporal. Where-
fore to my learned brother's arguments, which I admit t(-
be plausible, I will, for the present, offer no reply, except
to pray Heaven that the occasion may not arise of converg-
ing a disputed doctrine into a rule of conduct. "
Alas ! even while he spoke the messenger was speeding
swiftly towards us who was to call upon all present to take
a side.
The question is now. I hope, decided forever ; but many
men had first to die. It was not decided then, but three
years later, when King William cut the knot, and, with the
applause of the nation, pulled down his father-in-law and
mounted the throne him»elf with his gracious consort W«
93
FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
are agreed, at last, that kings, like judges, generals, and all
great officers of state, are to hold their offices in good
behavior. If they enter into machinations against the
liberty of the people and desert the national religion, they
must descend, and let another take their place. But before
that nght could be established for the country, streams o'
blood must first flow.
While they talked, we — I mean madam, my mother, and
myself — sat and listened. But my mind was full of anothei
subject, and I heard but little of what was said, noting
chiefly the fiery ardor of my father and the careless grace
of Mr. Boscorel.
Presently my father, \\'\\o was never easy in the company
of Mr. Boscorel — (so oil and water will not agree to fill a
cup in friendship) — and, besides, being anxious to rejoin
the society of his books, arose and went away, and with
him my mother — he, in his ragged cassock, who was a
learned scholar ; she, in her plain homespun, was a gentle-
woman by birth. Often had I thought of our poverty with
bitterness. But now it was with a softened heart that I
saw them walk side by side across the lawns. For now I
understood plainly — and for the first time — how love can
strengthen and console. INIy mother was poor, but she
was not therefore unhappy.
Mr. Boscorel also rose and went away with Humphrey.
They went to talk of things more interesting to the rector
than the doctrine of non-resistance ; of painting, namely,
and statuary and models. And when we presently walked
from the rectory gardens we heard a most gladsome scrap-
ing of fiddle-strings within, which showed that the worthy
man was making the most of Humphrey's return.
When Sir Christopher had taken his pipe of tobacco he
fell asleep. Robin and I walked in the garden and renewed
our vows. Needs must that I should tell him all that I had
done or thought since he went away. As if the simple
thoughts of a country-maid should be of interest to a man !
Yet he seemed pleased to question and to listen, and pres-
ently broke into a rapture, swearing that he was in love
with an angel. Young lovers may, it is feared, fall into
grievous sin by permitting themselves these extravagances
of speech and thought ; yet it is hard to keep them sober,
and besides (because every sin in man meeteth with its cor-
respondent in woman), if the l()\'cr be extravagant, the
maiden takes pleasure in his extravagance. To call a mor-
tal, full of imperfections, an angel, is little short of bias-
POR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 93
•hemy. Yet I heard it with, I confess, a secret pleasure.
We know ourselves and the truth concerning- ourselves ; we
do not deceive ourselves as to our imperfections ; yet we
are pleased that our lovers should so speak and think of us
as if we were angels indeed.
Robin told me, presently ceasing his extravagances for a
while, that he was certain something violent was on foot.
To be sure, everybody expected so much. He said, more-
over, that he believed Humphrey had certain knowledge of
what was going to happen ; that before they left the Low
Countries Humphrey had been present at a meeting of the
exiles in Rotterdam, where it was well known that Lord
Argyle's expedition was resolved upon ; that he had been
much engaged in London after their return, and had paid
many visits, the nature of which he kept secret : and that
on the road there was not a town and scarcely a village
where Humphrey had not some one to visit.
"My dear," he said, " Humphrey is slight as to stature
and strength, but he carries a stout heart. There is no man
more bitter against the king than he, and none more able if
his counsels were listened to. Monmouth, I am certain,
purposes to head an expedition into England like that of
Lord Argyle in Scotland. The history of England hath
many instances of such successful attempts. King Stephen,
King Henry IV., King Henry VH., are all examples. If
Monmouth lands, Humphrey will join him, I am sure.
And I, my dear — " he paused.
" And you too, Robin? Oh! must you too go forth to
fight? And yet, if the duke doth head a rising all the
world would follow. Oh I to drive away the papist king
and restore our liberty ? "
"My dear, I will do what my grandfather appro\'es. If
it be my duty to go, he will send me forth."
I had almost forgotten to say that madam took me to her
own chamber, where she opened a box and pulled out a
gold chain, very fine. This she hung about my neck and
bade me sit down, and gave me some sound advice, re-
minding me that woman was the weaker vessel, and should
look to her husband not only to love and cherish her, but
also to prevent her from falling into certain grievous sins,
as of temper, deceitfulness, vanity, and the like, to which
the weaker nature is ever prone. IMany other things she
said, being a good and virtuous woman, but I pass them
over.
After supper we went again into the garden, the weather
§4 i'OR FAITN AND FREEDOM.
being warm and fine. The sun went down, but the sky
was full of light, though it was past nine o'clock and time
for me to go home and to bed. Yet we lingered. The birds
had gone to sleep ; there was no whisper of the wind ; the:
village was in silence. And Robin was whispering in mv
ear. I remember — I remember the very tones of his voice,
which were low and sweet. I remember the words he
said : " Sweet love ! Sweet love i How could I live so
long without thee ?" I remembe.my swelling heart and
my glowing cheeks. Oh ! Robin — Robin ! Oh ! poor
heart } poor maid ! The memory of this one day was
nearly all thou hadst to feed upon for so long — so long a
time !
CHAPTER XIV.
B A R N A B Y.
Suddenly we heard footsteps, as of those who are run*
ning, and my father's voice speaking loud.
"Sing, O daughter of Zion ! Shout, O Israeli Be gla<?
and rejoice with all thy heart ! "
" Now, in the name of Heaven," cried Sir Christopher
'* what meaneth this ? "
*' The arm of the Lord ! The deliverance of Israel ! "
He burst upon us, dragging a man with him by the arm.
In the twilight 1 could only see, at first, that it was a
broad, thick-set man. But my father's brave form looked
taller as he waved his arms and cried aloud. Had he been
clad in a sheepskin, he would have resembled one of those
ancient prophets whose words were always in his mouth.
"Good friend, " said Sir Christopher, " what meaneth
these cries .'' Whom have we here I "
Then the man with my father stepped forward and took
off his hat. Why, I knew him at once ; though it was ten
years since I had seen him last ! 'Twas my brothei
Barnaby — none other — come home again. He was now a
great strong man — a stouter have I never seen, though he
was somewhat under the middle height, broad in the
shoulders, and thick of chest. Beside him Robin, though
reasonable in breadth, showed like a slender sapling. But
he had still the same good-natured face, though now much
FOR FAITH AA'D FREEDOM.
95
broader. It needed no more than the first look to know my
brother Barnaby again. " Barnaby, " I cried, " Barnaby,
hast thou forgotten me ? " I caught one of his great hands
— never, surely, were there bigger hands than IBarnaby's !
" Hast thou forgotten me .'' "
" Why," he said, slowly — 'twas ever a boy slow of speech
and of understanding — " belike, "tis sister. '' He kissed my
forehead. " It is sister,'' he said, as if he were tasting a
cup of ale and was pronouncing on its quality. "How dost
thou, sister ? Bravely, I hope. Thou art grown, sister.
I have seen my mother, and — and— she does bravely, too ;
though I left her crying. 'Tis their way, the happier they
be."
"Barnaby.?" said Sir Christopher, "is it thou, scape-
grace ? Where hast thou — But first tell us what has
happened. Briefly, man."
" In two words, sir : the Duke of Monmouth landed the
day before yesterday at Lyme-Regis with my Lord Grey
and a company of a hundred — of whom I was one."
The duke had landed ! Then what Robin expected had
come to pass ! and my brother Barnaby was with the in
surgents ! My heart beat fast.
" The Duke of Monmouth hath landed ! " Sir Christopher
repeated, and sat down again, as one who knows not what
may be the meaning of the news.
" Ay, sir, the duke hath landed. We left Holland on the
24th of May, and we made the coast at Lyme at daybreak
on Thursday the nth. 'Tis now, I take it, Saturday. The
duke had with him on board ship Lord Grey, Mr. Andrew
Fletcher of Saltoun, Mr. Heywood Dare of Taunton — ''
" I know the man," said Sir Christopher, " for an im-
pudent, loud-tongued fellow."
" Perhaps he was, sir," said Barnaby, gravely. "Per-
haps he was, but now — "
"How ' was ' ? "
" He was shot on Thursday evening by Mr. Fletcher for
offering him violence with a cane, and is now dead. "
" 'Tis a bad beginning. Go on, Barnaby."
" The duke had also Mr. Ferguson, Colonel Venner, Mr.
Chamberlain, and others whom I cannot remember. First
we set Mr. Dare and Mr. Chamberlain ashore at Seatown,
whence they were to carry intelligence of the rising to the
duke's friends. The duke landed at seven o'clock with his
company, in seven boats. First, he fell on his knees, and
prayed aloud. Then he drew his sword, and we all marched
^g FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
after to the market-place where he raised his flag and
caused the declaration to be read. Here it is, your honor.
Me lugged out a copy of the declaration, which Sir Christopher
put aside, saying that he would read it in the morning.
" Then we tossed our hats and shouted 'A Monmouth !
A Monmouth ! " Sixty stout young fellows listed on the
spot. Then we divided our forces, and begin to land the
cannon — four pretty pieces as you could wish to see — and
ihe arms, of which I doubt if we have enough, and the
powder — two hundred and fifty barrels. The duke lay on
Thursday night at the George. Next day before dawn, the
country people began flocking in."
" What gentlemen have come in } "
" I know not, sir — my duty was most of the day on
board, In the evening I received leave to ride home, and,
indeed, Sir Christopher, to carry the duke's declaration to
yourself And now we shall be well rid of the king, the
pope and the devil."
" Because," said my father, solemnly — " because with
lies ye have made the hearts of the righteous sad whom I
have not made sad."
"And what doest thou among this goodly company,
Friend Barnaby ? "
"I am to be a captain in one of the regiments," said Bar-
naby, grinning with pride; "though a sailor, yet can I
fight with the best. My colonel is Mr. Holmes ; and my
major, Mr. Parsons. On board the frigate I was master,
and navigated her."
"There will be knocks, Barnaby ; knocks, I doubt."
"By your honor's l«ave, I have been where knocks were
flying for ten years, and I will take my share, remembering
still the treatment of my father and the poverty of my
mother."
" It is rebellion, Barnaby ! — rebellion ! "
" Why, sir, Oliver Cromwell was a rebel. And your honor
fought in the army of the Earl of Essex — and what was he
but a rebel .'' "
I wondered to hear my brother speak with so much bold-
ness, who ten years before had bowed low and pulled his
hair in presence of his honor. Yet Sir Christopher seemed
to take this boldness in good part.
"Barnaby, "he said, "thou art a stout and proper lad,
and I doubt not thy courage — nay, I see it in thy face,
which hath resolution in it, and yet is modest ; no ruffler ot
boaster art thou, Friend Barnaby. Yet — yet — if rebellion
FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
97
fail — even rebellion in a just cause — then those who rise
lose their lives in vain, and the cause is lost, until better
times." This he said as one who speaketh to himself. I
saw him look upon his grandson. "The king is — a papist,"
he said, "that is most true. A papist should not be suf-
fered to rule this country. Vet to rise in rebellion ! Have a
care, lad ! What if the time be not yet ripe? How know we
who will join the duke .-* "
"The people are flocking to his standard by thousands,''
said Barnaby. "When I rode away last night the duke's
secretaries were writing down their names as fast as they
could be entered ; they were landing the arms and already
exercising the recruits. And such a spirit they show, sir, it
would do your heart good only once to witness ! "
Now, as I looked at Barnaby, I became aware that he
was not only changed in appearance, but that he was also
very nneiy dressed — namely, in a scarlet coat and a sword
with a silken sash, with laced ruffles, a gold-laced hat, a
great wig, white breeches, and a flowered waistcoat. In
the light of day, as I afterwards discovered, there were stains
of wine visible upon the coat, and the ruffles were torn, and
the waistcoat had marks upon it as of tar. One doth not,
to be sure, expect in the sailing-master of a frigate the same
neatness as in a gallant of St. James's. Yet our runaway
lad must have prospered.
"What doth the duke intend?" Sir Christopher asked him.
"Indeed, sir, I know not. 'Tis said by some that he
will raise the West Country ; and by some that he will
march north into Cheshire, where he hath many friends ;
and by others that he will march upon London, and call up-
on all good Protestants to rise and join him. We look t(i
have an army of twenty thousand within a week. As for
the king, it is doubted whether he can raise a paltry five
thousand to meet us. Courage, dad " — he dared to call his
father, the Rev. Comfort Eykin, Doctor of Divinity, "dad!"
— and he clapped him lustily upon the shoulder ; "thou
shalt mount the pulpit yet ; ay, of Westminster Abbey if it
so please you I "
His father paid no heed to this conversation, being wrap-
ped in his own thoughts.
"I know not," said Sir Christopher. " what to think, the
news is sudden. And yet — and yet — "
"We waste time," cried my father, stamping his foot.
"Oh ! we waste the time talking. What helps it to talk?
Every honest man must now be up and doing. Why, it is
7
^8 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM,
a plain duty laid upon us. The finger of Heaven is visible,
I say, in this. Out of the very sins of Charles Stuart hath the
instrument for the destruction of his race been forged. A
plain duty, I say. As for me, I must preach and exhort.
As for my son, who was dead and yet liveth " — he laid his
hand upon Barnaby's shoulder — "time was when I prayed
that he might become a godly minister of God's Word.
Now I perceive clearly that the Lord hath ways of his own.
My son shall fight and I shall preach. Perhaps he will
rise and become another Cromwell ! '' — Barnaby grinned.
" Sir," said my father, turning hotly upon his honor, "I
perceive that thou art lukewarm. If the cause be the Lord's,
what matter for the chances.? The issue is in the hands of
the Lord. As for me and my household, we M'ill serve the
Lord. Yea, I freely offer myself, and my son, and my wife,
and my daughter — even my tender daughter — to the cause
of the Lord. Young men and maidens, old men and chil-
dren, the voice of the Lord calleth ! ''
Nobody made reply ; my father looked before him, as if
he saw in the twilight of the summer night a vision of what
was to follow. His face, as he gazed, changed. His eyes,
which were fierce and fiery, softened. His lips smiled.
Then he turned his face and looked upon each of us in turn
— upon his son and upon his wife and upon me, upon
JRobin, and upon Sir Christopher.
" It is, indeed," he said, "the will of the Lord. Why,
what though the end be violent death to me, and to all of us
ruin and disaster 1 We do but share the afflictions foretold
in the vision of the basket of summer fruit. What is death .''
What is the loss of earthly things compared with what shall
follow to those who obey the voice that calls .' Children,
let us be up and doing. As for me, I shall have a season
of freedom before I die. For twenty-tive years have I been
muzzled or compelled to whisper and mutter in corners and
hiding-places. I have been a dumb dog. I, whose heart
was full and overflowing with the sweet and precious Word
of God ; I, to whom it is not life, but death, to sit in silence !
Now I shall deliver my soul before I die. Sirs, the Lord
hath given to every man a weapon or two with which to
fight To me he hath given an eye and a tongue for dis-
coursing and proclaiming the word of sacred doctrine. I
have been muzzled— a dumb dog — though sometimes I have
been forced to climb among the hills and speak to the bend-
ing tree-tops. Now I shall be free again, and I will speak,
and all the ends of the earth shall hear,"
POR FAITH AA'D FREEDOM.
9<l
His eyes gleamed, he panted and gasped and waved his
arms.
"As for sister, dad," said Barnaby, "she and mothei
may bide at home."
"No, they shall go with me. I offer my wife, my son,
my daughter, and myself to the cause of the Lord."
"A camp is but a rough place for a woman," said Bar-
naby.
" She is offered : she is dedicated ; she shall go with us. "
I know not what was in his mind, or why he wished that
I should go with him, unless it was a desire to give every-
thing that he had — to hold back nothing — to the Lord :
therefore he would give his children as well as himself. As
for me, my heart glowed to think that I was even worthy to
join in such a cause. What could a woman do } But that
I should find out.
" Robin," I whispered, "'tis religion calls. If I am to
be among the followers of the duke, thou wilt not remain
behind t "
" Child — it was my mother who whispered to me ; I had
not seen her coming — "Child, let us obey him. Perhaps ii
will be better for him if we are at his side. And there is
Barnaby. But we must not be in their Avay. We shall find
a place to sit and wait. Alas ! that my son hath returned to
us only to go fighting. We will go with them, daughter."
"We should be better without women," said Barnaby,
grumbling ; "I would as lief have a woman on shipboard
as in the camp. To be sure, if he has set his heart upon
it — and then he will not stay long in camp, where the curs-
ing of the men is already loud enough to scare a preacher
out of his cassock. Dad, I say — " But my father wa&
fallen again into a kind of rapture, and heard nothing.
"When doth the duke begin his march .-*" he said, sud-
denly.
" I know not. But we shall find him, never fear."
" I must have speech with him at the earliest possible
time. Plours are precious, and we waste them — we waste
them."
"Well, sir, it is bedtime. To-n"vorrow we can ride ; un-
less, because it is the Sabbath, you would choose to wait till
Monday. And as to the women, by your leave, it is mad-
ness to bring them to a camp."
"Wait till Monday? Art thou mad, Barnaby! Why, I
have things to tell the duke. Up ! let us ride all night.
To-morrow is the Sabbath, and I will preach. Yea — I will
iOO FOR FAITH AXD FREEDOM.
preach. My soul longeth — yea, even it fainteth, for the
courts of the Lord. Quick ! quick ! let us mount and ride
all nig-ht I "
" Lads," said Sir Christopher, "'you are fresh from Hol-
land. Knew you aught of this } "
" Sir," said Humphrey, "I have already told Dr. Eykin
what to expect. I knew that the duke was coming. Robin
did not know, because I would not drag him into the con-
spiracy. I knew that the duke was coming, and that without
delay. I have myself had speech in Amsterdam with his
grace, who comes to restore the Protestant religion and to
give freedom of worship to all good Protestant people. His
friends have promises of support everywhere. Indeed, sir,
I think that the expedition is well planned, and is certain of
support. Success is in the hands of the Lord ; but we do
not expect that there will be any serious opposition. With
submission, sir, I am under promise to join the duke. I
came over in advance to warn his friends, as I rode from
London, of his approach. Thousands are waiting in read-
iness for him. But, sir, of all this, I repeat, Robin knew
nothing. I have been for three months in the councils of
those who desire to drive forth the popish king, but Robin
have I kept in the dark."
"Humphrey," said Robin, "am not I a Protestant?"
CHAPTER XV.
A NIGHT AND MORNING AT LYME-REGIS.
When I read of men possessed by some spirit — that is to
say, compelled to go hither and thither where, but for the
spirit, they would not go, and to say things which they would
not otherwise have said — I think of our midnight ride to
Lyme, and of my father then, and of the three weeks' mad-
ness which followed. It was some spirit — whether of good
or evil, I cannot say, and I dare not so much as to ques-
tion — which seized him. That he hurried away to join the
duke on the first news of his landing, without counting the
cost or weighing the chances, is easy to be understood.
Like Humphrey, he was led by his knowledge of the great
numbers who hated the Catholic religion to believe that they,
FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. lOi
like himself, would rise with one accord. He also remem-
bered the successful rebellion against the first Charles, and
expected nothing less than a repetition of that success.
This, I knew, was what the exiles in Holland thought and
believed. The duke, they said, was the darling of the peo-
ple ; he was the Protestant champion : who would not press
forward when he should draw the sword.'' But what man in
his sober senses would have dragged his wife and daughter
with him to the godless riot of a camp .? Perhaps he wanted
them to share his triumph, to listen while he moved the sol-
diers as that ancient hermit Peter moved the people to the
Holy Wars ? But I know not. He said that I was to be,
like Jephthah's daughter, consecrated to the cause of the
Lord ; and what he meant by that I never understood.
He was so eager to start upon the journey that he would
not wait a moment. The horses must be saddled ; we must
mount and away . Not that they were Sir Christopher's horses
which we borrowed ; this also was noted afterwards for the
ruin of that good old man, with other particulars : as that
Monmouth's declaration was found in the house (Barnaby
brought it ) ; one of Monmouth's captains, Barnaby Eykin
by name, had ridden from Lyme to Bradford in order to see
him ; he was a friend of the preacher Dr. Eykin ; he was
grandfather to one of the rebels and grand-uncle to another ,
with many other things. But these were enough.
"Surely, surely, friend, " said Sir Christopher, "thou wilt
not take wife and daughter .? They cannot help the cause ;
they have no place in a camp."
" Young men and idens : one with another. Quick I
we waste the time. "
" And to ride all night, consider, man — all night long ! "
" What is a night } They will have all eternity to
rest in."
" He hath set his heart upon it," said my mother. " Let
us go ; a night's uneasiness will not do much harm. Let
us go, Sir Christopher, without further parley. "
" Go then, in the name of God," said the old man.
"Child, give me a kiss." Pie took me in his arms and kissed
me on the forehead. "Thou art, then," he said tenderly,
"devoted to the Protestant cause. Why, thou art already
promised to a Protestant since this morning : forget not that
promise, child. Humphrey and Barnaby will i^rotcct thee — ■
and — "
" Sir." said Robin, "by your leave, I alone have the right
V) i^o wj'th her and to protect her. "
I02 I-'OR FAITH AND FREEDOM:
"Nay, Robin," I said, "stay here until Sir Christopher
himself bids thee go. That will be very soon. Remember
thy promise. We did not know, Robin, an hour ago that
the promise would be claimed so soon. Robin " — for he
murmured — " I charge thee, remain at home until — "
" I promise thee sweetheart." But he hung his head and
looked ashamed.
Sir Christopher, holding my hand, stepped forth upon the
grass and looked upward into the clear sky, where in the
transparent twilight we could see a few stars twinkling.
"This, Friend Eykin — this, Humphrey," he said, gravely,
" is a solemn night for all. No more fateful day hath ever
come to any of us ; no ! not that day when I join Hamp-
den's new regiment and followed with the army of Lord
Essex. Granted that we have a righteous cause, we know
not that our leader hath in him the root of the matter. To
rise against the kmg is a most weighty matter — fatal if it fail,
a dangerous precedent if it succeed. Civil war is, of all
wars, the most grievous ; to fight under a leader who doth
not live after the laws of God is, methinks, most danger-
ous. The duke hath lit a torch which will spread flames
everywhere — "
"It is the voice of the Lord which calleth us ! " my father
interrupted. "To-morrow I shall speak again to God's
elect."
" Sir," said Humphrey, very seriously, " I pray you think
not that this enterprise hath been rashly entered upon, nor
that we depend upon the judgment of the duke alone. It
is, unhappily, true that his life is sinful, and so is that of
Lord Grey, who hath deserted his lawful wife for her sister.
But those who have pushed on the enterprise consider that
the duke is, at least, a true Protestant. They have, more-
over, received solid assurances of support from every
quarter. You have been kept in the dark from the begin-
ning at my own earnest request, because, though I knew
full well your opinion, I would not trouble your peace or
endanger your person. Suffer us, then, to depart, and, for
yourself, do nothing ; and keep — oh ! sir, I entreat you —
keep Robin at home until our success leaves no room for
doubt."
"Go, then, go," said Sir Christopher; " I have grievoui;
misgivings that all is not well. But go, and Heaven bless
the cause ! "
Robin kissed me, whispering that he would follow, and
that before many days : and so we mounted and rode forth.
FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
103
In such hot haste did we depart that we took with us no
change of raiment er any provision for the journey at all,
save that Barnaby, who, as 1 afterwards found, never forgot
the provisions, found time to get together a small parcel of
bread and meat, and a flask of Malmsey, with which to
refresh our spirits later on. We even rode away without
any money.
My father rode one horse and my mother sat behind him ;
then I followed, Barnaby marching manfully beside me, and
Humphrey rode last. The ways are rough, so that those
who ride, even by daylight, go but slowly ; and we riding
between high hedges, went much too slowly for my father,
who, if he spoke at all, cried out impatiently, "Quicker !
quicker ! we lose the time."
He sat bending over the horse's head, with rounded
shoulders, his feet sticking out on either side, his long white
hair and his ragged cassock floating in the wind. In his
left hand he carried his Bible as a soldier carries his sword ;
on his head he wore the black silk cap in which he daily
sat at work. He was praying and meditating ; he was
preparing the sermon which he would deliver in the
morning.
Barnaby plodded on beside me ; night or day made no
"difference to him. He slept when he could, and worked
when he must. Sailors keep their watch day and night
without any difference.
"It was Sir Christopher that I came after," he told me
presently. "Mr. Dare — who hath since been killed by Mr.
Fletcher — told the duke that if Sir Christopher Challis would
only come into camp, old as he is, the country gentlemen
of his opinions would follow to a man, so respected is he.
Well, he will not. But we have his nephew, Humphrey ;
and, if I mistake not, we shall have his grandson — if kisses
mean anything. So Robin is thy sweetheart, sister ; thou
art a lucky girl. And we shall have dad to preach. Well.
I know not what will happen, but some will be knocked o'
tne head, and if dad goes in the way of knocks — But what-
everhappens, he will get his tongue again, and so he will
be happy. "
"As for preaching," he went on, speaking with due
pauses, because there was no hurry and he was never one
of those whose words flow easily, "if he thinks to preach
daily, as they say was done in Cromwell's time, 1 doubt if
he will find many to listen, for by the look of the fellows
who are crowding into canu) they will love the clinking of
I04 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
the can better than the division of the text. But if he cause
his friends to join he will be welcomed ; and for devoting
his wife and daughter, that, sister, with submission, is rank
nonsense, and the sooner you get out of the camp, if you
must go there, the better. Women aboard ship are bad
enough, but in camp they are the devil."
"Barnaby, speak not lightly of the Evil One."
"Where shall we bestow you when the fighting comes.-'
Well, it shall be in some safe place."
"Oh, Barnaby ! will there be fighting ? "
" Good lack, child ! what else will there be .'' "
"As the walls of Jericho fell down at the blast of the
trumpet, so the king's armies will be dispersed at the ap-
proach of the Lord's soldiers."
"That was a long time ago, sister. There is now no
trumpet-work employed in war, and no priests on the march ;
but plenty of fighting to be done before anything is accom-
plished. But have no fear. The country is rising. They
are sick at heart already of a popish king. I say not that it
will be easy work ; but it can be done, and it will be done,
before we all sit down again. "
"And what will happen when it is done ? "
"Truly, I know not. When one king is sent a-packing
they put up another, I suppose. My father shall have the
biggest church in the country to preach in ; Humphrey will
be made physician to the new king — nothing less ; you shall
marry Robin, and he shall be made a duke or a lord at least ;
and I shall have command of the biggest ship in the king's
navy, and go to fight the Spaniards, or to trade for negroes
on the Guinea coast."
"And suppose the duke should be defeated? "
"Well, sister, if he is defeated it will go hard with all of
us. Those who are caught will be stabbed with a Bridport
dagger, as they say. Ask not such a question ; as well ask
a sailor what will happen to him if his ship is cast away.
Some may escape in boats and some by swimming, and
some are drowned, and some are cast upon savage shores.
Every man must take his chance. Never again ask such a
question. Nevertheless, I fear my father will get his neck
as far in the noose as I myself But remember, sister, do
you and my mother keep snug. Let others carry on the
rebellion, do you keep snug. For, d'ye see, a man takes
his chance, and if there should happen a defeat and the
rout of these country lads, I could e'en scud by myself be-
fore the gale, and maybe gel to u seaport an4 so aboar4»nrl
ton FAITJI A\D J'KEMDOM. I05
away while the chase was hot. But for a woman — keep
snug, I say, therefore."
The night, happily, was clear and fine. A slight breeze
was blowing from the northwest, which made one shiver,
yet it was not too cold. I heard the screech-owl once or
twice, which caused me to tremble more than the cold.
The road, when we left the highway, which is not often
mended in these parts, became a narrow lane full of holes
and deep ruts, or else a track across open country. But
Barnaby knew the way.
It was about ten of the clock when we began our journey,
and it was six in the morning when we finished it. I sup-
pose there are few women who can boast of having taken
so long a ride and in the night. Yet, strange to say, I felt
no desire to sleep ; nor was I wearied with the jogging of
ihe horse, but was sustained by something of the spirit of
my father. A wonderful thing it seemed to me that a simple
country maid, such as myself, should help in putting down
the Catholic king ; women there have been who have played
great parts in history — Jael, Deborah, Judith, and Esther,
for example ; but that I should be called (since then I have
discovered that I was not called), this, indeed, seemed truly
wonderful. Then I was going forth to witness the array of
a gallant army about to fight for freedom and for religion,
just as they were arrayed forty years before, when Sif
Christopher was a young man and rode among them.
My brother, this stout Barnaby, was one of them ; my
father was one of them ; Humphrey was one of them ; and
in a little while I was very sure (because Robin would feel
no peace of mind if I was with the insurgents and he was
still at home), my lover would be with them too. And I
pictured to myself a holy and serious camp, filled with godly
sober soldiers listening to sermons and reading the Bible,
going forth to battle with hymns upon their lips ; and withal
>o valiant that at their very first onset the battalions of the
king would be shattered. Alas ! any one may guess the
foolish thoughts of a girl who had no knowledge of the
world nor any experience. Yet all my life I have been
taught that resistance was at times a sacred duty, and that
the divine right of the (so-called) Lord's Anointed was a
vain superstition. So far, therefore, was I better prepared
than most women for the work in hand.
When we rode through Sherborne all the folk were a-bed
and the streets were empty. From Sherborne our way lay
through Yetminster and Evershott to Beaminster, wkert
106 i^OR FAITH AKD FREEDOM.
we watered and rested the horses, and took some of Bar-
naby's provisions. The country through which we rode
was full of memories of the last great war. The Castle of
Sherborne was twice besieged ; once by Lord Bedford,
when the Marquis of Hertford held it for the king. That
siege was raised ; but it was afterwards taken by Fairfax,
with its garrison of six hundred soldiers, and was then de-
stroyed, so that it is now a heap of ruins ; and as for Bea-
minster, the town hath never recovered from the great fire
when Prince Maurice held it, and it is still half in ruins',
though the ivy hath gro-\vn over the blackened walls of the
burned houses. The last great war of which I had heard so
much ! And now, perhaps, we were about to begin another.
It was two o'clock in the morning when we dismounted
at Beaminster. My mother sat down upon a bench and
fell instantly asleep. My father walked up and down im-
patiently, as grudging every minute. Barnaby, for his part,
made a leisurely and comfortable meal, eating his bread
and meat— of which I had some — and drinking his Malmsey
with relish, as if we were on a journey of pleasure and there
was plenty of time for leisurely feeding. Presently he arose
with a sigh (the food and wine being all gone), and said
that the horses, being now rested, we might proceed. So
he lifted my mother into her seat and we went on with the
journey, the day now breaking.
The way, I say, was never tedious to me, for I \vas sus-
tained by the novelty and the strangeness of the thing. Al-
though I had a thousand things to ask Barnaby, it must be
confessed that for one who had travelled so far he had mar-
vellous little to tell. I dare say that the deck and cabins of
a ship are much the same whether she be on the Spanish
]\Iain or in the Bristol Channel, and sailors, even in port,
are never an observant race, except of weather and so forth.
It was strange, however, only to look upon him and to
mark how stout a man he was grown and how strong, and
yet how he still spoke like the old Barnaby, so good-natured
and so dull with his book, who was daily flogged for his
Latin grammar, and bore no malice, but prepared himself
to enjoy the present when the flogging was over, and not
to anticipate the certain repetition of the flogging on the
morrow. He spoke in the same slow way, as if speech
were a thing too precious to be poured out quickly ; and
there was always sense in what he said (Barnaby was only
stupid in the matter of syntax), though he gave me not such
answers as I could have wished. However, he confessed.
FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. lof
little by little, something of his history and adventures.
When he ran away, it was, as we thought, to the port of
Bristol, where he presently found a berth as cabin-boy on
board a West-Indiaman. In this enviable post — everybody
on board has a cuff or a kick or a rope's-end for the boy —
he continued for some time. "But," said Earnaby, "you
are not to think that the rope's-end was half so bad as my
father's rod ; nor the captain's oath so bad as my father's
rebuke ; nor the rough work and hard fare so bad as the
Latin syntax." Being so strong, and a hearty, willing lad
to boot, he was quickly promoted to be an able seaman,
when there were no more rope's-endings for him. Then,
having an ambition above his station, and not liking his
rude and ignorant companions of the fo'k'sle (which is the
forepart of a ship, where the common sailors sleep and eat),
and being so fortunate as to win the good graces of the
supercargo first and of the captain next, he applied his leis-
ure time (when he had any leisure) to the method of taking
observations, of calculating longitudes and latitudes, his
knowledge of arithmetic having fortunately stuck in his
mind longer than that of Latin. These things, I understand,
are of the greatest use to a sailor and necessary to an ofiicer.
Armed with this knowledge, and the recommendation of his
superiors, Barnaby was promoted from before the mast and
became what they call a mate, and so rose by degrees until
he was at last second captain. But by this time he had
made many voyages to the West Indies, to New York and
Baltimore, and to the West Coast of Africa in the service of
his owners, and, I dare say, had procured much wealth for
them, though but little for himself. And being at Rotterdam
upon his owners' business, he was easily persuaded — being
always a stout Protestant, and desirous to strike a blow in
revenge for the ejection of his father — to engage as second
captain on board the frigate which brought over the Duke
of Monmouth and his company, and then to join him ou
his landing. This was the sum of what he had to tell me.
He had seen many strange people, wonderful things, and
monsters of the deep; Indians, whom the cruelty and
avarice of the Spaniards have well-nigh destroyed, the sugar
plantations in tlie islands, negro slaves, negroes free in their
own country, sharks and calamaries, of which I had read
and heard — he had seen all these things, and still remained
(in his mind, I mean) as if he had sc<mi nothing. So won-
derfully made are some men's mmds tkat whatever they soc
they_«re in U9vny moved.
108 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
I say, then, that Barnaby answered my questions, as w«,
rode along, briefly, and as if such matters troubled him not.
When I asked him, for example, how the poor miserable
slaves liked being captured and sold and put on board ship
crowded together for so long a voyage, Barnaby replied thai
he did not know, his business being to buy them and carry
them across the water, and if they rebelled on board ship
to shoot them down or flog them ; and when they got to
Jamaica to sell them : where, if they would not work, they
would be flogged until they came to a better mind. It
a man was born a negro, what else, he asked, could he ex-
pect?
There was one question which I greatly desired to ask
him, but dared not. It concerned the welfare of his soul.
Presently, however, Barnaby answered that question before
I put it.
" Sister, " he said, "my mother's constant affliction con-
cerning me, before I ran away, was as to the salvation of my
soul. And truly, that seems to me so difficult a thing to
compass (like navigation to an unknown port over an un-
known sea set everywhere with hidden rocks and liable to
sudden gusts) that I cannot understand how a plain man
can ever succeed in it. Wherefore it comforted me mightily
after I got to sea to learn on good authority that there is an-
other way, which, compared with my father's, is light and
easy. In short, sister, though he knows it not, there is one
religion for lands-folk and another for sailor-folk. A sailor
(everybody knows) cannot get so much as a sail bent with-
out cursing and swearing — this, which is desperately wicked
ashore, counts for nothing at all afloat : and so with many
other things ; and the long and the short of it is that if a
sailor does his duty, fights his ship like a man, is true to
his owners and faithful to his messmates, it matters not one
straw whether he hath daily sworn great oaths, drunk him-
self (whenever he went ashore) as helpless as a log, and
kissed a pretty girl whenever his good luck gave him a
chance — which does, indeed, seldom come to most sailors ''
— he added this with a deep sigh — "I say, sister, that for
such a sailor, when his ship goes down with him, or when
he gets a grapeshot through his vitals, or when he dies of
fever, as happens often enough in the hot climates, there is
no question as to the safety of his soul, but he goes straight
to heaven. What he is ordered to do when he gets there,"
said Barnaby, "I cannot say; but it will be something, I
doubt not, that a sailor will like to do. V/hercfoie, lister.
tVR FAITH AND FREEDOM. \o%
you can set my mother's heart — poor soul ! — quite at rest
on this important matter. You can tell her that you have
conversed with me, and that I have that very same inward
assurance of which my father speaks so much and at such
length. The very same assurance it is — tell her that And
beg her to ask me no questions upon the matter."
"Well, Barnaby ; but art thou sure — "
" It is a heavenly comfort," he replied, before I hf-d time
to finish, *' to have such an assurance. For why.? A man
that hath it doth never more trouble himself aboat what
shall happen to him after he is dead. Therefore he goes
about his duty with an easy mind ; and so, sister, no more
upon this head, if you love me and desire peace C^ mind
for my mother."
So nothing more was said upon that subject then or after-
wards. A sailor to be exempted by right of his calling from
the religion of the landsman ! 'Tis a strange and danger-
ous doctrine. But if all sailors believe it, yet how can it be?
This question, I confess, is too high for me. And as for
my mother, I gave her Barnaby's message, begging her at
the same time not to question him further. And she sighed
but obeyed.
Presently Barnaby asked me if we had any money.
I had none, and I knew that my mother could have but
little. Of course, my father never had any. I doubt if he
had possessed a single penny since his ejection.
"Well," said Barnaby, "I thought to give my money to
mother. But I now perceive that if she has it she will give
it to dad ; and if he has it, he will give it all to the duke for
the cause — wherefore, sister, do you take it and keep it, not
for me, but to be expended as seemeth you best." He
lugged out of his pocket a heavy bag. "Here is all the
money I have saved in ten years. Nay — I am not as some
sailors, one that cannot keep a penny in purse, but must
needs fling all away. Here are two hundred and fifty gold
pieces. Take them, sister. Hang the bag round thy neck,
and never part with it, day or night. And say nothing
about the money either to mother or to dad, for he will as-
suredly do with it as I have said. A time may come when
thou wilt want it"
Two hundred and fifty gold pieces I Was it possrble that
Barnaby could be so rich? I took the bag and hung it round
my waist — not my neck — by the string which he had tied
above the neck, and, as it was covered by my mantl% »•■
lie I'OR FA/TJI AXD FREEDO.\f.
body ever suspected that I had this treasure. In the end,
as you shall hear, it was useful.
It was now broad daylight, and the sun was up. As we
drew near Bridport there stood a man in the road armed
with a halbert.
"Whither go ye, good people ?" he asked.
" Friend," said Barnaby, flourishing his oaken staff, "we
ride upon our own business. Stand aside, or thou mayest
henceforth have no more business to do upon this
earth ! '
*' Ride on then — ride on," he replied, standing aside with
great meekness. This was one of the guards whom they
posted everywhere upon the roads in order to stop the peo-
ple who were flocking to the camp. In this way many
were sent back, and many were arrested on their way to
join Monmouth. "
Now, as we drew near to Bridport, the time being about
four o'clock, we heard the firing of guns and a great shout-
ing.
"They have begun the fighting," said Barnaby. "I knew
it would not be long a-coming. "
It was. in fact, their first engagement, when the Dorset-
shire militia were driven out of Bridport by the duke's
troops, and there would have been a signal victory at the
very outset but for the cowardice of Lord Grey, who ran
away with the horse.
Well, it was a strange and a wonderful thing to think that
flose at hand were men killing each other on the Sabbath ;
yea, and some lying wounded on the roads ; and that civil
war had again begun.
"Let us push on," said Humphrey, "out of the way of
these troops. They are but country lads all of them. If
they retreat they will run ; and if they run they will be
seized with a panic, and will run all the way back to Lyme
trampling on everything that is in the road."
This was sound advice, which we followed, taking an
upper track which brought us into the high-road a mile or so
nearer Charmouth.
I do not think there can be anywhere a finer road than
that which runs from Charmouth to Lyme. It runneth over
high hills sometimes above the sea which rolls far below,
and sometimes above a great level inland plain, the name
of which I have forgotten. The highest of the hills is called
Golden Cap ; the reason why was plainly shown this
morning when the sky was clea^ and the sun was shining
lOK FAITH Ai\'D FREEDOM. 1 1 j
from the southeast full upon this tall pico. When we got
into this road we found it fuh of young fellows, lusty and
well conditioned, all marching, running, walking, shouting,
and singing on their way to join IMonmouth. Some were
adorned with flowers, some wore the blue favor of the duke
some had cockades in their hats, and some again were armed
with musket or with sword ; some carried pikes, some
knives tied on to long poles, some had nothing but thick
cudgels, which they brandished valiantly. At sight of
these brave fellows my father lifted his head and waved his
hand, crying " A Monmouth ! a Monmouth ! Follow me,
brave lads ! "just as if he had been a captain encouraging
his men to charge.
The church of Lyme standeth high upon .the cliff which
faces the sea ; it is on the eastern side of the town, and be-
fore you get to the church, on the way from Charmouth,
there is a broad field also on the edge of the cliff. It was
this field that was the first camp of Monmouth's men. There
were no tents for the men to lie in, but there were wagons
filled, I suppose, with munitions of war ; there were booths
where things were sold, such as hot sausages fried over a
charcoal fire, fried fish, lobsters and periwinkles, cold bacon
and pork, bread, cheese, and such like, and barrels of beer
and cider on wooden trestles. The men were haggling for
the food and drink, and already one or two seemed fuddled.
Some were exercising in the use of arms ; some were danc-
ing, and some singing. And no thought or respect paid at
all to the Sabbath. Oh ! was this the pious and godly camp
which I had expected.
"Sister," said Barnaby, "this is a godly and religious
place to which the wisdom of dad hath brought thee. Per-
haps he meaneth thee to lie in the open like the lads."
"Where is the duke ?" asked my father, looking wrath-
fully at these revellers and Sabbath-breakers.
" The duke lies at the George Inn," said Barnaby. "I
will show the way."
In the blue parlor of the George the duke was at that
time holding a council. There were different reports as to
the Bridport affair. Already it was said that Lord Gray
was unfit I:) lead the horse, having been the first to run
away ; and some said that the militia were driven out of
the town in a panic, and some that they made a stand and
that our mei% had fled. I know not what was the truth, and
now it matters little, except that the first action of our men
brought them little honor. When the council was finished.
tti ^-'OA' FA J Til AXD J-7^J£ED0M.
the duke sent word that he would receive Dr. Challis (thai
was Humphrey) and Dr. Comfort Eykin.
So they were introduced to the presence of his grace, and
first my father — as Humphrey told me — fell into a kind of
ecstasy, praising- God for the landing of the duke, and fore-
telling such speedy victory as would lay the enemies of the
country at his feet. He then drew forth a roll of paper in
which he had set down, for the information of the duke,
the estimated number of the disaffected in every town of
the south and west of England, with the names of such as
could be trusted not only to risk their own bodies and estates
in the cause, but would stir up and encourage their friends.
There were so many on these lists that the duke's eyes
brightened as he read them.
" Sir, " he said, "if these reports can be depended upon
we are indeed made men. What is your opinion. Dr.
Challis ? "
" My opinion, sir, is that these are the names of friends
and well-wishers ; if they see your grace well supported at
the outset they will flock in ; if not, many of them will stand
aloof."
" Will Sir Christopher join me.?" asked the duke.
" No, sir ; he is now seventy-five years of age."
Then the duke turned away. Presently he returned to the
lists and asked many questions.
"Sir," said my father, at length, "I have given you the
names of all that I know who are well-affected to the Prot-
estant cause ; they are those who have remained faithful to
the ejected ministers. Many a time have I secretly
preachcfi to them. One thing is wanting ; the assurance
that yo*ur grace will bestow upon us liberty of conscience
and freedom of worship. Else will not one move hand or
foot."
"Why," said the duke, "for what other purpose am I
come } Assure them, good friend, assure them in my
name ; make the most solemn pledge that is in your power
and in mine."
' In that case, sir," said my father, "I will at once write
letters with my own hand to the brethren everywhere.
There are many honest country lads who will carry the
letters by ways where they are not likely to be arrested and
searched. And now, sir, I pray your leave to preach to
these your soldiers. They are at present drinking, swear-
ing, and breaking the Sabbath. The campaign which
should be begun with prayer and huiBiiliation for the »int
FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
115
of the country hath been begun with many deadly sins, with
merriment, and with fooling-. Suffer me, then, to preach to
them."
"Preach, by all means," said the duke. "You shall
have the parish church. I fear, sir, that my business will
not suffer me to have the edification of your sermon, but I
hope that it will tend to the soberness and earnestness o*
my men. Forgive them, sir, for their lightness of heart.
They are for the most part young. Encourage them by
promises rather than by rebuke. And so, sir, for this oc-
casion, farewell ! "
In this way my father obtained the wish of his heart,
and preached once more in a church before the people who
were the young soldiers of Monmouth's army.
I did not hear that sermon, because I was asleep. It was
in tones of thunder that my father preached to them. He
spoke of the old war, and the brave deeds that their fathers
had done under Cromwell ; theirs was the victory. Now,
as then, the victory should be theirs, if they carried the spirit
of faithfulness into battle. He warned them of their sins,
sparing none ; and, in the end, he concluded with such a
denunciation of the king as made all who heard it, and had
been taught to regard the king's majesty as sacred, open
their mouths and gape upon each other ; for then, for the
first time, they truly understood what it was that they were
engaged to do.
While my father waited to see the duke, Barnaby went
about looking for a lodging. The town is small, and the
houses were all filled, but he presently found a cottage (call
it rather a hut) on the shore beside the Cobb, where, on
promise of an extravagant payment, the fisherman's wife
consented to give up her bed to my mother and myself
Before the bargain was concluded, I had laid myself down
upon it and was sound asleep.
So I slept the whole day ; though outside there was such
a trampling on the beach, such a landing of stores and
creaking of chains as might have awakened the Seven Sleep-
ers. But me nothing could awaken.
In the evening I woke up refreshed. My mother was
already awake, but for weariness could not move out of her
chair. The good woman of the cottage, a kindly soul,
brought me rough food of some kind with a drink of water
— the army had drunk up all the milk, eaten all the cheese,
the butter, the eggs, and the pork, beef, and mutton in the
place. And then Humj ^rc^' came and asked if I would go
1 1 4 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
with him into the town to see the soldiers. So I went, and
glad I was to see the sight. But, Lord ! to think that it was
the Sabbath evening. For the main street of Lyme was full
of men, swaggering with long swords at their sides and
some with spears — feathers in their hats and pistols stuck
in their belts, all were talking loud, as I am told is the cus-
lom in a camp of soldiers. Outside the George there was a
barrel on a stand, and venders and drawers ran about with
cans, fetching and carrying the liquor for which the men
continually called. Then at the door of the George there
appeared the duke himself with his following of gentlemen.
All rose and huzzaed while the duke came down the steps
and turned towards the camp outside the town.
I saw his face very well as he passed. Indeed, I saw him
many times afterwards, and I declare that my heart sank
when first I gazed upon him as he stood upon the steps of
the George Inn. For on his face, plain to read, was the
sadness of coming ruin. I say I knew front that moment
what would be his end. Nay, I am no prophetess nor am
I a witch to know beforehand the counsels of the Almighty ;
yet the Lord hath permitted by certain signs the future to
become apparent to those who know how to read them.
In the Duke of Monmouth the signs Avere a restless and un-
easy eye, on air of preoccupation, a trembling mouth, and
a hesitating manner. There M'as in him nothing of the con-
fidence of one who knows that fortune is about to smile
upon him. This, I say, was my first thought about the
duke, and the first thought is prophecy.
There sat beside the benches a secretary, or clerK, who
took down the names of recruits. The duke stopped and
looked on. A young man in a sober suit of brown, in ap-
pearance different from the country lads, was giving in his
name.
" Daniel Foe, your grace," said the clerk, looking up.
"He is from London."
"From London," the duke repeated. "I have many
friends in London. I expect them shortly. Thou art a
worthy lad and deservest encourag^ement " So he passe4
on his waj'.
FOR FAl TH AND FJiEEDOM. 1 1 5
CHAPTER XVI.
ON THE MARCH.
At daybreak, next morning-, the drums began to beat and
the trumpets were blown, and after breakfast the newly
raised army marched out in such order as was possible. 1
have not to write a history of this rebellion, which hath
already been done by able hands ; I speak only of what I
saw, and the things with which I was concerned.
First, then, is true that the whole country was quickly
put into a ferment by the duke's landing ; and had those
who planned the expedition provided a proper supply of
arms, the army would have quickly mustered twenty thou-
sand men, all resolute and capable of meeting any force
that the king could have raised. Nay, it would have grown
and swelled as it moved. But there were not enough arms.
Everything promised well for him. But there were no
arms for half those who came in. The spirit of the Devon
and Somerset militia was lukewarm ; they ran at Bridport,
at Axminster, and at Chard ; nay, some of them even de-
serted to join the duke. There were thousands scattered about
the country — those, namely, who still held to the doctrines
of the persecuted ministers, and those who abhorred the
Catholic religion — who wished well and would have joined
— Humphrey knew well-wishers by the thousand whose
names were on the lists in Holland — but how could they
join when the army was so ill-found } And this was the
principal reason, I am assured, why the country gentlemen
did not come in at first — because there were no arms. How
can soldiers fight when they have no arms ? How could
the duke have been suffered to begin with so scanty a pre-
])aration of arms .? Afterwards, when Monmouth proclaimed
himself king, there were, perhaps, other reasons why the
well-wishers held aloof. Some of them, certainly, who
were known to be friends of the duke (among them Mr.
Prideaux, of Ford Abbey) were arrested and thrown into
prison, while many thousands who were flocking to the
standard were either turned back or seized and thrown into
prison.
As for the quality of the troops who formed the army, I
know nothing, except that at Sedgemoor they continued to
fig;ht valiantly after their leaders had fled. Thejr were raw
tt6 J'OR }-AITH AXD FREEDOM.
troops — mere country lads — and their officers were, for the
most part, simple tradesmen who had no knowledge of the
art of war. Dare the younger was a goldsmith ; Captain
Perrot was a dyer ; Captain Hucker, a maker of serge; and
so on with all of them. It was unfortunate that Mr. Andrew
Fletcher, of Saltoun, should have killed Mr. Dare the elder
on the first day, because, as everybody agrees, he was the
most experienced soldier in the whole army. The route
]-)roposed by the duke was known to everybody. He in-
tended to march through Taunton, Bridgwater, and Bristol
to Gloucester, where he thought he would be joined by a
new army raised by his friends in Cheshire. He also
reckoned on receiving adherents everywhere on the road,
and on easily defeating any force that the king should be
able to send against him. How he fared in that scheme
everybody knows.
Long before the army was ready to march, Humphrey
came to advise with us. First of all, he had endeavored to
have speech with my father, but in vain. Henceforth my
father seemed to have no thought of his wife and daughter.
Humphrey at first advised us to go home again. "As foi
your dedication to the cause," he said, "I think that he
hath already forgotten it, seeing that it means nothing, and
that your presence with us cannot help. Go home, madam,
and let Grace persuade Robin to stay at home in order to
take care of you."
" No," said my mother ; " that may we not do. I mus)
obey my husband, who commanded us to follow him.
Whither he goeth there I will follow."
Finding that she was resolute upoii this point, Humphrey
told us that the duke would certaimy march upon Taunton,
where more than half of the town were his friends. He
therefore advised that we should ride to that place — not
following the army, but going across the country, most of
which is a very wild and desolate part, where we should
have no fear except from gypsies and such wild people, who
might be robbers and rogues, but who were all now making
the most of the disturbed state of the country and running
about the roads plundering and thieving. But he said he
would himself provide us with a guide, one who knew the
way, and a good stout fellow, armed with a cudgel, at
least. To this my mother agreed, fearing to anger her
husband if she should disturb him at his work of writing
letters.
Humphrey had little trouble in finding the guide for us.
FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
117
He was an honest lad from a place called Holford, in the
Quantock Hills, who, finding that there were no arms for
him, was going home again. Unhappily, when we got to
Taunton, he was persuaded — partly by me, alas ! — to re-
main. He joined Barnaby's company, and was either
killed at Sedgemoor, or one of those hanged at Weston,
Zoyland, or Bridgwater. For he was no more heard of.
This business settled, we went up to the churchyard in
order to see the march of the army out of camp. And a
brave show the gallant soldiers made.
First rode Colonel Wade with the vanguard. After them,
with a due interval, rode the greater part of the Horse, al-
ready three hundred strong, under Lord Grey of Wark.
Among them was the company sent by Mr. Speke, of White
Lackington, forty very stout fellows, well armed and
mounted on cart-horses. The main army was composed of
four regiments. The first was the Blue Regiment, or the
duke "s own, whose colonel was the aforesaid Wade. They
formed the van, and were seven hundred strong. The
others were the White, commanded by Colonel Foukes, the
Green by Colonel Holmes, and the Yellow by Colonel Fox.
All these regiments were fully armed, the men wearing
favors or rosettes in their hats and on their arms of the
color from which their regiment was named.
The duke himself, who rode a great white horse, was
surrounded by a small bodyguard of gentlemen (afterwards
they became a company of forty), richly dressed and well
mounted. With him were carried the colors, embroidered
with the words "Pro Religione et Libertate. " This was
the second time that I had seen the duke, and again I felt
at sight of his face the foreknowledge of coming woe. On
such an occasion the chief should show a gallant mien and
a face of cheerful hope. The duke, however, looked
g-loomy, and hung his head.
Truly, it seemed to me as if no force could dare so much
as to meet this great and invincible army. And certainly
there could nowhere be gathered together a more stalwart
set of soldiers, nearly all young men, and full of spirit.
They shouted and sang as they marched. Presently there
passed us my brother Barnaby, with his company of the
Green Regiment. It was easy to perceive by the handling
of his arms and by his bearing that he was accustomed to
act with others, and already he had so instructed his men
that they set an example to the rest both in their orderliness
of march and the carriage of their weapon^,
1 1 8 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
After the main army they carried the ordnance — foul
small cannon — and the ammunition in wagons with guards
and horsemen. Lastly there rode those who do not fight,
yet belong to the army. These were the chaplain to the
army. Dr. Hooke, a grave clergyman of the Church of Eng-
land : Mr. Ferguson, the duke's private chaplain, a fiery
person, of whom many hard things have been said, which
here concern us not ; and my father, who thus rode openly
with the other two, in order that the Nonconformists might
be encouraged by his presence, as an equal with the two
chaplains. He was clad in a new cassock, obtained I know
not whence. He sat upright in the saddle, a Bible in his
hand, the long white locks lying on his shoulders like a
peruke, but more venerable than any wig. His thin face
was flushed with the joy of coming victory, and his eyes
fla.shed fire. If all the men had shown such a spirit the
army would have overrun the whole country. The four
surgeons — Dr. Temple, Dr. Gaylard, Dr. Oliver, and Hum-
phrey — followed, all splendid in black velvet and great
periwigs. Lastly marched the rearguard ; but after the
army there followed such a motley crew as no one can con-
ceive. There were gypsies, with their black tents and
carts, ready to rob and plunder ; there were the tinkers, who
are nothing better than gypsies, and are said to speak their
language ; there were men with casks on wheels filled with
beer or cider ; there were carts carrying bread, cakes, bis-
cuits, and such things as one can buy in a booth or at a
fair ; there were women of bold and impudent looks, singing as
they walked ; there were, besides, whole troops of country
lads, some of them mere boys, running and strutting along
in hopes to receive arms and to take a place in the regi-
ments.
Presently they were all gone, and Lyme was quit of them.
What became in the end of all the rabble rout which followed
the army I know not. One thing was certain : the godly
disposition, the pious singing of psalms, and the devout ex-
position of the Word which I had looked for in the army
were not apparent. Rather there was evident a tumultuous
joy, as of schoolboys out for a holiday — certainly no school-
boys could have made more noise or showed greater happi-
ness in their faces. Among them, however, there were
some men of middle age, whose faces showed a different
temper ; but these were rare.
"Lord help them ! " said our friendly fisherwoman, who
FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. \ \^
stood with us. "There wjll be hard knocks before those
fine fellows go home again."
"They fight on the Lord's side," said my mother ; "there-
fore they may be killed, but they will not wholly perish."
As for the hard knocks, they began without any delay,
and on that very morning. For at Axminister they en-
countered the Somerset and Devon militia, who thought to
join their forces, but were speedily put to flight by the rebels
— a victory which greally encouraged them.
It hath been maliciously said that we followed the army
— as if we were two sutler women — on foot, I suppose,
tramping in the dust, singing ribald songs like those poor
creatures whom we saw marching out of Lyme. You have
heard how we agreed to follow Humphrey's advice. Well,
we left Lyme very early the next morning (our fisherwoman
having now become very friendly and loath to let us go)
and rode out, our guide (poor lad ! his death lies heavy on
my soul, yet I meant the best ; and, truly, it was the side
of the Lord) marching beside us armed with a stout blud-
g'eon. We kept the main road (which was very quiet at
this early hour) as far as Axminster, where we left it; and,
after crossing the river by a ford or wash, we engaged up-
on a track, or path, which led along the banks of a little
stream for a mile or two — as far as the village of Chardstock.
Here we made no halt; but, leaving it behind, we struck
into a most wild and mountainous country full of old forests
and great bare places. It is called the Forest of Neroche,
and is said to shelter numbers of gypsies and vagabonds,
and to have in it some of those wild people who live in the
hills and woods of Somerset and do no work except to
gather the dry broom and tie it up, and so live hard and
hungry lives, but know not any master. These are re-
ported to be a harmless people, but the gypsies are danger-
ous because they are ready to rob and even murder. I
thought of Barnaby's bag of gold and trembled. However,
we met with none of them on the journey, because they
were all running after IMonmouth's army. There was no
path over the hills by the way we took ; but our guide knew
the country so well that he needed none, pointing out the
hills with a kind of pride as if they belonged to him, and
telling us the name of every one ; but these I have long
since forgotten. The country, however, I can never for-
get, because it is so wild and beautiful. One place I re-
member. It is a very strange and wonderful place. There
is a vast great earthwork surrounded by walls of stone, but
1 20 I-'OK FAITH AA'D FREEDOM.
these are ruinous. It stands on a hill, called Blackdown,
which looks over into the Vale of Taunton. The guide said
it was called Castle Ratch, and that it was built long- ago by
the ancient Romans. It is not at all like Sherborne Castle,
which Oliver Cromwell slighted when he took the place,
and blew it up with gunpowder ; but Sherborne was not
built by the Romans. Here, after our long walk, we halted
and took the dinner of cold bacon and bread which we had
brought with us. The place looks out upon the beautiful
Vale of Taunton, of which I had heard. Surely, there can-
not be a more rich, fertile, and lovely place in all England
than the Vale of Taunton. Our guide began to tell us of
the glories of the town, its wealth and populousness — and
all for Monmouth, he added. When my mother was rested
were mounted our nags and went on, descending into the
plain. Humphrey had provided us with a letter commend-
atory. He, who knew the names of all who were well-af-
fected, assured us that the lady to whom the letter was ad-
dressed, IMiss Susan Blake by name, was one of the most
forward in the Protestant cause. She was well known and
much respected, and she kept a school for young gentle-
women, where many children of the Nonconformist gentry
were educated. He instructed us to proceed directly to her
house, and to ask her to procure for us a decent and safe
lodging. He could not have given us a letter to any better
person.
It was late in the afternoon when we rode into Taunton.
The streets were full of people running about, talking, now
in groups and now by twos and threes ; now shouting and
now whispering ; while we rode along the street a man ran
bawling —
"Great news ! great news ! Monmouth is upon us with
twice ten thousand men ! "
It seems that they had only that day learned of the defeat
of the militia by the rebels. A company of the Somerset
militia were in the town, under Colonel Luttrell, in order
to keep down the people.
Taunton is, as everybody knows, a most rich, prosperous,
and populous town. I had never before seen so many
houses and so many people. Why, if the men of Taunton
declared for the duke his cause was already won. For
there is nowhere, as I could not fail to know, a greater
stronghold of Dissent than this town, except London, and
none where the Nonconformists have more injuries to re-
member. Only two years before this their meeting-houses
i-OR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 12I
had been broken into, and their pulpits and pews brought
out and burned, and they were forced, against their con-
science, to worship in the parish church.
We easily found Miss Blake's house, and giving our
horses to the guide, we presented her with our letter. She
was a young woman somewhat below the common stature,
quick of speech, her face and eyes full of vivacity, and
about thirty years of age. But when she had read the letter,
and understood who we were and whence we came, she
first made a deep reverence to my mother, and then she
took my hands and kissed me.
" Madam," she said, " believe me, my poor house will
be honored indeed by the presence of the wife and the daugh-
ter of the godly Dr. Comfort Eykin. Pray, pray, go on fur-
ther. I have a room that is at your disposal. Go thither,
madam, I beg, and rest after your journey. The wife of
Dr. Eykin ! 'Tis indeed an honor." And so, with the kindest
words, she led us upstairs, and gave us a room with a bed
in it, and caused Vv^ater for washing to be brought, and pres-
ently went out with me to buy certain things needful for us,
who were indeed rustical in our dress, to present the ap-
pearance of gentlewomen ; thanks to Barnaby's heavy purse,
I could get them without telling n«y mother anything about
it. She then gave us supper, and told us all the news. The
king, she said, was horribly afraid, and it was rumored that
the priests had all been sent away to France ; the Taunton
people were resolved to give the duke a brave reception ;
all over the country, there was no doubt, men would rally
by thousands ; she was in a rapture of joy and gratitude.
Supper over, she took us to ker schoolroom, and here — oh !
the pretty sight ! — her schoolgirls were engaged in working
and embroidering flags for the duke's army.
"I know not," she said, " whether his grace will conde-
scend to receive them. But it is all we women can do."
Poor wretch ! she afterwards suffered the full penalty for
her zeal.
All that evening we heard the noise of men running about
the town, with the clanking of weapons and the commands
of officers ; but we knew not what had happened.
Lo 1 in the morning the glad tidings that the militia had
left the town. Nor was that all ; for at daybreak the people
began to assemble, and, there being none to stay them,
broke into the great church, and took possession of the arms
that had been deposited for safety in the tower. They also
opened the prison, and set free a worthy Noncomformist
12 J FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
divine named Vincent All the morning the mob ran about
the streets shouting, "A Monmouth ! a Monmouth ! " the
magistrates and Royalists not daring so much as to show
their faces, and there was nothing talked of but the over-
throw of the king and the triumph of the Protestant religion.
Nay, there were fiery speakers in the market-place and be-
fore the west porch of the church, who mounted on tubs
and exhorted the people. Grave merchants came forth and
shook hands with each other ; ministers who had been in
hiding now walked forth boldly. It was truly a great day
for Taunton.
The excitement grew greater when Captain Hucker, a
well-known serge-maker of the town, rode in with a troop
of Monmouth's horse. Captain Hucker, had been seized by
Colonel Phillips on the charge of receiving a message from
the duke, but he escaped and joined the rebels, to his
greater loss, as afterwards appeared. However, he now
rode in to tell his fellow-townsmen of his own wonderful
and providential escape, and that the duke would certainly
arrive the next day, and he exhorted them to give him such
a welcome as he had a right to expect at their hands. He
also reminded them that they were the sons of the men who,
forty years before, defended Taunton under Admiral Blake.
There was a great shouting and tossing of caps after Cap-
tain Hucker's address, and no one could do too much for
the horsemen with him, so that I fear these brave fellows
were soon fain to lie down and sleep till the fumes of the
strong ale should leave their brains.
All that day and half the night we sat in Miss Blake's
schoolroom finishing the flags, in which I was permitted to
join. There were twenty-seven flags in all presented to the
army by the Taunton maid. — twelve by Miss Blake and fif-
teen by one Mrs. Musgrave, also a schoolmistress. And
now, indeed, seeing that the militia at Axminster had fled
almost at the mere aspect of one man, and those of Taun-
ton had also fled away secretly by night, and, catching the
zeal of our kind entertainer, and considering the courage and
spirit of these good people, I began to feel confident again,
and my heart, which had fallen very low at the sight of the
duke's hanging head and gloomy looks, rose again, and all
danger seemed to vanish. And so, in a mere fool's para-
dise, I continued happy indeed until the fatal news of Sedg»-
moor fight awoke us all from our fond dreams.
FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM,
"J
CHAPTER XVII.
TAUNTON.
I NEVER weary in thinking of the gayety and happineas
of those four days at Taunton among the rebels. There
was no more doubt in any of our hearts ; we were all con-
fident of victory, and that easy, and perhaps bloodless. As
was the rejoicing at Taunton, so it would be in every town
of the country. One only had to look out of window in
order to feel assurance of that victory, so jolly, so happy,
so confident looked every face.
' ' Why, " said Miss Blake, ' ' in future ages even we women,
who have only worked the flags, will be envied for our
share in the glorious deliverance. Great writers will speak
")f us as they speak of the Roman women." Then all our
eyes sparkled, and the needles flew faster, and the flags
grew nearer to completion.
If history should condescend to remember the poor maids
of Taunton at all it will be, at best, with pity for the afflic-
tions which afterwards fell upon them ; none, certainly,
will envy them ; but we shall be forgotten. Why should
we be remembered.'' Women, it is certain, have no busi-
ness with affairs of state, and especially none with rebel-
lions and civil wars. Our hearts and passions carry us
away. The leaders in the cause which we have joined ap-
pear to us to be more than human ; we cannot restrain
ourselves, we fall down and worship our leaders, especially
in the cause of religion and liberty.
Now, behold ! On the very morning after we arrived at
Taunton I was abroad in the streets with Miss Blake, look-
ing at the town, which hath shops full of the most beautiful
and precious things, and wondering at the great concourse
of people (for the looms were all deserted, and the work-
men were in the streets filled with a martial spirit), I saw rid-
ing into the town no other tliaii Roliin himself. Oh ! how my
heart leaped up to sec liini ! He was most gallantly dressed,
in a purple coat with a crimson sash over his shoulders to
carry his sword ; he had pistols in his holsters, and wore
^reat riding-boots, and with him rode a company of a doztn
134 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
young men, mounted on good, strong nags ; why, they
were men of our own village, and 1 knew them every one.
They were armed with muskets and pikes — I knew where
they came from — and when they saw me the fellows all
began to grin, and to square their shoulders so as to look
more martial. But Robin leaped from his horse.
" 'Tis Grace ! '" he cried. "Dear heart ! Thou art then
safe, so far? Madam, your servant." Here he took off his
hat to Miss Blake. "Lads, ride on the White Hart, and
call for what you want, and take care of the njigs. This is
a joyful meeting, sweetheart. ' Here he kissed me. "The
duke, they say, draws thousands daily. I thought to find
him in Taunton by this time. Why, we are as good as vic-
torious already. Humphrey, I take it, is with his grace.
My dear, even had the cause of freedom failed to move me
I had been dragged by the silken ropes of love. Truly, I
could not choose but come. There was the thought of these
brave fellows marching to battle, and I all the time skulk-
ing at home, who had ever been so loud upon their side.
And there was the thought of Humphrey, braving the dan-
gers of the field, tender though he be, and I, strong and
lusty, sitting by the tire and sleeping on a featherbed ; and
always there was the thought of thee, my dear, among these
rude soldiers — like Milton's lady among the rabble rout —
because well I know that even Christian warriors (so called)
are not lambs ; and, again, there was my grandfather, who
could find no rest, but continually walked to and fro, with
looks that at one time said, 'Go, my son,' and at others,
'Nay ; lest thou receive a hurt ; ' and the white face of my
mother, which said, as plain as eyes could speak, ' He ought
to go, he ought to go ; and yet he may be killed.' "
"Oh, Robin! Pray God there prove to be no more
fighting. "
"Well, my dear, if I am not tedious to madam here — "
"Oh, sir!" said Miss Blake, "it is a joy to hear this
talk." She told me, afterwards, that it was a joy to look
upon so gallant a gentleman, and such a pair of lovers. She,
poor thing, had no sweetheart.
"Then on Monday," Robin continued, "the day before
yesterday, I could refrain no longer, but laid the matter be-
fore my grandfather. Sweetheart ! there is no better man
in all the world."
" Of that I am well assured, Robin."
"First, he said that if anything befell me he should go
down in sorrow to his grave ; yet that as to his own end
POM. FAITH AND FREEDOM.
1*5
An old man so near the grave should not be concerned
about the manner of his end so long as he should keep to
honor and duty. Next, that in his own youth he had him-
self gone forth willingly to fight in the cause of liberty,
without counting the risk. Thirdly, that if my conscience
did truly urge me to follow the duke I ought to obey that
voice in the name of God. And this with tears in his eyes,
and yet a lively and visible satisfaction that, as he himself
had chosen, so his grandson would choose. ' Sir,' I said,
' that voice of conscience speaks very loudly and clearly.
I cannot stifle it. Therefore, by your good leave, I will go.'
Then he bade me take the best horse in the stable, and gave
me a purse of gold, and so I made ready."
Miss Blake, at this point, said that she was reminded of
David. It was, I suppose, because Robin was so goodly a
lad to look upon ; otherwise, David, though an exile, did
never endeavor to pull King Saul from his throne.
" Then," Robin continued, " I went to my mother. She
wept, because war hath many dangers and chances ; but
she would not say me 'nay.' And in the evening
when the men came home I asked who would go with
me. A dozen stout fellows — you know them all, sweet-
heart — stepped forth at once ; another dozen would have
come, but their wives prevented them. And so, mounting
them on good cart-horses, I bade farewell and rode away. "
"Sir," said Miss Blake, "you have chosen the better
part. You will be rewarded by so splendid a victory that
it will surprise all the world ; and for the rest of your life
— yes, and for generations afterwards — you will be ranked
among the deliverers of your country. It is a great privi-
lege, sir, to take part in the noblest passage of English his-
tory. Oh!" — she clasped her hands — "I am sorry that
I am not a man, only because I would strike a blow in this
sacred cause. But we are women, and we can but pray
and make flags. We cannot die for the cause."
The event proved that women can sometimes die for the
cause, because she herself, if any woman ever did, died for
her cause.
Then Robin left us in order to take steps about his men
and himself Captain Hucker received them in the name
•f the duke. They joined the cavalry, and Robin was
made a captain. This done, he rode out with the rest to
meet the duke.
Now, when his approach was known everybody who had
a horse rode forth to meet him, so that there followed him,
ttb FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
not counting his army, so great a company that they almost
made another army. Lord Grey rode on one side of him,
and Colonel Speke on the other ; Dr. Hooke, the chaplain,
and my father rode behind. My heart swelled with joy to
hear how the people, when they had shouted themsel\es
hoarse, cried out for my father, because his presence showed
that they would have once more that liberty of worship for
want of which they had so long languished. The duke's
own chaplain, Mr. Ferguson, had got a naked sword in his
hand, and was marching on foot, crying out, in a most
vainglorious manner, "I am Ferguson, the famous Fergu'
son, that Ferguson for whose head so many hundred
pounds were offered. I am that man ! I am that man ! "
He wore a great gown and cassock, which consorted ill
with the sword in his hand ; and in the evening he preached
in the great church, while my father preached in the old
meeting-house to a much larger congregation, and, I ven-
ture to think, a much more edifying discourse.
The army marched through the town in much the same
order as it had marched out of Lyme, and it seemed not
much bigger, but the men marched more orderly and there
was less laughing and shouting. But the streets were so
thronged that the men could hardly make their way.
As soon as it was reported that the duke was within a
mile (they had that day marched sixteen miles, from Ilmin-
ster) the chiwch bells were set a ringing ; children came out
with baskets of flowers in readiness to strew them at his
feet as he should pass — roses and lilies and all kinds of
summer flowers, so that his horse had most delicate carpet
to walk upon ; the common people crowded the sides of
the streets ; the windows were filled with ladies who waved
their handkerchiefs and called aloud on Heaven to
bless the good duke, the brave duke, the sweet and
lovely duke. If there were any malcontents in the
town they kept snug ; it would have cost them dear even to
have been seen in the streets that day. The duke showed
on this occasion a face full of hope and happiness ; indeed,
if he had not shown a cheerful countenance on such a day,
he would have been something less, or something greater,
than human. I mean that he would have been either in-
sensible and blockish not to be moved by such a welcome,
or else he would have been a prophet, as foreseeing what
would follow. He rode bareheaded, carrying his hat in his
)kand ; he was dressed in a shining corslet with a blue silk
•carf and a purple coat ; his long brown hair hung^ in curl»
fOR FAITH AND FR£:j£DOM. 1 27
upon his shoulders ; his sweet hps were parted with a gra-
cious smile ; his beautiful brown eyes — never had any prince
more lovely eyes — looked pleased and benignant ; truly
there was never made any man more comely than the Duke
of Monmouth. The face of his father, and that of his uncle.
King James, were dark and gloomy, but the duke's face was
naturally bright and cheerful ; King Charles's long nose in
him was softened and reduced to the proportions of manly
beauty ; in short, there was no feature that in his father
was harsh and unpleasing bul was in him sweet and beauti-
ful. If I had thought him comely and like a king's son
when four years before he made his progress, I thought him
now ten times as gracious and as beautiful. He was thin-
ner in the face, which gave his appearance the greater
dignity ; he had ever the most gracious smile and the most
charming eyes ; and at such a moment as this who could
believe the things which they said about his wife and Lady
Wentworth .? No — they were inventions of his enemies ;
they must be base lies ; so noble a presence could not
conceal a guilty heart ; he must be as good and virtuous as
he was brave and lovely. Thus we talked, sitting in the
window, and thus we cheered our souls. Even now, to
think how great and good he looked on that day, it is diffi-
cult to believe that he was in some matters so vile. I am
not of those who expect one kind of moral conduct from one
man and a different kind from another : there is but one set
of commandments for rich and poor, for prince and peasant
But the pity of it, oh ! the pity of it, with a prince !
Never, in short, did one see such a tumult of joy ; it is
impossible to speak otherwise : the people had lost their
wits with excess of joy. Nor did they show their welcome
in shouting only, for all doors were thrown wide open and
supplies and necessaries of all kinds were sent to the soldiers
in the camp outside the town, so that the country lads
declared they had never fared more sumptuously. There
now rode after the duke several Nonconformist ministers,
beside my father. Thus there was th^ pious Mr. Lark, of
Lyme ; he v/as an aged Baptist preacher, who thought it no
shame to his profession to gird on a sword and to command
a troop of horse ; and others there were, whose names I for-
get, who had come forth to join the deliverer.
In the market-place the duke halted, while his declaration
was read aloud. One thing I could not approve. They
dragged forth three of the justices — High Churchmen, and
standing stoutly for King James — and forced them to listen,
128 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
bareheaded, to the declaration ; a things which came neat
afterwards to their destruction. Yet they looked sour and
unwilling, as any one would have testified. The declara-
tion was a long document, and the reading of it took half
an hour at least ; but the people cheered all the time.
After this they read a proclamation, warning the soldiers
against taking aught without payment. But Robin
laughed, saying that this was the way with armies, where
the general was always on the side of virtue, yet the
soldiers were always yielding to temptation in the matter
of sheep and poultry ; that human nature must not be too
much tempted, and camp rations are sometimes scanty.
But it was a noble proclamation, and I cannot but believe
that the robberies afterwards complained of were committed
by the tattered crew who followed the camp, rather than by
the brave fellows themselves.
The duke lay at Captain Huckers house, over against the
Three Cups Inn. This was a great honor for Mr. Hucker,
a plain serge-maker, and there were many who were envi-
ous, thinking that the duke should not have gone to the
house of so humble a person. It was also said that for his
services Mr. Hucker boasted that he should expect nothing
less than a coronet and the title of peer, once the business
was safely despatched. A peer to be made out of a master
serge-maker ! But we must charitably refuse to believe all
that is reported, and, indeed (I say it with sorrow of that
most unfortunate lady. Miss Blake), much idle tattle coii-
cerning neighbors was carried on in her house, and I was
told that it was the same in every house of Taunton, so that
the women spent all their time in talking of their neighbors'
affairs, and what might be going on in the houses of their
friends. This is a kind of talk which my father would
never permit, as testifying to idle curiosity and leading to
undue importance concerning things which are fleeting and
trivial.
However, the duke was bestowed in Captain Huckers
best bed ; of that there was no doubt, and the bells rang
and bonfires blazed, and the people sang and shouted in the
streets.
fOU FAITH AND FREEDOM. j zg
CHAPTER XVIIL
THE MAIDS OF TAUNTON.
I
The next day was made remarkable in our eyes by an
event which, though doubtless of less importance than the
enlistment of a dozen recruits, seemed a very great thing
indeed — namely, the presentation to the duke of the colors
embroidered for him by Susan Blake's schoolgirls. I was
myself permitted to walk with the girls on this occasion, as
if I had been one of them, though a stranger to the place
and but newly arrived — such was the kindness of Susan
Blake and her respect for the name of the learned and pious
Dr. Eykin.
At nine of the clock the girls who were to carry the flags
began to gather in the schoolroom. There were twenty-
seven in all, but twelve only were the pupils of Miss Blake.
The others were the pupils of Mrs. Musgrave, another
school-mistress in the town. I remember not the names of
all the girls, but some of them I remember. One was
Katharine Bovet, daughter of Colonel Bovet : she it was who
walked first and named those who followed ; there was
also Mary Blake, cousin of Susan, who was afterwards
thrown into prison with her cousin, but presently was par-
doned. Miss Hucker, daughter of Captain Hucker, the
master serge-maker who entertained the duke, was another
— these were of the White Regiment; there were three
daughters of Captain Herring, two daughters of Mr. Thomas
Baker, one of Monmouth's privy-councillors ; Mary Meade
was the girl who carried the famous golden flag ; and others
whom I have forgotten. When we were assembled, being
dressed all in white, and each maid wearing the Monmouth
colors, we took our flags and sallied forth. In the street
there was almost as great a crowd to look on as the day be-
fore, when the duke rode in ; and, certainly, it was a very
pretty sight to see. First marched a man playing on the
croud very briskly ; after him. one who beat a tabor, and
one who played a fife ; so that we had music on our
march. When the music sU)p])C(l we lifted our voices
and sang a psalm all together ; that done the croiider beg-an
again.
5 j^ FOR FAITH AND FREF.DOM.
As for the procession, no one surely had ever seen th<i
like of it After the music walked six-and-twenty girls, the
youngest eight and the oldest not more than twelve. They
marched two by two, very orderly, all dressed in white
with blue favors, and every girl carrying in her hands a flag
of silk embroidered by herself, assisted by Miss Blake or
some other older person, with devices appropriate to the
nature of the enterprise in hand. For one flag had upon it,
truly figured in scarlet silk, an open Bible, because it was
for liberty to read and expound that book that the men were
going forth to fight. Upon another was embroidered a great
cross ; upon a third were the arms of the duke ; a fourth bore
upon it, to show the zeal of the people, the arms of the
town of Taunton ; and a fifth had both a Bible and a drawn
sword ; and so forth, every one with a legend embroidered
upon it plain for all to read. The flags were affixed to stout
white staves, and as the girls walked apart from each other
and at a due distance the flags, all flying in the wind,
made a pretty sight indeed, so that some of the women
who looked on shed tears. Among the flags was one which
I needs must mention, because, unless the device was com-
municated by some person deep in the duke's counsels, it
most strangely jumped with the event of the following day.
Mary Meade, poor child, carried it. We called it the Golden
Flag, because it had a crown worked in gold thread upon it
and the letters " J. R." A fringe of lace was sewn round it,
so that it was the richest flag of all. What could the crown
with the letters "J. R. " mean, but that James, Duke of
Monmouth, would shortly assume the crown of these three
kingdoms }
Last of all walked Miss Susan Blake, and I by her side.
She bore in one hand a Bible bound in red leather stamped
with gold, and in the other a naked sword.
The duke came forth to meet us standing bareheaded before
the porch. There were standing beside and behind him the
Lord Grey,his two chaplains. Dr. Hooke and Mr. Ferguson,
and my father, Mr. Larke, the Baptist minister of Lyme
Regis (he wore a corslet and carried a sword), and the col-
onels of his regiment. His body-guard were drawn up across
the street, looking brave and si)lendid in their new favors.
The varlets waited beyond with the horses for the duke's
party. Who, to look upon the martial array, the bravery of
the guard, the gallant bearing of all, the confidence in their
looks, and the presence, which should surely bring a
blessing, of the ministers of religion, would think that all
FOR FAITH AXD FREEDOM.
n\
this pomp and promise could be shattered at a single blow?
As each girl advanced in her turn she knelt on one knee
and offered her flag, bowing her head (we had practised
this ceremony several times at the school until we were all
quite perfect in our parts). Then the duke stepped forward
and raised her,- tenderly kissing her. Then she stood
aside, holding her flag still in her hands.
My turn — because I had no flag — came last but one. Miss
Susan Blake being the last. — Now — I hope it was not folly
or a vainglorious desire to be distinguished by any particu-
lar notice of his grace — I could not refrain from hanging
the ring which the duke had given me at Ilchester five years
ago outside my dress by a blue ribbon. Miss Blake to
whom I had told the story of the ring, advised me to do so,
partly to show my loyalty to the duke, and partly because
it was a pretty thing and one which some women would
much desire to possess.
Miss Katharine Bovet informed the duke that I was the
daughter of the learned preacher. Dr. Comfort Eykin. When
I knelt he raised me. Then, as he was about to salute
me, his eyes fell upon the ring, and he looked fiist at
me and then at the ring.
"Madam," he said, "this ring I ought to know. If I
mistake not, there are the initials of 'J. S.' upon it ? "
"Sir," I replied, "the ring was your own. Your grace
was so good as to bestow it upon me in your progress
through the town of Ilchester, five years ago."
"Gad so!" he said, laughing; "I remember now.
'Twas a sweet and lovely child whom I kissed — and now thou
art a sweet and lovely maiden. Art thou truly the daughter
of Dr. Comfort Eykin .? " — he looked behind him ; but my
father neither heard nor attended, being wrapped in thought.
" 'Tis strange : his daughter! 'Tis, indeed wonderful that
such a child should — " Here he stopped. " Fair Rose of
Somerset I called thee then. Fair Rose of Somerset I call thee
again. Why, if I could place thee at the head of my army
all England would certainly follow, as if Helen of Troy or
Queen Venus herself did lead." So he kissed me on the
check with much warmth — more indeed, than was necessary
to show a gracious and friendly good-will ; and suffered
me to step aside. " Dr. Eykin's daughter ! " he repeated,
with a kind of wonder. " Why should not Dr. Eykin have
a daughter ? "
When I told Robin of this gracious salutation he first
turned very red and then he laughed. Then he said that
IJ2 FOR FAITH AND FkEE£>OM.
everybody knew the duke, but he must not attempt any
court freedoms in the Protestant camp ; and if he were to
try — Then he broke off short, changed color again, and
then he kissed me, saying that, of course, the duke meant
nothing but kindliness, but that, for his own part, he desired
not his sweetheart to be kissed by anybody but himself
So I suppose my boy was jealous. But the folly of being
jealous of so great a prince, who could not possibly have
the least regard for a simple country maiden, and who
had known the great and beautiful court ladies : it made
me laugh to think that Robin could be so foolish as to be
jealous of the duke.
Then it was Miss Susan Blake's turn. She stepped for-
ward very briskly, and knelt down and placed the Bible in
the duke's left hand and the sword in his right.
" Sir," she said (speaking the words we had made up and
she had learned), " it is in the name of the women of
Taunton — nay, of the women of all England — that I give
you the Book of the Word of God, the most precious treas-
ure vouchsafed to man, so that all may learn that you are
come for no other purpose than to maintain the right of the
English people to search the Scriptures for themselves, and
I give you also, sir, a sword with which to defend those
rights. In addition, sir, the women can only give your
grace the offering of their continual prayers in behalf of the
cause, and for the safety and prosperity of your highness
and your army."
" Madam," said the duke, much moved by this spectacle
of devotion, " I am come, believe me, for no other purpose
than to defend the truths contained in this book, and to seal
my defence with my blood, if that need be."
Then the duke mounted and we marched behind him in
single file, each girl led by a soldier, till we came to the
camp, when our flags were taken from us and we returned
home and took off our white dresses. 1 confess that I laid
mine down with a sigh. White becomes every maiden, and
my only wear till then had been of russet brown. And all
that day we acted over again — in our talk and in our
thoughts — our beautiful procession, and we repeated the
condescending words of the duke, and admired the gracious-
ness of his kisses, and praised each other for our admirable
behavior, and listened, with pleasure unspeakable, while
Susan Blake prophesied that we should become immortal
by the ceremony of that day.
FOR FAITH AND FKEEDOM.
133
CHAPTER XIX.
KING MONMOUTH AND HIS CAMP.
Next day, the town being thronged with people and the
young men pressing in from all quarters to enroll them-
selves (over four thousand joined the colors at Taunton
alone), another proclamation was read — that, namely, by
which the duke claimed the throne. Many opinions have
been given as to this step. For the duke's enemies main-
tain, first, that his mother was never married to King
Charles the Second (indeed, there is no doubt that the king
always denied the marriage) ; next, that an illegitimate son
could never be permitted to sit upon the ancient throne of
this realm ; and, thirdly, that in usurping the crown the
duke broke faith with his friends, to whom he had solemnly
given his word that he would not put forward any such pre-
tensions. Nay, some have gone so far as to allege that he
was not the son of Charles at all, but of some other whom
they even name ; and they have pointed to his face as show-
ing no resemblance at all to that swarthy and gloomy-
looking king. On the other hand, the duke's friends say
that there were in his hands clear proof of the marriage ; that
the promise given to his friends was conditional, and one
which could be set aside by circumstances ; that the country
gentry, to whom a republic w^as most distasteful, were
afraid that he designed to re-establish that form of govern-
ment ; and, further, that his friends were all fully aware,
from the beginning, of his intentions.
On these points I know nothing; but when a thing has
been done, it is idle to spend time in arguing that it was
well or ill done. James, Duke of Monmouth, was now
James, King of Great Britain and Ireland ; and if we were
all rebels before, who had risen in the name of religion and
liberty, I suppose we were all ten times as much rebels
now, when we had, in addition, set up another king, and
declared King James to be an usurper, and no more than
the Duke of York. Nay, that there might be wanting no
single circumstance of aggravation, it was in this proclama-
tion declared that the Duke of York had caused his brother.
134 FOR FATTH AND FREEDOM.
the late king, to be secretly poisoned. I know not what
foundation exists for this accusation ; but I have been told
that it gave offence unto many, and that it was an ill-advised
thing to say.
The proclamation was read aloud at the market cross by
Mr. Tyler, of Taunton, on the Saturday morning, before a
great concourse of people. It ended with the words, "We
therefore, the noblemen, gentlemen, and commons at pres-
ent assembled, in the names of ourselves and of all the
loyal and Protestant noblemen, gentlemen, and commons
of England, in pursuance of our duty and allegiance, and
for the delivering of the kingdom from popery, tyranny, and
oppression, do recognize, publish, and proclaim the said
high and mighty Prince James, Duke of IMonmouth, as
lawful and rightful sovereign and king, by the name of James
II., by the grace of God, King of England, Scotland, France,
and Ireland, Defender of the Faith. God save the King ! "
After this the duke was always saluted as king, prayed
for as king, and styled "his majesty." He also touched
some (as only the king can do) for the king's-evil, and, it is
said, wrought many miracles of healing — a thing which,
being noised abroad, should have strengthened the faith of
the people in him. But the malignity of our enemies caused
these cases of healing to be denied, or else explained as
fables and inventions of the duke's friends.
Among the accessions of this day was one which I cannot
forbear to mention. It was that of an old soldier who had
been one of Cromwell's captains. Colonel Basset by name.
He rode in — being a man advanced in years, yet still strong
and hale — at the head of a considerable company raised by
himself. 'Twas hoped that his example would be followed
by the adhesion of many more of Cromwell's men, but the
event proved otherwise. Perhaps, being old Republicans,
they were deterred by the proclamation of IMonmouth as
king. Perhaps they had grown slothful with age, and were
now unwilling to face once more the dangers and fatigues
of a campaign. Another recruit was the once-famous Col-
onel Perrot, who had been engaged with Colonel Blood in
the robbery of the crown jewels — though the addition of a
robber to our army was not a matter of pride. He came, it
was afterwards said, because he was desperate, his fortunes
broken, and with no other hope than to follow the fortunes
of the duke.
It became known in the course of tlic day that the army
was to march on the Sunday. Therefore everybody on
FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
135
Saturday evening repaired to the camp : some to bid fare-
well and Godspeed to their friends, and others to witness
the humors of a camp. I was fortunate in having Robin
for a companion and a protector — the place being rough
and the behavior and language of the men coarse even be-
yond what one expects at a country fair. The recruits still
kept pouring in from all parts ; but, as I have already
said, many were disheartened when they found that there
were no arms, and went home again. They were not all riot-
ous and disorderly. Some of the men, those, namely, who
were older, and more sober-minded, we found gathered to-
gether in groups, earnestly engaged in conversation.
"They are considering the proclamation," said Robin.
"Truly, we did not expect that our duke would so soon be-
come king. They say he is illegitimate. What then .-*
Let him mount the throne by right of arms, as Oliver Crom-
well could have done had he pleased — who asks whether
Oliver was illegitimate or no.? The country will not have
another commonwealth — and it will no longer endure a
Catholic king. Let us have King Monmouth, then : who
is there better.? "
In all the camp there was none who spoke with greater
cheerfulness and confidence than Robin. Yet he did not
disguise from himself that there might be warm work.
" The king's troops, " he said, "are, closing in all round
us. That is certain. Yet, even if they all join we are still
more numerous and in much better heart; of that 1 am as-
sured. At Wellington, the Duke of Albemarle commands
the Devonshire Militia ; Lord Churchill is at Chard with the
Somerset Regiment ; Lord Bath is reported to be marching
upon us with the Cornishmen ; The Duke of Beaufort hath
the Gloucester Militia at Bristol ; Lord Pembroke is at Chip-
penham with the Wiltshire Trainbands ; Lord Feversham is
on the march with the king's standing army. What then ?
are these men Protestants or are they Papists? Answer mc
that, sweetheart."
Alas ! had they been true Protestants there would have
been such an answer as would have driven King James
across the water three years sooner.
The camp was now like a fair, only much finer and bigger
than any fair I have ever seen. That of Lyme-Regis could
not be compared with it. There were booths where they
sold ginger-bread, cakes, ale, and cider ; Monmouth favors
for the recruits to sew upon tlieir hats or sleeves ; shoes
and stockings were sold in some, and even chap-books were
136 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
displayed. Men and women carried about in baskets lasf
year's withered apples, with Kentish cobs and walnuts ;
there were booths where they fried sausages and roasted
pork all day long ; tumblers and clowns were performing in
others ; painted and dressed up girls danced in others ; there
was a bull-baiting ; a man was making a fiery oration on
the duke's proclamation ; but I saw no one preaching a ser-
mon. There were here and there companies of country
lads exercising with pike and halbert ; and others, more ad-
vanced, with the loading and firing of their muskets. There
were tables at which sat men with cards and dice, gam-
bling ; shouting when they won and cursing when they lost ;
others, of more thrifty mind, sat on the ground practising
their trade of tailor or cobbler — thus losing no money,
though they did go soldiering ; some polished weapons and
sharpened swords, pikes and scythes ; nowhere did we find
any reading the Bible, or singing hymns, or listening to
sermons. Save for the few groups of sober men of whom I
have spoken, the love of amusement carried all away ; and
the officers of the army, who might have turned them back
to sober thought, were not visible. Everywhere noise ;
everywhere beating of drums, playing of pipes, singing of
songs, bawling, and laughing. Among the men there ran
about a number of saucy gypsy girls, their brown faces
showing under red kerchiefs, their black eyes twinkling
(truly they are pretty creatures to look upon when they are
young ; but they have no religion, and say of themselves
that they have no souls.) These girls talked with each
other in their own language, which none out of their own
nation — except the tinker-folk, who are said to be their
cousins — understand. But English they talk very well, and
they are so clever that, it is said, they will talk to a Somer-
setshire man in good broad Somerset, and to a man of Nor-
folk in his own speech, though he of Norfolk would not un-
derstand him of Somerset.
" They are the vultures," said Robin, "who follow for
prey. Before the battle these women cajole the soldiers out
of their money, and after the battle their men rob and even
murder the wounded and plunder the dead."
Then one of them ran and stood before us.
" Let me tell thy fortune, handsome gentleman ? Let me
tell thine, fair lady.? A sixpence or a groat to cross my
palm, captain, and you shall know all that is to happen."
Robin laughed, but gave her sixpence.
''Look me in the face, fair lady " — she SDoke good, plain
hVR FAITH AND FREEDOMt. t^f
English, this black-eyed wench, though but a moment be-
fore she had been talking broad Somerset to a young recruit
— "look me in the face; yes. All is not smooth. He
loves you ; but there will be separation and trouble. One
comes between, a big man with a red face ; he parts you.
There is a wedding, I see your ladyship plain. Why, you
are crying at it, you cry all the time ; but I do not see this
gentleman. Then there is another wedding — yes, another
— and I see you at both. You will be twice married. Yet
be of good heart, fair lady,"
She turned away and ran after another couple, no doubt
with much the same tale.
"How should there be a wedding," I asked, " if I am
there and you not there, Robin — and I to be crying .'' And
how could I — oh ! Robin — how could I be married twice ? "
"Nay, sweetheart, she could not tell what wedding it was.
She only uttered the gibberish of her trade ; I am sorry that
I wasted a sixpence upon her."
"Robin, is it magic that they practise — these gypsies.''
Do they traffic with the devil .? We ought not to suffer
witches to live among us."
" Most are of opinion that they have no other magip than
the art of guessing, which they learn to do very quickly,
putting things together, from their appearance; so that if
brother and sister walk out together they are taken to be
lovers, and promised a happy marriage and many children."
That may be so, and perhaps the fortune told by this gypsy
was only guesswork. But I cannot believe it ; for the event
proved that she had in reality possessed an exact knowledge
of what was about to happen.
Some of the gypsy women — but these were the older
women, who had lost their good looks, though not their im-
pudence — were singing songs, and those, as Robin told me,
songs not fit to be sung ; and one old crone, sitting before
her tent beside a roaring wood-fire over which hung a great
saucepan, sold charms against shot and steel. The lads
bought these greedily, giving sixpence apiece for them ; so
that the old witch must have made a sackful of money.
They came and looked on shyly. Then one would say to
the other, "What thinkest, lad.' Is there aught in \iV
And the other would say, " Truly I know not ; but she is
a proper witch, and I'll buy one. We may have to fight.
Best make sure of a whole skin." And so he bought one,
and then all bought. The husbands of the gypsy women
were engaged, meantime, we understood, ii^ robbing the
1 3 8 i-OR PA J Til AXD FREED OM.
farmyards in the neighborhood, the blame being after«
wards laid upon our honest soldiers.
'rhcn there was a ballad-monger singing a song about a
man and a broom, and selling it (to those who would buy)
printed on a long slip of paper. The first lines were —
" There was an old man and he lived in a wood,
And his trade it was malcing a broom,"
but I heard no more, because Robin hurried me away.
Then there were some who drunk too much cider or beer,
and were now reeling about with stupid faces and glassy
eves ; there were some who were lying speechless or asleep
ui)on the grass ; and some were cooking supper over fires
after the manner of the gypsies.
" I have seen enough, Robin," I said. " Alas for sacred
Religion if these are her defenders ! "
"'Tis always so," said Robin, "in time of war. We
must encourage our men to keep up their hearts. Should we
l)c constantly reminding them that to-morrow half of them
may be lying dead on the battle-field } Then they would
mope and hang their heads, and would presently desert."
"One need not preach of death, but one should preach of
godliness and of sober joy. Look but at those gypsy
wenches and those lads rolling about drunk. Are these things
decent .'* If they escape the dangers of war, will it make
them happy to look back upon the memory of this camp ?
Is it tit preparation to meet their Maker .? "
"In times of peace, sweet saint, these lads remember
easily that in the midst of life we are in death, and they
govern themselves accordingly. In times of war every man
hopes for his own part to escape with a whole skin, though
his neighbor fall. That is why we are all so blithe and jolly.
Let us now go home, before the night falls and the mirth be-
comes riotous and unseemly."
We passed a large booth whence there issued sounds of
singing. It was a roofless enclosure of canvas. Some ale-
house man of Taunton had set it up. Robin drew aside the
canvas door.
" Look in," he said. "See the brave defenders of religion
keeping up their hearts."
It was furnished with benches and rough tables ; at one end
were casks. The benches were crowded with soldiers, every
man with a pot before him, and the varlets were running
backward and forward with cans of ale and cider. Most of
FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
n%
the men were smoking' pipes of tobacco, and they were
singing a song which seemed to have no end. One bawled
the hnes, and when it came to the " Let the hautboys play 1 "
and the " Huzza ! " they all roared out together :
" Now, now, the duke's health,
And let tlie hautboys play.
While the troops on their march shall
Huzza 1 huzza I huzza]
Now, now, the duke's health,
And let the hautboys play.
While the drums and the trumpets sound from the shore
Huzza! huzza! huzza! "
They sart^; this verse several times over. Then another began :
•• Now, now. Lord Gray's health,
And let the hautboys play,
WJule the troops on their march shall
Huzza I huzza! huzza]
Kow, BOW, Lord Gray's health,
And let the hautboys play,
While the drums and the trumpets sound from the shore
Huzza! huzza! huzza!
Next a third voice took it up :
"Now now, the colonel's health,
And let the haittboys play,"
and then a fourth and a fifth,' and the last verse was bawled
as lustily and with so much joy that one would have thought
the mere singing would have gotten them the victory. Men
are so made, I suppose, that they cannot work together with-
out singing and music to keep up their hearts. Sailors sing
whe4i they weigh anchor ; men who unlade ships sing as
they carry out the bales ; even Cromwell's Ironsides could
not march in silence, but sang psalms as they marched.
The sun was set and the twilight falling when we left the
camp ; and there was no abatement of the roaring and sing-
ing, but rather an increase.
" They will go on," said Robin, "until the drink or their
money gives out; then they will lie down and sleep. You
have now seen a camp, sweetheart. It is not, truth to say,
as decorous as a conventicle, nor is the talk so godly as in
Sir Christopher's hall. For rough fellows there must be rough
play ; in a month these lads will be veterans ; the singing
will have grown stale to them ; the black-eyed gypsy-women
will have no more power to charm away their money ; thejr
I40 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
will understand the meaning of war ; the camp will be sobel
if it is not religious. "
So he walked homeward, I, for my part, saddened to think
in what a spirit of riot these young men, whom I had pictur-
ed so full of godly zeal, were preparing to meet the chance
of immediate death and judgment.
" Sweet," said Robin, "1 read thy thoughts in thy troubled
eyes. Pray for us. Some of us will fight none the worse for
knowing that there are good women who pray for them. "
We were now back in the town ; the streets were still full of
people, an'd no one seemed to think of bed. Presently we
passed the Castle Inn : the windows were open, and we
could see a great company of gentlemen sitting round a
table on which were candles lit and bowls full of strong
drink ; nearly every man had his pipe at his lips and his glass
before him, and one of them was singing to the accompani-
ment of a guitar. Their faces were red and swollen, as if
they had taken too much. At one end of the table sat
Humphrey. What? could Humphrey, too, be a reveller
with the rest .-' His face, which was gloomy, and his eyes,
which were sad, showed that he was not.
"The officers have supped together, " said Robin. "It
may be long before we get such good quarters again. A
cup of hipsy and a song in good fellowship, thou wilt not
grudge so much ? "
" Nay," I said, "'tis all of a piece. Like man, like mas-
ter. Officers and men alike — all drinking and singing. Is
there not one good man in all the army } "
As I spoke one finished a song at which all laughed, ex-
cept Humphrey, and drummed the table with their fists and
shouted.
Then one who seemed to be the president of the table
turned to Humphrey.
"Doctor, "he said, "thou wilt not drink, thou dost not
laugh, and thou hast not sung. Thou must be tried by court-
martial, and the sentence of the court is a brimming glass
of punch, or a song."
"Theii, gentlemen," said Humphrey, smiling, " I will
give you a song. But blame me not if you mislike it ; I
made the song in praise of the sweetest woman in the world, "
He took the guitar and struck the strings. When he began
to sing my cheeks flamed and my breath came and went,
for I knew the song ; he had given it to me four years agone.
Who was the sweetest woman in the world.'' Oh ! he made
this song for me 1 he made this song for me, and none bu^
I'OR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 141
me ! But these rude revellers would not know that — and 1
never guessed that the song was for me. How could I
think that he would write these extravagances for me 1 But
poets vannot mean what they say.
"As rides the moon in azure skies,
Tlie ivviiikliiig stars beside;
As when in splendor she doth rise,
Their lesser lights they hide.
So ijeside Celia, when her face we see,
All unregarded other maidens be.
*' As Helen in the town of Troy
Shone fair beyond all thought,
That to behold her was a joy
By death too poorly bought.
So when fair Celia deigns the lawn to grace,
All life, all joy, dwells in her lovely face.
" As the sweet river floweth by
Green banks and alders tall,
It stayeth not for prayer or sigh.
Nor answereth if we call.
So Celia heeds not though Love cry and weep;
She heavenward wendeth while we earthward creep.
" The marbled saint, so cold and pure,
Minds naught of earthly ways;
Nor can man's gauds entice or lure
That fixed heavenly gaze.
So Celia, though thou queen and empress art,
To heaven, to heaven alone, belongs thy heart."
Now while Humphrey sang this song, a hush fell upon
the revellers ; they had expected nothing but a common
drinking song. After the bawling and the noise and the
ribaldry 'twas like a breath of fresh air after the closeness of
a prison ; or like a drink of pure water to one half dead
with thirst.
"Robin," I said, "there is one good man in the camp."
I say that while Humphrey sang this song — which, to be
sure, was neither a drinking-song, nor a party-song, nor a
song of wickedness and folly — the company looked at each
other in silence, and neither laughed nor offered to interrupt.
Nay, there were signs of grace in some of their faces which
became gr«».ve and thoughtful. When Humphrey finished
it, he laid 4own the guitar and rose up with a bow, saying,
"I have Sung my song, gentlemen all — and so, good-
night 1 " a^d walked out of the room.
" Robir>," I said again, "thank God, there is one good
man in tl»e camp ! I had forgotten Humphrey."
142 t-Ok t^AlT IT AND FREEDOM.
"Yes," Robin replied; " Humphrey is a good man, ft
ever there was one. But he is g-Uim. Something- oppresses
him. His eyes are troubled, and he hangs his head ; or if
he laughs at all, it is as if he would rather cry. Yet all the
way home from Holland he was joyful, save when his head
was held over the side of the ship. He sang and laughed ;
he spoke of great things about to happen. I have never
known him more happy. And now his face is gloomy, anc
he sighs when he thinks no one watcheth him. Perhaps,
like thee, sweet, he cannot abide the noise and riot of the
camp. He would fain see every man Bible in hand.- To-day
he spent two hours with the duke before the council, and
was with thy father afterwards. 'Tis certain that the duke
hath great confidence in him. Why is he so gloomy ? He
bitterly reproached me for leaving Sir Christopher, as if he
alone had a conscience to obey or honor to remember ! "
Humphrey came forth at this moment and stood for a
moment on the steps. Then he heaved a great sigh and
walked away slowly, with hanging head, not seeing us.
" What is the matter with him } " said Robin. " Perhaps
they flout him for being a physician. These fellows have
no respect for learning or for any one who is not a country
gentleman. Well, perhaps when we are on the march he
will again pick up his spirits. They are going to sing again.
Shall we go, child ? "
But the president called a name which made me stop a
little longer.
"Barnaby!" he cried; "jolly Captain Bamaby ! Now
that Doctor Graveairs hath left us we will begin the night.
Barnaby, my hero, thy song. Fill up, gentlemen ! The
night is young, and to-morrow we march. Captain Barna-
by, tip us a sea-song. Silence, gentlemen, for the captain's
song. "
It was my brother that they called upon — no other. He
got up from his place at the summons and rose to his feet.
Heavens ! what a broad man he seemed compared with
those who sat beside him ! His face was red and his
cheeks swollen because of the strong drink he had taken.
In his hand he held a full glass of it. Robin called it hipsy
— and it is a mixture of wine, brandy, and water, with
lemon juice and sugar — very heady and strong.
Said not Barnaby that there was one religion for a lands-
man and another for a sailor ? I thought of that as he stood
looking round him. If it were so, it would be truly a happy
circumstance for most sailors ; but I know not on what as-
FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 143
surance this belief can be argued. Then Barnaby waved
his hand.
" Yoho ! my lads ! " he shouted. " The ship's in port
and the crew has gone ashore ! "
Then he began to sing in a deep voice which made the
glasses ring —
"Shut the door — lock the door —
Out of window fling the key.
Hasten; bring me more, bring me more:
Fill it up. Fill it up for me.
The daylight which you think,
The daylight which you think,
The daylight which you think,
'Tis but the candle's flicker:
The morning star will never wink,
The morning star will never wink,
Till there cometli stint of liquor.
For 'tis tipple, tipple, tipple all around the world, my lads,
And the sun in drink is nightly lapped and curled.
And to-night let us drink, and to-morrow we'll to sea;
For 'tis tipple, tipple, tipple — yes, 'tis tipple, tipple, tipple-
Makes the world and us to jee! "
"Take me home, Robin," I said, " I have seen and heard
enough. Alas 1 we have need of all the prayers that we can
utter from the depths of our heart, and more I "
CHAPTER XX.
benjamin's warning.
Since I have so much to tell of Benjamin's evil conduct, it
must, in justice, be recorded of him that at this juncture he
endeavored, knowing more of the world than we of Somer-
set, to warn and dissuade his cousins from taking part in
any attempt which should be made in the west. And this
he did by means of a letter written to his father. I know
not how far the letter might have succeeded, but unfortu-
nately it arrived two or three days too late, when the boys
had already joined the insurgents. He wrote :
"Honored Sir, — I write this epistle, being much concerned inspirit
lest my grandfather, whose leanings are well known, not only in hl«
own county but also to the court, .should be drawn into, or become C09-
(44 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
riizant of, some attempt to raise the West Country against their lawful
king. It will nut be news to you tliat the Earl of Argyle hath landecj
in tjcolland. where he will meet with a reception which will doubtless
cause him to repent of his rashness. It is also currently leported, and
everywhere believed, that the Duke of Moninoulli intends immediately
to embark and cross the sea with the design of raising ilie country in
rebellion. The Dissenters, who have been going about with sour looks
for fivc-and-Lwenty years, venture now to smile and look pleased in an-
ticipation of another civil war. This may follow, but its termination, I
think, will not be what they expect.
" I have also heard that my C(msin Humphrey, Dr. Ey kin's favorite
pupil, who hath never concealed his opinions, hath lately returned from
Holland (where the exiles are gathered) and passed through London ac-
companied by Kobin. I have fui ther learned that while in London he
visited (but alone, without Robin's knowledge) many of those who are
known to be friends of the duke and red-hot Protestants. Wherefore I
greatly fear that he hath been in correspondence with the exiles, and is
cognizant of their designs, and may even be their messenger to an-
nounce the intentions of his Protestant cliampion. Certain I am that
should any chance occur of striking a blow for freedom of worship, my
cousin, though he is weak and of slender frame, will join the attempt.
He will also endeavor to draw after him every one in his power. There-
fore, my dear father, use all your influence to withstand liim, and if he
must, for his part, plunge into ruin, persuade my grandfather and my
cousin Robin to stay quiet at home.
" I hear it on the best authority that the temper of the country, and
especially in your part of it, hatli been carefully studied by the govern-
ment and is perfectly well known. Those who would risk life and
lands for the Duke of Monmouth are few indeed. He may, perhaps,
draw a rabble after him, but no more. The fat tradesmen who most
long for the conventicle will not fight though they may pray for him.
The country gentlemen may V)e Protestants, but they are mostly for the
(/hurch of England and the king. It is quite true that his majesty is a
Roman Catholic, nor hath he ever concealed or denied his religion, being
one who scorns deceptions. It is also trtie that his profession of faith
is a stumbling-block to many who find it hard to reconcile their teach-
ing of non-resistance and divine right with the introduction of the mass
and the Romish priest. But the country hath not yet forgotten the
iron rule of the Independent, and rather than suffer him to return the
people will endure a vast deal of royal preiogative.
" It is absolutely certain — assure my grandfather on this point, what-
ever he may leai'u from Humphrey — that the better sort will never join
Monmouth, whether he comes as another Cromwell to restore the Com-
monwealtii, or whether he aspires to the crown and dares to maintain
— a thing which King Charles did always stoutly deny — that his motlier
was married. Is it credible that the ancient throne of tliese kingdoms
should be mounted by the baseborn son of Lucy Waters ?
"I had last night the honor of drinking a bottle of wine with that
great lawyer. Sir George Jeffreys. The conversation turned upon this
subject. We were assured by the jud^e that the affections of the people
are wholly with the king; that the liberty of worship which he demands
for himself he will extend to the country, so that the la-t pretence of
reason for disaffection shall be removed. Why should the people run
after Monmouth when, if he were successful, he would give no more
than the king is ready to give. I was also privately warned by Sir
G«orge that my grandfather's name is unfavorably noted, and faJS a»
POR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 14^
tions and speeches will be watched. Therefore, sir, I humbly beg that
you will represent to him and to my cousins, and to Dr. Eykin himself,
first, the hopelessness of any such enterprise and the certainty of de-
feat; and next, the punishment which will fall upon the rebels and
upon those who lend them any countenance. Men of such a temper as
Dr. Comfort Eykin will doubtless go to ilie scaffold willingly, with their
mouths full of the texts which they apply to themselves on all occa-
sions. For such I have no pity; yet. for the sake of his wife and
daughter, I would willingly, if I could, save him from the fate which
will be his if Monmouth lands on the west. And as for my grand-
father, 'tis terrible to think of his white hairs blown by the breeze
while the hangman adjusts the knot, and I should shudder to see the
blackened limbs of Robin stuck upon poles for all the world to see.
*• It is my present intention, if my affairs permit, to follow my for-
tunes on the western circuit in the autumn, when I shall endeavor to
ride from Taunton or Exeter to Bradford Orcas. My practice grows
apace. Daily I am heard in the courts. The judges already know me
and listen to me. The juries begin to feel the weiglit of my arguments.
The attorneys besiege my chambers. For a junior I am in great de-
mand. It is my prayer that you, sir, may live to see your son chancel-
lor cf the exchequer and a peer of the realm. Less than chancellor
will not content me. As for marriage, that might hinder my rise — J
shall not marry yet. There is in your parish, sir, one who knows ray
mind upon this matter. I shall be pleased to think that you will as
sure her — j'ou know very well whom I mean — that my mind is unalter-
ed and that my way is now plain before me.
"So, I remain, with dutiful respect, your obedient son,
■'B. B."
This letter arrived, I say, after the departure of Robin with
his company of village lads.
When Mr. Boscorel had read it slowly and twice over, so
as to lose no point of the contents, he sat and pondered
awhile. Then he arose and with troubled face he sought
Sir Christopher, to whom he read it through. Then he
waited for Sir Christopher to speak.
"The boy writes, "said his honor, after awhile, "accord-
ing to his lights. He repeats the things he hears said by
his boon companions. Nay, more, he believes them. Why,
it is easy for them to swear loyalty and to declare in their
cups where the affections of the people are placed."
" Sir Christopher, what is done cannot be undone. The
boys are gone — alas ! — but you still remain. Take heed for
a space what you say as well as what you do. "
" How should they know the temper of the country? " Sir
Christopher went on, regardless. "What doth the foul-
mouthed profligate, Sir George Jeffreys, know concerning
sober and godly people? These are not noisy templars ;
they are not profligates of the cf)urt ; they are not haunters of
tavern and pothouse ; they are not those who frequent the
playhouse. Judge Jeffreys knows none such, They are
^46 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
lovers of the Word of God ; they wish to worship after theii
fashion ; they hate the pope and all his works. Let us heal
what these men say upon the matter. "
"Nay," said Mr. Boscorel, " I care not greatly what they
say. But would to God the boys were safe returned."
"Benjamin means well," Sir Christopher went on, "I take
this warning- kindly ; he meant well. It pleases me that in
the midst of the work and the feasting which he loves he
thinks upon us. Tell him, son-in-law, that I thank him for
his letter. It shows that he has preserved a good heart"
"As for his good heart," Mr. Boscorel stroked his nose
with his forefinger, " so long as Benjamin gets what he
wants, which is Benjamin's mess, and five times the mess of
any other, there is no doubt of his good heart. "
" Worse things than these," said Sir Christopher, "were
said of us when the civil wars began. The king's troops
would ride us down ; the country would not join us ; those
of us who were not shot or cut down in the field would be
afterwards hanged, drawn, and quartered. Yet we drove
the king from his throne."
"And then the king came back again. So we go up and
so we go down. But about this expedition and about these
boys my mind misgives me."
"Son-in-law," Sir Christopher said, solemnly, " I am now
old, and the eyes of my mind are dim, so that I no longer
discern the signs of the times, or follow the current of the
stream ; moreover, we hear but little news, so that I cannot
even see any of those signs. Yet to men in old age, before
they pass away to the rest provided by the Lord, there cometh
sometimes a vision by which they are enabled to ses clearly
when younger men are still groping their way in a kind of
twilight. Monmouth hath landed ; my boys are with him ;
they are rebels ; should the rising fail, their lives are forfeit,
and that of my dear friend. Dr. Comfort Eykin ; yea, and
my life as well, belike, because I have been a consenting
party. Ruin and death will, in that event, fall upon all of
us. Whether it will so happen I know not, nor do I weigh
the chance of that event against the voice of conscience, duty,
and honor. My boys have obeyed that voice ; they have
gone forth to conquer or to die. My vision doth not tell me
what will happen to them. But it shows me the priest fly-
ing from the country, the king flying from the throne, and
that fair angel whom we call freedom of conscience return-
ing to bless the land. To know that the laws of God will
triumph — ought not that to reconcile a man alreiu'.y seventy-
FOR FAITH AND FkEEDOM I47
five years of age to death, even a death upon the gallows ?
What matter for this earthly body so that it be spent until the
end in the service of the Lord ? "
CHAPTER XXL
WE WAIT FOR THE END.
I HAVE said that my father from the beginning unto the end
of this business was as one beside himself, being in a^ ecstasy
or rapture of mind, insomuch that he heeded nothing. The
letters he sent out to his friends the Nonconformists either
brought no answer or else they heaped loads of trouble,
being interaepted and read, upon those to whom they were
addressed. But he was not moved. The defection of his
friends and of the gentry caused him no uneasiness. Nay,
he even closed his eyes and ears to the drinking, the profane
oaths, and the riotous living in the camp. Others there
were, like-minded with himself, who saw the hand of the
Lord in this enterprise, and thought that it would succeed by
a miracle. The desertions of the men which afterwards fol-
lowed, and the defection of those who should have joined —
these things were but the weeding of the host, which should
be still further weeded, as in a well-known chapter in the
Book of Judges, until none but the righteous should be left
behind. These things he preached daily, and with mighty
fervor, to all who would listen, but these were few in num-
ber.
As regards his wife and daughter, he took no thought for
them at all, being wholly enwrapped in his work : he did
not so much as ask if we had money — to be sure, for five-
and-twenty years he had never asked that question — or if
we were safely bestowed or if we were well. Never have I
seen any man so careless of all earthly affections when he
considered the work of the Lord. But when the time came
for the army to march what were we to do.^ Where should
we be bestowed }
" As to following the army," said Robin, "that is absurd.
We know not whither we may march or what the course of
events may order. You cannot go home without an armed
escort, for the country is up, the clubmen are out every-
148 POk FA iTff AXD FREEDOM.
where to protect their cattle and horses ; a rough and rude
folk they would be to meet, and the gypsies are robbing
and plundering. Can you stay here until we come back,
or until the country hath settled down again? "
Miss Blake generously promised that we should stay with
her as long as we chose, adding many kind things about
myself, out of friendship and a good heart ; and so it Was
resolved that we should remain in Taunton, where no harm
could befall us, while my father still accompanied the army
to exhort the soldiers.
"I will take care of him," said Barnaby. "He shall not
preach of a morning till he hath, taken breakfast, nor shall
he go to bed until he hath had his supper. So long as the
provisions last out he shall have his ration. After that I
cannot say. Maybe we shall all go on short commons, as
hath happened to me already; and, truth to tell, I love it
not. All these things belong to the voyage and are part of
our luck. Farewell, therefore, mother. Heart up. All
will go well. Kiss me, sister ; we shall all come back
again. Never fear. King Monmouth shall be crowned in
Westminster, dad shall be Archbishop of Canterbury, and
I shall be captain of a king's ship. All our fortunes shall be
made, and you, sister, shall have a great estate, and shall
marry whom you please — Robin or another. As for the
gentry who have not come forward, hang 'em ! we'll divide
their estates between us and so change places, and they will
be so astonished at not bemg shot for cowardice that they
will rejoice and be glad to clean our boots. Thus shall we
all be happy."
So they marched away, Monmouth being now at the head
of an army seven thousand strong, and all in such spirits
that you would have thought nothing could withstand them.
And when I consider and remember how that army marched
back, with the cheers of the men and the laughter and jokes
of the young recruits, the tears run down my cheeks for
thinking how their joy was turned to mourning, and life
was exchanged for death. The last I saw of Robin was
that he was turning in his saddle to wave his hand, his face
full of confidence and joy. The only gloomy face in the
whole army that morning was the face of Humphrey.
Afterwards I learned that almost from the beginning he fore-
saw certain disaster. In the tirst place, none of those on
whom the exiles of Holland had relied came into camp ;
these were the backbone of the Protestant party, the sturdy
blood that had been freely shed against Charles the First
FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
149
This was a bitter disappointment. Next, he saw in the
army nothing but a rabble of country lads, with such
officers as Captain Hucker, the serg-e-maker, instead of the
country gentlemen with their troops, as had been expected,
and from the beginning he distrusted the leaders, even the
duke himself. So he hung his head, and laughed not with
the rest. But his doubts he kept locked up in his own heart.
Robin knew none ot them.
It was a preity sight to see the Taunton women walking
out for a mile and more with their lovers who had joined
Monmouth. They walked hand in hand with the men ;
they wore the Monmouth favors. They had no more doubt
or fear of the event than their sweethearts.
Those who visit Taunton now may see these women
creeping about the streets lonely and sorrowful, mindful still
of that Sunday morning when they saw their lovers for the
last time.
When I consider the history of this expedition I am amazed
that it did not succeed. It was, surely, by a special judg-
ment of God that the victory was withheld from Monmouth
and reserved for William. I say not (presumptuously)that
the judgment was pronounced against the duke on account
of his sinful life, but I think it was the will of Heaven that
the country should endure for three years the presence of a
prince who was continually seeking to advance the Catholic
religion. The people were not yet ripe perhaps, for that
universal disgust which caused them without bloodshed (in
this island at least) to pull down King James from his throne.
When, I say, I consider the temper and the courage of
that great army which left Taunton, greater than any which
the king could bring against it ; when I consider the mul-
titudes who flocked to the standard at Bridgwater, I am,
indeed, lost in wonder at the event.
From Sunday, the twenty-first, when the army marched
out of Taunton, till the news came of their rout on Seuge-
moor, we heard nothing certain about them. On Tuesday
the Duke of Albemarle, hearing that the army had gone,
occupied Taunton with the militia, and there were some
who expected severities on account of the welcome given
to the duke and the recruits whom he obtained here.
But there were no acts of revenge that I heard of ; and.
indeed, he did not stay long in the town. As for us, we
remained under the shelter of Miss Blake's roof, and daily ex-
pected news of some great and signal victorv. But none
pame, s^v? one letter. Everyday we looked for this n^ws,
ISO
FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
and every day we planned and laid down the victorious
inarch for our army.
"They will first occupy Bristol," said Miss Blake. "That
is certain, because there are many stout Protestants in
Bristol, and the place is important. Once master of that
great city, our king will get possession of ships, and so will
have a fleet. There are, no doubt, plenty of arms in the
town, with which he will be able to equip an army ten
times greater than that which he now has. Then — with,
say, thirty thousand men — he will march on London. The
militia will, of course, lay down their arms or desert at the
approach of this great and resolute army. The king's regi-
ments will prove, I expect, to be Protestants, every man.
Oxford will open her gates. London will send out her
trainbands to welcome the deliverer, and so our king will
enter in triumph, and be crowned at Westminster Abbey — •
one King James succeeding another. Then there shall be
restored to this distracted country " — being a schoolmistress,
Miss Blake could use language worthy of the dignity of
history — " the blessings of religious freedom ; and the pure
word of God, stripped of superstitious additions made by
men, shall be preached through the length and breadth of
the land."
" What shall be done," I asked, " with the bishops } "
"They shall be suffered to remain," she said, speaking
with a voice of authority, "for those congregations which
desire a prelacy, but stripped of their titles and of their vast
revenues. We will not persecute, but we will never suffer
one church to lord it over another. Oh ! when will the
news come ? Where is the army now ? "
The letter of which I have spoken was from Robin.
" Sweetheart," he said, " all goes well so far. At Bridg-
water we have received a welcome only second to that <>(
Taunton. The mayor and aldermen proclaimed our king
at the high cross, and the people have sent to the camj:
great store of provisions and arms of all kinds. We are now
six regiments of foot, with a thousand cavalry, besides the
king's own bodyguard. We have many good friends at
Bridgwater, especially one Mr. Roger Hoar, who is a rich
merchant of the place, and is very zealous in the cause.
Your father preached on Sunday evening from the text
Deuteronomy vii. 5: 'Ye shall destroy their altars, and
break down their images, and cut down their groves, and
burn their graven images with tire.' It was a most moving
discourse, which fired the hearts of all who heard it.
FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. \ 5 1
"They say that our chief is downhearted because the
nobility and gentry have not come in. They only wait
for the first victory, after which they will come in by hun-
dreds. But some of our men look forward to depriving them
of their estates and dividing them among themselves ; and
already the colonels and majors are beginning to reckon up
the great rewards which await them. As for me, there is
but one reward for which I pray, namely, to return untc
Bradford Orcas and to the arms of my sweet saint Lord
Churchill is reported to be at Chard : there has been a brush
in the Forest of Neroche between the scouts, and it is said
that all the roads are guarded so that recruits shall be arrest-
ed, or at least driven back. Perhaps this is the reason why
the gentry sit down. Barnaby says that, so far, there have
been provisions enough and to spare, and he hopes the
present plenty may continue. No ship's crew can fight, he
says, on half rations. Our march will be on Bristol. I
hope and believe that when we have gotten that great town
our end is sure. Humphrey continueth glum."
Many women there were who passed that time in prayer,
continually offering up supplications on behalf of husband,
brother, lover, or son. But at Taunton the rector, one
Walter Harte, a zealous High Churchman, came forth from
hiding, and, with the magistrates, said prayers daily for
King James the Second.
To tell what follows is to renew a time of agony unspeak-
able. Yet must it be told. Farewell, happy days of hope
and confidence ! Farewell, the sweet exchange of dreams !
Farewell to our lovely hero, the gracious duke ! All the
troubles that man's mind can conceive were permitted to be
rained upon our heads — defeat, wounds, death, prison —
nay, for me such a thing as no one could have expected or
even feared — such a fate as never entered the mind of man
to invent.
When the duke marched out of Bridgwater across Sedge-
moor to Glastonbury, the weather, which had been hot and
fine, became cold and rainy, which made the men uncom-
fortable. At Glastonbury they camped in the ruins of the
old abbey. Thence they went to Shcpton Mallet, the spirits
of the men still being high. From Shepton Mallet they
marched to a place called Pensford, f)nly five miles from
Bristol. Here they heard that the bridge over the Avon at
Keynsham was broken down. This being presently re-
paired, the army marchetl across. They were then within
easy reach pf Bristol,
153
FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM
And now began the disasters of the enterprise. Up to
this time everything had prospered. Had the duke boldiy
attacked Bristol (I speak not of my own wisdom, having
none in such matters of warfare) he would have encountered
no more than twenty companies or thereabouts of militia
and a regiment of two hundred and fifty horse. Moreover,
Bristol was full of dissenters, who wanted nothing but en-
couragement to join the Protestant champion. Not only
the duke's friends, but also his enemies, agree in declaring
that it wanted nothing but courage to take that great, rich,
and populous city, where he would have found everything
that he wanted — men and money, arms and ammunition.
I cannot but think that for his sms, or for the sins of the
iiation, a judicial blindness was caused to fall upon the
duke, so that he chose, of two ways open to him, that
which led to his destruction. In short, he turned away
from Bristol and drew up his forces against Bath. When he
summoned that city to surrender they shot his herald and
scoffed at him. Then, instead of taking the town, the duke
retired to Philip's Norton, where, 'tis said, he expected some
great reinforcements. But none came ; and he now grew
greatly dejected, showing his dejection in his face, which
could conceal nothing. Yet had he fought an action with
his half-brother, the l3uke of Grafton, in which he was vic-
torious, a thing which ought to have helped him. In this
action Lieutenant Blake, !Miss Blake's cousin, was killed.
From Philip's Norton the army marched to Frome, and
here, such was the general despondency, that two thousand
men — a third of the whole army — deserted in the night and
returned to their own homes. I think, also, it was at PYome
that they learned the news of Lord Argyle s discomfiture.
Then a council was held at which it was proposed that
the army should be disbanded and ordered to return, seeing
that the king had proclaimed a pardon to all who would
j-jcacefully lay down their arms and return home ; and that
the duke, with Lord Grey and those who would be certainly
exempted from that pardon, should make the best of their
way out of the country.
Alas ! There was a way open to safety of all those pooi
men ; but again was the duke permitted to choose the other
way, that, namely, which led to the destruction of h:s army
and himself. Yet they say that he himself recommended
the safer course. He must have known that he wanted
arms and ammunition, that his men were deserting, and
that no more recruits came in. Colonel Yenncr, one of hi^
I'OR FAITJl AXD l'REEDO.\t 153
principal men, was at this juncture sent away to Holland in
order to get assistance in arms and money. And the king's
proclamation of pardon was carefully kept from the knowl-
edge of the soldiers.
On July the fourth the army returned to Bridgwater, and
now Dr. Hooke, chaplain to the army, and some of the
officers were sent away secretly in order to raise an insur-
rection in London and elsewhere, the only hope now being
that risings in various parts would call away some of the
king's forces from the west. Some of the Taunton men in
the army rode from Bridgwater to see their friends. But
we women (who for the most part remained at home)
learned no news save that as yet there had been no signal
victory ; we did not hear of the large desertions nor of the
duke's despondency. Therefore we continued in our fool's
paradise and looked for nothing but some great and crown-
ing mercy. Those who are on the side of the Lord are al-
ways expecting some special interference : whereas they
ought to be satisfied with being on the right side, whether
victory or defeat be intended for them. In this enterprise I
doubt not that those godly men (there were indeed some
godly men) who fell in battle or were afterwards executed,
received their reward, and that a far, far greater reward than
their conduct deserved — for who can measure the short
agony of death beside the everlasting life of glory and joy
unspeakable ?
The last day of this fatal expedition was Sunday the fifth
day of July: so that it took no more than three weeks in
all between its first beginning and its failure. Only three
weeks ! But how much longer was it before the punish-
ment and the expiation were concluded .? Nay, are they
even yet concluded, when thousands of innocent women
and children still go in poverty and mourning for the loss
of those who should have worked for them ?
In the morning my father preached to the soldiers on the
text (Joshua xxii. 22), "The Lord God of gods, the Lord
God of gods, he knoweth, and Israel he shall know, if it
be in rebellion, or if in transgression against the Lord,
(save us not this day)."
And now the time was come when the last battle was to
be fought.
The Earl of Feversham, who had been at Somcrton,
marched this day across Scdgcmoor and encamped at
Weston Zoyland, which is but five or six miles from Bridg-
water. Now it chanced that one William Sparke of Ched*
1 54 ^^^' FAITH AND FREEDOM.
zoy, hearing' of this advance, climbed the church tower,
and by aid of a spying-glass, such as sailors use at sea,
discerned clearly the approach of the army and its halt at
Weston, Being a well-wisher to the duke, he sent one of
his men, Richard Godfrey by name, with orders to spy into
and learn the position and numbers of the earl's army and
to carry his information straightway to Bridgwater. This
duty the fellow promised and most faithfully performed.
The duke had already learned the approach of Lord f'ever-
sham, and being now well-nigh desperate with his con-
tinued losses, and seeing his army gradually wasting away,
with no fresh recruits, he had resolved upon not waiting to
be attacked, but on a retreat northwards, hoping to get
across the bridge at Keynsham and so march into Shrop-
shire and Cheshire, where still he hoped to raise another
army. But (says he who hath helped me with this brief
account of the expedition) the retreat, which would have
been harassed by Lord Feversham's horse, would have
turned into flight ; the men would have deserted in all di-
rections, and when the remains of the army arrived at Keyn-
sham Bridge they would certainly have found it occupied
by the Duke of Beaufort.
The carriages were already loaded in readiness for this
march — it was to begin at nightfall — when the arrival of the
man Godfrey, and the news that he brought, caused the
duke to change everything. For he now perceived that
such a chance was offered him as had never before occurred
since his landing, viz., a night surprise, and, if he were
fortunate, the rout of the king's best troops.
It is said that had the duke shown the same boldness in
the matter of Bristol that he showed in this night at-
tack he would have gained that city first and his own
cause next. Nor did it appear at all a desperate attempt.
For though Lord Feversham had twenty-five hundred men
v/ith him, horse and foot, with sixteen field pieces, the duke
had nearly three thousand foot and six hundred horse with
four field pieces ; and though the king's troops included
many companies of grenadiers, with a battalion of that
famous regiment the Coldstream Guards, and some hundred
horse of the king's regiment and dragoons, the duke had
with him at least two thousand men well armed and reso-
lute, as the event showed. Besides this he had the advan-
tage of the surprise and confusion of a night attack. And,
in addition, the camp was not entrenched, the troopers had
FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 1 5 5
all gone to bed, the foot soldiers were drinking cider, and
the officers were reported to be all drunk.
Therefore it was resolved that the intended' flight into
Shropshire should be abandoned, and that the whole mat-
ter should be brought to an issue this very night.
Had the attack succeeded all might yet have gone well
with the duke. His enemies boasted that his raw country
lads would be routed at the first charge of regular soldiers
if he proved the contrary, those who had deserted bin-
would have returned, those who held aloof would join ; it
was not the cause which found men lukewarm, it was the
doubt — and nothing but the doubt, whether the duke's en-
terprise would be supported. And I have never heard that
any found aught but commendation of the boldness and
spirit which brought us the battle of Sedgemoor,
All that day we spent in quiet meditation, in prayer, \v
the reading of the Bible, and in godly discourses; and
herein I must commend the modesty as well as the piety oi
Miss Susan Blake, in that she invited my mother, as her
elder, and the wife of an eminent minister, to conduct the
religious exercises, though as the hostess she might have
demanded that privilege. We stirred not abroad at all. The
meeting-houses, which had been opened when the duke
marched in, were now closed again.
In the evening while we sat together discoursing upon
the special mercies vouchsafed to the people ol the Lord,
a strange thing happened. Nay, I do not say that news
may not have reached Taunton already of the duke's inten-
tions and of the position of the king's forces. But this seems
incredible, since it was not known, except to the council
by whom it was decided, till late in the afternoon, and il
was not to be thought that these would hurry to spread the
news abroad and so ruin the whole affair. The window-
being open then, we could hear the voices of those who
talked in the street below. Now there passed two men, and
they were talking as they went. Said one — and these were
the words we heard —
"I tell thee that the duke will have no more to do than
to lock the stable doors and so seize the troopers in their
beds."
We all started and listened. The voice below repeated —
"I say, sir, and 1 have it at first hand, that he hath but
to lock the stable doors and so seize all the troopers in their
beds."
J 56 ran FAIT.V a::d FREEDOM.
Then they passed on their way.
Said my mother. "My husband hath told me that nol
only may the conscience be awakened by a word which
seemeth chance, but the future may be revealed by words
which were perhaps meant in another sense. What wc
have heard this evening- may be a foretelling of victory. My
children, let us pray, and so to bed."
CHAPTER XXII.
THE DAY AFTER.
It was five o'clock when I awoke next morning. Though
the hour was so early, I heard a great tramping and running
about the streets, and, looking out of window, I saw a con-
course of the town's people gathered together listening to
one who spoke to them. But in the middle of his speech
they broke away from him and ran to another speaker, and
so distractedly and with such gestures that they were clearly
much moved by some news, the nature of which I could
not guess. For in some faces there was visible the outward
show of triumph and joy, and on others there lay plainly
visible the look of amazement or stupefaction, and in the
street I saw some women weeping and crying. What had
happened } Oh ! what had happened .? Then, while I was
still dressing, there burst into the room Susan Blake, her-
self but half dressed, her hair flying all abroad, the comb in
her hand.
"Rejoice ! " she cried. "Oh, rejoice, and give thanks
unto the Lord ! What did we hear last night } That the duke
had but to shut the stable doors and seize the troopers in
their beds. Look out of window — see the people run-
ning and listening eagerly. Oh ! 'tis the crowning mercy
that we have looked for, the Lord hath blown and his
enemies are scattered. Remember the strange words we
heard last night. What said the unknown man } nay, he
said it twice. ' The duke had but to lock the stable doors ; "
nay, and yesterday I saw, and last night I heard, the screech
owl thrice, which was meant for the ruin of our enemies.
Oh, Grace, Grace, this is a joyful day ! "
" But look, " I said, "they have a downcast look; they
I'OR FAITH AND FIi£JSDOM,
157
run about as if distracted ; and some are wringing their
hands."
" 'Tis with excess of joy," she replied, looking out of the
window with me, though her hair was flying in the wind.
"They are so surprised and so rejoiced that they can-
not speak or move."
" But there are women weeping and wailing; why do
they weep .? "
" It is for those who are killed. Needs must in every
great victory that some are killed — poor, brave fellows ! —
and some are wounded. Nay, my dear, thou hast three at
least at the camp who are dear to thee, 'and God knows I
have many. Let us pray that we do not have to weep like
those poor women."
She was so earnest in her looks and words, and I myself
so willing to believe, that I doubted no longer.
"Listen ! oh, listen !" she cried, "never, never before
have bells rung a music so joyful to my heart."
For now the bells of the great tower of St. Mary's began
to ring — clash, clash, clash, all together as if they were
cracking their throats with joy ; and at the sound of the
bells those men in the street, who seemed to me stupefied as
by a heavy blow, put up their hands to their ears and fled,
as if they could not bear the noise, and the women who
wept wrung their hands and shrieked aloud in anguish, as if
the joy of the chimes mocked the sorrow of their hearts.
" Poor creatures ! " said Susan. " From my heart I pity
them. But the victory is ours, and now it only remains to
offer up our humble prayers and praises to the Throne of all
mercy."
So we knelt and thanked God.
"O Lord, we thank and bless thee! O Lord, we thank
and bless thee ! " cried Susan, the tears of joy and gratitude
running down her cheeks. Outside, the noise of hurrying
feet and voices increased, and more women shrieked — and
still the joy bells clashed and clanged.
"O Lord, we thank thee! O Lord, we bless thee!"
Susan repeated on her knees, her voice broken with her joy
and triumph. 'Twas all that she could say.
I declare that at that moment I had no more doubt of the
victory than I had of the sunshine. There could be no doubt.
The joy bells were ringing ; how should we know that the
Rev. Mr. Hartc, the vicar, caused them to be rung, and not
our friends ? There could be no manner of doubt. The
people running to and fro in the street had heard the news
158 ^-'OR FAirll AND FIiEEDO.\t.
and were rushing to tell each other and to hear more. The
women who wept were mothers or wives of the slain ;
again, we had encouraged each other with assurances of our
success so that we were already fully prepared to believe
that it had come. Had we not seen a splendid army some
thousand strong march out of Taunton town, led by the
bravest man and most accomplished soldier in the English
nation.? Was not the army on the Lord's side? Were we
not in a Protestant country ? Were not the very regiments
of the king Protestants .? Why go on .'' and yet — oh I sad to
think ! — while we knelt and prayed the army was scattered
like a cloud of summer gnats by a shower and a breeze, and
hundreds lay dead upon the field, and a thousand men were
prisoners, and many were already hanging in gemmaces
upon the gibbets, where they remained till King William's
coming suffered them to be taken down, and the rest were
flying in every direction, hoping to escape.
" O Lord, we thank thee ! O Lord, we bless thee ! "
While thus we prayed we heard the door below burst open
and a tramping of a man's boots, and Susan, hastily rolling
up her hair, ran down-stairs followed by mother and myself.
There stood Barnaby. Thank God ! one of our lads was safe
out of the fight. His face and hands w^ere black wdth pow-
der ; his red coat, which had been so fine, was now smirched
with mud and stained with I know not what marks of
weather, of mud, and of gunpowder ; the right-hand side was
torn away, he had no hat upon his head, and a bloody clout
was tied about his forehead.
" Barnaby ! " I cried.
"Captain Barnaby ! " cried Susan, clasping her hands.
" My son ! " cried mother ; oh ! thou art wounded. Quick,
Grace, child ; a basin of water, quick ! "
" Nay, 'tis but a scratch," he said ; " and there is no time
for nursing."
"When — where — how," we all cried together, "was the
victory won ? Is the enemy cut to pieces } Is the war fin-
nished } "
"Victory .? " he repeated, in his slow way, "what victory ?
Give me a drink of cider, and if there is a morsel of victual
in the house — "
I hurried to bring him both cold meat and bread and a cup
full of cider. He began t^ cat and drink.
"Why," he said, talking between his mouthfuls, "if
the worst come, 'tis hotter to face it with a — Your health,
madam;" he nish ;d the cider. "Another cup, sister, H
FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. tjj
you love me. I have neither eaten nor drunk since yester-
day at seven o'clock, or thereabouts." He said no more un-
til he had cleared the dish of the gammon, and left nothing-
but the bone. This he dropped into his pocket. "When the
provisions are out," he said, wisely, "there is good gnawing
in the shank bone of a ham. " Then he drank up the rest of
the cider and looked around. "Victory.? Did some one
speak of victory ? "
' ' Yes ; where was it ? Tell us quick. "
"Well; there was in some sort a victory. But the king
had it."
"What mean you, Barnaby .? the king had it? What
king .? "
" Not King Monmouth. That king is riding away (o find
some port and get some ship, I take it, which will carry hiin
back to Holland."
"Barnaby, what is it.? Oh! what is it.? Tell us all."
"All there is to tell, sister, is that our army is clean cut
to pieces and that those of us who are not killed or prisoners
are making off with what speed they may. As for me, I
should have thrown away my coat and picked up some old
duds and got off to Bristol and so aboard ship and away,
but for dad."
"O Barnaby ! " cried my mother, " what hath happened
to him .? Where is he ? "
"I said, mother," he replied, very slowly and looking in
her face strangely, "that I would look after him, didn't I?
Well, when we marched cut of Bridgwater at nightfall,
nothing would serve but he must go too. I think he com-
pared himself with Moses, who stood afar off and held up
his arms. Never was there any man more eager to get at
the enemy than dad. If he had not been a minister now,
what a soldier he would have made ! "
"Goon. Quick, Barnaby."
"I can go, sister, no quicker than I can. That is quite
sure. "
" Where is he, my son ? " asked my mother.
Barnaby jerked his thumb over his left shoulder.
" He is over there, and he is safe enough for the present
Well, after the battle was over, and it was no use going on
any longer, Monmouth and Lord Grey having already rui»
*way — "
" Run away .? Run away .? "
" Run away, sister. Aboard ship the captain stands by
tla« crew to the last, and if they strike he is prisoner with
lOo I- OR FAITJI AND FREEDOM.
them. Ashore, the general runs away and leaves his men t-o
find out when they will give over fighting. We fought
until there was no more ammunition, and then we ran with
the rest Now I had not gone far, before I saw lying on
the moor at my very feet the poor old dad."
"O!"
"He was quite pale, and I thought he was dead. So I
was about to leave him, when he opened his eyes. ' What
cheer, dad } ' I asked. He said nothing. So I felt his pulse
and found him breathing. ' But what cheer, dad .•* ' I asked
him again. 'Get up and come with me.' He looked
around as if he understood me not, and he shut his eyes
again. Now when you run away the best thing is to run as
fast and to run as far as you can. Yet I could not run with
dad lying in the road half dead. So while I tried to think
what to do, because the murdering dragoons were cutting
us down in all directions, there came galloping past a pony
harnessed to a kind of go-cart where I suppose there had
been a barrel or two of cider for the soldiers. The creature
was mad with the noise of the guns, and I had much ado to
catch him and hold the reins while I lifted dad into the cart.
When I had done that I ran by the side of the horse and
drove him off the road across the moor, which was rough
going — but for dear life one must endure much — to North
Marton, where I struck the road to Taunton and brought
him safe, so far."
"Take me to him, Barnaby, " said my mother. "Take
me to him."
' ' Why, mother, " he said, kindly, ' ' I know not if 'tis wise.
For, look you, if they catch us, me they will hang or shoot,
though dad they may let go for he is sped already ; and for
a tender heart like thine 'twould be a piteous sight to see thy
son hanging from a branch with a tight rope round his neck
and thy husband dead on a hand-cart."
" Barnaby, take me to him — take me to him."
"O! Is it true.? Is it true.? O Captain Barnaby, is it
really true.? Then why are the bells a-ringing?"
Clash ! clash ! clash ! The bells rang out louder and
louder. One would have thought the whole town was re-
joicing. Yet there were a thousand lads marched out of
Taunton town, and I know not how many ever came home
again.
' ' They are ringing, " said Barnaby, ' ' because King Mon-
mouth's army is scattered and the rebellion is all over.
Well, we have had our chance and we are dished. Now
rOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. l6l
must we sing small again. Madam," he said, earnestly,
addressing- Susan, "if I remember right they were your
hands that carried the naked sword and the Bible."
"They were my hands."
"And they were your scholars who worked the flags and
gave them to the duke that day when you walked in a pro-
cession .'' "
"They were my scholars," she said, proudly.
" Then, madam, seeing that we have, if all reports be
true, a damned unforgiving kind of king, my advice to you
is to follow my example, and run. Hoist ail sail, madam,
and fly to some port — any port. Fly false colors. When
hanging, flogging, branding, and the like amusements set
in, I think they will remember the maids of Taunton.
That is my advice, madam."
"Sir,' said Susan, bravely, though her cheek grew pale
when he spoke of floggings and brandings, "I thank you.
Whither should I fly } Needs must I stay here and beai
whatever affliction the Lord may lay upon me ; and since
our Protestant hero is defeated, methinks it matters little
what becomes of any of us."
" Why," Barnaby shook his head, " King Monmouth is
defeated, that is most true ; but we who survive have got
ourselves to look after. Sister, get a basket and put into it
provisions."
" What will you have, Barnaby ? "
" Everything that you can carry. Cold bacon for choice ,•
and bread, and a bottle of brandy if you have any, and all
you can lay hands upon. With your good leave, madam."
• " Oh, sir, take all, take all. I would to God that every-
thing I have in the world could be used for the succor of
these my friends." And M'ith that she began to weep and
to cry.
I filled a great basket with all that there was in the house,
and he took it upon his arm. And then we came away
with many tears and fond farewells from this kind soul who
had done so much for the cause, and was now about to pay
so neavy a penalty for her zeal.
Outside, in the street, the people recognized him for one
of Monmouth's captains, and pressed round him and asked
him a thousand cjuestions ; but he answered shortly.
"We were drubbed, I tell you. King Monmouth hath
run away. We have all run away. How should I know
,how many are killed.'' Every man who doth not wish to
be hanged had best run away and hide. The j^ame is up,
1 62 FOR FAITH A XD FREEDOM.
friend, we are sped. What more can I say ? How do 1
know, in the devil's name, whose fault it w^s ? How can
I tell, madam, if your son is safe ? If he is safe make him
creep into a hiding-place. " And so on, to a hundred who
crowded after him and questioned him as to the nature and
meaning of the defeat. Seeing that no more news could be
got from him, the people left off following us, and we got
out of the town on the east side where the road leads tu
Ilminster, but it is a bad road and little frequented.
Here Barnaby looked about him carefully, to make sure
that no one was observing us ; and then, finding that no one
was within sight, he turned to the right down a grassy lane
between hedges.
" 'Tis this way that I brought him,'' he said. " Poor old
man ! He can now move neither hand nor foot, and his
legs will no more be any use to him. Yet he seemed in no
pain, though the jolting of the cart must have shaken him
more than a bit."
The lane led into a field, and that field into another and
a smaller one, with a plantation of larches on two sides and
a brook shaded with alders on a third side. In one corner
was a linney with a thatched roof supported on wooden
pillars in front, and closed in at back and sides. It w-as
such a meadow as is used for the pasture of cattle and the
keeping of a bull.
At the entrance of this meadow Barnaby stopped and
looked about him with approbation.
" Here,'' he said, slowly, " is a hiding-place fit for King
Monmouth himself. A road unfrequented; the rustics all
gone off to the wars, though now, I doubt not, having had
their belly full of fighting. I sup]5ose there were once
cattle in the meadow, but they are either driven away by
the clubmen for safety, or they have been stolen by the
gypsies. No troopers will this day come })rying along this
road ; or, if they do search the wood, which is unlikely,
they will not look in the linney ; here can we be snug until
we make up our minds what course is best."
" Barnaby," I said, " take us to my father without more
speech."
" I have laid him," he went on, " upon the bare ground
in the linney, but it is soft and dry lying, and the air is
warm, though last night it rained and w^s cold. He looks
happy, mother, and I doubt if ho hath any feeling left in
his limbs. Once I saw a man shot in the backbone and
never moved afterwards, but he lived for a bit. Here he is. "
I'^OR FAI'fll AjVD freedom 1(^)3
Alas ! lying motion less on his back, his head bare, his
white hair lying over his face, his eyes closed, his cheek
white, and no sign of life hi him except that his breast
gently heaved, was my father. Then certain words which
'ae uttered came back to my memory. " What matters the
end,'' he said, "if I have freedom of speech for a single day? "
]My mother threw herself on her knees beside him and
raised his head.
"Ah ! my heart," she cried, "my dear heart, my husband,
have they killed thee .? Speak, my clear ; speak if thou canst !
Art thou in pain .? Can we do aught to relieve thee .'' Oh !
is this the end of all .? "
But my father made no reply. He opened his eyes, but
they did not move ; he looked straight before him, but he
saw nothing. Then he murmured, in a low voice, " Lord,
now let thy servant depart in peace. So let all thine enemies
perish, Lord."
And this, until the end, was the burden of all ; he spoke
no word to show that he knew any one, or that he was in
pain, or that he desired anything. He neither ate nor drank,
yet for many weeks longer he continued to live.
CHAPTER XXni.
OUR FLIGHT.
Thus we began our miserable flight. Thus, in silence, we
sat in the shade of the linncy all the morning. Outside, the
blackbird warbled in the wood, and the lark sang in the sky.
But we sat in silence, not daring so much as to ask each
other if those things were real, or if we were dreaming a
dreadful dream. Still and motionless lay my father's body
as if the body of a dead man. He felt no pain, of that I am
assured. It makes me sick even to think that he might
have suffered pain from his wound. He had no sense at all
of what Wcis going on, yet once or twice during the long
trance or paralysis in which he had fallen he opened his lips
and spoke after his old manner in the words of the Bible, but
in a disjointed manner, as one who is in a dream or delirium.
And he breathed gently, so that he was not dead. Barnaby,
for his part, threw himself upon his face, and laying his head
164 i'OK FAITH AXD J-KEEDOM.
Upon his arm fell asleep instantly. The place was ver}
quiet ; at the end of the meadow was a brook and there was
a wood upon the other side ; we could hear the prattling of
the water over the pebbles ; outside the linney a great elm-
tree stretched out its branches ; presently I saw a squirrel
sitting upon one and peering curiously at us, not at all afraid,
so still and motionless w^e were. I remember that I envied
the squirrel. He took no thought even for his daily bread.
And the hedge sparrows, no more afraid than if the linney
was empty, hopped into the place and began picking about
among the straw. And so the hours slowly passed away,
and by degrees I began to understand a little better what
had happened to us ; for at the first shock one could not per-
ceive the extent of the disaster, and we were as in a dream
when we followed Barnaby out of the town. The great and
splendid army was destroyed ; that gallant hero, the duke,
was in flight ; those of the soldiers who were not killed or
taken prisoners were running hither and thither trying to es-
cape ; my father was wounded — stricken to death as it
seemed, and deprived of power to move, to feel, or to think.
While I considered this, I suddenly remembered how he had
turned his eyes from gazing into the sky, and asked me what
it mattered even if the end would be death to him and ruin
unto all of us .'' And I do firmly believe that at that moment
he had an actual vision of the end, and really saw before his
eyes the very things that were to come to pass, and that he
knew all along what the end would be. Yet he had deliv-
ered his soul — why, then, he had obtained his prayer — and
by daily exhortation had, doubtless, done much to keep up
the spirit of those in the army who wxre sober and godly
men. Did he also, like Sir Christopher, have another vision
which should console and encourage him } Did he see the
time to follow when a greater than the duke should come
and bring with him the deliverance of the country } There
are certain gracious words with which that vision closes
which he loved to read and to expound — the vision, I mean,
of the basket of summer fruit Did those words ring in his
mind and comfort him even in the prospect of his own end .''
Then my thoughts, which were swift and yet beyond his
control, left him and considered the case of Barnaby. He
had been a captain in the Green Regiment ; he would be
hanged for certain if he were caught. ]\Iy sweetheart, my
Robin, had also been a captain in the duke's army. All the
duke's officers would be hanged if they were caught. But
perhaps Robin was already dead — dead on the battle-field — •
FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 1 65
hi* face white, his hands stiff, blood upon him somewhere,
and a cruel wound upon his dear body. Oh, Robin ! Yet
I shed no tears. Humphrey, too, who had been one of the
duke's chirurgeons, he would also be surely hanged if he
were caught. Why, since all would be hanged, why not
hang mother and me as well, and so an end .?
About noon Barnaby began to stir ; then he grunted and
went to sleep again ; presently he moved once more ; then
he rolled over on his broad back and went to sleep again.
It was not until the sun was quite low that he awoke, sit-
ting up suddenly, and looking about him with quick sus-
picion, as one who hath been sleeping in the country of an
enemy or where wild beasts are found.
Then he sprang to his feet and shook himself like a do^.
"Sister," he said, "thou shouldst have awakened me
earlier. I have slept all day. Well, we are safe so far."
Here he looked cautiously out of the linney towards the
wood and the road.
"So far, I say, we are safe. I take it we had best not
wait until to-morrow, but budge to-night. For not only
will the troopers scour the country, but they will offer re-
wards, and the gypsies, aye, and even the country folks,
will hasten to give information out of their greedy hearts.
We must budge this very night. "
"Whither shall we go, Barnaby?"
He went on as if he had not heard my question.
"We shall certainly be safe for to-night, but for to-mor-
row, I doubt. Best not run the chance, for to-day their
hands are full ; they will be hanging the prisoners. Some
they will hang first, and try afterwards ; some they will try
first and hang afterwards. What odds if they are to be
hanged in the end } The cider orchards never had such
fruit as they will show this autumn if the king prove re-
vengeful, as to judge by his sour face he will be." Here he
cursed the king, his sour face, his works and ways, his
past, his present, and his future in round language which I
hope his wounded father did not hear.
" We must lie snug for a month or two somewhere until
the unlucky Monmouth men will be suffered to return home
in peace. Ay, 'twill be a month and more, I take it, be-
fore the country will be left quiet. A month and more.
And dad not able to crawl."
" Where shall we be snug, Barnaby .? "
"That, sister, is what I am trying to find out — how to lie
snug^ with a couple of women and a wounded man wUq
1 66 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
cannot move. 'Twas madness of the poor old dad to bring
thee to the camp, child. For now we cannot — any of us — -
part company, and if we stay together "twill maybe bring
our necks to the halter."
"Leave us, Barnaby," I said. "Oh, leave us to do
what we can for the poor sufferer, and save thyself"
" Ta, ta, ta, sister — knowest not what thou sayest. Let
me consider. There may be some way of safety. As for
provisions, now, we have the basket full, enough for two
days, say. What the plague did dad, the poor old man,
want with women when fighting was on hand.'' When the
fighting is done, I grant you, Avomen with the tobacco and
punch are much in place. There are some pretty songs,
now, that I have heard about women and drink."
" Barnaby, is this a time to be talking of such things as
drink and singing ! "
"All times are good. Nevertheless, all company is not
fitting, wherefore, sister, I say no more."
"Barnaby, knowest thou aught of Robin? or of Hum-
phrey .-* "
"I know nothing. They may be dead; they may be
wounded and prisoners ; much I fear, knowing the spirit of
the lads, that both are killed. Nay, I saw Humphrey before
the fight, and he spoke to me."
" What did Humphrey say .?"
"I asked why he hung his head and looked so glum,
seeing that we were at last going forth to meet the king's
army. This I said because I knew Humphrey to be a lad
of mettle, though his arm is thin and his body is crooked.
'I go heavy, Barnaby,' said he, speaking low lest others
should hear, ' because I see plainly that unless some signal
success come to us, this our business will end badly.' Then
he began to talk about the thousands who were to have
been raised all over the country ; how he himself had brought
to the duke promises of support gathered all the way from
London to Bradford Orcas ; and how his friends in Holland
were promised both men and arms, but none of these prom-
ises had been kept ; how dad had brought promises of sup-
port from all the Nonconformists of the west, but hard-
ly any save at Taunton had come forward ; and how the
army was melting away, and no more recruits coming in.
And then he said that he had been the means of bringing so
many to the duke, that if they died their death would lie
upon his conscience. And he spoke lovingly of Robin and
of thee, sister. And so we parted and I saw him no more
FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 1 67
As for what he said about success, I minded it not a straw.
Many a croaker turns out in the long- run to be brave in the
tight. Doubtless he is dead ; and Robin, too. Both are
dead I take it, sister ; thou hast lost thy sweetheart Cry a
little, my dear," he added, kindly. "It will ease the pain
at thy heart. 'Tis natural for a woman to cry."
" I cannot cry, Barnaby. I wish I could — the tears rise
•lo my eyes, but my throat is dry."
"Try a prayer or two, sister. 'Twas wont to comfort the
heart of my mother when she was in trouble."
" A prayer, brother } I have done nothing but pray since
this unfortunate rebellion began. A prayer } Oh, I cannot
pray. If I vi^ere to pray now it would be as if my words
were echoed back from a wall of solid rock. We were
praying all yesterday — we made the Sabbath into a day of
prayer without ceasing, and the morning, when you opened
the door, we were praising and thanking God for the mercy
of the great victory bestowed upon us. And at that time
the poor brave men — "
"Ay ! They were brave enough to the end," said
Barnaby.
" The poor brave men lying cold and dead upon the field
(among them, maybe, Robin), and the prisoners huddled
together somewhere, and men hanging already upon the
gibbets. We were praising God, and my father lying on
the ground stricken to death, and thou a fugitive, and all of
us ruined. Prayer } How could I pray from such a pit of
woe .? "
" Child " — my mother lifted her pale face — " in the darkest
hour pray without ceasing. Even if there happen a darkei
hour than this, in everything by prayer and supplication
with thanksgiving let your requests be made known — with
thanksgiving, my daughter."
Alas ! I could not obey the apostolic order. 'Twas too
much for me. So we fell into silence. When the sun had
quite gone down, Barnaby went forth cautiously. Presently
he came back.
"There is no one on the road," he said ; " we may now
go on our way. The air of Taunton is dangerous to us. It
breeds swift and fatal diseases. I have now resolved what
to do. I will lift my father upon the cart again and put in
the pony. Four or five miles sou'west or thereabouts is
Black Down, which is a No Man's Land. Thither will we
go and hide in the combs, where no one ever comes except
the (jypsies, "
l58 FOR FAITN AND FREEDOM.
"How shall we live, Barnaby? "
"That," he said, "we shall find out when we come to
look about us. There is provision for two days. The nights
are warm ; we shall find cover or make it with branches.
There is water in the brooks, and dry wood to burn. There
we may, perhaps, be safe. When the country is quiet we
will make our way across the hills to Bradford Orcas, where
no one will molest you, and I can go off to Bristol or Lyme,
or wherever there are ships to be found. When sailors are
shipwrecked, sister, they do not begin by asking what they
shall do on dry land ; they ask only to feel the stones be-
neath their feet. We must think of nothing now but of a
place of safety. "
" Barnaby, are the open hills a proper placefor a wounded
man 1 "
"Why, child, for a choice between the hills and what else
may happen if we stay here, give me the hills, even for a-
wounded man. But, indeed,"' he whispered, so that my
mother should not hear him, "he will die. Death is written
on his face. I know not how long he will live, but he
must die. Never did any man recover from such evil
plight"
He harnessed the pony to the cart, which was little more
than a couple of planks laid side by side, just as he had
brought him from Taunton. My mother made a kind of
pillow for him with grass tied up in her kerchief, and so we
hoped that he would not feel the jogging of the cart.
"The stream," said Barnaby, "comes down from the
hills. Let us follow its course, but upward."
It was a broad stream with a shallow bed, for the most
part flat and pebbly, and on either side of the stream lay a
strip of soft turf broad enough for the cart to run upon, so
that as long as that lasted we had very easy going ; my
mother and I walking one on each side so as to steady the
pillow, and keep the poor head upon it from pain. But
whether we went easy or whether we went rough, that head
made no sign of feeling aught, and lay, just as in the linney,
33 if dead. Once it had spoken ; now it was silent again.
I cannot tell how long we went on beside that stream.
'Twas in a wild, uncultivated country ; the ground ascended ;
the stream became narrower and swifter ; presently the
friendly strip of turf failed altogether, and then we had trouble
to keep the cart from upsetting. I went to the pony's head,
and Barnaby, going behind the cart, lifted it over the rough
places and sometimes carried his end of it. The ni^ht wa#
yok FAITH AXD J'A'EEDOAr. l6^
chilly, my feet were wet with splashing in the brook, and
I was growing faint with hunger when Barnaby called a halt
" We are now," he said, "at the head of the stream. In
half an hour or thereabouts it will be break of day. Let us
rest. Mother, you must eat something. Come, sister, 'tis
late for supper and full early for breakfast Take some meat
anil bread and half a cup of cider."
1 1 is all I remember of that night
CHAPTER XXIV.
THE CAMP IN THE COMB.
Our camping-place, when I awoke in the morning, I found
to be near the head of a most beautiful comb or valley
among the Black Down Hills. I knew it not at the time,
but it was not far from that old Roman castle which we had
peissed on our way to Taunton, called Castle Ratch. The
hills rose steep on either hand, their slopes hidden by trees.
At o«r feet the brook took its rise in a green quagmire.
The birds were singing, and the sun was already high and
the air was warm, though there was a fresh breeze blowing.
The warmth and sweetness filled my soul when I awoke,
and I sat up with joy, until, suddenly, I remembered why we
were here, and who were here with me. Then my heart
sank like a lump of lead in water. I looked around. My
father lay just as he had been lying all the day before, motion-
less, white of cheek, and as one dead, save for the slight
motion of his chest and the twitching of his nostril. As I
looked at him in the clear morning light it was borne in up-
on me very strongly that he was indeed dead, inasmuch as
his soul seemed to have fled ; he saw nothing, he felt noth-
ing ; if the flies crawled over his eyelids he made no sign of
disturbance ; yet he breathed, and from time to time he spoke
but as one that dreameth. Beside him lay my mother sleep-
ing, worn out by the fatigues of the night Barnaby had
laid his coat to cover her so that she should not take cold, and
he had piled a little heap of dead leaves to make her a pillow.
He was lying at her feet, head on arm, sleeping heavily
What should be douc, I wondered, when next he woke ?
170
i^OR FAITH AXD FREEDOM.
First I went down the comb u little way till the stream
was deep enough, and there I bathed my feet, which were
swollen and bruised by the long walk up the comb. In the
midst of this misery I can remember the pleasure of dabbling
my feet in the cool water, and afterwards of walking about
barefoot in the grass. (I disturbed an adder which was
sleeping on a flat stone in the sun, and it lifted its venomous
head and hissed, but did not spring upon me.) Then I wash-
ed my face and hands and made my hair as smooth as with-
out a comb it was possible. When I had done this I re-
membered that perhaps my father might be thirsty, or at
least able to drink, because he seemed no more to feel hunger
or thirst. So I filled the tin pannikin (it M^as Barnaby's) with
water, and tried to pour a little into his mouth. He seemed
to swallow it and I gave him a little more, until he would
swallow no more. (Observe that he took no other nourish-
ment than wine or milk or a few drops of broth until the
end. ) So I covered his face with a handkerchief to keep off
the flies, and left him. Then I looked into the basket. All
that there was in it would not be more than enough for
Barnaby's breakfast, unless his appetite should fail him for
fear of being captured. There was in it a piece of bacon, a
large loaf of bread, a lump of cheese, and half a bottle of
cider — nothing more. When these provisions were done,
what next .'' Could we venture into the nearest village and
buy food ? Or to the first farmhouse 1 Then we might fall
straight into the jaws of the enemy, who were probably
running over the whole country in search of the fugitives.
Could we buy without money } Could we buy without
arousing suspicions .? If the people were well inclined to the
Protestant cause we might trust them. But how could we
tell that .'' So in my mind I turned over everything except the
one thing which might have proved our salvation, and that
you shall hear directly. Also, which was a very strange
thing, I quite forgot that I had tied by a string round my
waist and well concealed Barnaby's bag of gold — two hun-
dred and fifty pieces. There was money enough and to spare.
I discovered next that our pony had run away in the night.
The cart was there, but no pony to drag it. Well ; it was
not much, but it seemed an additional burden to bear. I
ventured a little way up the valley, following a sheep track
which mounted higher and higher. I saw no sign anywhere
of man's presence ; it is marked in woods by circles of burnl
cinders, by trees felled, by bundles of broom or fern tied up ;
or by shepherds' huts 1 Here there was nothing at all ; you
FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. \']\
would have said that the place had never been visited by man.
Presently I came to a place where the woods ceased, the
last of the trees being much stunted and blown over from the
west; and then the top of the hill began, not a. sharp peak
or point, but a great open plain swelling out here and flat
there, with many of the little hillocks which people say are
ancient tombs. And no trees at all, but only bare turf, so
that one could see a great way off. But there was no sign
of man anywhere ; no smoke in the comb at my feet ; no
shepherd on the hill. At this juncture of our fortunes any
stranger might be rai enemy. Therefore I returned so far
well pleased.
Barnaby was now awake, and was inspecting the basket
of provisions.
"Sister," he said, "we must go upon half rations for
breakfast, but I hope, unless my skill fails, to bring you
something better for supper. The bread you shall have and
mother. The bacon may keep till to-morrow. The cider
you had better keep against such times as you feel worn
out and want a cordial, though a glass of Nantz were better,
if Nantz grew in the woods." He looked around as if to
see whether a miracle would not provide him with a flask
of strong drink, but seeing none, shook his head.
"As for me," he went on, " 1 am a sailor and 1 under-
stand how to forage. Therefore, yesterday morning 1 took
the liberty of dropping the shank of the ham into my i)ocket.
Now you shall see."
He produced this delicate morsel, and sitting down be-
gan to gnaw and to bite into the bone with his strong teeth,
exactly like a dog. This he continued with every sign of
satisfaction for a quarter of an hour or so, when he desisteil
and replaced the bone in his pocket.
"We throw away the bones," he said. " The dogs gnaw
them and devourthem. Think youthatit is for their amuse-
ment .-* Notso ; but forthejuices and the nourishment thatare
in and around the bone ; for the marrow and for the meat
that still will stick in odd corners." He went down to the
stream with the pannikin and drank a cup or two of water
to finish what they call a horses meal, namely the foodtirst
and the water afterwards.
"And now," he said, " I have breakfasted. Itis true that
I am still hungry, but 1 have eaten enough to carry me on
a while. Many a poor lad cast away on a desert shore
would find the shank of a ham a meal tit for a king — ay —
and » meal or two after that 1 shall make a dinner pro«-
172 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
ently off this bone. And I shall still keep it against a time
when there may be no provision left."
"And now," he said, looking around him, "let us con-
sider. The troopers, I take it, are riding along the roads.
Whether they will ride over these hills I know not, but 1
think they will not, because their horses cannot well ride up
these combs. Certainly, if they do, it will not be by the
way we came. We are here, therefore, hidden away snug.
Why should we budge? Nowhere is there a more deserted
part of the country than Slack Down, on whose side we are.
And I do not think, further, that we should find anywhere
a safer place to hide ourselves in than this comb, where, I
dare to say, no one comes unless it be the gypsies or the
broomsquires all the year round. And now they are all
laden with the spoil of the army ; for after a battle this gen-
try swoop down upon the field like the great birds which I
have seen in India upon the carcasses of drowned beasts,
and plunder the dead. Next they must go into towns in or-
der to sell their booty ; then they will be fain to drink about
till all is spent; so they will leave us undisturbed. There-
fore, we will stay here, sister. First I will go try the old
tricks by which I did often in the old^n time improve the
fare at home. Next I will devise some way of making a
more comfortable resting-place. Thank the Lord for fine
weather so fax."
He was gone a couple of hours. During that time my
mother awoke. Her mind was broken by the suddenness
of this trouble, and she cared no more to speak, sitting still
by the side of husband and watching for any change in him.
But I persuaded her to take a little bread and a cup of cider.
When Barnaby came back he brought with him a black-
bird, a thrush, and two wood-pigeons. He had not for-
gotten the tricks of his boyhood, when he would often bring
home a rabbit, a hare, or trout, which he caught with a pin
or with his hand, tickling them. So that my chief terror.
that we might be forced to abandon our hiding-place through
sheer hunger, was removed. But Barnaby was full of all
kinds of devices.
He then set to work with his great knife, cutting down a
quantity of green branches, which he laid out side by side
with their leaves on, and then bound them together, clever-
ly interlacing the smaller shoots and branches with each
other, so that he made a long kind of hurdle about six feet
high. This, which by reason of the leaves was :;■ ■ ust im-
pervious to the wind, he disposed round the truui^a of three
POk FAITH AND FREEDOM. \ ^^
young trees growing near each other. Thus he made a small
three-cornered inclosure. Again, he cut other and thicker
branches, and laid them over and across this hurdle, and
cut turf, which he placed upon the branches, so that here
was now a hut with a roof and walls complete. Said I not
that Barnaby was full of devices }
"There, " he said, when all was ready, " is a house for
you. It will have to rain hard and long before the water
begins to drop through the branches which make the roof
and the slabs of turf. Well, 'tis a shelter. Not so comfort-
able as the old cottage, perhaps, but nearly as commodious.
If it is not a palace, it will serve us to keep off the sun by
day and the dew by night'
Next he gathered a great quantity of dry fern, dead leaves,
and heather ; and these he disposed within the hut so that
they made a thick and warm carpet or covering. Nay, at
night they even formed a covering for the feet, and prevented
one from feeling cold. When all was done, he lifted my
father gently, and laid him with great tenderness upon the
carpet within the rude shelter.
"This shall be a warmer night for thee than the last,
dad, "he said. " There shall be no jolting of thy poor bones.
What, mother 1 We can live here till the cold weather
comes. The wind will perhaps blow a bit through the leaves
to-night, but not much, and to-morrow I will see to that
Be easy in your mind about the provisions" — alas I my
poor mother was thinking of anything in the world except
the provisions — " there are rabbits and birds in plenty, we
can eat them ; bread we must do without when what we
have is gone ; and as for strong drink and tobacco" — he
siglied heavily — " they will come again when better times
are served out."
In these labors I helped as much as I was able, and par-
ticularly in twisting the branches together, and thus the
whole day passed, not tediously, and without any alarms,
the labor being cheered by the hopefulness of Barnaby's
honest face. No one, to look at that face, could believe
that he was flying for his life, and would be hanged if he
were caught After sunset we lit a fire, but a small one
only, and well hidden by the woods, so that its light might
not be seen from below. Then Barnaby dexterously
plucked and trussed the birds, and roasted them in the
embers, so that, had my heart been at rest, I should have
had a most delicious supper. And I confess that I did be-
gin to pluck up a httle courage, and to hope that we might
174 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
yet escape, and that Robin might be living. After suppe!
my motliier prayed, and I could join with more of resigna-
tion and something of faith. Alas ! in times of trial, how
easily doth the Christian fall from faith ! The day before
prayer seemed to me a mockery ; it was as if all prayer were
addrcosed to a deaf God, or to one who will not hear ;
for our prayers had all been for safety and victory, and we
were suddenly answered with disaster and defeat.
After supper Barnaby sat beside the embers and began to
talk in a low voice.
"'Twill be ..^ sorrowful barley-mow song this year," he
said; "a dozen brave lads from Bradford alone will be
dead. "
"Not all dead, Barnaby. Oh, not all ! "
"I know not. Some are prisoners, some are dead, some
are running away." Then he began to sinrg, in a low
voice,
'"Here's health to the barley-mow I'
"I remember, sister, when I would run a mile to hear that
song, though my father flogged me for it in the morning.
'Tis the best song ever written." He went on singing in a
kind of whisper,
" 'We'll drink it out of the nipperkin, boys.'
" Robin was a famous hand at singing it, but Humphrey
found the words too rustical. Humphrey was ever for fine
words, like Mr. Boscorel.
" 'We'll drink it out of the jolly brown bowl.'
" I think I see him now — poor Robin ! Well, he is no more.
He used to laugh in all our faces while he sang it
" ' We'll drink it out o' tlie river, my boys ;
Here's a health to tlie barley-mow !
The river, tlie well, tlie pipe, the hogshead, the half-hogshead, the
anker, the half-anker, the gallon, the pottle, the quart, the pint,
the half-pint, ihe quarter-pint, tlie nipperkin, the jolly brown
bowl, my boys.
Here's a health to the barley-mow !' "
He trolled out the song in a melodious whisper. Oh,
Barnaby, how didst thou love good companionship, with
singing and drinking !
" 'Twill be lonely for thee, sister, at Bradford, when thou
dost return. Sir Christopher, I take it. will not long hold up
POR PAITir AND FREEDOM.
175
his head, and madam will pine away for the loss of Robin,
and mother looks as if she would follow after, so white and
wan is she to look at. If she would speak or complain or
cry it would comfort her, poor soul ! 'Twas a sad day for
her when she married the poor old dad. Poverty and hard
work, and now a cruel end to her marriag^e — poor mother I "
" Barnaby, you tear my heart."
" Nay, child, 'tis better to talk than to keep silence.
Better have your heart torn than be choked with your pain.
Thou art like unto a man who hath a wounded leg-, ana ii
he doth not consent to have it cut off, though the anguish be
sharp, he will presently bleed to death. Say to thyself,
therefore, plain and clear, ' Robin is dead ; I have lost my
sweetheart. ' "
" No 1 no ! Barnaby. I cannot say those cruel words.
Oh, I cannot say them. I cannot feel that Robin is truly
dead."
" Put the case that he is living. Then he is either a
prisoner or he is in hiding. If a prisoner, he is as good as
dead, because the duke's officers and the gentlemen who
joined him they will never forgive, that is quite certain. If
I were a prisoner I should feel my neck already tightened.
If he is not a prisoner, where is he to hide .-' whither betake
himself ? I can get sailors' duds, and go abroad before the
mast, and ten to one nobody will find me out ; because,
d'ye see, I can talk the sailors' language, and I know their
manners and customs. But Robin — what is Robin to do }
Best say to thyself, 'I have lost my sweetheart.' So wilt
thou all the sooner recover thy cheerfulness."
" Barnaby, you know not what you say. Alas ! if my
Robin is dead, if my boy is truly dead, then I ask for noth-
ing more than swift death, speedy death, to join him and
be with him."
"If he escape, he will make for Bradford Orcas, and
hide in the Gorton woods. That is quite certain. They
always make for home. I would that we were in that friendly
place, so that you could go live in the cottage, and bring
provisions, with tobacco, to us, unsuspected and unseen.
When we have rested here awhile we will push across the
hills, and try to get along by night ; but it is a weary way
to drag that wounded man. However — " he broke off, and
said, earnestly, "Make up thy mind,' child, to the worst.
"Tis as if a shipwrecked man should hope that enough ot
the ship would float to carry him home withal. Make up
thy mind. We are all ruined and lost — all — all — all. Thy
1 ^6 FOR FAITH AND FKEFDOAf.
father is dying ; thy lover is dead ; thou art thyself in grea\
danger by reason or that affair at Taunton. Everything be»
ing gone, turn round, therefore, and make thy self as com-
fortable as possible. What will happen we know not.
Therefore count every day of safety for gain, and every
meal for a respite."
He was silent for a while, leaving me to think over what
he had said. Here, indeed, was a philosopher. Things being
all lost, and our affairs in a desperate condition, we were to
turn round and make ourselves as comfortable as we could.
This, I suppose, is what sailors are wont to do ; certainly
they are a folk more exposed to misfortune than others, and
therefore, perhaps, more ready to make the best of what-
ever happens.
" Barnaby," I said, presently, "how can I turn roun<f
and make myself comfortable ?"
" The evening is still," he said, without replying. " See,
there is a bat, and there another. If it were not for the
trouble in there " — he pointed to the hut — " I should be easy
in my mind and contented. I could willingly live here a
twelvemonth. Why, compared with the lot of the poor
devils who must now be in prison, what is ours .-' They get
the foul and stinking drink, with bad food, in the midst of
wounded men whose hurts are putrefying, with jail fever,
and with the whipping-post or the gallows to come. We
breathe sweet air ; we find sufficient food. To-morrow, if
I know any of the signs, thou shalt taste a roasted hedge-
hog, dish fit for a king. I found at the bottom of the comb
a pot left by some gypsies. Thou shalt have boiled sorrel
and mushrooms to thy supper. If we stay here long enough
there will be nuts and blackberries and whortleberries.
Pity, a thousand pities, there is not a drop of drink. I dream
of punch and hipsy. Think upon what remains, even if
thou canst not bear to think of what is lost. Hast ever seen
a tall ship founder in the waves ? They close over her as
she sinks, and in an instant it is as if that tall ship, with all
her crew, had never been in existence at all. The army of
Monmouth is scattered and ruined. Well, it is with us,
midst these woods, just as if there had been no army. It
has been a dream, perhaps. Who can tell ? sometimes all
the past seems to me to have been a dream. And the future
is a dream. But the present we have. Let us be conten/
therewith."
He spoke slowly, and with measured accents, as one ea
chanted
FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. \ 7 7
"It is ten years and more since last I breathed the air ot
the hills. I knew not that I loved so much the woods and
valleys and the streams. Some day, if I survive this adven-
ture, I will build me a hut and live here, alone in the woods.
Why, if I were alone, I should have an easy heart If I
were driven out of one place I could find another. I am in
no hurry to get down among- men and towns. Let us all
stay here and be happy. But there is dad — who lives not,
yet is not dead. Sister, be thankful for thy safety in the
woods, and think not too much upon the dead."
We lived in this manner, the weather being for the most
part fine and warm, but with showers now and then, for a
fortnight or thereabouts, no one coming up the comb and
there being still no sign of man's presence in the hills. Our
daily fare consisted of the wild birds snared by Bamaby,
such creatures as rabbits, hedgehogs, and the like, which he
caught by ingenious ways, and trout from the brook, which
he caught with a twisted pin very dexterously ; there were
also mushrooms and edible leaves, such as the nettle, wild
sorrel, and the like, of which he knew ; these we boiled and
ate. He also plucked the half-ripe blackberries and boiled
them to make a sour drink that would grip his throat, be-
cause he could not endure plain cold water. And he made
out of the bones of the birds a kind of thin broth for my
father, of which he daily swallowed a teaspoonful or so.
So that we fared well, if not sumptuously. The bread, to
be sure, which Barnaby left for mother and me, was com-
ing to the last crust, and I know not how we should have
got more without venturing into the nearest village.
Now as I talked every night with my brother I found out
what a brave and simple soul it was ; always cheerful and
hopeful, talking always as if we were the most fortunate
people in the world, instead of the most miserable, and yet,
by keeping the truth before me, preventing me from getting
into another fool's paradise as to our safety and Robin's
escape, such as that into which I had fallen after the army
marched out of Taunton. I understand now that he was
always thinking how to smooth and soften things for me, so
that I might not go distracted with anxiety and grief, finding
work for me, talking to me about other things — in short, the
most thoughtful and affectionate brother in all the world.
As for my mother, he could do nothing to move her. She
still sat beside her wounded husband, watching all day long-
for any sign of consciousness or change.
Seeing that Bamaby was so good and gentle a creature, I
1 78 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
could not understand how it was that in the old time h«
used to get a flogging most days for some offence or other,
so that I had grown up to believe him a very wicked boy
indeed. I put this question to him one night.
He put it aside for a while, replying in his own fashion.
"I remember dad, " he said, "before thou canst, sistei
He was always thin and tall, and he always stooped as he
Wiilked. But his hair, which now is white, was brown and
fell in curls which he could not straighten. He was always
.mighty grave ; no one, I am sure, ever saw him laugh. I
have never seen him so much as smile except sometimes
when he dandled thee upon his knee, and thou wouldst
amuse him with innocent prattle. All his life he hath spent
in finding out the way to heaven. I suppose he hath truly
discovered a way, and a mighty thorny and difficult way it
is, so that I know not how any can succeed in reaching that
port by such navigation. The devil of it is, that he believes
there is no other way ; and he seemed never so happy as
when he had found another trap or pitfall to catch the un-
wary and send them straight to hell
" For my part," Barnaby went on slowly, " 1 could never
love such a life. I>et others, if they will, find out the rough
aitd craggy ways to heaven. For my part, I am content to
go along the plain and smooth high-road with the rest of
mankind, though it lands us at a lower place in heaven.
Well, I dare say I shall find mates, and we will be as comfort-
able as we can. Let my father find out what is coming in the
other world ; let me take what comes in this. Some of it is
sweet and some is bitter, some of it makes us laugh and
sing and dance, and some makes us curse and swear and
bellow out, as when one is lashed to the hatches and the
cat falls on his naked back. Sometimes, sister, I think the
naked negroes of the West Coast the happiest people in the
world. Do they troable their heads about the way to
heaven .? Not they. What comes they take, and they ask
no more. Has it made dad the happier to find out how
few are those who will sit b-^side him in heaven .? Not so,
he would have been happier if he had been a jolly plough-
boy whistling to his team, or a jolly sailor singing over his
pannikin of drink of a Saturday night. He tried to make
me follow in his footsteps ; he Hogged me daily in the hope
of making me take like himself to the trade of proving to
people out of the Holy Bible that they are surely damned.
The more he flogged the less 1 yearned after that trade, till
at last I resolved that, come what would, 1 woul4 riever
l''OR FAIT// AND F/^EE/JO.\/.
179
thump a pulpit like him in conventicle or church. Then, if
you will believe me, sister, I grew tired of flogging-, which
when it comes every day wearies a boy at fourteen or fifteen
more than you would think ; and one day while I was danc-
ing to the pipe and tabor with some of the village girls, as
bad luck would have it, dad came by. " Child of Satan ! ''
he cried, seizing me by the ear. Then to the girls, "Youv
laughter shall be turned into mourning," and so lugged me
home and sent me supperless to bed with the promise of
such a flogging in the morning as should make all previous
floggings seem mere fleabites or joyous ticklings in compar-
ison. This decided me. So, in the dead of night, I crept
softly down the stairs, cut myself a great hunch of bread-
and-cheese, and so ran away and went to sea."
" Barnaby, was it well done — to run away .'' "
"Well, sister, 'tis done, and if it was ill done, 'tis now,
no doubt, forgotten. Now, remember I blame not my
father ; before all things he would save my soul alive. That
was why he flogged me. He knew but one way, and along
that way he would drive me. So he flogged me the harder.
I blame him not. Yet had I remained he would doubtless
be flogging me still. Now, remember again, that ever since
I understood anything I have always been enraged to think
upon the monstrous oppression which silenced him and
brought us all to poverty, and made my mother, a gentle
woman born, work her fingers to the bone, and caused me
to choose between being a beggarly scholar, driven to teach
brats and endure flouts and poverty, or to put on an apron
and learn a trade. Therefore, when I found that Monmouth
was going to hoist his flag, I came with him in order to
strike a blow, and I hoped a good blow too, at the op-
pressors. "
"You have struck that blow, Barnaby; and where arc
we ? "
He laughed.
"We are in hiding. Some of the king's troopers did I
make to bite the dust. They may hang me for it if they
will ; they will not brmg those troopers back to life. Well,
sister, I am sleepy. Good-night."
We might have continued this kmd of life I know not how
much longer, certainly till the cold nights came. The
weather continued fine and warm ; the hut kept off dews at
night ; we lay warm among the heather and the ferns ; Bar-
naby found a sufficiency of food ; my father grew no worse
to outward seeming, and we seemed in safety.
igo i'Ok I-AITJI Ai\D 2-KEEDOM.
Then an ill chance and my own foolishness marred all.
One day in the afternoon, Barnaby being- away looking
after his snares and gins, I heard lower down the comb
voices of boys talking. This affrighted me terribly. The
voices seemed to be drawing nearer. Now, if the children
came up as high as our encampment they could not fail to
s-c the signs of habitation. There was the hut among the
trees and the iron pot standing among the gray embers of
1 ist night's fire. The cart stood on one side. We could not
possibly remain hidden. If they should come up so far and
lind us they would certainly carry the report of us down to
the village.
I considered, therefore, what to do, and then ran quickly
down the comb, keeping among the trees so as not to be
seen.
After a little I discovered a little way off a couple of boys
about nine years of age. They were common village boys,
rosy-faced and wholesome ; they carried a basket and they
were slowly making their way up the stream, stopping now
to throw a stone at a squirrel, and now to dam the running
water, and now looking to tind a nut or lilbert ripe enough
to be eaten. By the basket which they carried 1 knew that
they were come in search of whortleberries, for which pur-
pose they would have to get quite to the end of the comb
and the top of the hill.
Therefore I stepped out of the wood and asked them
whence they came and whither they were going.
They told me in the broadest Somersetshire (the language
which I love and would willingly have written this book in it,
but for the unfortunate people who cannot understand it)
that they were sent by their parents to get whortleberries, and
that they came from the little village of Corfe, two miles
down the valley. This was all they had to say, and they
stared at me as shyly as if they had never before encountered a
stranger. I clearly perceive now that I ought to have en-
gaged them in conversation and drawn them gently down
the valley in the direction of their village until we reached
the first appearance of a road, when I could have bidden
them farewell or sent them up the hill by another comb.
But I was so anxious that they should not come up any
higher that I committed a great mistake and warned them
against going on.
" Boys,' I said, "beware ! If you go higher up the comb
you will certainly meet wild men who always rob and beat
boys " — here they trembled, though they had not a penny in
FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. l8i
the world. "Ay, boys, and sometimes have been known
to murder them. Turn back — turn back — and come no
further. "
The boys were very much frightened, partly at the appari-
tion of a stranger where they expected to find no one, and
partly at the news of wild and murderous men in a place
where they had never met with any one at all, unless it
might have been a gypsy camp. After gazing at me stupidly
for a little while they turned and ran away as fast as their
legs could carry them, down the comb.
I watched them running, and when they were out of sight
I went back again, still disquieted, because they might re-
turn.
When I told Barnaby in the evening, he, too, was uneasy.
For, he said, the boys would spread abroad the report that
that there were people in the valley. What people could
they be but fugitives .-'
"Sister," he said, "to-morrow morning must we change
our quarters. On the other side of the hills looking south oi
to the east in Neroche Forest we may make another camp
and be still more secluded. For to-night I think we are in
safety. "
What happened was exactly as Barnaby thought. For the
lads ran home and told everybody that up in the comb there
were wild men who robbed and murdered people ; that a
lady had come out of the wood and warned them to go no
further lest they should be robbed and murdered. They
were certain it was a lady and not a country woman, nor
was it a witch, nor a fairy or elf, of whom there are many
on Black Down. No, it was a young lady.
This strange circumstance naturally set the villagers a
talking ; they talked about it at the inn whither they nightly
repaired.
In ordinary times they might have talked about it to their
heart's content and no harm done, but in these times talk was
dangerous. In every little village there are one or two
whose wits are sharper than the rest, and therefore they do
instigate whatever mischief is done in that village. At Corfe
the cobbler it was who did the mischief. For he sat thinking
while the others talked, and he presently began to understand
that there was more in this than his fellows imagined. He
knew the hills ; there were no wild men upon them whc
would rob and murder two simple village boys ; gypsief
there were, and broom-squires sometimes, and hedge-tearers,
but murderers of boys, none. And who was the young lady."
1 82 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
Then he guessed the whole truth. There were people lying
hidden in the comb ; if people hidden, they were Mon-
mouths rebels. A reward would be given for their capture.
Fired with this thought, he grasped his cudgel and walked
off to the village of Orchard Portman where, as he had heard,
there was a company of grenadiers sent out to scour the
country. He laid his information and received the promise
of reward. He got that reward in short, but nothing pros-
pered with him afterwards. His neighbors, who were all
for Monmouth, learned what he had done and shunned him ;
he grew moody, he fell into poverty, who had been a thriv-
ing tradesmen, and he died in a ditch. The judgments of
the Lord are sometimes swift and sometimes slow, yet they
are always sure. Who can forget the dreadful end of Tom
Boilman, as he was called, the only wretch who could be
found to cut up the limbs of the hanged men and dip them
in the caldrons of pitch.? For he was struck dead by light-
ning — an awful instance of the wrath of God.
Early next morning, about five of the clock, I sat before
the hut in the shade. Barnaby was up and had gone to look
at his snares. Suddenly I heard steps below, and the sound
as of weapons clashing against each other. Then a man
came into sight — a fellow he was with a leathern apron,
who stood gazing about him. There was no time for me to
hide, because he immediately saw me arid shouted to them
behind him to come on quickly. Then a dozen soldiers, all
armed, ran out of the wood and made for the hut.
" Gentlemen," I cried, running to meet them. "Whom
seek you .'' "
"Who are you } " asked one who seemed to be a sergeant
over them. " Why are you hiding ? "
Then a thought struck me. I know not if I were wise or
foolish.
" Sir," I replied. " My father it is true was with the Duke
of Monmouth, but he was wounded and now lies dead in
this hut. You will suffer us to bury our dead in peace."
' ' Dead, is he } That will we soon see. "
So saying, he entered the hut and looked at the prostrate
form. He lifted one hand and let it drop. It fell like the
hand of one who is recently dead. He bent over the body
And laid his hand upon the forehead. It was cold as death.
The lips were pale as wax and the cheeks were white. He
opened an eye ; there was no expression or light in it.
" Humph ! " he said, -'He §eems dead, How did he
come here ? "
FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 183
''My mother and I drove him here for safety in yonder
cart. The pony hath run away. "
"That may be so. That may be so. He is dressed in a
cassock. What is his name.? "
" He was Dr. Comfort Eykin, an ejected minister and
preacher in the duke's army."
"A prize if he had been alive." Then a sudden suspicion
seized him. He had in his hand a drawn sword. He pointed
it at the breast of the dead man. " If he be truly dead," he
said, "another wound will do him no harm. Wherefore"
— he made as if he would drive the sword through my father's
breast, and my mother shrieked and threw herself across the
body.
"So," he said, with a horrid grin, " I find that he is not
dead, but only wounded. IMy lads, here is one of Mon-
mouth's preachers. But he is sore wounded."
" Oh ! " I cried. " For the love of God suffer him to die
in peace."
"Ay, ay, he shall die in peace, I promise you so much.
Meanwhile, madam, we will take better care of him in II-
minster Jail than you can do here. The air is raw upon
these hills. " The fellow had a glib tongue and a mocking
manner. " You have none of the comforts which a wounded
man requires. They are all to be found in Ilminster prison,
whither we shall carry him. There will he have nothing to
think about, with everything found for him. Madam, your
father will be well bestowed with us."
At that moment I heard the footsteps of Barnaby crunch-
ing among the brushwood.
' ' Fly, Barnaby, fly, " I shrieked. ' ' The enemy is upon us. "
He did not fly. He came running. He rushed upon the
soldiers and hurled this man oneway and that man another,
swinging his long arms like a pair of cudgels. Had he had
a cudgel I believe he would have sent them all flying. But
he had nothing except his arms and his fists. And in a
minute or two the soldiers had surrounded him, each with
a bayonet pointed, and such a look in every man's eye as
meant murder had Barnaby moved.
"Surrender," said the sergeant.
Ikirnaby looked around leisurely.
" Well," he said, "I suppose I must. As for roy name,
it is Barnaby Eykin, and for my rank, captain in the Green
Regiment of the duke's valiant army."
"Stop," said the sergeant, drawing a paper from hi:i
pocket
X 84 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
" Captain Eykin," he began to read, " has been a sailor.
Rolls in his walk. Height about five foot five. Very broad
in the shoulders. Long in the arms, of great strength."
"That is so," said Barnaby, complacently.
" Bandy legs."
"Brother," said Barnaby, "is that so writ?"
"It is so, captain."
"I did not think," said Barnaby, "that the malignity of
the enemy would be carried so far. Bandy legs ! Yet you
see — ^Well, fall in, sergeant. We are your prisoners. Bandy
legs ! "
CHAPTER XXV.
JUDGE JEFFREYS.
How can I tell — oh, how can I sit down to tell in cold
blood the story of all that followed ! Some parts of it for
very pity I must pass oven All that has been told or writ-
ten of the Bloody Assize is most true, and yet not half that
happened can be told. There are things, I mean, which
the historian cannot for the sake of pity, decency, and con-
sideration for living people relate, even if he hath seen them.
You who read the printed page may learn how in one place
so many were hanged ; in another place so many ; how
some were hanged in gemmaces, so that at every cross-
road there was a frightful gibbet with a dead man on it ;
how some died of small-pox in the crowded prisons, and
some of fever; and how Judge Jeffreys rode from town to
town followed by gangs of miserable prisoners driven after
him to stand their trial in towns where they would be
known ; how the wretched sufferers were drawn and quar-
tered, and their limbs seethed in pitch and stuck up over the
whole country ; how the women and boys of tender years
were flogged through market towns — you, I say, who read
these things on the cold page presently (even if you be a
stickler for the right divine and hold rebellion as a mortal
sin) feel your blood to boil with righteous wrath. The hand
of the Lord was afterwards heavy upon those who ordered
these things ; nay, at the very time (this is a most remark-
able judgment) when this inhuman judge was thundering
POR FAITH AND FREEDOAt. I §5
at his victims, so that some went mad and even dropped
down dead with fear, he was himself, as Humphrey hath
told me, suffering the most horrible pain from a dire dis-
ease, so that the terrors of his voice and of his fiery eyes were
partly due to the agony of his disease, and he was enduring
all through that assize, in his own body pangs greater than
any that he ordered. As for his miserable end and the fate
that overtook his master, that we know, and candid souls
cannot but confess that here were truly judgments of God
visible for all to see and acknowledge. But no pen can
truly depict what the eye saw and the ear heard during that
terrible time. And, think you, if it was a terrible and a
wretched time for those who had no relations among the
rebels, and only looked on and saw these bloody executions,
and heard the lamentations of the poor women who lost
their lovers or their husbands, what must it have been for
me and those like me, whose friends and all whom they
loved — yea, all — all were overwhelmed in one common
ruin and expected nothing but death }
Our own misery I cannot truly set forth. Sometimes the
memory of it comes back to me, and it is as if long after-
wards one should feel again the sharpness of the surgeon's
knife. Oh, since I must write down what happened, let me
be brief. And you who read it, if you find the words cold
where you would have looked for fire — if you find no tears
where there should have been weeping and wailing — re-
member that in the mere writing have been shed again (but
these you cannot see) tears which belonged to that time,
and in the writing have been renewed, but these you can-
not hear, the sobbings and wailings and terrors of ttiat
dreadful autumn.
The soldiers belonged to a company of grenadiers of Tre-
lawny's Regiment, stationed at llminster, whither they car-
ried the prisoners. First ihey handcuffed Earnaby, but on
his giving his parol not to escape they let him go free, and
he proved useful in the handling of the cart on which my
imhappy father lay. And though the soldier's talk was
ribald, their jests unseemly, and their cursing and swearing
seemed verily to invite the wrath of God, yet they proved
honest fellows in the main. They offered no rudeness
to us, nor did they object to our going with the prisoners;
nay, they even gave us bread and meat and cider from their
own provisions when they halted for dinner at noon. Bar-
naby walked sometimes with the soldiers and sometimes
with us; with them he talked freely, and as if he were their
1 86 /'OA' FAITH AND FREEDOM.
comrade and not their prisoner ; for us he put in a word of
encouragement or consolation such as, "Mother, we shall
find a way out of this coil yet," or " Sister, we shall cheat
Tom Hangman. Look not so gloomy upon it ; " or again,
he reminded us that many a shipwrecked sailor gets safe
ashore, and that where there are so many they cannot hang
all — would the king, he asked, hang up the whole county
of Somerset ? But he had already told me too much. In
his heart I knew he had small hope of escape. Yet he pre-
served his cheerfulness and walked towards his prison (to
outward seeming) as insensible of fear and with as uncon-
cerned- a countenance as if he were going to a banquet or
a wedding. This cheerfulness of his was due to a happy
confidence in the ordering of things, rather than to insensi-
bility. A sailor sees men die in many ways, yet himself re>
mains alive. This gives him something of the disposition
of the Orientalist, who accepts his fate with outward uncon-
cern whatever it may be. Perhaps (I know not) there may
have been in his mind that religious assurance of which he
told me. Did Barnaby at this period, when death was very
near unto him, really believe that there was one religion for
landsmen and another for sailors.-* One way to heaven for
ministers, another for seamen.? Indeed I cannot tell ; yet
how otherwise account for his courage and cheerfulness at
all times, even in the very presence of death }
"Brother," he asked the sergeant, " we have been lying
hid for a fortnight and have heard no news. Tell me, how
go the hangings } "
" Why, captain," the fellow replied, with a grin, " in this
respect there is little for the rebels to complain of They
ought to be satisfied, so far, with the attentions paid to them.
Lord Feversham hanged twenty odd to begin with. Captain
Adlaw and three others are trussed up in chains for their
greater honor ; and, in order to put the rest in good heart,
one of them ran a race with a horse, being promised his
life if he should win. When he had beaten the horse, his
lordship, who was ever a merry man, ordered him to be
hanged just to laugh at him. And hanged he was."
"Ay," said Barnaby, "thus do the Indians in America
torture their prisoners first and kill them afterwards."
"There are two hundred prisoners lying in Weston Zoy-
land church," the sergeant went on ; "they would been
hanged too, but the bishop interfered. Now they are wait-
ing to be tried. Lord ! what signifies trial, except to give
them longer rope ? "
FOK FAITH AND FREEDOM. i%>j
" Aj, ay : and how go things in Bridgwater and Taun-
ton ? "
" From Weston to Bridgwater there is a line of gibbets
already ; in Taunton twenty, I believe, have swung — twenty,
at least. The drums beat, the fifes played, and the trum-
pets sounded, and Color.?! Kirke drank to the health of every
man (such was his condescension) before he was turned
off. 'Twould have done your heart good, captain, only tc
see the bravo show."'
" Ay, ay, " said Barnaby ; " very like, very like. Perhaps
I shall have the opportunity of playing first part in another
brave show if all goes well. Plath the duke escaped.? "
' ' We heard yesterday that he is taken somewhere near
the New Forest. So that he will before long lay his lovely
head upon the block. Captain, your friends have brought
their pigs to a pretty market."
" The"y have, brother, they have," replied Barnaby, with
unmoved countenance. "Yet many a man hath recoA'^ered
from worse straits than these."
I listened with sinking heart. Much I longed to ask if
the sergeant knew aught of Robin, but I refrained least
merely to name him might put the soldiers on the lookout
for him, should he (happily) be in hiding.
Next the serj^ -nnt told us (which terrified me greatly) tha\
there was no part of the country where they v/ere not
scouring for fugitives ; that they were greatly assisted by
the clergy, who, ha cald, were red-hot for King James ; that
the men were found hiding (as wc had hidden) in linncys,
in hedges, in barns, i i \/oods ; that they were captured by
treachery, by information laid, and even, most cruel thing
of all, by watching and following the men's sweethearts
who were found taking food to them. He said, also, that
at the present rate they would have to enlarge their prisons
to admit ten times their number, for they were haling into
them not only the men who had followed Monmouth, but
also those who had helped him with money, arms or men.
The sergeant was a brutal fellow, yet there was about
him something of good-nature, and even of compas-
sion, for the men he had captured. Yet he seemed to take
delight in speaking of the sufferings of the unfortunate pris-
oners. The soldiers, he told us, were greatly enraged
towards the rebels ; not, I suppose, on account of their re-
bellion, because three years later they themselves showed
how skin-deep was their loyalty, but because the rustics,
whom they thought contemptible, had surprisi,'d and nearly
iSg FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
beaten them. And this roused in them the spirit of revenge.
" Captain," said the sergeant, "'tis pity that so lusty a
gentleman as thou shouldst die. Hast thou no friends at
court ? No ? Nor any who would spealc fc^r thee ? 'Tis
pity. Yet a man can die but once. With ouch a neck as
thine, bespeak, if so much grace be accorded thee, a long
rope and a high gallovv^s. 'Ti:. when it comes to the quar-
tering " — he stopped and shook his head — " but there — I
wish you wel'. out of it, captar\"
In the evening, just before sunset, we arrived at Ilminster,
after a sad and "\/eary march of ten miles at least — but we
could not leave the prisonero until we knew hov.' and where
they were bestowed ; and during all this time my mother,
who commonly walked not abroad from one Sabbath to the
next, was possessed with such a spirit that she seemed to
feel no weariness. When we rode all night in order to join
the duke she complained not ; when we rode painfully
across the country to Taunton she murmured not, nor when
we carried our wounded man up the rough and steep comb ;
no, nor on this day when she walked beside her husband's
head, careful lest the motion of the cart should cause him
pain. But he felt nothing, poor soul ! He would feel noth-
ing any more.
Ilminster is a goodly town, rich and prosperous with its
spinners and weavers ; this evening, however, there was
no one in the streets except the troopers, who swaggered up
and down or sat drinking at the tavern door. There is a
broad, open place before the market, which stands upon
great stone pillars. Outside the market is the clink, or
prison, whither the soldiers were taking their prisoners.
The troopers paid not the least heed to our mournful little
procession : a wounded man ; a prisoner in scarlet and lace,
but the cloth tattered and stained and the lace torn ; there
were only two more men on their way to death — what doth
a soldier care for the sight of a man about to die !
" Mother," said Barnaby, when we drew near the prison
doors, " come not within the prison. I will do all that I
can for him. Go now^ and find a decent lodging ; and, sister,
mark ye, the lads in our army were rough, but they were
as lambs compared with these swaggering troopers. Keep
snug, therefore, and venture not far abroad."
I whispered ia his ear that I had his bag of money safe,
so that he could have whatever he wanted if that could be
bought. Then the prison doors were closed and we stood
\vithout.
Jf^OJ^ FAlTir AXD FREEDOM. 1 89
It would have been hard, indeed, for the wife and daugh-
ter of Dr. Comfort Eykin not to find a lodging among godly
people, of whom there are always many in every town of
Somerset. We presently obtained a room in the house of
one Martha Prior, widow of the learned and pious Joshua
Prior, whilom preacher and ejected minister. Her case
was as hard as our own. This poor woman had two sons
only, and both had gone to join the duke ; one already
risen to be a serge-maker and one a draper of the town.
Of her sons she could hear no news at all, whether they
were alive or dead ; if they were already dead, or if they
should be hanged, she would have no means of support,
and so must starve or eat the bread of charity. (I heard
afterwards that she never did hear anything of them, so it
is certain that they must have been killed on the battle-field
or cut down by the dragoons in trying to escape. But the
poor soul survived not long their loss.)
The church of Ilminster stands upon a rising ground : on
the north is the grammar-school, and on the other three sides
are houses of the better sort, of which Mrs. Prior had one.
The place which surrounds the churchyard and hath no inn
or ale-house in it, is quiet and retired. The soldiers came
not thither, except once or twice with orders to search the
houses (and with a private resolution to drink everything
that they might lay hands upon), so that, for two poor
women in our miserable circumstances, we could not have
a more quiet lodging.
Despite our troubles, I slept so well that night that it
was past seven in the morning when I awoke. The needs
of the body do sometimes overcome the cares of the spirit.
For a whole fortnight had we been making our beds on the
heather, and therefore without taking off our clothes, and
that day we had walked ten miles at least with the soldiers,
so that I slept without moving or waking all the night. In
the morning I dressed quickly and hurried to the jail, not
knowing whether I might be admitted, or should be allowed
speech of Barnaby. Outside the gate, however, I found a
crowd of people going into the prison and coming out of it
Some of the women like ourselves were weeping — they
were those whose brothers or lovers, husbands or sons,
were in those gloomy walls. Others there were who
brought for such of the prisoners as had money to buy
them, eggs, butter, white bread, chickens, fruit, and all
kinds of provisions ; some brought wine, cider, and ale ;
some, tobacco. The warders who stood at the gates made
1 90 fOR FAITH JLND FREEDOM.
no opposition to those who would enter. I pressed in with
a beating heart, prepared for a scene of the most dreadful
repentance and g-loomy forebodings. What I saw was
quite otherwise.
The gates of the prison opened upon a courtyard, not
very big, where the people were selling their wares, and
some of the prisoners were walking about, and some were
chaffering with the women who had the baskets. On the
right-hand side of the yard was the clink, or prison, itself;
on the left hand were houses for the warders or ofticers of
the prison. In general a single warder, constable, or head-
borough is enough, for a town such as Ilminster, to keep
the peace of the prison ; which is for the most part empty
save when they enforce some new act against Noncon-
formists and fill it with them or with Quakers. Now, how-
ever, so great was the press that, instead of two, there were
a dozen guards, and, instead of a stout cudgel, they went
armed with pike and cutlass to keep order and nrevent es-
capes. Six of them occupied the gatehouse ; other six were
within, in a sort of guard-house, where they slept, on the
left hand of the court.
The ground-floor of the clink we found to be a large room,
at least forty feet each side in bigness. On one side of it
was a great fireplace, where, though it was the month of
July, there was burning a great fire of Welsh coal, partly
for cooking purposes, because all that the prisoners ate was
cooked at this fire, and partly because a great fire kept con-
tinually burning sweetens the air and wards off jail fever.
On another side was a long table and several benches.
Thick wooden pillars supported thejoists of the rooms above ;
the windows were heavily barred, but the shutters were
down, and there was no glass in them. In spite of fire and
open windows the place was stifling, and smelt most horri«
ble. Never have I breathed so foul an air : there lived in
this room about eighty prisoners (later on the numbers were
doubled) ; some were smoking tobacco and drinking cider
or ale ; some were frying pieces of meat over the fire ; and
the tobacco, the ale, the wine, the cooking, and the people
themselves — nearly all country lads, unwashed, who had
slept, since Sedgemoor at least, in the same clothes with-
out once changing — made such an air that jail fever, putrid
throats, and small-pox (which afterwards broke out) should
have been expected sooner.
They were all talking, laughing, and even singing, ■•
that, in addition to the noisome stench of the place, there
fUR tAlTH AND FREEDOM.
19
«ras such a din as one may hear at Sherborne Fair of an
evening. I expected, as 1 have said, a gloomy silence,
with the rattling of chains, the srroans of those who looked
for death, and perhaps a godly repentance visible upon
every countenance. Yet they were all laughing, except a
few who sat retired, and who were wounded. I say that
they were all laughing. They had nothing to expect but
death, or at the best to be horribly flogged, to be transported,
to be fined, branded, and ruined. Yet they laughed. What
means the hardness and indifference of nien? Could they
not think of the women they had left at home ? I warrant
that none of them were laughing.
Among them, a pipe of tobacco in his lips and a mug of
strong ale before him on the table, his hat flung backward,
sat Barnaby, his face showing, apparently, complete satis-
faction with his lot.
When he saw us at the door he rose and came to meet us.
" Welcome," he said. " This is one of the places where
King Monmouth's men are to receive the honor due to
them. Courage, gentle hearts. Be not cast down. Every-
where the prisons are full, and more are brought in every
day. Our very numbers are our safety. They cannot hang
us all. And, harkee," here he whispered, "sister, we now
know that Colonel Kirke hath been selling pardons at ten
pounds, twenty pounds, and thirty pounds apiece. Where-
fore we are well assured that, somehow or other, we shall
be able to buy our release. There are plenty besides Colo-
nel Kirke who will sell a prisoner his freedom."
"Where is your father 1 " asked my mother.
" He is bestowed above, where it is quieter, except for
the groaning of the wounded. Go upstairs and you will
find him. And there is a surprise for you besides. You
will find with him one you little expect to see."
" Oh, Barnaby, is there new misery for me ? Is Robin a
prisoner .'' "
"Robin is not here, Sis ; and as for misery, why, that is
as you take it. To be sure the man above is in prison, but
no harm will hap;^en to him. Why should it ? He did not go
out with Monmouth's men. But go upstairs, go upstairs
and see jfor yourselves."
I4i FOR FArTH AND FkF.F.DnM.
CHAPTER XXVI.
IN ILMINSTER JAIL.
I KNOW not whom I expected to find in consequence of
Barnaby's words, as we went up the dark and dirty stairs
which led to the upper room. Robin was not a prisoner,
why, then — but I know not what I thouglit, all being
strange and dreadful.
At the top of the stairs we found ourselves in a room of
the same size as the lower chamber, but not so high, and
darker, being a gloomy place indeed, insomuch that it was
not for some minutes that one could plainly discern things.
It was lighted by a low, long window, set very close with
thick bars, the shutters thrown open so that all the light
and air possible to be admitted might come in. It had a
great fireplace, but there was no fire burning, and the air of
the room ste"uck raw, though outside it was a warm and
sunny day. The roof was supported, as in the room below,
by means of thick square pillars, studded with great nails,
set close together, for what purpose I know not. Every
pari of the woodwork in the room was in the same way
stuck full of nails. On the floor lay half a score of mat-
tresses, the property of those who could afford to pay the
warders an exorbitant fee for the luxury. At Ilminster, as,
I am told, at Newgate, the chief prison in the country, the
same custom obtains of exacting heavy fees from the poor
wi etches clapped into ward. It is, I suppose, no sin to rob
the criminal, the debtor, the traitor, or the rebel. For those
who had nothing to pay there were only a few bundles of
straw. And on these were lying half a dozen wretches
whose white faces and glazed eyes showed that they would
indeed cheat Tom the Hangman, though not in the way
that Barnaby hoped. These were wounded either in Sedge-
moor fight or in their attempt to escape.
Aiy father lay on a pallet bed. His face showed not the
least change. His eyes were closed, and you would have
thought him dead. And beside him, also on a pallet, sat.
to my astonishment, none other than Sir Christopher him-
self.
He rose and came to meet us. smiling sadly.
'^OR tAITH AND f^REEDOM.
193
"Madam," he said, taking my mother's v.ctiid, "we
meet in a doleful place, and we are indeed in wretched
plight. I cannot bid you welcome ; I cannot say that I am
glad to see you. There is nothing that I can say of com-
fort or of hope, except, which you know already, that we
are always in the hands of the Lord."'
"Sir Christopher,"' said my mother, "it was kind and
neighborly in you to come. But you were always his best
friend. Look at his poor, white face " — she only thought
upon her husband. " You would think him dead. More
than a fortnight he hath lain thus — motionless. I think he
feels no pain. Husband, if thou canst hear me, make some
sign, if it be but to shut one eye. No," she cried. "Day
after day have I thus entieated him and he makes no
answer. He neither sees nor hears. V^et he doth not die,
wherefore I think that he may yet recover speech and sit
up again, and presently, perhaps, walk about and address
himself again unto his studies."
She waited not for any answer, but knelt down beside
him and poured some drops of milk into the mouth of the
sick man. Sir Christopher looked at her mournfully and
shook his head.
Then he turned to me and kissed me without saying a
word.
" Oh, sir ! ■' I cried, "how could you know that my
father would be brought into this place ? "With what good-
ness of heart have you come to our help,"
"Nay, child," he replied, gravely. "I came because I
had no choice but to come. Like your father and your
brother, Grace, I am a prisoner. "
"You, sir.^ You a prisoner .-* Why, you were not with
the duke."
"That is most true, and yet a prisoner. Why, after the
news of Sedgemoor fight I looked for nothing else. They
tried to arrest Mr. Speke, but he has fled ; they have locked
up Mr. Prideaux of Ford Abbey ; Mr. Trenchard has retired
across the seas. Why should they pass me over } Nay,
there were abundant proofs of my zeal for the duke. My
grandson and my grandnephcw had joined the rebels.
Your father and brother rode over to Lyme on my horses ;
with my grandson rode off a dozen lads of the village.
What more could they want.-* More-over, I am an old
soldier of Lord Essex's army ; and, to finish, they found in
the window-seat a copy of Monmouth's declaration, which,
indeed I had forgotten, or I might have destroyed it,"
194
rOR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
** Alas ! alas ! " I cried, wringing- my hands with teari
"Your honor, too, a prisoner ! "
Since the sergeant spoke to Barnaby about the interest ot
friends, I had been thinking that Sir Christopher, whose
power and interest, I fondly thought, must be equal to those
of any lord in the land, would interpose to save us all.
And he was now a prisoner himself, involved in the com-
mon ruin. One who stands upon a bridge and sees with
terror the last support carried away by the raging flood, feels
such despair as fell upon my soul.
*' Oh, sir," I cried again. ''It is line upon line — woe
upon woe."
He took my hand in his and held it tenderly.
"My child, "he said, "to an old man of seventy-five
what doth it matter whether he die in his bed or whether he
die upon a scaffold .? Through the pains of death, as through
a gate, we enter upon our rest."
" It is dreadful ! " I cried again. "I cannot endure it."
"The shame and ignominy of this death," he said, "I
shall, I trust, regard lightly. We have struck a blow for
freedom and for faith. Well, we have been suffered to fail.
The time hath not yet come. Yet, in the end, others shall
carry on the cause, and religion shall prevail. Shall we
murmur, who have been God's instruments .'' "
"Alas ! alas ! " I cried again.
"To me, sweet child, it is not terrible to contemplate
my end. But it is sad to think of thee, and of thy grave
and bitter loss. Hast thou heard news of Robin and of
Humphrey ? "
" Oh, sir, are they also in prison } They are here } "
"No, but I have news of them. I have a letter brought
to me but yesterday. Read it, my child, read it. "
He pulled the letter out of his pocket and gave it to me.
Then I read aloud, and thus it ran :
" Honored Sib and Grandfather, — I am writing this letter from
the prison of Exeter, where, with Huinplirey and about two hundred
or more of our poor fellows, I am laid by the heels and shall so con-
tinue until we shall all be tried.
" It is rumored that Lord Jeffreys will come down to try us, and we
are assured by rumor that the king shows himself revengeful and is
determined that there shall be no mercy shown. After Sedgemoor fight
Ihey hanged, as you will have heard, many of the prisoners at Weston
Zoyland, at Bridgwater, and at Taunton, v.ithout trial. If the king con-
tinue in this disposition it is very certain tliat though the common sort
may be forgiven, tlie gentlemen and those who were officers in the rebel
army will certainly not escape. Therefore, I have no hopes but to
t'OR FAITH AXD J'KEEDOM. io*
"Conclude my life upon the gallows, a thing which, I confess, I had
never looked to do. 1 hope to meet my fate with courage and resigna-
tion.
*' Humphrey is with me; and it is some comfort (though I know not
why) that we shall stand or fall together; for if I was a captain in the
army, he was a chirurgeon. That he was also a secret agent of the
exiles, and that he stirred up the duke's friends on his way from Lon-
don to .Sherborne, that they know not, or it would certainly go hard
with him. What do I say ? Since they will hang him, things cannot
very well go harder.
"When the fight was over and the duke and Lord Grey fled, there
was nothing left but to escape as best as we might. I hope that som«
of our Bradford lads will make their way home in safety; they stood
their ground and fought valiantly. Nay, if we had been able to arm all
who volunteered and would have enlisted, and if our men had all
shown such a spirit as your valiant lads of Bradford Orcas, then, I say,
the enemy must have been cut to pieces.
" When I had no choice left but to run I took the road to Bridg-
water, intending to ride back to that place where, perhaps, our forces
might be rallied. But this proved hopeless. There I found, however,
Humphrey, and we resolved that the safest plan would be to ride by
way of Taunton, leaving behind us the great body of the king's army,
and so escape to London, if possible, where we should certainly find
hiding-places in plenty until the pursuit should be at an end. Our
plan was to travel along byways and bridlepaths, and that by night
only, hiding by day in barns, linneys, and the like. We ha(l money
for the charges of our journey. Humphrey would travel as a physician
returning to London from Bath, as soon as we had gotten out of the
insurgent's country. I was to be his servant. Thus we arranged the
matter in our minds, and already I thouglit that we were safe and in
hiding somewhere in London, or across the seas in the Low Countries
again.
'' Well, to make short my story, we got no farther than Exeter, where
we were betrayed by a rascal countryman who recognized us, caused
us to be arrested, and swore to us. Thereupon we were clapped into
jail, where we now lie.
" Hoird sir, Humphrey, I am sorry to write, is much cast down, not
because he dreads death, which he doth not, any more than to lie upon
his bed; but because he lialh, he says, drawn so many to their ruin.
He numbers me among those, though, indeed, it was none of his
doing, but of my own free will, that 1 entered upon this business, which,
contrary to reasonable expectation, hath turned out so ill. Wherefore,
dear sir, since there is no one in the world whose opinion and coiuisel
Humphrey so greatly considers as your own, I pray you, of your good-
ness, send him some words of consolation and cheer."
"That will I, right readily," said Sir Christopher. "At
least the poor lad cannot accuse himself of dragging me into
the clink."
"I hoar" (continued Robin's) letter "that my mother hath gone
with Mr. Boscorel to London to learn if aught can be done for us. If
she do not return before we are finished, bid her think kindly of Ilmu-
phrey. and not to lay these things to his charge. As for my dear girl,
my Grace, I hear nothing of her. Miss Blake, who led themaid* when
t9^
FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
they gave the flags to the duke, is, I hear, clapped into prison. Gra<?4
is not spoken of. I am greatly i)erturbed in spirit concerning her, and
I would gladly, if t.hiit might be compassed, have speech with her before
I die. I fear she will grieve and weep, but not more than I myself at
leaving her, poor maid! I hear, also, nothing concerning her father,
who was red-hot for the cause, and therefore, 1 fear, will not be passed
over or forgotten; nor do I hear aught of Barnaby, who I hope hath es-
caped on shipboard, as he said that he should do if things went ajar.
Where are tiiey all! The roads are covered with rough men, and it is
not fit for such as Grace and her mother to be travelling. I hope that
they have returned in safety to Bradford Orcas, and that my old mas-
ter, Dr. Eykin, hath forgotten his zeal for the Protestant duke and is
already seated again among his books. If that is so, tell Grace, honored
sir, that there is no hour of the day or night but I think of her con-
tinually; that the chief pang of my approaching fate is the thought
that I shall leave her in sorrow, and that I cannot say or do anything
to stay her sorrow. Comfort her I cannot, save with words which will
come better from the saintly lips of her father. I again pray thee to
assure lu-r of my faithful love. Tell her that the recollection of her
sweet face and steadfast eyes fills me with so great a longing that I
would fain die at once so as to bring nearer the moment when we shall
be able to sit together in heaven. My life hath been sanctified, if I
may say so in humility, by her presence in my heart, which drove away all
common and unclean things. Of such strength is earthly love. Nay,
I could not, I now perceive, be happy even with the joys of heaven if
she were not by my side. Where is she, my heart, my love? Pray God
she is in safety.
" And now, sir, I liave no more to say. The prison is a hot and
reeking place; at night it is hard to bear the foulness and the stench of
it. Humphrey says that we may shortly expect some jail fever or small-
Eox to break out among us, in which case the work of the judges may
e lightened. The good people of this ancient city are in no way afraid
%}i the king's vindictiveness, bnt send in of their bounty quantity of
provisions — fruit, eggs, fresh meat, salted meat, ale and cider — every
day for the poor prisoners, which shows which way their opinions do
lean even although the clergy are against us. Honored sir, I am sure
and certain that the miscarriage of our enterprise was caused by the
conduct of those who had us in hand. In a year or two there shall be
seen (but not by us) another uprising, under another leader, with an-
other end.
"So no more, I send to thee, dear and honored sir, my hoimden
duty and my grateful tlianks, for all that I owe to your tender care and
affection. Pray my mother, for me, to mourn no more for me than is
becoming to one of her purity and virtue.
"Alas! it is in thinking upon her, and upon my poor lost dear, that
my heart is well-nigh torn in pieces. But (tell Humphrey) through no
fault — no— through no fault of his.
"From thy dutiful and obedient grandson, R. C."
I read this all throuo-h. Then I folded up the letter and
returned it to Sir Christopher. As he took it the tears came
into his dear and venerable eyes and rolled down his
cheeks.
"My dear, my dear," he said, " it is hard to bear. Every
one who is dear to thee will go ; there is an end of all ;
h'OR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
197
unless some way, of which we know nothing, be opened
unto us. "
" Why," I said, "if we were all dead and buried and our
souls together in heaven — "
"Patience, my dear," said the old man.
" Oh, must they all die— all .? My heart will burst. Oh,
sir, will not one suffice for all } Will they not take me and
hang me, and let the rest go free .? "
"Child, "he took my hand between his own, "God knows
that if one life would suffice for all, it should be mine. Nay,
I would willingly die ten times over to save thy Robin for
thee. He is not dead yet, however. Nor is he sentenced.
There are so many involved that we may hope for a large
measure of mercy. Nay, more. His mother hath gone to
London, as he says in his letter, with my son-in-law, Philip
Boscorel, to see if aught can be done, even to the selling of
my whole estate, to procure the enlargement of the boys.
I know not if anything can be done, but be assured that
Philip Boscorel will leave no stone unturned."
"Oh, can money buy a pardon.? I have two hundred
gold pieces. They are Barnaby's — "
"Then, my dear, they must be used to buy pardon for
Barnaby and thy father ; though I doubt whether any par-
don need be bought for one who is brought so low."
Beside the bed my mother sat crouched, watching his
white face as she had done all daylong in our hiding-place.
I think she heeded nothing that went on around her, being
wrapped in her hopes and prayers for the wounded man.
Then Sir Christopher kissed me gently on the forehead,
"They say the king is unforgiving, my dear. Expect
not, therefore, anything. Say to thyself, every morning,
that all must die. To know the worst brings with it some-
thing of consolation. Robin must die ; Humphrey must
die ; your brother Barnaby must die ; your father, but he is
well-nigh dead already, and myself — all must die upon the
scaffold, if we escape this noisome jail. In thinking this,
remember who will be left. My dear, if thou art as a widow,
and yet a maiden, I charge thee that thou forget thine own
private griefs, and minister to those who will have none but
thee to help them. Live not for thyself, but to console and
solace those who, like thyself bereaved, will need thy ten-
der cares,"
igS FOR FAITH AND FREEDOit,
CHAPTER XXVII.
BEFORE THE ASSIZE.
Then we sat down and waited. Day after day we went
to the prison where my mother sat by my father, whose
condition never changed in the least, being always that of
one who slept, or, if his eyes were open^, was unconscious,
and, though he might utter a few words, had no command
of his mind or of his speech. Wherefore we hoped that he
suffered nothing. 'Twas a musket-ball had struck, the
surgeon said, in his backbone between the shoulders, where-
by his powers of motion and of thought were suspended.
I know not whether it was attempted to remove the ball, or
whether it was lodged there at all, because I am ignorant,
and to me, whether he had been struck in the back or no, it
was to my mind certain that the Lord had granted my
father's earnest prayer that he should again be permitted to
deliver openly the message that was upon his soul ; nay,
had given him three weeks of continual and faithful preach-
ing, the fruits of which, could we perceive them, should be
abundant. That prayer granted, the Lord, I thought, was
calling him to rest. Therefore I looked for no improvement.
One other letter came from Exeter, with one for me, with
which (because I could not leave my mother at such a time)
I was forced to stay my soul, as the lover in the canticle
stays his soul with apples. I have that letter still ; it hath
been with me always ; it lay hung from my neck in the
little leathern bag in which I carried the duke's ring. I read
it again and again until I knew it by heart ; yet still I read
it again, because even to look at my lover's writing had in
it something of comfort even when things were at their worst
and Egyptian darkness lay upon my soul. But the letter I
cannot endure to copy out, or suffer others to read it, be-
cause it was written for mine own eye, and none other's.
" Oh, my love ! " he said ; " oh, my tender heart," and then
a hundred prayers for my happiness, and tears for my tears,
and hopes for the future, which would be not the earthly
life, but the future reserved by merciful Heaven for those
who have been called and chosen. As for the sharp and
FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
199
painful passagie by which we must travel from this world
to the next, Robin bade me take no thought of that, but to
think oi him either as my lover walking with me beside the
stream, or as a spirit waiting for me to join him in the heav-
enly choir. And so with so many farewells (the letter br--
ing written when they expected the judges to arrive and the
assize to begin) as showed his tender love for me. No, 1
cannot write down this letter for the eyes of all to read.
There are things which must be kept hidden in our own
hearts ; and, without doubt, every woman to whom gooil
fortune hath given a lover like Robin, with a heart as fond
and a pen as ready (though he could never, like Humphrey
write sweet verses), hath received an epistle or two like un-
to mine for the love and tenderness, but (I hope) without
the sadness of impending deatli.
It was four weeks after we were brought to Ilminster thai
the news came to us of the coming trials. There were five
judges, but the world knows but of one, namely, George,
Lord Jeffreys, Chief-Justice of England ; and now, indeed,
we began to understand the true misery of our situation. Foi
every one knew the character of the judge, who, though a
young man still, was already the terror alike of prisoners,
witnesses, and juries. It promised to be a black and bloody
assize indeed, since this man was to be the judge.
The aspect of the prison by this time was changed. The
songs and merriment, the horseplay and loud laughter, by
which the men had at first endeavored to keep up their
hearts, were gone. The country lads pined and languished
in confinement ; their cheeks grew pale, and their eyes
heavy. Then the prison was so crowded that there was
barely room for all to lie at night, and the yard was too
small for all to walk therein by day. In the morning, though
they opened all the shutters, the air was so foul that in go-
ing into it from the open, one felt sick and giddy, and was
sometimes fain to run out and drink cold water. Oh, the
terrible place for an old man such as Sir Christo])her ! ^'ct
he endured, without murmuring, the foulness and the hard-
ness, comforting the sick, still reproving blasphemies, and
setting an example of cheerfulness. The wounded men all
died, I believe ; which, as the event proved, was lucky for
them. It would have saved the rest much suffering had
they all died as well. And to think that this was only one
of many prisons thus crowded with poor captives ! At
Wells, Philip's Norton, Shepton Mallet, Bath, Bridgwater,
Taunton, Ilchcster, Somcrtoii. Langport, Bristol, and Kxctcr,
200 f'OR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
there was a like assemblage of poor wretches thus waiting
their trials.
I said that there was now little singing. There was, how-
ever, drinking enough, and more than enough. They drank
to drown their sorrows and to forget the horrid place in
which they lay, and the future which awaited them. When
they were drunk they would bellow some of their old songs,
but the bawling of a drunkard will not communicate to his
companions the same joy as the music of a merry heart.
While we were expecting to hear that the judge had ar-
rived at Salisbury the fever broke out in the prison of II-
minster. At Wells they were afflicted with the small-pox,
but at Ilminster it was jail fever which fell upon the poor
prisoners. Everybody hath heard of this terrible disorder,
which is communicated by those who have it to those who
go among them, namely, to the warders and turnkeys, and
even to the judges and the juries. Onthefirst day after it broke
out, which was with an extraordinary virulence, four poor
men died and were buried the next morning. After this no
day passed but there were funerals at the churchyard, and
the mounds of their graves — the graves of those poor coun-
trymen who thought to fight the battle of the Lord — stood
side by side in a long row growing continually longer. We
— that is, good Mrs. Prior and myself — sat at the window
and watched the funerals, praying for the safety of those we
loved.
So great was the fear of infection in the town that no one
was henceforth allowed within the prison, nor were the
warders allowed to come out of it. This was a sad order
for me, because my mother chose to remain within the
prison, finding a garret at the house of the chief constable,
and I could no longer visit that good old man Sir Christo-
pher, whose only pleasure left had been to converse with
me daily, and, as I now understand, by the refreshment the
society of youth brings to age, to lighten the tedium of his
imprisonment.
Henceforth, therefore, I went to the prison door every
morning and sent in my basket of provisions, but was not
suffered to enter, and though I could have speech with my
mother or with Barnaby, they were on one side the bars and
I on the other.
It was at this time that I made the acquaintance of Mr.
George Penne. This creature (a villain, as I afterwards dis-
covered, of the deepest dye) was to external appearance
^ grave and sober merchant, He was dressed in brown
FOR FAITH AND FRFEDOAf. 2ot
cloth and carried a g-old-headed stick in his hand. He came
to llminster about the end of August or the beginning of
September, and began to inquire particularly into the names
and the circumstances of the prisoners, pretending (such
was his craftiness) a great tenderness for their welfare. He
did the same thing, we heard afterwards, wherever the
Monmouth prisoners were confined. At llminster, the
fever being in the jail, he was not permitted to venture
within, but stood outside and asked of any who seemed to
know, who and what were the prisoners within and what
were their circumstances.
He accosted me one morning when I was standing at the
wicket waiting for my basket to be taken in.
" Madam," he said, " you are doubtless a friend of some
poor prisoner. Your father or your brother may unhappily
be lying within."
Now I had grown somewhat cautious by this time.
Wherefore, fearing some kind of snare or trap, I replied,
gravely, that such indeed might be the case.
"Then, madam," he said, speaking in a soft voice and
looking full of compassion, " if that be so, suffer me, I pray
you, to wish him a happy deliverance ; and this indeed from
the bottom of my heart."
"Sir, "I said, moved by the earnestness of his manner,
" I know not who you may be, but I thank you. Such a
wish, I am sure, will not procure you the reward of a prison.
Sir, I wish you a good-day. "
So he bowed and left me and passed on.
But next day I found him in the same place. And his
eyes were more filled with compassion than before, and his
voice was softer.
"I cannot sleep, madam," he said, "for thinking of these
poor prisoners ; I hear that among them is none other than
Sir Christopher Challis, a gentleman of great esteem and
well stricken in years. And there is also the pious and
learned (but most unfortunate) Dr. Comfort Eykin, who
rode with the army and preached daily, and is now, I hear,
grievously wounded and bedridden."
"Sir," I said, "Dr. Comfort Eykin is my father. It is
most true that he is a prisoner, and that he is wounded."
He heaved a deep sigh and wiped a tear from his eyes.
"It is now certain," he said, " that Lord Jeffreys will
come down to conduct the trials. Nay, it is reported that
he has already arrived at Salisbury, breathing fire and rc-
Teng;e, and that he hath with him four other judg^es and -»
202 FOR FAITH aXD FREEDOM.
troop of horse. What they will do with so many prisoners
I know not. I fear that it will go hard with all ; but, as
haj^pcns in such cases, those who have money, and know
how to spend it, may speedily get their liberty."
'• How are they to spend it ? "
'• \\ hy, madam, it is not indeed to be looked for that you
should know. But when the time comes for the trial, should
I, as will very likely happen, be in the way, send for me,
and whatever the sentence, I warrant we shall find a way
to "scape it — even if it be a sentence of death. Send for
nie ; my name is George Penne, and I am a well-known
merchant of Bristol."
It was then that Barnaby came to the other side of the
wicket. We could talk, but could not touch each other.
"All is well, sis," he said, "dad is neither better nor
worse, and Sir Christopher is hearty, though the prison is
like the 'tween decks of a ship with yellow-jack aboard,
just as sweet and pleasant for the air and just as merry for
the crew."
" Barnaby," I said, " the judges are now at Salisbury."
"Ay, ay ; I thought they would have been there before.
We shall be tried, they tell me, at Wells, which it is thought
will be taken after other towns. So there is still a tidy
length of rope. Sis, this continual smoking of tobacco to
keep off infection doth keep a body dry. Cider will serve,
but let it be a runlet at least.
"He called you sister, madam," said I\Ir. Penne, curi-
ously. " Have you brother as well as father in this
place ? "
"Alas ! sir, I have not only my father, my mother, and
my brother in this place, but my father-in-law (as I hoped
soon to call him), and in Exeter jail is my lover and his
cousin. Oh, sir. if you mean honestly — "
"Madam," he laid his hand upon his breast, "I am all
honesty. I have no other thought, I swear to you, than to
save, if possible, the lives of these poor men."
He walked with me to my lodging and I there told him
not only concerning our own people, but also all that I knew
of the prisoners in this jail ; they were for the most part poor
and humble men. He made notes in a bo«k, which
caused me some misgivings, but he assured me again and
again that all he desired was to save their lives. And I now
understand that he spoke the truth indeed, but not the whole
truth.
"Your brother, for instance," he said; "oh, madam,
FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
203
'twere a thousand pities that so brave a young man, so
stout withal, should be hanged, drawn, and quartered. And
your lover at Exeter, doubtless a tall and proper youth ; and
the other whom you have named. Dr. Humphrey Challis,
and your father-in-law (as 1 hope he will be), Sir Christo-
pher, and your own father. Why, madam," he grew quite
warm upon it, "if you will but furnish some honest mer-
chant — I say not myself, because I know not if you would
trust me — but some honest merchant with the necessary
moneys, I will engage that they shall all be saved from
hanging. To be sure these are all captains and officers, and
to get their absolute pardon will be a great matter, perhaps
above your means. Yet Sir Christopher hath a good estate
I am told."
This George Penne was, it is true, a Bristol merchant, en-
gaged in the East India trade ; that is to say, he bought
sugar and tobacco, and had shares in ships which sailed to
and from Bristol and the West Indies, and sometimes made
voyages to the Guinea Coast for negroes. But, in common
with many Bristol merchants, he had another trade, and a
very profitable trade it is, namely, what is called kidnap-
ping ; that is, buying or otherwise securing criminals who
have been pardoned or reprieved on condition of going to
the plantations. They sell these wretches for a term of
years to the planters and make a great profit by the transac-
tion. And, foreseeing that there would presently be a rare
abundance of such prisoners, the honest Mr. George Penne
was going from prison to prison, finding out what persons
of substance there were who would pay for their sentence
to be thus mitigated. In the event, though things were
not ordered exactly as he could have wished, this worthy
man (his true worth you shall presently learn) made a pretty
penny, as the saying is, out of the prisoners. What he
made out of us, and by what lies, you shall learn. But, by
ill-fortune, he got not the fingering of the great sums which
he hoped of us.
And now the news, from Winchester first, and from Dor-
chester afterwards, filled the hearts of all with a dismay
which is beyond all power of words to tell. For if an an-
cient lady of good repute (though the widow of a regicide),
such a woman as Lady Lisle, seventy years of age, could
be condemned to be burned, and was in fact beheaded, for
no greater offence than harboring two rebels herself, igno-
rant of who they were, or whence they came, what could
any hope who had actually borne arms ? And, again, at
204 ^'OJ^ FAITH AND FREEDOM.
Dorchester, thirty who pleaded not guilty were found guilty
and condemned to be hanged, and nearly three hundred
who pleaded guilty were sentenced to be hanged at the
same time. It was not an idle threat intended to terrify the
rest, because thirteen of the number were executed on the
following Monday, and eighty afterwards. Among those
who were first hanged were many whom we knew. The
aged and pious Dr. Sampson Larke, the Baptist minister of
Lynn, for instance, was one. Colonel Holmes (whom the
king had actually pardoned) was another, and young Mr.
Hewling, whose case was like that of Robin's. This terri-
ble news caused great despondency and choking in the prison,
where also the fever daily carried off one or two.
Oh, my poor heart fell, and I almost lost the power of
prayer, when I heard that from Dorchester the judge was
riding in great state, driving his prisoners before him, to
Exeter, where there were two hundred waiting their trial
And among them Robin — my Robin.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
BENJAMIN.
It was the evening of September the sixteenth, about nine
of the clock. I was sitting alone in my lodging. Down-
stairs I heard the voice of the poor widow, Mrs. Prior, who
had received us. She was praying aloud with some godly
friends for the safety of her sons. These young men, as I
have said, were never more heard of, and were therefore al-
ready, doubtless, past praying for. I, who ought to have
been praying with them, held Robin's last letter in my
hands. I knew it by heart, but I must still be reading it
again and again ; thinking it was his voice which was in-
deed speaking to me, trying to feel his presence near me, to
hear his breath, to see his very eyes. In the night, waking
or sleeping, I still would hear him calling to me aloud.
" My heart — my life — my love!" he would cry. I heard
him, I say, quite plainly. By special mercy and grace this
power was accorded to me, because I have no doubt that
in his mind, while lying in his noisome prison, he did, turn
1-Ok h'AITH AND FREEDOM. 205
his thoughts, yea, and the yearnings of his fond heart to the
maid he loved. But now the merciless judge who had sen-
tenced three hundred men to one common doom — three hun-
dred men ! was such a sentence ever known ? — had left
Dorchester, and was already, perhaps, at Exeter. Oh ! Per-
haps Robin had by this time stood his trial ; what place was
left for prayer? For if the poor ignorant clowns were con-
demned to death, how much more the gentlemen, the oflficers
of Monmouth's army. Perhaps he was already executed —
my lover — my boy — my Robin — taken out and hanged, and
now a cold and senseless corpse. Then the wailings and
prayers of the poor woman below, added to tiie distraction
of these thoughts, made me feel as if I were indeed losing
my senses. At this time it was blow upon blow ; line upon
line ; the sky was black ; the heavens were deaf. Is there,
can there be, a more miserable thing than to feel that the
very heavens are deaf.? The mercy of the Lord, his kindly
hearkening to our cries and prayers, these we believe as we
look for the light of day and the warmth of the sun. Nay,
this belief is the very breath of our life, so that there is none
but the most hardened and abandoned sinner who doth not
still feel that he hath in the Lord a Father as well as a judge.
To lose that belief — 'twere better to be a lump of senseless
clay. The greatest misery of the lost soul, even greater
than his continual torment of lire, and his never ending
thirst, and the gnawing of remorse, must be to feel that the
heavens are deaf to his prayers ; deaf forever and forever.
At this time my prayers were all for safety. " Safety,
good Lord, give them safety. Save them from the execu-
tioner. Give them safety." Thus, as Barnaby said, the ship-
wrecked mariner clinging to the mast asks not for a green,
pleasant, and fertile shore, but for land — only for land. I
sat there musing sadly, the Bible on the table and a lighted
candle. I read not in the Bible, but listened to the wailing
of the poor soul below, and looked at the churchyard with-
out, the moonlight falling upon the fresh mounds which
covered the graves of the poor, dead prisoners. Suddenly I
heard a voice — a loud and harsh voice — and footsteps. 1
knew both footsteps and voice, and I sprang to my feet
trembling, because I was certain that some new disaster had
befallen us.
Then the steps mounted the stairs, the door was opened,
and Benjamin — none other than Benjamiji — appeared. What
did he here ? He was so big, with so red a face, that his
presence seemed to fill the room. And with him — what did
2o6 ^^OR Paith and freedom.
this mean ? — came madam herself, who I thought to hav*
been at Exeter. Alas ! her eyes were red with weeping, her
cheeks were thin and wasted with sorrow ; her lips were
trembling.
" Grace ! " she cried, holding out her hands, " Child, these
terrible things are done, and yet we live. Alas ! we live.
Are our hearts made of stone that we still live t As for me,
I cannot die, though I lose all — all — all."
" Dear madam, what hath happened ? More misery !
more disaster ! Oh, tell me — tell me."
" Oh, my dear they have been tried ; they have been
tried and they are condemned to die, both Robin — my son
Robin — and with him Humphrey, who dragged him into the
business and alone ought to suffer for both. But there is now
no justice in the land. No — no more justice can be had.
Else Humphrey should have suffered for all."
There was something strange in her eyes ; she did not look
like a mother robbed of her children ; she gazed upon me as
if there were something else upon her mind, as if the con-
demnation of her son was not enough !
" Robin will be hanged," she went on. " He hath been
the only comfort of my life since my husband was taken
from me, when he was left an infant in my arms. Robin
will be hanged like any common gypsy caught stealing a
sheep. He will be hanged and drawn and quartered, and
those goodly limbs of his will be stuck upon poles for all to
see. "
Truly I looked for nothing less. Barnaby bade me look
for nothing less than this, but at the news I fell into a swoon.
So one who knoweth beforehand that he is to feel the sur-
geon's knife, and thinks to endure the agony without a cry,
is fain to shriek and scream when the moment comes.
When I recovered I was sitting at the open window,
madam applying a wet cloth to my forehead.
" Have no fear," Benjamin was saying. " She will do
what you command her, so only that he may go free."
" Is there no way but that ? " she asked.
" None." And then he swore a great oath.
]My eyes being open and my sense returned, I perceived
that Mrs. Prior was also in the room. And I wondered (in
such moments the mind finds relief in trifles) that Benjamin's
face should have grown so red and his cheeks so fat.
" Thou hast been in a swoon, my dear," said madam,
" but 'tis past."
" Why is Benjamin here ? " I a.'^ked.
fiOR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
20)
He looked at madam, who cast down her eyes, I knew
not why.
" Benjamin is now our only friend,'' she replied, without
looking up. " It is out of his kindness — yes, his kindness
of heart — that he hath come. "
" I do not understand. If Robin is to die, what kindness
can he show .'' "
" Tell her, Benjamin," said madam, " tell her of the trials
at Exeter. "
" His lordship came to Exeter," Benjamin began, "on
the evening of September the thirteenth, escorted by many
country gentlemen and a troop of horse. I had the honor
of riding with him. The trials began the day before yester-
day, the fourteenth. "
"Pray, good sir," asked the poor woman who had lost
her son, " did you observe my boy among the prisoners?"
" How the devil should I know your boy .? " he replied,
turning upon her roughly, so that she asked no more ques-
tions. "If they were rebels they deserve hanging," here
she shrieked aloud and fled the room. ' ' The trials began
with two fellows who pleaded ' not guilty,' but were quickly
proved to have been in arms and were condemned to death.
One of them being sent out to instant execution, the rest
who were brought up that day, among whom were Robin
and Humphrey, pleaded guilty, being partly terrified and
partly persuaded that it was their only chance of escape.
So they, too, were condemned, two hundred and forty in
all, every man Jack of them, to be hanged, drawn and quar-
tered, and their limbs to be afterwards stuck on poles for
the greater terror of evil-doers ; " he said these words with
such a fire in his eyes, and such a dreadful threatening
voice as made me tremble. "Then they were all taken
back to jail, where they will lie until the day of execution,
and the Lord have mercy upon their souls ! "
The terrible fudge Jeffreys himself could not look more
terrible than Benjamin when he uttered the prayer with
which a sentence to death is concluded.
"Benjamin, were you in the court to see and hear the
condemnation of your own cousins 1 "
"I was. I sat in the body of the court, in the-fxlace re-
served for counsel."
"Could you say nothing that wo-uld help them ? "
" Nothing. Not a word from any one could help them.
Consider, one of them was an officer, and one of them was
a surgeon Ir the army. The ignorant rustics whom they
_'(I8 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
led maj' some of them escape, but the officers can look for
no mercy."
"Madam," I cried, "I must see llobin before he dies,
though God knows there are those here who want my ser-
vices daily. Yet I must see Robin. He will not die easy
unless he sees me and kisses me once."
Madam made no reply.
"For a week," said Benjamin, "they are safe. I do not
think they will be executed for a week at least. But it is
not wise to reckon on a reprieve even for an hour; the judge
may at any time order their execution."
"I will go to-morrow."
"That will be seen," said Benjamin.
"My dear," said madam, "my nephew Benjamin is a friend
of the judge, Lord Jeffries."
"Say rather a follower and admirer of that great, learned
and religious man. One who is yet but a member of the
outer bar must not assume the style and title of friend to a
man whose next step must be the woolsack."
Heavens ! He called the inhuman wretch who had sen-
tenced an innocent old woman of seventy to be burned alive,
and five hundred persons to be hanged, and one knows not
how many to be inhumanly flogged — great and religious !
"If interest can save any," madam said, softly, "Benja-
min can command that interest, and he is on the side of
mercy, especially where his cousins are concerned."
I now observed that madam, who had not formerly been
wont to regard her nephew with much affection, observed
toward him the greatest respect and submission.
"Madam," he replied, "you know the goodness of my heart.
What man can do shall be done by me, not only for Robin,
but for the others who are involved with hini in common
ruin. But there are conditions with which I have taken pains
to acquaint you."
Madam sighed heavily and looked as if she would speak,
but refrained, and I saw the tears rolling down her cheeks.
"What conditions, Benjamin?" I asked him. "Conditions!
For trying to save your own cousins and your own grand-
father ! Conditions ! Why, you should be moving heaven
and earth for tb',m instead of making conditions."
"It needs not so much exertion," he replied, with an un-
becoming grin. "First, Grace, I must own, child, that the
two years or thereabouts since I saw thee last have added
greatly to thy charms, at which I rejoice."
"Oh, what have my charms to do with the business ?"
I'OR FAITH AXD FREEDOM.
209
"Much, as thou wilt presently discover. But let me re-
mind you both that there threaten — nay, there are actually
overhanging- — disasters, the like of which never happen save
in time of civil war and of rebellion. My grandfather is in
prison, and will be tried on a charge of sending men and
horses to join Monmouth. Nay, the duke's proclamation
was found in his house ; he will be certainly condemned,
and his estates contiscated. So there will be an end of as
old a tamily as lives in Somerset. Then there is thy father,
child, who was preacher to the army, and did make mis-
chief in stirring up the fanatical zeal of many. Think you
that he can escape .? Then there is thy brother, Barnaby,
who was such a fool as to meddle in what concerned him
not, and now will hang therefor. What can we expect.?
Are men to go unpunished who thus rebel against the Lord's
Anointed } Is treason, rank treason, the setting-up of a
pretender prince (who is now lying headless in his coffin)
as the rightful heir to be forgiven .'' We must not look for
it. Alas ! madam, had I been with you instead of that
conceited, fanatical, crookback Humphrey, whom I did
ever detest, none of these things should have happened."
"Humphrey,"! said, "has more worth in his fingers
than you in your great body, Benjamin."
" My dear, my dear, do not anger Benjamin. Oh, do not
anger our only friend."
" She may say what she pleases. My time will come.
Listen, then. They must all be hanged unless I can suc-
ceed in getting them pardoned."
" Nay, but forgive my rudeness, Benjamin ; they arc your
own cousins ; it is your own grandfather. What need of
conditions.'' Oh, what does this mean .? Are you a man of
flesh and blood } "
" My conditions, child, will assure you that such is truly
the nature of my composition."
" If money is wanted" — I thought of my bag of gold,
and of Mr. Penne's hints — "how much will suffice? "
" I know not. If it comes to buying them off, more thou-
sands than could be raised on the Bradford Orcas estates.
Put money out of mind."
"Then, Benjamin, save them if thou canst. '
"His lordship knows that I have near relations con-
cerned ill the rebellion. Yet, he assured me, if his own
brothers were among the ])ris()ners he would hang them
till."
"Nay, thez^ Benjamin, I say no more, Tell me wha\
2IO FOR FAITH AXD FREEDOM.
are these conditions, and if we can grant or contrive them,
we will comply." I had no thought of what was meant bj
his conditions. Nor did I even guess until the morning
when madam told me. " Oh, madam is there anything in
the world — anything that we would not do to save them ? "'
Madam looked at me with so much pity in her eyes that
I wondered. It was pity for me, and not for her son thot 1
read in that look. Why did she pity me ?
I understood not.
" My dear," she said, " there are times when women arc
called upon to make sacrifices which they never thought to
make, which seem impossible to be even asked."
"Oh, there are no sacrifices which we would not gladly
make. What can Benjamin require that we should not glad-
ly do for him .? Nay, he is Robin's cousin, and your nephew,
and Sir Christopher's grandson. He will, if need be, join
us in making these sacrifices."
" I will," said Benjamin. "I will join you in making that
sacrifice with a willing heart. "
" I will tell her to-morrow," said madam. " No, I can-
not tell her to-night. Let us rest Go, sir, leave us to our
sorrow. It may be that we may think the sacrifice too great
even for the lives and safety of those we love. Go, sir, for
to-night, and return to-morrow."
" Surely, child," said madam, presently, when he was,
gone and we were alone, " we are the most unhappy women
in the world. "
"Nay," I replied. "There have been other women be-
fore us who have been ruined and widowed by civil wars
and rebellions. If it be any comfort to think that others
have suffered like ourselves, then we may comfort ourselves.
But the thought brings no consolation to me."
' ' Hagar, " said madam, ' ' was a miserable woman because
she was cast out by the man she loved, even the father of
her son. Rachel was unhappy until the Lord gave her a
son. Jephthah's daughter was unhappy, my dear : there
is no case except hers which may be compared with ours,
and Jephthah's daughter was happy in one circumstance,
that she was permitted to die. Ah ! happy girl she died.
That was all her sacrifice, to die for the sake of her father.
But what is ours "i "
So she spoke in riddles, or dark sayings, of which I under-
stood nothing. Nevertheless, before lying down, I did
solemnly, and in her presence and hearing, aloud, upon
my knees, offer unto Almighty God myself — my very life
FOR FAiril AND FREEDO.^f. 211
—if SO that Robin could be saved. And then, with lighter
heart than I had known for long, I lay down and slept.
At midnight or thereabouts madam woke me up.
"Child, "she said, "I cannot sleep. Tell me truly, is
there nothing that thou wouldst refuse for Robm's sake?"
"Nothing, verily. Ah, madam, can you doubt it ? "
' Even if it were a sacrifice of which he would not ap-
prove .'' "
" Believe me, madam, there is nothing that I would not
do for Robin's safety."
"Child, if we were living in the days of persecution
wouldst thou hear the mass and adopt the Catholic religion
to save thy lover's life.?"
"Oh, madam, the Lord will never try us above our
strength. "
"Sleep, my child, sleep. And pray that as thy temp-
tation, so may be thy strength."
CHAPTER XXIX.
ON WHAT CONDITIONS?
In the morning I awoke with a lighter heart than I had
known for a long time. Benjamin was going to release
our prisoner : I should go to meet Robin at the gate of his
prison ; all would be well, except that my father would
never recover. We should return to the village, and every-
thing should go on as before. Oh, poor fond wretch !
How was I deluded, and oh, miserable day that ended
with such shame and sadness, yet began with so much
hope.
Madam was already dressed. She was sitting at the win-
dow looking into the churchyard. She had been crying.
Alas, how many women in Somersetshire were then weep-
ing all day long !
"Madam," I said, "we now have hope. We must not
weep and lament any more. Oh, to have at least a little
hope, when we have lived so long in iles])air, it makes one
breath again. Benjamin will save our prisoners for us.
Oh, after all, it is Benjamin who will help us. We did not
iti FOR FAITH AXD FREEDOM.
use to love Benjamin because he was rude and masterful,
and wanted everything for himself, and would never give
up anything. Yet, you see, he had after all a good heart"
• — madam groaned — "and he cannot forget, though he fol-
loweth not his grandfather's opinions, that he is his honor's
grandson — the son of his only daughter — ^'and your nephew,
and first cousin to Robin and second cousin once removed
to Humphrey and Barnaby, playfellows of old. Why, these
are ties which bind him as with ropes. He needs must
bestir himself to save their lives. And since he says that
he can save them, of course he must have bestirred him.
self to some purpose. Weep no more, dear madam. Your
son will be restored to us. We shall be happy again, thanks
to Benjamin."
" Child, '' she replied, " my heart is broken ; it is broken,
I say. Oh, to be lying dead and at peace m yonder church-
yard ! Never before did I think that it must be a happy
thing to be dead and at rest, and to feel nothing and to
know nothing. "
"But, madam, the dead are not in their graves ; there
lie only the bodies, their souls are above."
"Then they still think and reniember. Oh, can a time
ever come when things can be forgotten } Will the dead
ever cease to reproach themselves t "
She wrung her hands m an ecstacy of grief, though I
knew not what should move her so. Indeed, she was com-
monly a woman of sober and contained disposition, entirely
governed both in her temper and in her words. What was
in her mind that she should accuse herself.' Then, while
I was dressing, she went on talking, being still full of this
strong passion.
"I shall have my boy back again," she said. "Yes he
will come back to me. And what will he say to me when
I tell him all } Yet I fnusl have him back. Oh, to think
of the hangman tymg the rope about his neck" — she shud-
dered and trembled — "and afterwards the cruel knife " — she
clasped her hands and could not say the words. " I see the
comely limbs of my boy — oh, the thought tears my heart-
it tears me through and through ; I cannot think of anything
else day or night ; and yet in the prison he is so patient and
so cheerful. I marvel that men can be so patient with this
dreadful death before them." She broke out again into
another passion of sobbing and crying. Then she became
calmer and tried to speak of things less dreadful.
"When first I visited my boy in prison," she said, " Hum-
FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
213
phrey came humbly to ask my pardon. Poor lad ! I have
had hard thoughts of him. It is certain that he was in the
plot from the beginning-. Yet had he not gone so far, should
we have sat down when the rising began } But he doth still
accuse himself of rashness and calls himself the cause of all
our misfortunes. He fell upon his knees, in the sight of all,
to ask forgiveness, saying that it was he and none other who
had brought ruin upon us all. Then Robin begged me to
raise him up and comfort him, which I did, putting aside
my hard thoughts and telling him that being such stubborn
Protestants our lads could not choose but join the duke
whether he advised it or whether he did not. Nay, I told
him that Robin would have dragged him willy-nilly. And
so I kissed him, and Robin took him by the hand and
solemnly assured him that his grandfather had no such
thought in his mind."
"Nay," I said, "my father and Barnaby would certainly
have joined the duke, Humphrey or not. Never were any
men more eager for rebellion."
"I have been to London," she went on. " 'Tis a long
journey and I effected nothing, for the mind of the king, I
was assured, is harder than the nether millstone. My
brother-in-law Boscorel went with me, and I left him there.
But I have no hope that he will be able to help us, his old
friends being much scattered and many of them dead, and
some hostile to the court and in ill favor. So I returned,
seeing that if I could not save my son I could be with him
until he died. The day before yesterday he was tried, if
you call that a trial when hundreds together plead guilty
and are all alike sentenced to death."
" Have you been home since the trial } "
" I went to the prison as soon as they were brought back
from court. Some of the people — for they were all con-
demned to death, every one — were crying and lamenting.
And there were many women among them, their wives or
their mothers, and these were shrieking and wringing their
hands, so that it was a terrible spectacle. But some of the
men called for drink and began to carouse, so that they
might drown the thought of impending death. My dear, I
never thought to look upon a scene so full of horror. As for
our own boys, Robin was patient and even cheerful, and
Humphrey, leading us to the most quiet spot in that dread-
ful place, exhorted us to lose no time in weejiing or vain
laments, but to cheer up and console our hearts with the
thought that (ieath, even violent death, is but a brief pang,
214
FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
and life is but a short passage, and that heaven awaits us
beyond. Humphrey should have been a minister, such is
the natural piety and goodness of his heart. So he spoke of
the happy meeting in that place of blessedness where earthly
love would be purged of its grossness and our souls shall
be so glorified that we shall each admire the beauty of the
other. Then Robin talked of you, my dear, and sent thee a
loving message, bidding thee grieve for him, but not with-
out hope, and that a sure and certain hope of meeting again.
There are other things he bade me tell thee, but now I can-
not — oh, I must not"
"Nay, madam, but if they are words that he wished me
to hear .?
"Why, they were of his constant love and — and — no, 1
cannot tell them."
"Nay," I said, " fret not thy poor heart with thinking any
more of the prison, for Benjamin will surely save him, and
then we shall love Benjamin all our lives."
" He will perhaps save him. And yet — oh, how can I
tell her.? — we shall shed many more tears. How can I tell
her.? How can I tell her.' "
So she broke off again, but presently recovered and went
on talking. In time of great trouble the mind wanders
backward and forward, and though one talks still, it is dis-
jointedly. So she w^ent back to the prison.
"The boys have been well, though the prison is full and
the air is foul. Yet there hath been as yet no fever, for
which they are thankful. At first they had no money, the
soldiers who took them prisoners having robbed them of
their money, and indeed stripped them, as well, to their
shirts, telling them that shirts were good enough to be
hanged in. Yet the people of Exeter have treated the pri.;-
oners with great humanity, bringing them, daily, food and
drink, so that there has been nothing lacking. The time,
however, doth hang upon their hands in a place where there-
is nothing to do all day but to think of the past and to dread
the future. One poor lady, I was told, hath gone distracted
w^ith the terror of this thought. Child, every day that I
visited my son, while he talked with me, always cheerful
and smiling, my mind turned continually to the scaffold and
the gibbet." Then she returned to the old subject, from
which she could in no way escape. "I saw the hangman.
I saw my son hanging to the shameful tree — oh ! my son !
my son !- — till I could bear it no longer and would hurry
away from the prison jmd walk about the town over the
FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 2 1 5
fields — yea, all night long — to escape the dreadful thouglit.
Oh, to be blessed with such a son and to have him torn from
my arms for such a death. If he had been killed upon the
field of battle 'twould have been easier to bear. But now he
dier daily, he dies a thousand deaths in my mind. My child"
— she turned again to the churchyard — "the rooks are caw-
ing in their nests ; the sparrows and the robins hop among
the graves ; the dead hear nothing ; all their troubles are
over, all their sins are forgiven. ''
I comforted her as well as I could. Indeed, I understood
not at all what she meant, thinking that perhaps all her
trouble had caused her to be in that frame of mind when a
woman doth not know whether to laugh or to cry. And
then, taking my basket, I saUied forth to provide the day's
provisions for my prisoners.
" Barnaby, " I said, when he came to the wicket, " I have
good news for thee.''
" What good news } That I am to be flogged once a year
in every market town in Somersetshire, as will happen to
young Tutchin ? "
"No, no, not that kind of news; but freedom, brother,
hope for freedom."
He laughed. "Who is to give us freedom? "
" Benjamin hath found a way for the enlargement of all."
"Ben Boscorel } What, will he stir finger for the sake of
anybody .-* Then, Sis, if I remember Ben aright, there will
be something tor himself. But if it is upon Ben that we are
to rely we are truly well sped. On Ben, quotha ! ''
"Brother, he told me so himself."
" 'Ware hawks, sister. If Ben is at one end of the rope
and the hangman at the other, I think I know who will be
stronger. Well, child, believe Ben if thou wilt. Thy father
looks strange this morning; he opened his eyes and seemed
to know me. I wonder if there is a change. 'Tis wonderful
how he lasts. There are six men sickened since yesterday
of the fever ; three of them brought in last week are already
dead. As for the singing that we used to hear, it is all over,
and if the men get drunk they are dumb drunk. Sir Chris-
topher looks but poorly this morning. I hope he will not
take the fever. He staggered when he arose, which is
a bad sign."
"Tell mother, Barnaby, what Benjamin hath undertaken
to do."
"Nay, that shall I not, liecause, look you, I beliave it
not There is some trick or lie at the bottom, unless Ben
8l6 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
hath repented and changed his disposition, which used to
be two parts wolf, one part bear, and the rest fox. If there
were anything left it was serpent. Well, sister, I am no
grumbler, but I expect this job to be over in a fortnight or
so, when they say the Wells Assizes will be held. Then we
shall all be swinging ; and 1 only hope that we may carry
with us into the court such a breath ot jail fever as shall lay
the judge himself upon his back and end his days. In the
next world he will meet the men whom he has sentenced,
and it will fare worse for him in their hands than with fifty
thousand devils."
So he took a drink of the beer, and departed within the
prison, and for three weeks I saw him no more.
On my way home I met Benjamin.
"Hath madam told you yet of my conditions.? " he asked,
eagerly.
" Not yet. She will doubtless tell me presently. Oh,
what matter for the conditions. It can only be something
good for us, contrived by your kind heart. Ben, I have told
Barnaby, who will not believe in our good-fortune."
" It is, indeed, something very good for you, Alice, as you
will find. Come with me, and walk in the meadows, be-
yond the reach of this doleful place, where the air reeks
with jail fever, and all day long they are reading the funeral
service."
So he led me out upon the sloping sides of a hill, where
we walked awhile upon the grass very pleasantly, my mind
being now at rest.
" You have heard of nothing," he said, " of late, but of
the rebellion and its consequences. Let us talk about
London.
So he discoursed concerning his own profession and his
prospects, which, he said, were better than those of any
other young lawyer, in his own opinion. " For my prac-
tice, " he said, "I already have one which gives me an in-
come far beyond my wants, which are simple. Give me
plain fare, and for the evening a bottle or two of good wine,
with tobacco, and friends who love a cheerful glass. I ask
no more. My course lies clear before me ; I shall become
a king's counsel ; I shall be made a judge ; presently I shall
become lord chancellor. What did I tell thee, child, long
ago? Well, that time has now arrived."
Still I was so foolish, being so happy, tliat I could not
understand what he meant.
''I fim sure, Benjamin,'' I said, "that v/c at luime shal.'
P'OR FAITH AXD FREEDOM.
17
ever rejoice, and be proud of your success. Nobody will
be more happy to hear of it tlian Robin and I."
Here he turned very red, and muttered something.
"You find your happiness in courts and clubs and Lon-
don," I went on ; "as for Robin and myself, we shall find
ours in the peaceful place which we have always decided to
have. "
"What the devil — " he cried ; " hath she not told you the
condition } She came with me for no other purpose. I
have borne with her company all the way from Exeter for
this only. Go back to her, and ask what it is. Go back, I
say, and make her tell. What, am I to take all this trouble
for nothing } "
His face was purple with sudden rage. His eyes were
fierce, and he roared and bawled at me. Why, what had
I said? How had I angered him.?
"Benjamin,"! cried, " what is the matter.? How have
I angered you ? "
"Go back," he roared again. "Tell her that if I pres-
ently come and find thee still in ignorance 'twill be the worse
for all. Tell her that I say it ; 'twill else be worse for all."
CHAPTER XXX.
A SLIGHT THING AT THE BEST
So I left Benjamin much frightened, and marvelling both
at his violent passion and at the message which he sent to
madam.
She was waiting for me at the lodging.
"Madam," I said, "I have seen Benjamin. He is very
angry. He bade me go home and ask you concerning his
conditions. We must not anger our best friend, dear
madam."
She rose from her chair and beg-an to walk about wring--
mg her hands, as if torn by some violent emotion.
"Oh, my child!" she cried; "Grace, come to my arms
■ — if it is for the last time — my daughter 1 IMore then ever
mine, though I must never call thee daughter." She held
me in her arms, kissing mo tenderly. " IMy dear, we agreed
2 1 8 i-OK J-AIJ'II AA'D FREEDOM.
that no sacrifice is too great for the safety of our boy. Yes,
we ag-reed to that. Let us kiss each other before we do a
thing- after which we can never kiss each other again. No,
never again. '
"Why not again, madam .'' "
"Oh!" — she pushed me from her — " it is now eight oi
the clock. He will be here at ten. I promised I would tell
thee before he came. And all is in readiness."
' ' For what, madam } "
Why, even then I guessed not her meaning, though I
might have done so ; but I never thought that so great a
wickedness was possible.
" No sacrifice should be too greatfor us," she cried, clasp-
ing her head with her hands, and looking wildly about;
"none too great Not even the sacrifice of my own son's
love ; no, not that W'hy, let us think of the sacrifices men
make for their country, for their religion. Abraham was
ready to offer his son Isaac ; Jephthah sacrificed his daugh-
ter ; King ^lesha slew his eldest son for a burnt-offering.
Thousands of men die every year in battle for their country.
What have we to offer.'' If we give ourselves it is but a
slight thing that we offer, at the best "
"Surely, madam," I cried, "you know that we would
willingly die for the sake of Robin."
" Yes, child, to die to die — were nothing. It is to live —
we must live for Robin."
" I understand not madam."
" Listen, then, for the time presses ; and if he arrived and
find that I have not broken the thing to thee he will perhaps
ride back to Exeter in a rage. When I left my son, after the
trial, being very wretched and without hope, I found Ben-
jamin waitin-j for me at the prison gates. He walked with
me to my lodging, and on the way he talked of what w^as
in my mind. First he said that for the better sort, there
was little hope, seeing that the king was revengeful and the
judge most wrathful, and in a mood which allowed of no
mercy. Therefore it would be best to dismiss all hopes of
]iardon or of safety either to these two or to the prisoners of
Jlminster. Now, when he had said this a great many times,
we being now arrived at my lodging, he told me that there
was, in my case, a way out of the trouble, and one way
only ; that if we consented to follow that way, which, he
said, would do no manner of harm to either of us or to our
prisoners, he would undertake, and faithfully engage to
secure, the safety of all our prisoners. I prayed him to
FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
219
point out this way, and after much entreaty he consented."
" What is the way ? " I asked, having not the least sus-
picion. And yet the look in her eyes should have told me
what was coming-.
" Is it true, child, that long ago you were betrothed to
Benjamin }
"No, madam. That is most untrue."
" He says that, when you were quite a little child, he in-
formed you of his intention to marry you, and none but you. "
"Why, that is true, indeed." And now I began to under-
stand the way that was proposed, and my heart sank within
me. " That is true. But to tell a child such a thing is not
a betrothal. "
" He says that only three or four years ago he renewed
that assurance."
"So he did, but I gave him no manner of encourage-
ment."
" He says that he promised to return and marry you when
he had arrived at some practice, and that he engaged to be-
come lord chancellor, and make you a peeress of the realm."
" All that he said, and more, yet did I never give him the
least encouragement, but quite the contrary, for always have
I feared and disliked Benjamin. Never at any time was it
possible for me to think of him in that way. That hr
knows, and cannot pretend otherwise. Madam, doth Ben-
jamin wish evil to Robin because I am betrothed to him }
" He also says, in his rude way — Benjamin was always
a rude and coarse boy — that he had warned you long ago
that if any one else came in his way he would break the
head of that man."
" Yes, I remember that he threatened some violence."
"My dear," — madam took my hand — "his time of re-
venge is come. He says that he has the life of the mai.
whom you love in his own hands, and he will, he swears,
break his head for him, and so keep the promise made to
you by tying the rope round his neck. My dear, Benjamin
has always been stubborn and obstinate from his birth. Stul)-
born and obstinate was he as a boy ; stubborn and obstinatt-
is he now ; he cares for nobody in the world except himself;
he has no heart, he has no tenderness, he has no scruples ;
if he wants a thing he will trample on all the world to gel
it, and break all the laws of God. I know what manner ol
life he leads. He is the friend and companion of the dread-
ful judge who goeth about like a raging lion. Kvery night
ilo Ihc}' drink together until they are speechless, and cannot
220 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
stand. Their delight it is to drink and smoke tobacco, with
unseemly jests and ribald songs which would disgrace the
play-house or the country fair. Oh, 'tis the life of a hog
that he delights in. Yet for all that he is, like his noble
friend, full of ambition. Nothing will do but he must rise
in the world. Therefore he works hard at his profession.
and—"
" Madam, the condition — what is the condition } P^):
Heaven's sake, tell me quickly. Is it — is it — oh, no, no,
no 1 Anything but that."
" My child ! my daughter ! " — she laid her hand upon
/ny head — " it is that condition ; that, and none other. Oh,
my dear, it is laid upon thee to save us ; it is to be thy work
alone ; and by such a sacrifice as, I think, no woman ever
yet had to make. Nay, perhaps it is better not to make it,
after all. Let all die together, and let us live out our allotted
lives in sorrow. I thought of it all night, and it seemed
better so ; better even that thou wert lying in thy graA^e.
His condition ! Oh, he must be a devil thus to barter for the
lives of his grandfather and his cousins ; no human being,
surely, would do such a thing. The condition, my dear is,
that thou must marry him, now, this very morning ; and, this
once done, he will at once take such steps — I know not
what they may be, but I take it that his friend, the judge,
will grant him the favor — such steps, I say, as well release
unto us all our prisoners."
At tirst I made no answer.
" If not,'' she added, after a while, " they shall all be
surely hanged."
I remained silent. It is not easy, at such a moment, to
collect one's thoughts and understand what things mean. 1
asked her, presently, if there was no other way.
" None," she said ; there was no other way.
" What shall I do .? what shall I do .? " I asked. "God, it
seems, hath granted my daily prayer. But how ? Oh,
what shall I do .'' "
" Think of what thou hast in thy power."
" But to marry him ; to marry Benjamin. Oh, to marry
him ! How should I live 1 How should I look the world
in the face } "
" My dear, there are many other unhappy wives. There
are other husbands brutal and selfish ; there are other men
as wicked as my nephew. Thou wilt swear in church to
love, honor, and obey him. Thy love is already hate; thy
honor is contempt ; thy obedience will be the obedience of
POR FAITH AJVD FRJLEDOM. 22 1
a slave. Y&t death cometh at length, even to a slave and
to the harsh taskmaster."
" Oh, madam, miserable indeed is the lot of those whose
only friend is death."
She was silent, leaving me to think of this terrible con-
dition.
" What would Robin say .? What would Humphrey say .?
Nay, what would his honor himself say .? "
"Why, child," she replied, with a kind of laugh, "it
needs not a wizard to tell what they would say. For one
and all, they would rather go to the gallows than buy their
lives at such a price. Thy brother Barnaby would mount
the ladder with a cheerful heart rather than sell his sister to
buy his life. That we know already. Nay, we know
more. For Robin will never forgive his mother who suf-
fered thee to do such a thing. So shall I lose what I value
more than life — the love of my only son. Yet would I buy
his life at such a price. My dear, if you love your lover I
lose my son. Yet we will save him whether he will or no."
She took my hands and pressed them in her own. "My
dear, it will be worse for me than for you. You will have
a husband, it is true, whom you will loathe ; yet you will
not see him, perhaps, for half the day at least, and perhaps
he will leave thee to thyself for the other half. But for me,
I shall have to endure the loss of my son's affections all
my life, because I am very sure and certain that he can
never forgive me. Think, my dear. — Shall they all die —
all ; think of father and brother and of your mother; or will
you willingly endure a life of misery with this man for
husband in order that they may live ? "
' ' Oh, madam, " I said. ' ' as for the misery, any other kind
of misery I would willingly endure ; but it is marriage —
marriage. Yet who am I that I should choose my sacri-
rice .'' Oh, if good works were of any avail, then would the
way to heaven be opened wide for me by such an act and
such a life. Oh, what will Robin say of me ? What will
he think of me ? Will he curse me and loathe me for being
able to this thing? Should I do it.? Is it right? Doth
God command it ? Yet to save their dear lives ; only to
set them free ; to send that good old man back to his home ;
to suffer my father to die in peace. I must do it — I must
do it. Yet Robin could never forgive me. Oh, he told me
that betrothal was a sacrament. I have sworn to be his.
Yet to save kis life — I cannot hesitate. If it is wrong, I
pray that Robin will forgive mc. Tell him that — oh, tell
22 2 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
him that it is I who am to die, instead of him. Perhaps
God will suffer me to die quickly. Tell him that I loA'ed him
and only him ; that I would rather have died ; that for his
life alone I would not have done this thing because he would
not have suffered it. But it is for all — it is for all. Oh, he
must forgive me. Some day you will send me a message
5)f forgiveness from him. But I must go away and live in
London far from all of you, never to see him or any one of
you again, not even my own mother. It is too shameful a
thing to do. And you will tell his honor, who hath always
loved me, and would willingly have called me his grand-
daughter. It was not that I loved not Robin — God knoweth
that — but for all — for him and Robm and all — to save his
gray hairs from the gallows, and to send him back to his
home. Oh, tell him that — "
"My dear, my dear,"' she replied, but could say no more.
Then for a while we sat in silence with beating hearts.
" I am to purchase the lives of five honest men," I said,
presently, "by my own dishonor. I know very M'ell that
it is by my dishonor and my sin that their lives are to be
bought. It doth not save me from dishonor that I am first
to stand in the church and be married according to the
Prayer Book. Nay, does it not make the sin greater and
the dishonor more certain, that I shall first swear what I
cannot ever perform, to love and honor that man ?"
"Yes, girl, yes," said madam; "but the sin is mine
more than yours. Oh, let me bear the sin upon myself."
" You cannot ; it is my sin and my dishonor. Nay, it is
a most dreadful wicked thing that I am to do. It is all the
sins in one. I do not honor my parents in thus dishonor-
ing myself , I kill myself — the woman that my Robin
loved. I steal the outward form which belonged to Robin
and give it to another. I live in a kind of adultery. It is
truly a terrible sin in the sight of Heaven. Yet I will do
it. I must do it. I love him so that I cannot let him die.
Rather let me be overwhelmed with shame and reproach if
only he can live ! "
" Said I not, my dear, that we two could never kiss each
other ao^ain } When two men have conspired together to
commit a crime they consort no more together, it is said,
but go apart and loathe each other. So it is now with us."
So I promised to do this thing. The temptation was be-
yond my strength. Yet had I possessed more faith I should
have refused. And then great indeed would have been my
reward. Alas 1 How was I punished for my want of
POR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
223
faith ! Well, it was to save my lover. Love makes us
strong for evil as well as strong for good.
And all the time to think that we never inquired or proved
his promises ! To think that we never thought of doubting
or. of asking how he, a young barrister, should be able to
save the lives of four active rebels, and one who had been
zealous in the cause } That two women should have been
so simple is now astonishing.
When the clock struck ten I saw Benjamm walking across
the churchyard. It was part of the brutal nature of the man
that he should walk upon the graves, even those newly
made and not covered up with turf He swung his great
burly form, and looked up at the window with a grin which
made madam tremble and shrink back. But for me I was
not moved by the sight of him, for now I was strong in
resolution. Suppose one who hath made up her mind to
go to the stake for her religion, as would doubtless have
happened unto many had King James been allowed to
continue in his course, do you think that such a woman
would begin to tremble at the sight of her executioner.'
Not so. She would arise and go forth to meet him with
pale face, perhaps (because the agony is sharp"), but with a
steady eye. Benjamin opened the door and stood looking
from one to the other.
" Well," he said to madam, roughly, "you have by this
time told her the condition."
"I have told her. Alas ! I have told her, and already I
repent me that I have told her."
" Doth she consent ? "
"She does. It shall be as you desire."
'■Ha!" Benjamin drew a long breath. "Said I not,
sweetheart," he turnea to me, "that I would break the
head of any who came between us.? What! Have I not
broken the head of my cousin when I take away his girl?
Very well, then. hx\(S. that to good purpose. Very well,
then. It remains to carry out the condition."
"The condition," I said, " I understand to be this. If I
become your wife, Benjamin, you knowing full well that I
love another man, and am already promised to him — "
"Ta, ta, ta," he said. " That you are promised to an-
other man matters not one straw. That you love another
man I care nothing. What? I promise, sweetheart, that
I will soon make thee forget that other man. And as for
loving any other man after marrying me, that, d'ye see, my
2 24 ^^^ FAITH A.VD FREEDOM.
pretiy, will be impossible. Oh, thou shalt be the fondest
wife in the Three Kingdoms."
" Nay, if such a thing cannot move your heart, I say no
more. If I marry you, then all our prisoners will be en-
larged ? "
"I swear" — he used a great round oath, very horrid
from the lips of a Christian man — "I swear that if you
marry me, the three, Robin, Humphrey, and Barnaby shall
all save their lives. And as for Sir Christopher and your
father, they also shall be enlarged. Can I say aught in
addition .? "
I suspected no deceit. I understood, and so did madam,
that this promise meant the full and free forgiveness of all.
Yet there was something of mockery in his eyes which
should have made us suspicious ; but I, for one, was young
and ignorant, and madam was country-bied and truthful.
"Benjamin," I cried, falling on my knees before him,
" think what it is you ask ! think what a wicked thing you
would have me do ! To break my vows, who am promised
to your cousin ! and would you leave your grandfather to
perish all for a whim about a silly girl .? Benjamin, you are
playing with us. You cannot, you could not sell the lives,
the very lives of your mother, father, and your cousins for
such a price as this ! The play has gone far enough, Ben-
jamin. Tell us that it is over, and that you never meant
to be taken seriously. And we will forgive you the an-
guish you have caused us."
"Get up," he said, "get up, I say, and stop this folly."
He then began to curse and to swear. "Playing, is it?
You shall quickly discover that it is no play, but serious
enough to please you all, Puritans though you be. Playing !
Get up, I say, and have done."
" Then," I said, " there is not in the whole world a more
inhuman monster than yourself."
"Oh, my dear, my dear, do not anger him," cried
madam.
"All is fair in love, my pretty," said Benjamin, with a
grin. "Before marriage call me what you please — inhu-
man monster — anything that you please. After marriage
my wife will have to sing a different tune."
" Oh, Benjamin, treat her kindly," madam cried.
" I mean not otherwise. Kmdness is my nature ; I am
too kind for my own interests. Obedience I expect, and
good temper and a civil tongue, with such respect as is due
to one who intends to be lord chancellor. Come child, no
FOR FAITH AXD FREEDOM.
22^
more hard words. Thou shalt be the happiest woman, i
say, in the world. What ? Monmouth's rebellion was only
contrived to make thy happiness. Instead of a dull coun-
try-house thou shalt have a house in London ; instead of
the meadows thou shalt have the parks ; instead of skv-
larks, the singers at the play-house ; in due course thou
shalt be my lady — "
"Oh, stop, stop! I must marry you since you make
me, but the partner in your ambitions will I never be.'
"My dear," madam whispered, "speak him fair. Be
humble to him. Remember he holds in his hand the liv^s
of all."
" Yes " — Benjamin overheard her — "the lives of all. The
man who dares to take my girl from me — mine — deserves
to die. Yet so clement, so forgiving, so generous am I,
that I am ready to pardon him. He shall actually save his
life. If, therefore, it is true that (before marriage) you love
that man and are promised to him, come to church with me
out of your great love to him in order to save his life. But
if you love him not, then you can love me, and therefore
can come to please yourself. Willy-nilly — what.-* am I to
be thwarted in such a trifle.? Willy-nilly, I say, I will marry
thee. Come, we waste the time."
He seized my wrist as if he would have dragged me to-
wards the door.
"Benjamin," cried madam, "be merciful. She is but a
girl, and she loves my poor boy. Be merciful. Oh, it is
not yet too late." She snatched me from his grasp and stood
between us — her arms outstretched. "It is not too late.
They may die and we will go in sorrow, but not in shame.
They may die. Go, murderer of thy kith and kin. Go,
send thy grandfather to die upon the scaffold, but at least
leave us in peace."
"No, madam," I said. "With your permission, if there
be no other way, I will save their lives."
"Well, then," Benjamin said, sulkily, "there must be an
end of this talk and no further delay. Else, by the Lord, I
know not what may happen. Will Tom Boilman delay to
prepare his caldron of hot pitch ? If we wait much longer
Robin's arms and legs will be seething in that broth. Doth
the judge delay with his warrant.? Already he signs it. Al-
ready they are putting up the gibbet on which he will hang.
Come, I say."
Benjamin was sure of his prcv, 1 suppose, because we
IS
2 26 FOR FAITH AXD FREEDOM.
found the clergyman waiting for us in the church, ready with
surplice and book. The clerk was standing beside him,
also with his book, open at the service for marriage. While
they read the service madam threw herself prostrate on the
communion steps, her head in her hands, as one who suffers
the last extremeties of remorse and despair for sin too griev-
ous to be ever forgiven. Let us hope that sometimes wc
may judge ourselves more harshhMhan Heaven itselt dotli
judge us.
The clerk gave me away, and was the only witness of th^i
marriage besides that poor distracted mother.
'Twas a strange wedding. There had been no banns put
up ; the bride was pale and trembling ; the bridegroom was
gloomy ; the only other person present wept upon her
knees, while the parson read through his ordered prayer
and psalm and exhortation ; there was no sign of rejoic-
ing.
" So," said Benjamin, when all was over. "Now, thou art
my wife. They shall not be hanged therefore. Come,
wife, we will this day ride to Exeter, where thou shalt thy-
self bear the joyful news of thy marriage and their safety
to my cousins. They will own that 1 am a loving and
a careful cousin."
He led me, thus talking out of church. Now, as we left
the churchyard there passed through the gates — oh, baleful
omen ! — four men carrying between them a bier ; upon it
was the body of another poor prisoner dead of jail fever. I
think that even the hard heart of Benjamin — now my hus-
band ! oh, merciful Heavens, he was my husband — quailed,
and was touched with fear at meeting this most sure and
certain sign of coming woe, for he muttered something in
his teeth, and cursed the bearers aloud for not choosing
another time.
My husband then — -1 must needs call him my husband —
told me brutally that I must ride with him to Exeter, v\'here
I should myself bear the joyful news of their safety to his
cousins. I did not take that journey, nor did I bear the
news, nor did I ever after that moment set eyes upon
him again ; nor did I ever speak to him again. His wife
1 remained, I suppose, because I was joined to him in
church. But I never saw him after that morning, and the
reason why you shall now hear.
At the door of our lodging, whi.h was, you know, hard
by the church, stood Mr. Boscorel himself.
"What means this? " he asked, with looks troubled and
FOR FAITH AXD FREEDOM.
227
confused. "What doth it mean, Benjamin? What hath
happened, in the name of God ? "
"Sir," said Benjamin, "you know my character. Vou
will acknowledge that I am not one of those who are easily
turned from their purpose. Truly, the occasion is not
favorable for a wedding, but yet I present to you my newly
married wife. '
"Thy wife, child! he thy husband.? Why, thou art
betro.thed to Robin! Hath the world gone crazy? Do I
hear aright ? Is this — this — this — a time to be marrying ?
Hast thou not heard I — hast thou not heard, I say ? "
"Brother-in-law," said madam, "it is to save the lives of
all that this is done."
"To save the lives of all?" IMr. Boscorel repeated.
"Why — why — hath not Benjamin, then, told what hath
happened, and what hath been done ? "
"No, sir, I have not," said his son; " I had other fish to
fry."
" Not told them ? Is it possible ? "
" Benjamin hath promised to save all their lives if this
child would marry him. To save their lives hath Grace
consented, and I with her. He will save them through his
great friendship with Judge Jeffreys."
" Benjamin to save their lives! Sirrah," he returned to
his son with great wrathin his face, " what villainy is this ?
Thou hast promised to save their lives ? What villainy, I
say, is this ? Sister-in-law, did he not tell you what hath
been done ! "
" He has told us nothing. Oh, is there new misery ? "
"Child" — Mr. Boscorel spoke with the tears running
down his cheeks — "thou art betrayed, alas I most cruelly
and foully betrayed. !My son — would to God that I had
died before that I should say so ! — is a villain. For, first,
the lives of these young men are already saved, and he hath
known it for a week and more. Learn, then, that with the
help of certain friends I have used such interest at court that
for these three I have received the promise of safety. Yet
they will not be pardoned. They are given, among other
prisoners, to the courtiers and the ladies-in-waiting. One
Mr. Jerome Nipho hath received and entered on his list the
names of Robin and Humphrey Challis and Barnaby Kykin ;
they will be sold by him and transported to Jamaica, or
elsewhere, for a term of years. "
" They were already saved ! " cried madam. " He knew,
then, when they were tried and sentenced that their lives
228 I'Ok FAITJI AND FREEDOM.
were already spared ? Oh, child ! poor child ! oh, Grace 1
oh, my daughter ! what misery have we brought upon
thee ! ''
Benjamin said nothing. On his face lay a sullen scowl
of obstinacy. As for me, I was clinging to madam's arm.
This man was my husband, and Robin was already saved ;
and by lies and villainy he had cheated us.
"They were already saved," Mr. Boscorel continued.
•' Benjamin knew it. I sent him a letter that he might teH
his cousins. My son — alas 1 I say again — my only son —
my only son — my son is a villain ! "
" No one shall take my girl," said Benjamin. "What?
A.11 is fair in love."
" He has not told you either what hath happened in the
prison ? Thou hadst speech I hear with Barnaby, early this
morning, child } The other prisoners " — he lowered his
voice, and folded his hands, as in prayer — "they have
since been enlarged."
" How .'* " madam asked ; "is Sir Christopher free } "
"He hath received his freedom from One who neverfails
to set poor prisoners free. JNIy father-in-law fell dead in the
courtyard at nine o'clock this morning ; weep not for him,
But, child, there is much more ; about that same time thy
father breathed his last He, too, is dead. He, too, hath
his freedom. Benjamin knew of this as well, Alice, my
child ; " the kindly tears of compassion rolled down his
face. " I have loved thee always, my dear; and it is my
son who hath wrought this wickedness — my own son — my
only son — " He shook his cane in Benjamin's face. "Oh,
villain ! " he cried, " oh, villain ! "
Benjamin made no reply. But his face was black and his
eyes obstinate.
•'There is yet more — oh, there is more. Thou hast lost
thy mother as well, for at the sight of her husband's death
his poor patient wife could no longer bear the trouble, but
she, too, fell dead of a broken heart ; yea, she fell dead upon
his dead body — the Lord showed her this great and crown-
ing mercy, so that they all died together. This, too, Ben-
jamin knew. Oh, villain ! villain 1 "
Benjamin heard unmoved, except that his scowl grew
blacker.
" Go ! " his father continued ; "I load thee not, my son,
with a father's curse. Thy wickedness is so great that thy
punishment will be exemplary. The judgments of God de-
scend upon the most hardened. Get thee gone out of mjr
FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM,
229
sight ! Let me never more behold thee until thou hast felt
the intolerable pain ef remorse. Get thee hence, I say !
Begone ! "
" I rjo not," said Benjamin, " without my loving wife. I
budge not, I say, without my tender and loving wife.
Come, my dear/'
He advanced with outstretched hands, but I broke away
andfied, shrieking. As I ran, Mr. Boscorel stood before his
son and barred the way, raising his right hand.
" Back, boy — back ! " he said, solemnly, " Back, I say ;
before thou reach thy most unhappy wife, thou must first
pass over thy father's body. "
CHAPTER XXXI.
THE VISION OF CONSOLATION.
I RAN SO fast, being then young and strong, that Benjamin,
I am sure, could not have overtaken me had he tried, be-
cause he was already gross of body and short of breath in
consequence of his tippling. I have since heard that he
did not follow me, nor did he dare to push aside his father.
But he laughed, and said, "Let her run; let her run. I
warrant I shall find her and bring her back," thinking, I sup-
pose, that I had run from him as a girl in play runs from
her companions. I ran also so long, fear lending me
strength, that the sun was getting even intw the afternoon
before I ventured to stop. I looked round from time to
time, but saw no one following mo. I do not remember by
what road, track, or path I went ; pasture-fields and planta-
tions, I remember ; twice I crossed a stream on stepping-
stones ; once I saw before me a village with a church tower,
but this I avoided for fear of the people. When I ventured
to stop I was in a truly wild and desolate country — our
county of Somerset hath in it many such wild places given
over to forests, fern, and heather. Presently I remembered
the place, though one forest is much like another, and I knew
that I had been in this place before, on that day when we
rode from Lyme to Taunton, and again on the day when we
walked prisoners with the soldiers \o llrniuster. I wgs on
thQ Black Down hill again,
'3°
FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
When, therefore, I understood where I was, I began to
recover a little from the first horror -which had driven me to
fly like oiiC possessed of an evil spirit, and seeing that no
one was in pursuit, I began to collect my senses, and to
ask myself wliither I was going and what I should do. I
was then in that ancient enclosure called Castle Ratch, from
whose walls one looks down upon the broad vale of Taunton
Dean. In the distance I thought I could discern the great
tower of St. Mary's Church, but perhaps that was only my
irnagination. I sat down upon the turf under these ancient
walls* and set myself to consider my condition, which was
indeed forlorn.
First, I had no friends or protectors left in the whole
world, because after what I had done I could never look
upon Robin, or even Humphrey again ; nor could I impor-
tune madam, because she would not anger her son (I repre-
sented him in my mind as most unforgiving) ; nor could I
seek the help of Air. Boscorel, because that now might help
his son to find me out, and everybody knows that a hus-
band may command the obedience of his wife. And Sir
Christopher was dead, and my father was d«ad, and my
mother was dead, and I could not even weep beside their
coffins, or follow their bodies to the grave. A woman with-
out friends in this world is like unto a traveller in a sandy
desert without a bottle of water.
Yet was I so far better than some of these poor friendless
creatures, because I had, concealed upon me, a bag con-
taining all the money which Barnaby had given me, two
hundred and fifty gold pieces, save a little which we had
expended at Taunton and Ilminster. This is a great sum,
and by its help I could, I thought with satisfaction, live for
a long time, perhaps all my life, if I could find some safe
retreat among godly people.
No friends .'' Why, there was Susan Blake, of Taunton :
she who walked with the maids when they gave Alonmouth
the Bible, the sword, and the flags. I resolved that I would
go to her and tell her all that had happened. Out of her
kindness she would take me in, and help me to find some
safer hiding-place, and perhaps some honest way of living,
so as to save his money against l^arnaby's return from the
plantations.
Then I thought I would find out the valley where we had
lived for a fortnight, and rest for one night in the hut and
in the early morning before caybreak walk down the comb,
and so into Taunton, while as yet the town was still sleep-
FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
231
ing ; and this I did. It was very easy to find the head oi
the comb, and the source of the stream where we had made
our encampment. Close by, beneatli tlie trees, was Ear-
naby's hut; no one had been tliere to disturb or destroy it,
but the leaves upon the boughs which formed its sides were
now dead. Within it the fern and the heath, which had
formed my bed, were still dry. Outside, the pot hung- over
the black embers of our last fire ; and, to my great joy, in
the basket which had contained our provisions, I found a
large crust of bread. It was, to be sure, dry and hard, but
I dipped it in the running water of the stream, and made
my supper with it. For dessert I had blackberries, which
were now ripe, and are nowhere bigger or sweeter than on
Black Down. There were also filberts and nuts also ripe,
of which I gathered a quantity, so that I had breakfast pro'
vided for me, as well as supper.
When I had done this I was so tired, and my head so
giddy with the terror of the day, that I lay down upon the
fern in the hut and there fell fast asleep, and so continued
until far into the night.
Now, in my sleep, a strange thing happened unto me.
For my own part I account it nothing less than a vision
granted unto me by mercy and special grace of Heaven.
Those who read of it may call it what they please. It was
in this wise : There appeared before my sleeping eyes (but
they seemed wide open), as it were, a broad and open cam-
paign ; presently there came running across the plain in
great terror, shrieking and holding her hands aloft, a girl
whose face I could not see. She ran in this haste and ter-
rible anguish of fear because there followed after her a troop
of dogs barking and yelping. Behind the dogs rode on
horseback one whose face I saw not any more than that of
the girl. He cursed and swore (I knew the voice, but could
not tell in my dream to whom it belonged), and cracked a
horrid whip, and encouraged the dogs, lashing the laggards.
In his eyes (though his face was in some kind of shadow),
there was such a look as I remembered in Benjamin's when
he put the ring upon my finger — a look of resolute and hun-
gry wickedness, which made me tremble and shake.
Now, as I looked, the dogs still gained upon her who ran
and screamed, as if in a few moments they would s]-)ring
upon her and tear her flesh from her bones. Then, sudden-
ly, between her who ran and those who pursued there arose
an awful form. He was clad in white, and in his hand he
bore a sword, and he turned upon that hunter a face tilled
»$x
FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
with wrath. Lightnings shot from his eyes, and a cloud ol
thunder lay upon his brow. At the sight of that face the
dogs stopped in their running, cowered, and fell dead. And
at the dreadful aspect of that face the hunter's horse fell
headlong, and his rider, falling also, with a shriek of terror,
broke his neck, and so lay prostrate and dead. Then this
dreadful minister of God's wrath turned from him to the fly-
ing figure ; and lo ! his face was now transformed ; his eyes
became soft and full of love ; he smiled graciously ; a crown
of glory was upon his head ; white robes flowed downward
to his feet ; his fiery sword was a palm-branch : he was the
Angel of Consolation. "Have no more fear," he said,
"though the waves of the sea rise up against thee and the
winds threaten to drown thee in the deep. Among the un-
godly and the violent thou shalt be safe : in all times of
peril the Lord will uphold thee : earthly joy shall be thine.
Be steadfast unto the end."
And then I looked again, those blessed words ringing in
my ears : and behold ! I saw then, which I had not seen
before, that the flying figure was none other than myself;
that he who cruelly hunted with the dogs and the whip was
none other than my husband ; and that the Angel of Wrath,
who became the Angel of Consolation, was none other than
my father himself But he was glorified. Oh, the face
was his face, that any one could see, but it was changed
with something — I know not what — so far brighter and
sweeter than the earthly face that I marvelled. Then the
vision disappeared, and I awoke.
So bright and clear had it been that I seemed to see it
still, though I was sitting up with my eyes open and it was
night Then it slowly vanished. Henceforth, however, 1
was assured of two things : first, that no harm would hap-
pen unto me, but that I should be protected from the malice
of my enemies, whatever they might design (indeed, 1 had
but one enemy, to wit, the man who had that morning
sworn to love and cherish me) ; and, next, that I had seen
with mortal eyes what, indeed, had been vouchsafed to few
— the actual spiritual body — the glorified body, like to the
earthly, but changed — with which the souls of the elect are
clothed.
So I arose now without the least fear. It was night, but
in the east there showed the first gray of the dawn, and the
birds were already beginning to twitter as if they were
dreaming of the day. The wind was fresh and I was lightly
glad, but the splendor uf the vision made nie forget th?
POk PAiT/f A^rPf FREEDOM. i j j
cold. Oh, I had received a voice from heaven. How could
I henceforth fear anything ? Nay, there was no room even
for grief, though those terrible things had fallen upon me,
and I was now alone and friendless, and the world is full
of ungodly men.
It must have been about half-past four in the morning.
It grew lighter fast, so that not only the trees became visi-
ble, but the black depths between them changed into glades
and underwood, and I could see my way down the comb
beside the stream. Then, without waiting for the sun to rise
(which he presently did in warmth and splendor), I started,
hoping to get into Taunton before the people were up and
the streets became crowded. But I did not know the dis-
tance, which must have been seven miles at least, because
it was nearly eight o'clock when I reached the town, having
followed the course of the stream through three villages,
which I have since learned must have been those of Pit-
niinster, Troll, and Wilton.
It was market-day and the streets were full of country
people — some of them were farmers, with bags of corn in
their hands, going to the corn-market, and some with carts
full of fresh fruit and other things. Their faces were heavy
and sad, and they talked in whispers, as if they were afraid.
They had, indeed, good cause for fear, for the prison held
over five hundred unfortunate men waiting for their trial,
and the terrible judge was already on his way, with his
carts filled with more prisoners rumbling after him. Already
Colonel Kirke had caused I know not how many to be
hanged, and the reports of what had been done at Dor-
chester and Exeter sufficiently prepared the minds of the
wretched prisoners at Taunton for what was about to be
done there. Among them was the unfortunate Captain
Hucker, the serge-maker, who had looked for a peerage
and was now to receive a halter. There was also among
them that poor man, Mr. Simon Hamlyn, who was hanged
only for riding into Taunton in order to dissuade his son
from joining Monmouth. This the Mayor of Taunton
pointed out to the bloodthirsty judge, but in vain. The
whole five hundred prisoners were in the end sentenced to
death, and one hundred and forty-five actually suffered, to
the great indignation of those who looked on, even of the
king's party. Nay, at one of the executions, when nineteen
were hanged at the same time, and a great fire was made so
that the sufferers might actually see before their death the
fire that wsis to burn their bowels, the very soldiers w«p^
4^4 ^(^f^ FAITH AXD FREEDOM.
saying that it was so sad a thing they scarce knew how to
bear it. Three years later the hard heart of the king met
with its proper punishment.
The soldiers were among the crowd, some leaning against
bulkheads, some drinking at the alehouses, some haggling
for the fruit ; some were also exercising upon Castle Green,
They looked good-natured, and showed in their faces none
of the cruelty and rage which belonged to their officers. But
M'hat a doleful change from the time when Monmouth's sol-
diers filled the town, and all hearts were full of joy and
every face shone with happiness ! What a change indeed !
As I passed among the crowd one caught me by the arm.
It was a little old woman, her face all wrinkled and puck-
ered. She was sitting on a stool beside a great basket full
of apples and plums, and a little pipe of tobacco within her
lips.
"Mistress,"' she whispered, taking the pipe from her
mouth, "thou were with the maids the day of the flags, I
remember thy pretty face. What dost thou here al)road
among the people t The air of Taunton town is uii'.v'hole-
some. There may be others who will remember thee as
well as I. Take an old woman's advice and get thee gone.
How fares it with thy father, the worthy Dr. Eykin } "
"Alas ! " I said, " he died in llminster jail."
" 'Tis pity. But he was old and pious. He hath gone
to glory. Whither will those poor lads in the jail go when
they are hanged } Get thee gone — get thee gone. The
air is already foul with dead men's bodies. They tell strange
stories of what hath been done by women for the safety of
their brothers. Get thee gone, pretty maid, lest something
worse than prison happen to thee. And Judge Jeffreys is
cominsT hither like the devil, having: much wrath."
I could not tell her that nothing would happen to me be-
cause I was protected by a heavenly guard,
"I was in the town forty ^ears agone," the old womari
went on, " when Blake defended it, and we were well nigh
starved ; but never have I seen such things as have been
done here since the duke was routed. Get thee gone ;
haste away as from the mouth of hell ; get thee gone, poor
child."
So I left her ar.d went on my way, hanging my head in
hopes that no one else would recognize me. Fortunately
no one did. though I saw many faces which I had seen in
the town l)eforc. They were then tossing their caps and.
•houting for Monmouth, but were now gloomily whisper
FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
235
ing-, as if every man feared that his own turn would come
next. Over the great gateway of the castle was stuck up a
high row of heads, arms, and legs of rebels blackened with
pitch — a horrid sight. Unto this end had come those brave
fellows who went forth to dethrone the king. No one
noticed or accosted me, and 1 arrived safely at Susan's
house. The door seemed shut, but when I pushed I found
that it was open, the lock having been broken from its fas-
tening. Barnaby did that, I remembered. I went in, shut-
ting it after me. Ko doubt Susan was with her children in
the schoolroom. Strange that she should not repair her
lock, and that at a time when the town was full of soldiers,
who always carry with them their riotous and lawless fol-
lowers. 'Twas unlike her orderly housekeeping.
There was no one in the back parlor, where Susan com-
monly took her meals and conducted the morning and even-
ing prayers. The dishes were on the table as if of last night's
supper, or yesterday's dinner. This was also unlike a tidy
housewife. 1 opened the door of the front parlor. Though
it was already past the hour for school, there were no chil-
dren in the room : the lesson books and copying-books and
slates lay about the floor. What did this untidy litter mean .?
Then I went upstairs and into the bedrooms, of which there
were three ; namely, two on the floor above and one a
garret. No one was in them, and the beds had not been
made. There remained only the kitchen ; no one was
there. The house was quite empty. 1 observed also that
the garden, w^iich was wont to be kept with the greatest
neatness, now looked neglected ; the ripe plums were drop-
ping from the branches trained upon the wall ; the apples
lay upon the grass ; the flower-beds were cumbered with
weeds ; grass grew in the walks ; the lawn, which had been
so neat and trim, was covered with long grass.
What had happened.^ \Vhere was Susan.'* Then I seemed
to hear her voice above chanting God for the victory, as she
had done when i5arnal)y burst in upon us ; and 1 heard her
singing a hymn with the children, as she had done while we
all sat embroidering the flags. Oh ! the pretty flags ! And
oh I the pretty sight of the innocents in white and blue car-
rying those flags ! The house was filled with the sounds
of bygone happiness. Mad I stayed another moment I am
certain that I should have seen the ghosts of those who filled
the rooms in the hnppy rlnys wIt^h the armv was in the
town. But I did not stay. Not knowing what to do or
whither to fly, I ran quickly out of the house, thinking; only
4^6 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
to get away from the mournful silence ot the empty and do
serted rooms. Then, as I stepped into the street, I met,
face to face, none other than Mr. George Penne, the kind-
hearted gentleman who had compassionated the prisoners
at Ilminster.
CHAPTER XXXIL
MR. GEORGE PENNE.
"'Tis no other than the Fair Maid of Ilminster! " said Mr.
Penne, with surprise. "Madam, with submission, is it safe
— is it prudent — for one who walked with the maids of
Taunton on a certain memorable day to venture openly into
the streets of this city at such a time } Judge Jeffreys doth
approach to hold his court. Thy friends are in prison or in
hiding. The maids are scattered all. "
"I sought shelter," I said, "at the house of Susan Blake,
the schoolmistress."
"How? You have not heard, then. Miss Susan Blake
is dead."
' ' She is dead } "
"She died in Dorchester Jail, whither she was sent, being
specially exempted from any pardon. 'Twas fever carried
her off. She is dead. Alas ! the waste of good lives. She
might have bought her freedom after a while, and then — but
— well — 'tis useless to lament these mishaps. "
" Alas ! alas ! " I cried, wringing my hands. "Then am
I in evil plight indeed. All, all are dead — all my friends arc
dead. "
" Madam," he replied, very kindly, "not all your friends,
if I may say so. I have, I assure you, a most compassion-
ate heart. I bleed for the sufferings of others ; I cannot rest
until I have brought relief This is my way. Oh, I take
not credit to myself therefor ; it is that I am so constituted.
I am not proud or uplifted on this account. Only tell me
your case ; intrust your safety to me. You may do so
safely, if you reflect for one moment because — see — one
word from me and you would be taken to prison by yon
worthy clergyman, who is none other than the Rev. Mr.
vValter Harte, the Rector of Taunton. No one is more ac-
tive against the rebels, and he would rejoice in committing
2-OK i-'AITH A.VD I-REEDOM. j^^
thee on 4he charge of having been among the maids. A
word from me would, I say, cause you to be hauled to jail.
But, observe, I do not speak that word. God forbid that I
should speak that word ! "
"Oh, sir," I said, "this goodness overwhelms me."
"Then, madam, for greater privacy, let us go back into
the house and converse there."
So we went back to the empty house and sat in the back
parlor.
" As for the nature of your trouble, madam," he began,
" I hope you have no dear brothers or cousins among those
poor fellows in Taunton Jail."
"No, sir, my only brother is at Ilminster ; and my cousins
are far away in New England."
"That is well. One who, like myself, is of a compas-
sionate disposition, cannot but bewail the grievous waste in
jail fever, small-pox, scarlet fever or putrid throat (to say
nothing of the hangings) which now daily happens in the
prison. What doth it avail to hang and quarter a man when
he might be usefully set to work upon his majesty's plaiita-
tions ! It is a most sinful and foolish waste, I say ' — he
spoke with great sincerity and warmth — " and a robbing of
the pockets of honest merchants."
"Indeed, sir," I said, "your words prove the goodness
of your heart."
" Let my deeds, rather than my words, prove that. How
fare the prisoners with whom you are most concerned .? "
"Alas ! Sir Christopher is dead ; and my father hath also
died of his wound."
" So — indeed — more waste. They are dead. More waste.
But one was old. Had Sir Christopher been sent to the
plantations his value would have but a small — though, in-
deed, a ransom — but he is dead ; and your father being
wounded — but they are dead, and so no more need be said.
There are, however, others, if I remember aright. "
"There is my brother in Ilminster prison, and — "
" Yes, the two young gentlemen, Challis is their name,
in Exeter. I have seen them and conversed with them.
Strong young men, especially one of them. 'Tis sad indeed
to think that they may be cut off in the very bloom of their
age, when they would command so high a price in Jamaica
or Barbadoes. I ventured to beg, before their trial, that they
would immediately begin to use whatever interest they
might be able to command, in order to get their sentence
(which was certain) commuted. Many will be suffered to
23^ J^OR FAITH AXD FREEDOM.
go abroad; why not these young gentlemen ? But they have
no interest, they assured me, and therefore I fear that they
will die. 'Tis most sad. They cannot hang all, that is quite
true ; but, then, these young gentlemen were officers in the
army, and therefore an example will be made of them, it
they have no interest at court."
"Well sir," I told him, pleased to find him of such a
kindly and thoughtful disposition, "you will be glad to hear
that they are already pardoned, and have been presented
by the king to a gentleman at court."
" Aha ! Sayest thou so ? " His eyes glittered, and he rubbed
his hands. "This is indeed joyful news. One of them, Mr.
Robin Challis is a goodly lad, like to whom there are few
sent out to the plantations. He will certainly fetch a good
price. The other, Mr. Humphrey, who is somewha.t
crooked, will go for less. Who hath obtained the gift of
these young gentlemen } "
" It is a person named Mr. Nipho. "
" jNIr. Jerome Nipho. I know him well. He is a good
Catholic — I mean a papist — and is much about the court.
He is lucky in having had many prisoners given to him.
And now, madarri, I hope you will command my services. "
" In what way, sir .? "
" In this way. I am, as I have told yon," here he wagged
his head, and winked both eyes, and laughed pleasantly,
"one of those foolish busybodies who love to be still doing
good to their fellow-creatures. To do good is my whole
delight. Unfortunately the opportunities are rare of confer-
ring exemplary benefit upon my fellow-men. But here the
way seems clear."
He rubbed his hands and laughed again, repeating that
the way was clear before him, so that I believed myself for-
tunate in falling in with so virtuous a person.
"Oh, sir," I cried, " would that the whole world would
so live and so act ! "
"Truly, if it did, we should have the prisons cleared.
There should be no more throwing away of the good lives in
hanging ; no more waste of stout fellows and lusty wenches
by fever and small-pox. All should go to the planta-
tions — all. Now, madam, to our business, which is the ad-
vantage of these young gentlemen. Know, therefore, that
Mr. Jerome Nipho, with all those who have received pres-
ents of prisoners, straightway sell them to peisons who en-
gage to transport them across the seas to his majesty's plan--
tations in Jamaica, Virginia, .or elsewhere. Here they are
POR FAITIf AXD J'R££JDOM.
bound to work for a certain term of years. Call it not work,
h owe ver^ " he added, quickly; "say, rather, that they are
invited every day to exercise themselves in the cotton and
the sugar fields. The climate is delightful ; the sky is sel-
dom clouded ; there are never any frosts or snows ; it is al-
ways summer ; the fruits are delicious ; they have a kind of
spirit distilled from the sugar-canes, which is said to be
finer and more wholesome than the best Nantz ; the food is
palatable and plentiful, though plain. The masters, or em-
ployers (call them rather friends), are gentlemen of the
highest humanity, and the society is composed of sober
merchants, wealthy planters, and gentlemen, like your
brother, who have had the m-isfortune to differ in opinions
with the government."
"Why, sir," I said, " I have always understood that the
transported prisoners are treated with the greatest inhuman-
ity, forced to work in heat such as we never experience,
driven with the lash, and half starved, so that none evei
come back."
He shook his head gently. " See now," he said, " how
prejudices arise ! Who could have thought that the planta-
tions should be thus regarded.? 'Tis true that there are es-
tates cultivated by convicts of another kind ; I mean rob-
bers, highwaymen, petty thieves, and the like, Bristol doth,
every year, send away a ship-load at least of such. Nay ;
'tis reported that rather than hang murderers' and the like,
the Bristol merchants buy them of the magistrates ; but this
is out of the kindness of their hearts. INIadam," he thrust
his hand into his bosom, and looked me in the face, " I,
myself, am sometimes engaged in that trade. I, myself,
buy these unhappy prisoners, and send them to estates
where, I know, they will be treated with the greatest kind-
ness. Do I look like a dishonest man, madam ? I\Iy name
it is George Penne, and I am known by every man of credit
in Bristol. Do I talk like one who would make money out
of his neighbor's sufferings .'* Nay, if that is so, let us part
at once, and say no more. Madam, your humble servant ;
no harm is done, your humble servant, madam." He put
his hat under his arm, and made as if he would go. But 1
begged him to remain, and to advise me further in the
matter.
Then I asked him if transported persons ever came home
ag^ain.
" Surely," he replied, "some of them come home laden
with gold. Some possessed of places both of honor and of
146 J-'OJ^ i-AITH AND FREEDOM.
profit, who return to visit their friends, and then go back ta
the new country. It is a very Eldorado, or Land of Gold,
to those who are willing to work ; and for those who have
money, and choose to buy exemption from work, it is only
an agreeable residence, in cheerful society, for a certain
term of years. Have you, by chance, madam, any friends
who can influence Mr. Jerome Nipho ? "
"No, sir; I have none.
"Then will I, myself, communicate with that gentle-
man. Understand, madam, that I shall have to pay him so
much a head for every prisoner ; that I shall be engaged to
place every man on board ship ; that the prisoners will then
be taken across the seas, and again sold. But in the case
of those who have money, a ransom can be procured by
means of which they will not have to work."
So far he had spoken in the belief that I was at Taunton
on my brother's business, or that of my friends. I told
him, therefore, that certain events had occurred which
would prevent me from seeing the prisoners at Exeter.
And, because I could not forbear from weeping while I
spoke, he very earnestly begged me to inform him fully, in
every particular, as to my history ; adding that his benev-
olence was not confined to the unhappy case of prisoners,
but that it was ready to be extended in any other direction
that happy chance might offer.
Therefore being, as you have seen, so friendless and so
ignorant, and so fearful of falling into my husband's hands,
and, at the same time, so grateful to this good man for his
kindly offers (indeed, I took him for an instrument provided
by Heaven for the safety promised in my vision of the
night), that I told him everything exactly, concealing
nothing ; nay, I even told him of the bag of gold which I
had tied round my waist; a thing which I had hitherto con-
cealed, because the money was not mine, but Barnaby'a
But I told it to Mr. Penne.
While I related my history he interrupted me by frequent
ejaculations, showing his abhorrence of the wickedness
with which Benjamin compassed his design ; and when I
finished he held up his hands in amazement.
"Good God!" he cried, "that such a wretch should
Hve ! That he should be allowed still to cumber the earth !
What punishment were fitting for this devil in the shape of
man ? Madam, your case is indeed one that would move
the heart of Nero himself. What is to be done? "
"Nay, that I know not. For if I go back to our villag*
FOR FATTH AND FREEDOM. t\ t
ne will find me there ; and if I find out some hidlng-placu
he will seek me out and find me ; I shall never know rest
or peace again. For of one thing am I resolved ; I will
die, yea, I will indeed die, before I will become his wife
more than I am at present"
"1 cannot but commend that resolution, madam. Bv.i
(to be plain with you) there is no place in the world more
unsafe for you than Taunton at this time. Therefore, if you
please, I will ride with you to Bristol without delay."
"Sir, I cannot ask this sacrifice of your business."
"My business lies at Bristol. I can do no more here
until Judge Jeffreys hath got through his hangings, of
which, I fear, there may be many, and so more sinful waste
of good convicts. Let us therefore hasten away as quickly
as may be. As for what shall be done afterwards, that we
will consider on the way."
Did ever a woman in misfortune meet with so good a
man .-* The Samaritan himself was not of better heart.
Well, to be brief, half an hour afterwards we mounted
and rode to Bristol, by way of Bridgwater (this town was
even more melancholy than Taunton), taking three days,
the weather being now wet and raining, so that the ways
were bad. Now, as we rode along, Mr. Penae and I side
by side, and his servant behind, armed with a blunderbuss,
our conversation was grave, turning chiefly on the impru-
dence of the people in following Monmouth, when they
should have waited for the gentry to lead the way. I found
my companion (whom I held to be my benefactor) sober in
manners and in conversation ; no drunkard ; no use of pro-
fane oaths ; and towards me, a woman whom he had (so to
say) in his power, he behaved always with the greatest cere-
mony and politeness. So that I hoped to have found in
this good man a true protector.
When we reached Bristol he told me that, for my better
safety, he would lodge me apart from his own house ; and
so took me to a house in Broad Street, near St. John's Gate,
where there was a most respectable old lady of grave
aspect, though red in the cheek.
"I have brought you, madam," he said, "to the house
of a lady whose virtue and piety are well known."
"Sir," said the old lady, "this house is well known for
the piety of those who use it And everybody knows that
you are all goodness."
"No," said Mr. Penne. "No man is good. We can
bu^ try our best. In *hig house, however, ma<i»m, yon
•6
i42
FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
will be safe. I beg and implore you not at present to stir
abroad, for reasons which you very well know. This good
woman has three or four daughters in the house who are
sometimes, I believe, merry — "
"Sir," said the old lady, " children will be foolish."
"True; true," he replied, laughing. "Take care, then,
that they molest not madam. "
"No, sir, they shall not."
"Then, madam, for the moment I leave you. Rest and
be easy in your mind. I have, I think, contrived a plan
which will answer your case perfectly. '
In the evening he returned and sent me word, very
ceremoniously, that he desired the favor of a conversation
with me. As if there could be anything in the world that I
desired more.
"Madam," he said, "1 have considered carefully your
case, and I can find but one advice to give."
' ' What is it, sir ? "
"We might," he went on, "find a lodging for you in
some quiet VVelsh town across the channel. At Chepstow,
for instance, or at Newport, you might find a home for a
while. But the country being greatly inflamed with dis-
sensions, there would everywhere be the danger of some
fanatical busybody inquiring into your history — whence you
came, why you left your friends, and so forth. And again,
in every town there are Avomen (saving your presence,
madam) whose tongues tittle-tattle all day long. Short
work they make of a stranger. So that I see not much safety
in a small town. Then again you might find a farmhouse
where they would receive you. But your case is not that
you wish to be hidden for a time, as one implicated in the
Monmouth business. Not so ; you desire to be hidden all
your life, or for the life of the man who, if he finds you, may
compel you to live with him ; and to live for — how lonj"; .'
Sixty years, perhaps, in a dull and dirty farmhouse, amon^^
rude boors, w^ould be intolerable to a person of your m tn-
ners and accomplishments."
"Then, sir, in the name of Heaven" — for I began to be
wearied with this lengthy setting up of plans only to pul]
them down again — " what shall I do .? "
"You might go to London. At first I thought that Lon
don offered the best hope of safe retreat. There are parts
of London wiiere the gentlemen of the robe are never seen,
and where you might be safe. Thus, about the eastern
parts of the city there are n?yer any lawyers at all.^ There
POR FAITH AND FKEEno.'if.
l\l
you might be safe. But yet, it would be a perpetual risk.
Your face, madam, if I may say so, is one which will not
be quickly forgotten when it hath once been seen. You
would be persecuted by would-be lovers ; you would go in
continual terror, knowing that one you fear was living only
a mile away .from you. You would have to make up some
story to maintain, which would be troublesome ; and pres-
ently the time would come when you would have no more
money. What then would you do .? "
"Pray, sir, if you can, tell me what you think I should do,
since there are so many things that I cannot do."
"Madam, I am going to submit to you a plan which
seems to me at once the safest and the best You have,
you tell me, cousins in the town of Boston, which is in New
England.''
" Yes ; I have heard my father speak of his cousins."
"I have, myself, visited that place, and have heard men-
tion of certain Eykins as gentlemen of substance and reputa-
tion. I propose, madam, that you should go to these cousins,
and seek a home among them. "'
" Leave England } You would have me leave this coun-
try and go across the ocean to America .? "
"That is my advice. Nay, Madam,'' he assumed a most
serious manner, "do not reject this advice suddenly.
Sleep upon it. You are not going among strangers, but
among your own people, by whom the name of your pious
and learned father is, doubtless, held in great honor. You
are going from a life (at best) of danger and continual care,
to a place where you will be certainly free from persecution.
Madam, sleep uoon it."
CHAPTER XXXIII.
ON BOARD THE " JOLLY THATCHER-
I LAY awake all night, thinking of this plan. The more I
thought upon it the more I was pleased with it. To fly
from the country was to escape the pursuit of my husband,
who would never give over looking for me, because he was
so obstinate and masterful. I should also escape the re-
proaches of my lover, Robin, and break myself altogether from
f 44 POk FAI; J! AXD FREEDOM.
a passion which was now, through my own rashness, becom6
sinful. I might also break myself from the loathing and
hatred which I now felt towards my wicked husband, and
might even, in time, and after much prayer, arrive at for-
giving him. At that time, yea, and for long afterwards, I
did often surprise myself in such a fit of passion as, I verily
believe, would have made me a murderess, had opportunity,
or the Evil One, sent that man my way. Yea, not once,
or twice, but many times, have I thus become a murderess
in thought and wish and intention. I confess this sin with
shame, though I have long since repented of it : to have
been so near unto it, nay, to have already committed it in
my imagination, covers me with shame. And now, when
I sometimes — my lord, the master of my affections, doth
allow it — visit the prison of Ilchester, and find therein some
poor wretch who hath yielded to temptation and sudden
wrath, which is the possession by the devil, and so hath
committed what I only imagined, my heart goes forth to
that poor creature, and I cannot rest until I have prayea
with her, and softened her heart, and left her to go contrite
to the shameful tree. Nay, since, as you shall hear, I have
been made to pass part of my life among the most wicked
and profligate of my sex, I am filled with the thought that
the best of us are not much better than the worst, and that
the worst of us are in some things as good as the best, so
that there is no room for pride and self-sufficiency, but
much for humiliation and distruct of one's own heart.
Well, if I would consent to fly from the country, across
the seas I should find kith and kin who would shelter me.
There should I learn to think about other things. Poor
wretch ! as if I could ever forget the village ; and, Robin,
oh, that I should have to try, even to try, to forget Robin.
I was to learn that though the skies be changed, the heart
remains the same.
How I fled, and whither, you shall now hear.
Mr. George Penne came to see me next morning — sleek
and smiling and courteous.
" Madam," he said, " may I know your decision, if you
have yet arrived at one ? "
"Sir, it is already made. I have slept upon it ; I have
prayed upon it. I will go."
"That is well. It is also most opportune, because a ship
sails this very day ; it is most opportune, I say : even provi-
dential. She will drop down the Channel with the coming
tide. You will want a few things for the voyage."
FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
245
" It will be winter when we arrive, and the winters in
that country are cold. I must buy some thicker clothing.
Will there be any gentlewomen on board } ''
"Surely" — he smiled — "surely. There will be, I am
told, more than one gentlewoman on board that ship ; there
will be, in fact, a large and a cheerful company, of tnat you
may be assured. Well, since that is settled, a great load of
care is removed, because I have heard that your husband
rode into Taunton with Judge Jeffreys ; that he learned from
some one, I know not from whom, of your presence in the
town, and of your departure with me. "
" It must have been the market woman."
"Doubtless, the market-woman." ( I have often asked
myself whether this was a falsehood or not.) "And he is
even now speeding towards Bristol, hoping to find you.
Pray Heaven that he hath not learned with whom you fled."
" Oh ! " I cried, "let us go on board the ship at once ;
let us hasten."
"Nay, there is no hurry for a few hours. But stay within
doors. Everything that is wanting for the voyage shall be
put no board for you. As for your meals, you will eat with"
— here he paused for a moment — " with the rest of thecom-
pany, under the care of the captain. For your berth, it will
be as comfortable as can be provided. Next, as to the money.
You have, I understand, two hundred pounds and more."
I took the bag from my waist, and rolled out the contents.
There were in all two hundred and forty-five pounds and a
few shillings. The rest had been expended at Ilminster.
He counted it carefully, and then replaced the money in
the bag,
" The Eykins, of Boston, in New England," he said, "are
people of great credit and substance. There will be no
necessity for you to take with you this money, should you
wish it to be expended to the advantage of your brothorand
your friends."
" Take it all, kindsir. Take it all, if so it will help them in
their need."
" Nay, that will not do, either, " he replied, smiling, his
hand upon the bag ; "for, first, the captain of your ship
must be paid for his passage ; next, you must not go among
strangers, though your own kith and kin, with no money at
all in purse. Therefore I will set aside, by your good leave,
fifty pounds, for your private purse. So, fifty pounds. A
letter to my correspondent, at Boston, which I will write,
will cause him to pay you this money on your landing.
246 POR FAITJI AND FREEDOM.
This is a safer method than to carry the money in a bag^ ef
purse, which may be stolen. But if the letter be lost another
can be written. We merchants, indeed,, commonly send
three such letters of advice, in case of shipwreck and loss of
the bags. This done, and the expenses of the voyage pro-
vided, there remains a large sum, which, judiciously spent,
will, I think, insure for your friends from the outset the
treatment reserved for prisoners of distinction who can afford
to pay. Namely, on their arrival they will be bought, as it
is termed, by worthy merchants, who, having been pre-
viously paid by me, will suffer them to live where they please
without exacting of them the least service or work. Their
relatives at home will forward them the means of sub-
sistence, and so their exile will be softened for them. If
you consent thereto, madam, I will engage that they shall
be so received, with the help of this money."
If I consented, indeed! With what joy did I give my
consent to such laying out of my poor Barnaby's money \
Everything now seemed turning to the best, thanks to my
new and benevolent friend.
At his desire therefore, I wrote a letter to Barnaby, recom-
mending him to trust himself, and to advise Robin and Hum-
phrey to trust themselves, entirely to the good offices of this
excellent man. I informed him that I was about to cross
the seas to our cousins in New England, in order to escape
the clutches of the villain who had betrayed me. And then
I told him how his money had been bestowed, and bade
him seek me, when he should be released from the plant-
ations, wherever they might send him, at the town of Bos-
ton, among his cousins. The letter Mr. Penne faithfully
promised to deliver. {Nota bene. The letter was never
given to Barnaby.)
At the same time he wrote a letter for me to give to his
correspondent at Boston, telling me that on reading that
letter his friend would instantly pay me the sum of fifty
pounds.
Thus was the business concluded. And I could not find
words, I told him, to express the gratitude which I felt for
so much goodness towards one who was a stranger to him.
I begged him to suffer me to repay at least the charges to
which he had been put at the inns and the stabling, since he
took me into his own care and protection. But he would
take nothing. Money, he said, as,payment for such services
as he had been enabled to render," would be abhorrent to his
nature, Should good deeds be bought .-* was it seemly that
FOA' FAITH AND FREEDOM. 24^
a mercharit of credit should sell an act of common Christian
charity ?
"What]"' he asked, "are we to see a poor creature in
danger of being- imprisoned if she is recognized, and of being
carried off against her will by a husband whom she loathes,
if he tinds her — are we to see such a woman, and not be in-
stantly fired by every generous emotion of compassion and
indignation to help that woman at the mere cost of a few
days' service and a few guineas spent ? "
I was greatly moved, even to tears, at these words and
at all this generosity, and I told him that I could not suffi-
ciently thank him for all he had done, and that he should
have my prayers always.
"I hope I may, madam," he said, smiling strangely.
"When the ship hath sailed, you will remember, perhaps,
the fate of Susan Blake, and whatever may be your present
discomfort on board a rolling ship, say to yourself that this
is better than to die in a noisome prison. You will also un-
derstand that you have fallen into the haiids of a respectable
merchant, who is much more lenient than Judge Jeffreys,
and will not consent to the wasting of good commercial
stuff in jails and on gibbets."
" Nay, sir," I said, "what doth all this mean 1 "
"Nothing, madam, nothing. I was only anxious that
you should say to yourself, ' Thus and thus have I been
saved from a jail. Such was Mr. Penne's humanity.'"
" Understand it .? Oh, dear sir, I repeat, that my words
arc not strong enough to express my gratitude."
"Now, madam, no doubt, your gratitude runs high.
Whether to-morrow — "
" Can I ever forget .? To-morrow.? To-morrow? Surely,
sir — "
"Well, madam, we will wait until to-morrow. INIear.-
time, lie snug and quiet all day, and in the afternoon I will
come for you. Two hundred and forty-five pounds. "lis
not a great sum, but a good day's work — a good day's work
— added to the satisfaction of helping a most unfortunate
young gentleman — most unfortunate."
What did the good man mean by still talking of the mor-
row ?
At half-past twelve the good woman of the house brou'dif
me a plate of meat and some bread.
"So," she said (her face was red, and I think she had
l)een drinking), "he hath determined to put you on boarj
M'ith the rest. I hear."
24? FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
" Husti \ If you have heard, say nothing."
"He thinks he can buy my silence. Come, madam,
though, indeed, some would rather take their chance with
Judge Jeffreys — they say he is a man who can be moved
by the face of a Avoman — than with — Well, as for my
silence, there — It is usual, madam, to compliment the
landlady, and though, I confess, you are not of the kind
which do commonly frequent this house, yet one may ex-
pect — "
"Alas, my good woman, I have nothing. Mr. Penne has
taken all my money."
"What, you had money 1 And you gave it to Mr. Penne?
You gave it to him ? Nay, indeed — Why, in the place
where thou art going — "
She was silent, for suddenly we heard Mr. Penne's step
outside. And he opened the door.
"Come," he said, roughly. "The captain says that he
will weigh anchor in an hour; the tide serves, come."
I hastened to put on my hat and mantla
" Farewell," I said, taking the old woman's hand. "I
have nothing to give thee but my prayers. Mr. Penne, who
is all goodness, will reward thee for thy kindness to me."
"He all goodness !" repeated the old woman. "He.'*
why, if there is upon the face of the whole earth — "
"Come, child," I\Ir. Penne seized my hand and dragged
me away.
"The woman," he said, "hath been drinking. It is a
bad habit she hath contracted of late. I must see into it,
and speak seriously to her. But a good nature at heart ;
come, we must hasten. You will be under the special care
of the captain. I have provided a boxful of warm clothing
and other comforts. I think there is nothing omitted that
may be of use. Come."
He hurried me along the narrow streets until we came to
a quay, where there were a great number of ships, such as
I had never before seen. On one of them the sailors were
running about clearing away things, coiling ropes, tossing
sacks and casks aboard with such a yo-hoing and noise as
I never in my life heard before.
" 'Tis our ship," said Mr. Penne. Then he led me along
a narrow bridge, formed by a single plank, to the deck of
the ship. There stood a gentleman of a very tierce and
resolute aspect, armed with a sword hanging from a scarlet
sash, and a pair of pistols in his belt.
"Captain," said Mr. Penne, "arc all aboard?"
POR FAITfl AND FREEDO.\l. _-.;,,
"Ay, we have all our cargo. And a pretty crew they
are. Is this the last of them ? Send her for'ard."
" Madam," said Mr. Penne, "suffer me to lead you to a
place where, until the ship sails and the officers have time
to take you to your cabin, you can rest and be out of the
way. It is a rough assemblage, but at sailing one has no
choice."
Gathered in the forepart of what they called the waist
there was a company of about a hundred people. Some
were young, some old ; some were men, some women.
Some seemed mere children. All .alike showed in their
faces the extreme of misery, apprehension, and dismay.
"Who are these } " I asked.
"They will tell you themselves, presently. Madam,
farewell." With that Mr. Penne left me standing among this
crowd of wretches, and, without waiting for my last words
of gratitude, hurried away immediately.
I saw him running across a plank to the quay. Then the
boatswain blew a shrill whistle ; the plank was shoved
over ; some ropes were cast loose, and the ship began to
move slowly down the river with the tide, now beginning
to run out, and a wind from the northeast.
I looked about me. What were all these people .? Why
were they going to New England .? Then, as the deck was
now clearer, and the sailors, I suppose, at their stations, I
ventured to walk towards the after-part of the ship, with the
intention to ask the captain for my cabin. As I did so, a
man stood before me armed with a great cane which he
brandished, threatening with a horrid oath to lay across my
back if I ventured any further aft.
" Prisoners, for'ard," he cried. "Back you go, or, by tlu
Lord ! "
" Prisoner .?" I said ; "I am no prisoner. I am a pas-
senger. "
"Passenger.? Why, as for that, you are all passengers."'
"All .? Who arc these, then ? "
He informed me with plainness of speech who and what
they were ; convicts taken from the prisons, branded in the
hand, and sentenced to transportation.
" But I am a passenger," I repeated. ' Mr. Penne hath
paid for my passage to New England. He hath paid the
captain."
"The ship is bound for Barbadoes, rot New England.
'Tis my duty not to stir from this spot, but here's the mate,
tell him."
■ISO
FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
This was a young man armed like the captain, with pis'
tols and sword.
"Sir," I said, "I am a passenger brought on board by
Mr. Penne, whose passage hath been paid to New Eng-
land. "
"By Mr. George Penne, you say?"
"The same. He hath engaged a cabin for me, and hath
purchased clothes and — "
"Is it possible," said the mate, "that you do not know
where you are, and whither you are going .'' "
"I am going, under the special care of the captain, to
the city of Boston in New England, to my cousin Mr. Eykin,
a gentleman of credit and substance of that town."
He gazed at me with wonder.
" I will speak to the captain," he said, and left me stand-
ing there.
Presently he returned. "Come with me," he said.
"You are Grace Eykin," said the captain, who had with
him a paper from which he read.
"That is my name."
"On a certain day in July, your father being a preacher
in the army of the Duke of Monmouth, you walked with a
procession of girls bearing flags which you presented to that
rebel. "
"It is true, sir."
"You have been given by the king to some great lord or
other, I know not whom, and by him sold to the man Penne,
who hath put you on board this ship, the Jolly Thatcher,
port of London, to be conveyed, with a hundred prisoners,
all rogues and thieves, to the island of Barbadoes, where you
will presently be sold as a servant for ten years, after which
period, if you choose, you will be at liberty to return to
England. "
Then, indeed, the captain before me seemed to reel about,
And I fell fainting at his feet
FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
3|r
CHAPTER XXXIV.
THEGOODSAMARITAN. •
This was indeed the truth ; I had parted with my money
©n the word of a villain ; I put myself into his power by
telling him the whole of my sad story ; and on the promise
of sending me by ship to my cousins in New England he
had entered my name as a rebel sold to himself (afterwards
I learned that he made it appear as if I was one of the hun-
dred given to I\Ir. Jerome Nipho, all of whom he afterwards
brought and sent to the plantations), and he had then shipped
me on board a vessel on the point of sailing with as vile a
company of rogues, vagabonds, thieves, and drabs as were
ever raked together out of the streets and the prisons.
When I came to my senses the captain gave me a glass of
cordial, and made me sit down on a gun-carriage while he
asked me many questions. I answered them all truthfully,
concealing only the reason of my flight, and of my visit to
Taunton, where, I told him truly, 1 hoped to see my un-
happy friend. Miss Blajce, of whose imprisonment and death
I knew nothing.
" Madam," said the captain, stroking his chin, "your
case is indeed a hard one. Yet your name is entered on my
list, and I must deliver your body at St. Michael's port,
Barbadoes, or account for its absence. This must I do ; I
have no other choice. As for your being sold to Mr.
George Penne by Mr. Jerome Nipho, this may very well be
without your knowing even that you had been given to that
gentleman by the king. They say that the maids of
Taunton have all been given away, mostly to the queen's
maids of honor, and must either be redeemed at a great
price, or be sold as you have been. On the other hand,
there may be villainy ; and in this case it might be danger-
ous for you to move in the matter lest you be apprehended,
and sent to jail as a rebel, and so a worse fate happen unto
you."
He then went on t(j tell me that this pretended merchant,
this Mr. George Penne, was the most notorious kidnapjier in
the whole of Bristol ; that he was always rakini^ the prison*
252
FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
of rogues, and sending them abroad for sale on the planta-
tions ; that at this time he was looking to make a great profit
because there were so many prisoners that all could not be
hanged, but most must be either flogged and sent about
their business, or else sold to him and his like for servitude.
" As for any money paid for your passage," he M'ent on,
" I assure you, madam, upon my honor, that nothing at all
has been paid by him, nor has he provided you wich any
change of clothing, or provisions of any kind for the voyage ;
nor hath he asked or bargained for any better treatment of
you onboard than is given to the rogues below, and that,
madam," he added, " is food of the coarsest, and planks, for
sleep, of the hardest. The letter which you have shown
me is a mere trick. I do not think there is any such person
in Boston ; it is true, however, that there is a family of your
name in Boston, and that they are substantial merchants.
I make no doubt that as he hath treated you, so he will
treat your friends, and that all the money which he has
taken from you will remain in his own pocket."
" Then," I cried, " what am I to do.? Where look for
help?"
"'Tis the damnedest villain !" cried the captain, swear-
ing after the profane way of sailors. " When nextl put in
at the port of Bristol, if the IMonmouth scare be over, I will
take care that all the world shall know what he hath done.
But, indeed, he will not care. The respectable merchants
have nothing to say with him ; he is now an open Catholic,
who was formerly concealed in that religion. Therefore he
thinks his fortune is at the flood. But what is to be done,
madam ? "
" Indeed, sir, I know not."
He considered awhile. His face was rough, and colored
like a ripe plum with the wind and the sun ; but he looked
honest, and he did not, like Mr. Penne, pretend to shed
tears over my misfortunes.
" Those who join rebellions," he said, but not unkindly,
" generally find themselves out in their reckoning in the
end. What the deuce have gentlewomen to do with the
pulling down of kings ? I warrant, now, you thought you
were doing a grand thing, and so you must needs go walk-
ing with those pretty fools, the maids of Taunton ; well, 'tis
past praying for ; George Penne is such a villain thai keel-
hauling is too good for him. flogged through the fleet at
Spithead he should be. Madam, 1 am not one who favors
rebels ; y§t you cannot sleep and mess with the scum down
POfi FAITH AAD t''kEEDOM. ^53
yonder. 'Twould be worse than inhuman — their talk and
their manners would kill you. There is a cabin aft which
you can have ; the furniture is mean, but it will be your own ;
while you are aboard you shall mess at my table if you will
so honor me. You shall have the liberty of the quarter-deck.
I will also find for you, if I can, among the women aboard,
one somewhat less villainous than the rest, who shall be
your grumeta, as the Spaniards say ; your servant, that is,
to keep your cabin clean, and do your bidding. When we
make Barbadoes there is no help for it, but you must go
ashore with the rest and take your chance. "
This was truly generous of the captain, and I thanked him
with all my heart He proved as good as his word, for
though he was a hard man, who duly maintained discipline,
flogging his prisoners with rigor, he treated me during the
whole voyage with kindness and pity, never forgetting daily
to curse the name of George Penne, and to drink to his
confusion.
The voyage lasted six weeks. At first we had rough
weather, with heavy seas and rolling waves. Happily I
was not made sick by the motion of the ship, and could
always stand upon the deck and look at the waves (a spect-
acle, to my mind, the grandest in the whole world). But I
fear there was much suffering among the poor wretches, my
fellow-prisoners. They were huddled and crowded together
below the deck ; they were all seasick ; there was no doctor
to relieve their sufferings nor were there any medicines for
those who were ill. Fever presently broke out among them,
so that we buried nine in the first fortnight of our voyage.
After this, the weather growing warm and the sea moderat-
ing, the sick mended rapidly and soon all were well again.
I used to stand upon the quarter-deck and look at them
gathered in the waist below. Never had I seen such a com-
pany. They came, I heard, principally from London,
which is the rendezvous or headquarters of all the rogues in
the country. They were all in rags ; had any one among
them possessed a decent coat it would have been snatched
from his back the very first day ; they were dirty from the
beginning ; many of them had cuts and wounds on their
heads gotten in their fights and quarrels, and these were
bound about with old clouts ; their faces were not fresh
colored and rosy like the faces of our honest country lads,
but pale and sometimes covered with red blotches caused
by their evil lives and their hard drinking ; on their fore-
heads was clearly set the seal of Satan. Never did 1 behold
*54
FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
wickedness so manifestly stamped upon the human couiv
tenance. They were like monkeys for their knavish and
thievish tricks. They stole everything that they could lay
hands upon ; pieces of rope, the sailors' knives when they
could get them, even the marlin spikes, if they were left
about. When they were caught and flogged they would
make the ship terrible with their shrieks, being cowa)rds as
prodigious as they were thieves. They lay about all day,
ragged and dirty, on deck in the place assigned to them,
stupidly sleeping, or else silent and dumpish, except for
some of the young fellows who gambled with cards, I know
not for what stakes, and quarrelled over the game and
fought It was an amusement among the sailors to make
these lads fight on the forecastle, promising a pannikin of
rum to the victor. For this miserable prize they would
fight with the greatest fury and desperation, even biting one
another in their rage, while the sailors clapped their hands
and encouraged them. Pity it is that the common sort
do still delight themselves with sport so brutal. On shore
these fellows would be rejoicing in cock-fights and bull-
baitings ; on board they baited the prisoners.
There were among the prisoners twenty or thirty
women, the sweepings of the Bristol streets. They, too.
would fight as readily as the men until the captain forbade
it under penalty of a flogging. These women were to the
full as wicked as the men ; nay, their language was worse,
insomuch that the very sailors would stand aghast to hear
the blasphemies they uttered, and would even remonstrate
with them, saying, "Nan," or "Poll" — they were all Polls
and Nans — " 'tis enough to cause the ship to be struck with
lightning. Give over now ; wilt sink the ship's company
with your foul tongue .? " But the promise of a flogging
kept them from fighting. Men, I think, will brave anything^
for a moment's gratification, but not even the most hardened
women will willingly risk the pain of the whip.
The captain told me that of these convicts, of whom
every year whole ship-loads are taken to Virginia, to Jam-
aica, and to Barbadoes, not one in a hundred ever returns.
" For," he said, "the work exacted from them is so severe,
with so much exposure to a burning sun, and the fare is
so hard, that they fall into fevers and calentures, and besides
the dangers from the heat and the bad food there is a drink
called rum, or arrack, which is distilled from the juice of
the sugar-cane, and another drink called mobbie, distilled
from potatoes, which inflames their blood and causes many
FOR FAITH AXD FREEDOM. 2^5
to die before their time. Moreover, the laws a:e harsh,
and there is too much tiogg-ing- and branding- and hanging.
So that some fall into despair, and in that condition of minu
die under the first illness which seizes on them."
" Captain," I said, "you forget that I am also to become
one of these poor wretches."
The captain swore lustily that on his return he would
seek out the villain Penne and break his neck for him.
Then he assured me that the difference between myself and
the common herd would be immediately recognized, that a
rebel is not a thief, and must not be so treated, and that I
had nothing to fear ; nay, that he himself would say what
he could in my favor. But he entreated me with the utmost
vehemence to send home an account of where I was and
what I was enduring to such of my friends as might have
either money to relieve me from servitude or interest to
procure a pardon. Alas ! I had no friends. Mr. Boscorel,
I knew full well, would move heaven and earth to help me.
But he could not do that without his son finding out where
I was, and this thought so moved me that I implored the
captain to tell no one who I was or what was my history,
and for greater persuasion I revealed to him those parts of
my history which I had hitherto concealed, naming my
marriage, and the reason of that rash step and my flight.
" Madam," he said, " I would that I had the power of re-
venging these foul wrongs. For them, I swear, I would
kidnap both Mr. George Penne and Mr. Benjamin Boscorel,
and, look you, I would make them mess with the scum and
the sweepings whom we carry for'ard ; and I would sell
them to the most inhuman of the planters, by whom they
would be daily beaten and cuffed and flogged ; or, better
still, wouldcause them to be sold at Havana to the Spaniards,
where they would be employed, as are the English prisoners
commonly by that cruel people, namely, in fetching water
under negro overseers. I leave you to imagine how long
they would live and what terrible treatment they would
receive. "
So it was certain that I was going to a place where I must
look for very little mercy unless I could buy it, and where
the white servant was regarded as worth so many years of
work; not so much as a negro, because he doth sooner sink
under the hardships of his lot, while the negro continues
frolick and lusty, and marries and has children, even though
he has to toil all day in the sun. and is flogged continually
to make him work with the greater heart.
>56 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
Among' the womerx on board was a young woman, not
more than eighteen or thereabout, wVto was called Deb.
She had no other name. Her birthplace she knew not, but
she had run about the country with some tinkers, whose
language, she said, is called Shelta by those people. This
she could still talk. They sold her in Bristol, after which
her history is one which I learn is common in towns. When
the captain bade her come to the cabin, and ordered her to
obey me in whatsoever I commanded, she looked stupidly
at him, shrinking from him if he moved, as if she were ac-
customed (which was indeed the case) to be beaten at every
word. I made her first clean herself and wash her clothes.
This done she slept in my cabin, and, as the captain
promised, became my servant. At first she was not only
afraid of ill-treatment, but she would wilfully lie ; she pur-
loined things and hid them ; she told me so many tales
about her past life, all of them different, that I could believe
none. Yet when she presently found out that I was not
going to beat her, and that the captain did never offer to
cuff or kick her (which the poor wretch expected), she left
off telling falsehoods and became as handy, obliging, and
useful a creature as one could desire. She was a great
strapping girl, black eyed and with black hair, as strong as
any man, and a good-looking creature as well to those who
like great women.
This Deb, when, I say, she ceased to be afraid of me, be-
gan to tell me her true history, which was, I suppose, only
remarkable because she seemed not to know that it was
shameful and wicked. She lived, as the people among
whom she had been brought up lived, without the least sense
or knowledge of God. Indeed, no heathen savage could be
more without religion than the tinkers and gypsies on the
road. They have no knowledge at all ; they are born ;
they live ; they die ; they are buried in a hedgeside and are
forgotten. It was surprising to me to find that any woman
could grow up in a Christian country so ignorant and so un-
cared for. In the end she showed every mark of penitence
and fell into a godly and pious life.
My captain continued in the same kindness towards me
throughout the voyage, suffering me to mess at his table,
where the provisions were plain but wholesome, and en-
couraging me to talk to him, taking pleasure in my simple
conversation. In the mornings when, with a fair wind and
full sail the ship ploughed through the water, while the sun
•was hot overhead, he would make me a seat with a pillow
roR fhiiji aa'd freedom.
257
in the shade, and would then entreat me to tell him about
the rebellion and our flight to Black Down. Or he would
encourage me in serious talk (though his own conversation
with his sailors was overmuch garnished with profane oaths),
listening with grave face. And sometimes he would ask me
questions about the village of Bradford Orcas, my mothel
and her wheel, Sir Christopher and the rector, showing a
wonderful interest in everything that I told him. It was
strange to see how this man, hard as he was with the pris-
oners (whom it was necessary to terrify, otherwise they
might mutiny), could be so gentle towards me, a stranger.
and a costly one too, because he was at the expense of
maintaining me for the whole voyage, and the whole time
being of good manners, never rude or rough, or offering
the least freedom or familiarity, a thing which a woman in
my defenceless position naturally fears. He could not have
shown more respect unto a queen.
One evening at sunset, when we had been at sea six weeks,
iie came to me as I was sitting on the quarter-deck, and
pointed to what seemed a cloud in the west " 'Tis tne
island of Barbadoes," he said. "To-morrow, if this wind
keeps fair, we shall make the port of St. ^Michael's, which
some call the Bridge, and then, madam, alas ! " — he fetched
a deep sigh — "I must put you ashore and part with the
sweetest companion that ever sailed across the ocean."
He said no more, but left me as if he had other things to
say but stifled them. Presently the sun went down and
darkness fell upon the v/aters ; the wind also fell and the
sea was smooth, so that there was a great silence. "To-
morrow," I thought, "we shall reach the port, and I shall
be landed with these wretches and sent perhaps to toil in the
fields." But yet my soul was upheld by the vision which
had been granted to me upon the Black Down hills, and I
feared nothing. This I can say without boasting, because I
had such weighty reasons for the faith that was in me.
The captain presently came back to me.
" Madam, " he said, ' ' suffer me to open my mind to you. "
"Sir," I told him, "there is nothing which I could refuse
you saving my honor."'
' I must confess," he said, " I have been torn in twain for
love of you, madam, ever since you did me the honor to
mess at my table — nay, iicai" me out — and I have been
minded a thousand times to assure you, first, that your mar-
riage is no marriage, and that you have not indeed any hus-
band at all ; next, that since you can never go back to ycMi
19
t^S FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
old sweetheart, 'tis better to find another who would protect
and cherish you ; and, thirdly, that I am ready, ay, and
longing, now to become your husband and protector, and to
love you with all my heart and soul."
" Sir. " I said, ' ' I thank you for telling me this, which, indeed,
I did not suspect. But I am (alas ! as you know) already married
(even though my marriage be no true one), and can never
forget the love which I still must bear to my old sweet-
heart, Wherefore I may not listen to any talk of love. "
" If," he replied, "you were a woman after the common
pattern, you would right gladly cast aside the chains of this
marriage ceremony. But, madam, you are a saint, there-
fore I refrained," he sighed. "I confess that I have been
dragged as by chains to lay myself at your feet. Well, that
must not be," he sighed again; "yet I would save you,
madam, from the dangers of this place. The merchants
and planters do for the most part, though gentlemen of good
birth, lead debauched and ungodly lives, and I fear that
though they may spare you the hardships of the field, they
may offer you other and worse indignities."
I answered in the words of David : "the Lord hath de-
livered me out of the paw of the lion, and out of the paw of
the bear, he wull deliver rhe out of the hand of the Philis-
tines. "
" Nay, but there is a way. You need not land at all. It
is but a scratch of the pen, and I will enter y-our name
among those w^ho died upon the voyage. There will be no
more inquiry any more than after the other names, and then
I can carry you back with me to the port of London, whither
I am bound after taking in my cargo.''
For a space I was sorely tempted. Then I reflected. It
would be, I remembered, by consenting to the captain's
treachery towards his employers, nothing less, that I could
escape this lot.
"No, sir," I said, "I thank you from my heart for all
your kindness and for your forbearance. But we may not
consent together unto this sin. Again I thank you. But I
must suffer w^hat is laid upon me."
He knelt at my feet and kissed my hands, saying nothing
more, and presently I went to my cabin ; and so ended my
first voyage across the great Atlantic Ocean. In the morn-
ing, when I awoke, we were beating off Carlisle Bay, and I .
felt like unto one of those Christian martyrs of whom I have
read, whom they were about to lead forth and cast unto the
lions.
J^VR FAWII AND FREEDOM 35^
CHAPTER XXXV.
THE WHITE SLAVE.
When we dropped anchor in the port or road of Carlisle
Bay we were boarded by a number of gentlemen who wel-
comed the captain, asked him the news, and drank with
him. I meantime kept in my cabin, knowing that I must
shortly come forth ; and presently I heard the boatswain's
pipe, and the order to all the prisoners to come on deck.
Then one knocked softly at my door. It was the captain.
" Madam," he said, with a troubled voice, "it is not too
late. Suffer me, I pray you, to enter your name as one of
those who died on the voyage. It is no great deception :
the villain Penne will alone be hurt'by it ; and I swear to
take you home, and to place you, until better times, with
honest and God-fearing people in London."
" Oh, sir," I replied, "tempt me not, I pray you. Let
me go forth and take my place among the rest. "
He entreated me again : but, finding that he could not
prevail, he suffered me to come out. Yet such was his
kindness to the last, that he would not place me with the
rest, but caused his men to give me a chair on the quarter-
deck. Then I saw that we were all to be sold. The pris-
oners were drawn up standing in lines, one behind the
other, the men on one side and the women on the other.
The hardships of the voyage had brought them so low that,
with their. rags and dirt, and their dull scowls and savage
faces, and their thin, pale checks, they presented a forbidding
appearance indeed.
Three or four gentlemen (they were, I found, planters of
this island) were examining them, ordering them to lift up
their arms, stretch out their legs, open their mouths, and,
in short, treating them like so many cattle, at which the
women laughed with ril)ald words, but the men looked as
if they would willingly, if they dared, take revenge.
" Faugh 1 " cried one of the planters, " here is a goodly
collection indeed ! The island is like to become the dust-
heap of Great Britain, where all the rubbish may be shot.
Captain, how long before these bags of bones will drop to
jii:) jOJ^ faith AA'D FREEbOAL
pieces/' vVell. sweet ladies and fair gentlemen " — he made
a mock bow to the prisoners — ■' you are welcome. After
the voyage, a little exercise will do you good. You will
find the air of the fields wholesome, and the gentlewomen,
I assure you, will discover that the drivers and overseers
will oblige any who want to dance with a skipping-rope."
There were now twenty or thirty gentlemen, all of them
merchants and planters, on board, and a man stepped for-
ward with a book and pencil in hand, who was, I perceived,
the salesman.
"Gentlemen, he said, " this parcel of servants " (he called
them a parcel, as if they were a bale of dry-goods) "is con-
signed to my care by Mr. George Penne, of Bristol, their
owner. They are partly from that city and partly from
London, though shipped at the port of Bristol. A tedious
voyage, following after a long imprisonment in Newgate
and Bridewell, hath, it is true, somewhat reduced them.
But there are among them, as you will find on examination,
many lusty fellows and stout wenches, and I doubt not that
what you buy to-day will hereafter prove good bargains.
They are to be sold without reserve and to the highest bid-
der. Robert Bull " — he read the first name on the list
— "Robert Bull, shoplifter. Stand forth, Robert Bull."
There arose from the deck, where he had been lying, a
poor wretch who looked as if he could hardly stand, wasted
with fever and privation, his eyes hollow (yet they looked
full of wicked cunning). The planters shook their heads.
"Come, gentlemen," said the salesman, "we must not
judge by appearances. He is at present, no doubt, weak,
but not so weak as he looks. I warrant a smart cut or two
of the whip would show another man. Who bids for Robert
Bull .? "
He was sold, after a little parley, for the sum of five pounas.
Then the speaker called another, naming his offence as a
qualification. No pillory could be more shameful. Yet the
men looked dogged and the women laughed.
The sale lasted for three or four hours, the prisoners being
knocked down, as they say, for various sums, the greatest
price being given for those women who were young and
strong. The reason (I have been told) is that the women
make better servants, endure the heat more patiently, do not
commonly drink the strong spirit which destroys the men,
and though they are not so strong, do more \vork.
Last of all the men called my name. " Grace Eykin.
rebel. Stand forth, Grace Eykin.'"
FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 26 1
" Do not g'o down among' them," said the captain. " Let
them see at once that yours is no common case. Stand
here. "
He led me to the top of the ladder or steps, which they
call the companion, leading from the waist to the quarter-
deck.
" Madam,"' he said, " it will be best to throw back your
hood. "
This I did, and so stood before them all bareheaded.
Oh, you who are women of gentle nature, think of such a
thing as thus to stand exposed to the curious gaze of rough
and ribald men ; to be bought and sold like a horse or an ox
at the fair. At first my eyes swam, and I saw nothing, and
should have fallen, but the captain placed his hand upon my
arm, and so I was steadied. Then my sight cleared, and I
could look down upon the faces of the men below. There
was no place whither I could fly and hide ; it would be more
shameful still (because it might make them laugh) to burst
into tears. Why, I thought, why had I not accepted the
captain's offer, and suffered my name to be entered as one
of those who had died on the voyage and been buried in the
sea.-*
Down in the waist the gentleman gazed and gasped in
astonishment It was no new thing for the planters to buy
political prisoners. Oliver Cromwell sent over a ship-load
of Irishmen first, and another ship-load of those engaged in
the rising of Penruddock and Grove (among them were
gentlemen, divines, and officers, of whom a few yet survived
on the island). But as yet no gentlewoman at all had heen
sent out for political reasons. Therefore, I suppose, they
looked so amazed, and gazed first at me and then at one an-
other and then gasped for breath.
"Grace Eykin, gentlemen," said the salesman, who had a
tongue which, as they say, ran upon wheels, " is a young
gentlewoman, the daughter, I am informed, of the Rev.
Comfort Eykin, Doctor of Divinity, deceased, formerly
Rector of Bradford Orcas in the County of Somerset, and
sometime fellow of his college at Oxford, a very learned
divine. She hath had the misfortune to have taken part in
the Monmouth rebellion, and was one of those maids of
Taunton who gave the duke his flags, as you have heard by
the latest advices. Therefore she is sent aljioad for a term
often years. Gentlemen, there can be no doubt that her
relations will not endure that this young lady, as beautiful as
fhe is unfortunate, and as tender as she is beautiful, should
262 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
be exposed to the same hard treatment as the rogues and
thieves whom you have just had put up for sale. They will,
I am. privately assured" — I heard this statement with amaze-
ment — "gladly pui'chase her freedom; after which, unless
she is permitted to return, the society of our colony will re-
joice in the residence among them of one so lovely and so
accomplished. Meantime she must be sold like the rest."
"Did Monmouth make war with women for his followers?"
asked a gentleman of graver aspect than most. "I, for one,
will have no part or share in such traffic. Are English gen-
tlewomen, because their friends are rebels, to be sent into the
fields with the negroes?"
"Your wife would be jealous," said another; and then
they all laughed.
I understood not, until afterwards, that the buying and
selling of such a person as I appeared to be is a kind of
gambling. That is to say, the buyer hopes to get his profit,
not by any work that his servant should do, but by the
ransom that his friends at home should offer. And so they
began to bid, with jokes rude and unseemly, and much
laughter while I stood before them, still bareheaded.
"Ten pounds," one began. "Twelve," cried another.
"Fifteen," said a third, and so on, the price continually
rising — and the salesman, with honeyed tongue, continually
declaring that my friends (as he very well knew) would con-
sent to give any ransom, any, so only that I was set free
from, servitude — until, for sixty pounds, no one offering a
higher price, I was sold to one whose appearance I liked the
least of any. He was a gross, fat man, with puffed cheeks
and short neck, who had bought already about twenty of the
servants.
"Be easy," he said, to one who asked him how he looked
to get his money back. "It is not for twice sixty pounds
that I will consent to let her go. What is twice sixty pounds
for a lovely piece like this?"
Then the captain, who had stood beside me saying noth-
ing, interfered.
"Madam," he said, "you can put up your hood again.
And hark ye, sir" — he spoke to the planter — "remember
that this is a pious and virtuous gentlewoman, and" — here
he swore a round oath— "if T hear, when I make this port
again, that you have offered her the least freedom, you
shall answer to me for it. Gentlemen all," he went on, "I
verily believe that you will shortly have the greatest wind-
fall that hath ever happened to you, compared with which
FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 263
fhe Salisbury rising' was but a fleabite. For the trials of the
Monmouth rebels were already begun when I left the port
of Bristol, and though the judges are sentencing all alike to
death, they cannot hang them all, therefore his majesty's
plantations, and Barbadoes in particular, will not only have
whole cargoes of stout and able-bodied servants, compared
with whom these poor rogues are like so many worthless
weeds, but there will also be many gentlemen, and perhaps
gentlewomen, like madam, here, whose freedom will be
bought of you. So that I earnestly advise and entreat you
not to treat them cruelly, but with gentleness and for-
bearance, whereby you will be the gainers in the end, and
will make their friends the readier to find the price of ran-
som. Moreover, you must remember, that though gentle-
men may be flogged at whipping-posts and beat over the
head with canes, as is your habit with servants both black
and white, when the time of their deliverance arrives they
will be no longer slaves, but gentlemen again, and able once
more to stand upon the point of honor, and to run you through
the body, as you will richly deserve for your barbarity. And
in the same way, any gentlewoman who may be sent here
have brothers and cousins who will be ready to perform the
same act of kindness on their behalf. Remember that very
carefully, gentlemen, if you please. "
The captain spoke to all the gentlemen present, but in the
last words he addressed himself particularly unto my new
master. It was a warning likely to be very serviceable,
the planters being one and all notoriously addicted to beat-
ing and whipping their servants. And I have no doubt that
these words did a great deal towards assuring for the unfor-
tunate gentlemen who presently arrived such considera-
tion and good treatment as they would not otherwise have
received.
The island of Barbadoes, as many people know, is one of
the Caribby Islands. It is, as to size, a small place, not
more than twenty miles in length by fifteen in l)readth, but
in population it is a very considerable place indeed, for it is
said to have as many people in it as the city of Bristol. It
is completely settled, and of the former inhabitants not one
is left. They were the people called Indian.s or Caribs, and
how tliey perished I know not. The island hath four ports
of which the principal is that of St. Michael, or the Bridge,
or Bridgetown, in Carlisle Bay. The heat by day is very
great, and there is no winter, but summer all the year
round. There is, however, a cool bree/.c from the sea,
2(54 P(^^^ FAITH AND FREEDOM.
which moderates the heat A great number of vessels cal\
here every year (there is said to be one every day, but this
I cannot believe). They bring to the island all kinds of
European manufactures, and take away with them cargoes
of jMuscovada sugar, cotton, ginger, and logwood. The
island hath its shores covered with plantations, being (the
people say) already more thickly cultivated than any part
of England, with fewer waste places, commons, and the
like. The fruits which grow here are plentiful and deli-
cious, such as the pineapple, the papaw, theguava, the bon-
annow, and the like ; but they are not for the servants and
the slaves. The fertility of the country is truly astonish-
ing ; and the air, though full of moisture, whereby knives
and tools of all kind quickly rust and spoil, is considered
more healthy than that of any other West Indian island.
But for the poor creatures who have to toil in the hot sun the
air is full of fatigue and thirst ; it is laden with fevers, cal-
entures, and sunstrokes. Death is always in their midst ;
and after death, whatever awaits them cannot be much
worse than their condition on the island.
After the sale was finished the captain bade me farewell
with tears in his eyes, and we were taken into boats and con-
veyed ashore, I, for my part, sitting beside my purchaser,
who addressed no word at all to me. I was, however,
pleased to find that among the people whom he had bought
was the girl Deb, who had been my maid (if a woman who
is a convict may have a maid who is a sister convict).
When we landed we walked from the quay or landing-place
to a great building like a barn, which is called a barracoon,
in which are lodged the negro slaves and servants before
they go to their masters. But at this time it was empty.
Hither came presently a certain important person in a great
wig and a black coat, followed by two negro beadles, and
carrying a long cane or stick. After commanding silence,
this officer read to us in a loud voice those laws of the
colony which concern servants, and especially those who,
like ourselves, are transported for various offences. I for-
get what those laws were, but they seemed to be of a cruel
and vindictive nature, and all ended with flogging and ex-
tension of the term of service. I remember, for instance,
because the thought of escape from a place in the middle of
the ocean seemed to me mad, that, by the law, if any one
should be caught endeavoring to run away he should be first
flogged, and then made to serve three years after his term
>fas expired, and that no ship was allowed to trade withtb(«
FOR FAITH AXD FREEDOM. i6*
Island, or to put in for water, unless the captain had given
security with two inhabitants of the island in the sum of
£2,000 sterling not to carry off any servant without the
owner's consent.
When these laws had been read the officer proceeded, further
to inform us that those who were thus sent out were sent to
workasapunishment ; thatthe work would be hard, not light;
and that those who shirked their M^ork, or were negligent in
their work, would be reminded of their duties in the manner
common to plantations ; that if they tried to run away they
would most certainly be caught, because the island was but
small ; and that when they were caught, not only would
their term of years be increased, but that they would most
certainly receive a dreadful number of lashes. He added,
further, that as nothing would be gained by malingering,
sulking, or laziness, so on the other hand our lot might be
lightened by cheerfulness, honesty, and zeal. A more surly,
ill-conditioned crew I think he must have never before ha-
rangued. They listened, and on most faces I read the deter-
mination to do no more work than was forced from them.
This is, I have learned, how the plantation servants do com-
monly begin ; but the most stubborn spirit is not proof
against the lash and starvation. Therefore, before many
days they are as active and as zealous as can be desired,
and the white men, even in the fields, will do double the
work that can be got out of the black.
Then this officer went away, followed by his beadles,
who cast eyes of regret upon us, as if longing to stay and
exercise their wands of office upon the prisoners' backs.
This done, we were ordered to march out. My master's
horse was waiting for him, led by a negro, and two of his
overseers, also mounted, and carrying whips in their hands,
waited his commands. He spoke with them a few minutes,
and then rode away.
They brought a long cart, with a kind of tilt to it, drawn
by two asses (here they call them asscncgoes), and invited
me courteously to get into it. It was loaded with cases
and boxes, and a negro walked beside the beasts. Then we
set out upon our march. First walked tlic twenty servants,
men and women, newly bought by the master ; after them,
or at their side, rode the overseers, roughly calling on the
laggards to quicken their pace, and cracking their whips
horribly. Then came the cart in which I sat. The sun was
high in the heavens, for it was not more than three of the
clock ; the road was white, and covered with dust; andthQ
2(t(, I'OA' FAITH AKD 1-REkDOM.
distance was about six or seven miles, and we went slovvl)^
so that it was already nigh unto sunset when we arrived at
the master's estate.
Thus was I, a gentlewoman born, sold in the island of
Barbadoes for a slave. Sixty pounds the price I fetched.
Oh, even now, when it is all past long since, I remember
still with shame how I stood upon the quarter-deck, my
hood thrown back, while all those men gazed upon me, and
jiassed their ribald jests, and cried the money they would
give for me.
CHAPTER XXXVI.
THE FIRST DAY OF SERVITUDE.
Thus began my captivity. Thus I began to sit beside the
waters of Babylon, more wretched than the daughters of
Zion, because they wept together while I wept alone. I
looked for no release or escape until the Lord should merci-
fully please to call me away by opening the gate of death.
For even if I were released, if by living out the ten years of
servitude I could claim my freedom, of what use would it
be to me? Whither could I fly .-* Where hide myself .^ Yet
you shall hear, if you will read, how a way, terrible at first
and full of peril, was unexpectedly opened, and in what a
strange manner was wrought my deliverance.
We arrived at our new master's estate, which was, as I
have said, about seven miles from the port, towards sun-
down. We were marched (rather driven) to a kind of vil-
lage, consisting of a double row of huts or cottages, forming
a broad street, in the middle of which there were planted a
large number of the fruit-trees named here bonannows (they
are a kind of plantain). The green fruit was hanging in
clusters, as yet unripe, but the leaves, which are also the
branches, being for the most part blown into long shreds or
rags by the wind, had an untidy appearance. The cottages
looked more like pigsties for size and shape ; they were
built of sticks, withes, and plantain-leaves both for sides
and for roof. Chimneys had they none, nor windows ;
some of them had no door, but an opening only. Thus are
housed the servants and the slaves of a plantation. The
furniture within is such as the occupants contrive. Some-
FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 267
times there is a hammock or a pallet, with grass mats and
rugs ; there are some simple platters and basins ; in each
hut there are two, three, or four occupants.
Here let me, in brief, make an end of describing the build-
ings on this estate, which were, I suppose, like those of
every other. If you were to draw a great square on which
to lay down or figure the buildings, you would have in one
corner the street, or village of the people ; next to the village
lies the great pond which serves for drinking water as well
as for washing ; the negroes are fond of swimming and
bathing in it, and they say that the water is not fouled there-
by, which I could not understand. In the opposite corner
you must place the ingenio, or house where the sugar-canes
are brought to be crushed and ground and the sugar is
made ; there are all kinds of machines with great wheels,
small wheels, cogs, gutters for running the juice, and con-
trivances which I cannot remember. Some of the ingenios
are workedby a wind-mill, others by horses and assenegoes ;
there is in every one a still, where they make that fiery
spirit which they call kill-devil. Near the ingenio are the
stables, where there are horses, oxen, assenegoes, and the
curious beast, spoken of in Holy Writ, called the camel. < It
hath been brought here from Africa, and is much used for
carrying the sugar. The open space around the ingenio is
generally covered and strewn with trash, which is the
crushed stalk of the cane ; it always gives forth a sour smell
(as if fermenting) which I cannot think to be wholesome.
In the fourth corner is the planter's house. Considering that
these people sometimes grow so rich that they come home
and buy great estates, it is wonderful that they should con-
sent to live in houses so mean and paltry. They are of
wood, with roofs so low that one can hardly stand upright
in them ; and the people are so afraid of the cool wind which
blows from the east that they have neither doors nor win-
dows oil that side, but will have; them all towards the west,
whence cometh the chief heat of tne sun, namely, the after-
noon heat. Their furniture is rude, and they have neither
tapestry nor wainscoted walls, nor any kind of ornament.
Yet they live always in the greatest luxury, eating and drink-
ing of the best. Some of the houses (my master's among
them) have an open veranda, as they call it — in Somerset-
shire we should call it a linney — running round three sides
of the house, with coarse canvas curtains which can be let
down so as to keep out the sun, or drawn up to admit the
air. But their way of living, though they eat and drink of
• 268 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
the best, is rude even compared with that of our farmers al
home ; and a thriving tradesman, say of Taunton, would
scorn to live in such a house as contenteth a wealthy planter
of Barbadoes. Behind the house was a spacious garden in
which grew all kmds of fruits and vegetables, and all round
the buildings, on every side, stretched the broad fields of
sugar-canes, which when they are in their flower, or blos-
som of gray and silver, wave in the wind more beautifully
than even a field of barley in England.
On the approach of our party, and the voices of the over-
seers, a gentlewoman (so at least she seemed) came out of
the house, and stood upon the veranda shading her eyes and
looking at the gang of wretches. She was dressed splendid-
ly in a silken gown and flowered petticoat, as if she were a
very great lady indeed ; over her head lay a kerchief of rich
black lace ; round her neck was a gold chain. When she
slowly descended the steps of the veranda and walked to-
wards us, I observed that she was of a darker skin than is
customary to find at home ; it was, indeed, somewhat like
the skin of the gypsy people ; her features were straight and
regular ; her hair was quite black ; her eyes were also black
and large, shaped like almonds. On her wrists were heavy
gold bracelets, and her fingers were loaded with rings. She
seemed about thirty years of age ; she was a woman of tall
and fine presence, and she stood and moved as if she were
a queen. She presently came forth from the veranda and
walked across the yartl towards us.
"Let me look at them — your new batch," she said, speak-
ing languidly, and with an accent somewhat foreign.
"How many are there.-' Where do they come from?
Who is this one, for instance } She took the girl named
Deb by the chin, and looked at her as if she were some
animal to be sold in the market. "A stout wench, truly.
What was she over there .? "
The overseer read the name and the crimes of the prisoner.
Madam (this was the only name by which I knew her)
pushed her away disdainfully.
"Well," she said, "she will find companions enough
here. I hope she will work without the whip. Hark ye,
girl," she added, with, I think, kindly interest, " it goes
still to my heart when I hear that the women have been
trounced, but the work must be done. Remember that.
And who are those.'' and those.'' " She pointed with con-
tempt to the poor creatures covered with dirt and dust, and
in the ragg^ed, miserabU* clothes they had worn all the
I-OR FAITH AXD FREEDOM. ^69
Voyage. "Street sweepings, rogues, and thieves, all. Let
them know," she said, grandly, "what awaits those who
skulk, and those who thieve. And whom have we here .'' "
She turned to me. "Is this some fine city madam, fresh
from Bridewell .-' "
"This prisoner, " said the overseer, "is described as a
rebel in the late Monmouth rising."
"A rebel.'' truly.?" she asked with curiosity. "Were
Monmouth's soldiers women.-* We heard by the last ship
something of this. Madam, I know not why you must
needs become a rebel, but, this, look you, is no place for
gentlewomen to sit down and fold their arms."
"Madam," I replied, "I look for nothing less than to
work, being now a convict, though I was never tried and
condemned — I know not by whom — to transportation in
his majesty's plantations."
" Let me look at your hands," she said, sharply. " Why,
of what use are those little fingers 1 they have never done
any work; and your face — prithee, turn back your hood."
I obeyed, and her eyes suddenly softened. Lideed, I looked
not for this sign of compassion, and my own tears began to
flow. " 'Tis a shame ! " she cried. "'Tis a burning shame
to send so young a woman, a gentlewoman, and one with
such a face to the plantations! Have they no bowels.'
Child, who put thee aboard the ship .? "
"I was brought on board by one ]\Ir. Penne, who de-
ceived me promising that I should be taken to New England
where I have cousins. ''
"We will speak of this presently. Meantime since we
must by the law find you some work to do — can you sew .'' "
"Yes, madam, I can perform any kind of needlework
from plain sewing to embroidery."
"What mean they," she cried again, "by sending a
helpless girl alone with such a crew } The very Spaniards
of whom they talk so much would blush for such barbarity.
They would send her to a convent where the good nuns
would treat her kindly. Well, madam or miss, thou art
bought, and the master may not, by law, release you. But
there is a way of which we will talk presently. Mean-
while, thou canst sit in the sewing-room where we may
find thee work. "
"I thanked her; she would have said more. But there
came forth from the house witli staggering step the man
who had bought us. He had now put off his wig and his
scarlet coat, and wore a white dressing-gown and a lincu
if POR PAlTIi A.K'D PKEEDOM.
night-cap. He had in his hand a whip, which he cracked
as he walked.
"Child," said madam, quickly, "pulldown your hood.
Hide your face. He hath been drinking and at such times
he is dangerous. Let him never set eyes upon thee save
when he is sober.
He came rolling and staggering, yet not so drunk but he
could speak, though his voice was thick.
"Oho !" he cried. "Here are the new servants. Stand
up every man and woman. Stand up, I say. " Here he
cracked his whip, and they obeyed, trembling. But madam
placed herself in front of me. "Let me look at ye."
He walked along the line calling the unhappy creatures
vile and foul names. Oh, shame thus to mock their misery !
"What ! " he cried. " you think you have come to a country
where there is nothing to do but lie on your backs and eat
turtle and drink mobbie ; what ! You shall find out your
mistake!" Here he cracked his whip again, " You shall
work all day in the field, not because you like it, but because
you must. For your food it shall be lobloUie, and for your
drink water from the pond. What, I say ! Those who
skulk shall learn that the Newgate cat is tender compared
with her brother of Barbadoes. Tremble, therefore, ye
devils, all, tremble ! "
They trembled visibly. All were now subdued. Those
of them who swaggered, the dare-devil reckless blades,
when first we sailed, were now transformed into cowardly,
trembling wretches, all half starved, and some reduced
with fevers, with no more spirit left than enabled them still
to curse and swear. The feeblest of mortals, the lowest of
human wretches, has still left so much of strength and will
that he can sink his immortal soul lower still ; a terrible
power, truly.
Then madam drew me aside, gently, and led me to a
place like a barn where many women, white and black, sat
sewing, and a great quantity of little black babies and naked
children played about under their charge. The white
women were sad and silent ; the blacks, I saw with sur-
prise, were all chattering and laughing. The negro is
happy if he have enough to eat and drink, whether he be
slave or free. Madam sat down upon a bench and caused
me to sit beside her.
"Tell me," she said, kindly, "what this means. When
did women begin to rebel .? If men are such fools as to go
forth and fight, let them ; but for women — "
I'VK FAITH AND FREEDOM. 471
"Indeed," I told her, " I did not fight."
Then nothing would do but I must tell her all from the
beginning — my name, my family, and my history. But I
told her nothing about my marriage.
"So," she said, "you have lost father, mother, brother,
lover, and friends by this pretty business, and all because
they will not suffer the king to worship in his own way.
Well, 'tis hard for you. To be plain, it may be harder than
you think, or I can help. You have been bought for sixty
pounds, and that not for any profit that your work will bring
to the estate, because such. as you are but a loss and a burden,
but only in the hope that your friends will pay a great
sum for ransom."
" Madam, I have indeed no friends left who can do this
for me. "
"If so, it is indeed unfortunate. For presently the mas-
ter will look for letters on your behalf, and if none come, I
know not what he may threaten or what he may do. But
think — try to find some one. Consider, your lot here must
be hard at best, whereas if you are released you can live
where you please ; you may even marry whom you please,
because beautiful young gentlewomen like yourself are
scarce indeed in Barbadoes. 'Tis Christian charity to set you
free. Remember, child, that money will do here what I
suppose it will do anywhere. All are slaves to money.
You have six months before you in which to write to your
friends and to receive an answer. If in that time nothing
comes, I tell thee again, child, that I know not what will
happen. As for the life in the fields, it would kill thee in a
week."
"Perhaps, if the Lord so wills," I replied, helplessly,
"that may be best. Friends have I none now, nor any
whom I could ask for help, save the Lord alone. I will
ask for work in the fields. "
"Perhaps he may forget thee," she said, meaning the
master. "But no; a man who hath once seen thy face
will never forget thee. My dear, he told me when he came
home that he had bought a woman whose beauty will set
the island in flames. Pray Heaven he come not near thee
when he is in liquor. Hide that face, child, hide that face.
Let him never see thee. Oh, there are dangers worse than
labor in the fields, worse than whip of overseer." She
sprang to her feet and clasped her hands. "You talk of
the Lord's will ! What hath the Lord to do with this place?
Here is nothing but debauchery and drinking, cruelty and
I^J FOR FAITH AND FR£:&Jt>OM.
greed. Why have they sent here a woman who prays ? **
Then she sat down again and took my hand.
•' Tender maid, " she said, " thy face is exactly such aa
the face of a certain saint ; 'tis in a picture which hangs in
the chapel of the convent where the good nuns brought me
up long ago, before I came to this place — long ago. Yes,
I forget the name of the saint ; thou hast her face. She
stood, in the picture, surrounded by soldiers who had red
hair, and looked like devils — English devils, the nuns said.
Her eyes were raised to heaven and she prayed. But what
was done unto her I know not, because there was no other
picture. Now she sits upon a throne in the presence of the
mother of God. "
The tears stood in her great black eyes. I take it that she
was thinking of the days when she was young.
"Well, we must keep thee out of his way. While he is
sober he listens to reason, and thinks continually upon his
estate and his gains. When he is drunk no one can hold
him, and reason is lost upon him.''
She presently brought me a manchet of white bread and a
glass of Madeira wine, and then told me that she would
give me the best cottage that the estate possessed, and for
my better protection another woman to share it with me. I
thanked her again, and asked that I might have the girl
called Deb, which she readily granted.
And so my first day of servitude ended in thus nappily
finding a protector. As for the cottage, it was a poor thing,
but it had a door and a window with a shutter. The furniture
was a pallet with two thick rugs and nothing more. INIy
condition was desperate indeed, but yet, had I considered, I
had been so far most mercifully protected. I was shipped
as a convict (it is true) by a treacherous villain, but on the
ship I found a compassionate captain who saved me from
the company among whom I must otherwise have dwelt.
I was sold to a drunken and greedy planter, but I found a
compassionate woman who promised to do what she could.
And I had for my companion the woman who had become
a most faithful maid to me upon the voyage, and who still
continued in her fidehty and her love. And greater mercit*
yet were in store, as you shall see.
FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM 373
CHAPTER XXXVII.
BY THE WATERS OF BABYLON.
Thus delivered from the slavery of the fields, I began to
work, an unprofitable servant, among those who made and
mended the garments of the servants and negroes. On an
estate so large as this there is always plenty to be done by
the seamstresses and needlewomen. Thus, to every woman
is given by the year four smocks, two petticoats, and four
coifs, besides shoes, which are brought from England by
the ships. Those who wait in the house have, in addition,
six smocks and three waistcoats. To the men are given six
shirts ; and to every man and woman a rug or gown of thick
stuff to cast about them when they come home hot, so thai
they may not catch cold, a thing which throws many into a
fever. All these things have to be made and mended on the
estate.
As for the children, the little blacks, they run about with-
out clothing, their black skin sufficing. The women who
are engaged upon the work of sewing are commonly those
of the white servants who are not strong enough for the
weeding and hoeing in the fields, or are old and past hard
work. Yet the stuff of which the smocks and shirts is made
is so coarse that it tore the skin from my fingers, which,
when madam saw, she brought me fine work, namely, for
herself. She was also so good as to provide me with ci
change of clothes, of which I stood sadly in need, and ex-
cused my wearing the dress of the other women. I hope
that I am not fond of fine apparel more than becomes a
modest woman ; but I confess that the thought of wearing
this livery of servitude, this coarse and common dress of
smock, petticoat, and coif, all of rough and thick stuff, like
canvas, with a pair of shoes, and no stockings, filled my very
soul with dismay. None of the many acts of kindness
shown me by madam was more gratefully received than
her present of clothes — not coarse and rough to the skin,
nor ugly and common, befitting prisoners and criminals,
but soft and pleasant to wear, and fit for the heat of the
climate, 'Twas no great hardship, certainly, to rise early
find to sit all day with needle and thread in a ereat room
18
2 74 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
well aired. The company, to be sure, was not what one
would have chosen, nor was the language of the poor crea-
tures who sat with me — prison and Bridewell birds all ot
them — such as my poor mother would have desired her
daughter to hear. The food was coarse, but I was often at
the house when the master was away, and there madam
would constantly give me something from her own table — ;:
dish of chocolate, rightly called the Indian nectar, made so
thick and strong that a spoon stands upright in it, or a gla; s
of Madeira, if my cheeks looked paler than ordinary. I a
this country the great heat of the air seems to suck out and
devour the heat of the body, so that those of European birth,
if they are not nourished on generous diet, presently fall
into a decline or wasting away, as is continually seen in the
case of the white servants, both men and women, who die
early, and seldom last more than five or six years.
Briefly, madam seemed to take great pleasure in my con-
versation, and would either seek me in the workroom or
would have me to the house, asking questions as to my
former life. For herself, I learned that she had been born
in Cuba, and had been brought up by nuns in a convent,
but how or why she came to this place I knew not, nor did
I ask. Other gentlewomen of the island I never saw, and I
think there were none who visited her. Nor did she show
kindness to the women-servants (except to myself), treating
them all, as is the fashion in that country, as if they were
so many black negroes, not condescending to more than a
word or a command, and if this were disobeyed they knew
very well what to expect from her. But to me she continued
throughout to be kind and gracious, thinking always how
she could lighten my lot.
In this employment, therefore, I continued with such con-
tentment as may be imagined, which was rather a forcetl
resignation to the will of the Lord than a cheerful heart.
But I confess that I looked upon the lot of the other women
with horror, and was, indeed, thankful that I was si)ared the
miseries of those who go forth to the fields. They begin at
six in the morning and work until eleven, when they come
home to dinner. At one o'clock they go out again and re-
turn at sunset, which in this country is nearly always about
half-past six. But let no one think that work in the fields in
Barbadoes may be compared with work in the fields at
home. For in England there are cloudy skies and cold,
wintry days in plenty, but in Barbadoes, save when the rain
fitlls in prodigious cjuwtiUes, the skies have no tl^uds, b\it
hVk t'AITH AXD FREEDOM. 275
are clear blue all the year round ; the sun burns with a heat
iKii'jlerable, so that the eyes are well-nigh blinded, the head
aches, the limbs fail, and but for fear of the lash the wretched
toiler would lie down in the nearest shade. And a terrible
thirst (all this was told me by the girl Deb) seizes the throat,
all day long, which nothing can assuage but rest. For the
least skulking the whip is laid on, and if there be a word of
impatience or murmuring it is called stark mutiny, for which
the miserable convict, maia or woman, is tied up and flogged
with a barbarity which would be incredible to any were it
not for the memory of certain floggings in our own country.
Besitles the lash they have also pillory and the stocks, and
the overseers carry, in addition to their whip, a heavy cane,
with which they constantly belabor the slaves, both white
and black. I say slaves, because the white servants are
nothing less, save that the negroes are far better off, and re-
ceive infinitely better treatment than the poor white creatures.
Indeed, the negro being the absolute property of his master,
both he and his children, to ill-treat him is like the wanton
destruction of cattle on a farm, whereas there is no reason
in making the convicts last out more than the ten years of
their servitude, or even so long, because many of them are
such poor creatures when they arrive, and so reduced by the
miseries of the voyage, and so exhausted by the hard labor
to which they are put, that they bring no profit to the master,
but quickly fall ill, and die like rotten sheep. Like rotten
sheep, I say, they die, without a word of Christian exhorta-
tion, and like brute creatures who have no world to come are
they buried in the ground. Again, the food served out to
these poor people is not such as should be given to white
people in a hot climate. There is nothing but water to
drink, and that drawn from ponds, because in Barbadoes
there are few springs or rivers. It is true that the old hands,
who have learned how to manage, contrive to make plantain
wine, and get, by hook or by crook, mobbie (which is a
strong drink made from potatoes), or kill-devil, which is the
wQ.\v spirit distilled from sugar. Then, for solid food, the
servants are allowed five pounds of salt l)eef for each person
every week, and this so hard and stringy that no boiling will
make it soft enough for the teeth. Sometimes, instead of the
beef, they have as much salt fish, for the most part stinking ;
with this, aportion of ground Indian corn, which is made into'
akinii of porridge, and called loblollie. This is the slai)le of
the food, and there are no rustics at home who do not live
better and have more nourishing; food.
27< i'OR FAITH AXD F/iJS£DOM,
I do not deny that the convicts are for the most part a
most horrid crew, who deserve to suffer if any men ever did ;
but it was sad to see how the faces of the people were
pinched with hunger and wasted with the daily fatigues, and
how their hollow eyes were full of despair. Whatever their
sins may have been, they were at least made in God's own
image ; no criminal, however wicked, should have been
used with such barbarity as was w-reaked upon the people of
this estate. The overseers were chosen (being themselves
also convicts) for their hardness of heart. Nay, did they
show the least kindness towards the poor creatures whom
they drove they would themselves be forced to lay dowm the
whip of office and to join the gang of those who toiled.
And over them was the master, zealous to exact the last
ounce of strength from the creatures whom he had bought.
Did the good people of Bristol who buy the sugar and mo-
lasses and tobacco of the Indies know or understand the
tears of despair and the sweat of agony which are forced
with every pound of sugar, they would abhor the trade
which makes them rich.
The companion of my sleeping-hut, the girl Deb, was a
great, strapping wench, who bade fair to outlast her ten
years of servitude, even under the treatment to which, with
the rest, she was daily subjected. And partly because she
was strong and active, partly because she had a certain kind
of beauty (the kind which belongs to the rustic and is ac-
companied by good-humor and laughter), she would per-
haps have done well, as some of the women do, and ended
by marrying an overseer, but for events which presently
happened. Yet, strong as she was, there was no evening
when she did not return worn out with fatigue, her cheeks
burning, her limbs weary, yet happy because she had one
more day escaped the lash, and had the night before her in
which to rest. If it is worth noting, the women were from
the outset the most willing workers and the most eager to
satisfy their taskmasters ; the men, on the other hand, went
sullen and downcast, thinking only how to escape the over-
seer's whip, and going through the work with angry and
revengeful eyes. I think that some great mutiny might have
happened upon this estate — some wild revenge — so desper-
ate were these poor creatures, and so horrible were the scourg-
ings they endured and the shrieks and cursings which they
uttered. Let me not speak of these things.
There are other things which make a residence in Barba-
does, even to the wealthy, full of annoyances and irritations.
FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. zjf
The place is filled with cockroaches, great spiders, horrid
scorpions, centipedes, and lizards. There are ants which
swarm everywhere, and there are clouds of flies ; and at
night there are mosquitoes and merrywings, which by their
bites have been known to drive new-comers into fever, or
else into a kind of madness.
In the evenings, after supper, there reigned a melancholy
silence in the village, the people for the most part taking
rest with weary limbs. Sometimes there would be a quarrel,
with horrid oaths and curses, and perhaps some fighting.
But these occasions were rare.
From the house there came often the noise of singing,
drinking, and loud talking when other planters would ride
over for a drinking-bout. There was also sometimes to be
heard the music of the theorbo, upon which madam played
very sweetly, singing Spanish songs ; so that it seemed a
pity for music so sweet to be thrown away upon this selfish
crew. It made me think of Humphrey and of the sweet
and holy thoughts which he would put into rhymes, and
then fit the rhymes with music which seemed to breathe
those very thoughts. Alas ! in the village of Bradford Orcas
there would be now silence and desolation : the good old
squire was dead ; my father dead ; the young men sent to
the plantations ; no one left at all but the rector and madam,
his sister-in-law ; and I, alas ! a slave. Perchance at that
moment the rector might be slowly drawing his bow across
the strings of his violoncello, thinking of those who formerly
played with him ; or perhaps he would be sorrowfully taking
out his cases and gazing for a little consolation upon the figures
of his goddesses and his nymphs — only to think of the place
and of those who once lived there tore my poor heart to
pieces.
One evening, when there was a great noise and talking
at the house, while we were sitting upon our beds, with no
other light than that of the moon, madam herself came to
the cottage.
"Child," she said, " nothing will do but that the gentle-
men must see thy beauty. Nay, no harm shall happen
while I am there. So much they know. But he hath so
bragged about thy beauty, and the great price he will de-
mand for ransom, that the rest are mad to see thee. I swear
that not the least rudeness shall be offered thee. They are
drinking, it is true, but they are not yet drunk. Come."
So I arose and followed her. First she took me to her
OWh room, where she took off my hood and threw over HK
278 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
a long white lace mantilla, which covered my head and fell
over my shoulders and below the waist
See sighed as she looked me.
" Poor innocent ! " she said, " if money could buy thai
face there is not a man in the room but would give all he
hath and count it gain. Canst thou play or sing?"
I told her that I had some knowledge of the theorbo.
Therefore she brought me hers, and bade me sing to the
gentlemen and then retire quickly. So I followed her into
the living or keeping room, where a dozen gentlemen were
sitting round the table. A bowl of punch was on the table,
and every man had his glass before him and a pipe of to-
bacco in his hand. Some of their faces were flushed with
wine.
"Gentlemen," said madam, " our prisoner hath consented
to sing one song to you, after which she will ask permis-
sion to bid you good-night. "
So they all clapped their hands and rapped the table, and
I, being indeed terrified, but knowing very well that to show
fear would be the worst thing I could do, touched the
strings and began my song. I sang the song which
Humphrey made, and which he sang to the officers at
Taunton when the duke was there.
When I finished I gave back the theorbo to madam, courte-
sied to the gentlemen, and quickly stepped back to madam's
room, while they all bellowed and applauded, and roared
for me to come back again. But I put on my hood and
slipped out to the cottage, where I lay down beside Deb
and quickly fell asleep. (It is a great happiness in these
hot latitudes that when a new-comer hath once got over
the trouble of the merrywings he falleth asleep the moment
he lies down, and so sleeps through the whole night.)
But in the morning madam came to see me while I was
sewing.
" Well, child," she said, laughing, " thou hast gotten a
lover who swears that he will soon have thee out of this hell. '
" A lover ! " I cried. " Nay ; that may God forbid ! ''
" 'Tis true. Young Mr. Anstiss it is. While thou wast
singing he gazed on thy pretty face and listened as one
enchanted. I wonder — but no, thou hast no eyes for such
things. And when thou wast gone he offered the master
four times the sum he paid for thee ; yea, four times, or six
times, saying that he meant honorably, and that if any man
dared to whisper anything to the contrary he would cut his
throat, "
hOR FAITH AXn FREEDOM.
279
" Alas, madam. I must never marry — either this Mi
Anstiss or any other. "
'* Tut, tut ; this is foolish maid's nonsense. Granted you
have lost your old lover, there are plenty more. Suppose
he hath lost his old sweetheart, there are plenty more, as I
doubt not he hath already proved. Mr. Anstiss is a very
pretty young gentleman ; but the master would not listen,
saying that he waited for the lady's friends."
And so passed six weeks, or thereabouts, for the only
count of time I kept was from Sunday to Sunday. On that
day we rested ; the negroes, who are no better than heathens,
danced. The white servants lay about in the shade, and
drank what they could ; in one cottage only on that godless
estate prayers were offered.
And then happened that great event which in the end
proved to be a chp,nge ot my whole life, and brought happi-
ness out of misery, and joy out of suffering, though at first
it seemed only a dreadful addition to my trouble. Thus is
the course of things ordered for us, and thus the greatest
blessings follow upon the most threateningjuncture. What
this was I will tell in a few words.
It was about the third week in September when I em-
barked, and about the third week in November when the
ship made her port. Therefore I take it that it was one day
about the beginning of the year 1686, when madam came
to the workroom and told me that a ship had arrived, carry-
ing a cargo of two hundred rebels and more, sent out to
work upon the plantations, like myself, for the term of ten
years. She also told me that the master was gone to the
Bridge in order to buy some of them. Not, she said, that
he wanted more hands, but he expected that there would be
among them persons of quality who would be glad to buy
their freedom. He still, she told me, looked to make a
great profit out of myself, and was thinking to sell me, un-
less my friends in England speedily sent proposals for my
ransom, to the young planter who was in love with me.
This did not displease me. I have not thought it necessary
to tell how Mr. Anstiss came often to the estate, and con-
tinually devised schemes for looking at me, going to the
ingenio, whence he could see those who sat in the workroom,
and even sending me letters, vowing the greatest extrava-
gance of passion ; I say I was not displeased because there
was in this young gentleman's face a certain goodness of
disposition clearly marked, so that even if I beciame his
property I thought I might persuade him to relinquislj
28o FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
thoughts of love, even if I had to trust myself entirely to his
honor, and tell him all. But, as you shall hear, this project
of the master's was brought to naught.
As for the rebels, I was curious to s'ee them. Some I
might recognize ; to some I might perhaps be of a little use
at the outset in guarding them against dangers. I did not
fear, or think it likely, that there would be any among them
vvhom I might know, or who might know me. Yet the
thing which I least suspected and the least feared — a thing
which one would have thought so unlikely as to make the
event a miracle ; nay, call it rather the merciful ordering of
all — that thing I say, actually happened.
The newly bought servants arrived at about five in the
evening.
I looked out of the workroom to see them. Why, 1
seemed to know their faces — all their face^. They were our
brave West Country lads, whom I had last seen marching
gallantly out of Taunton town to victory and glory (as they
believed) ; now, pale with the miseries of the voyage, thin
with bad food and disease, hollow-cheeked and hollow-
eyed, in rags and dirt, barefooted, covered with dust, grimy
for want of washing, their beards grown all over their faces,
with hanging heads stood these poor fellows. There were
thirty of them ; some had thrown themselves on the ground
as if in the last extremity of fatigue ; some stood with the
patience that one sees in brute beasts who are waiting to be
killed ; and in a group together stood three — oh, merciful
Heaven ! was this misery also added to my cup ? They
were Robin, Barnaby, and Humphrey. Robin's face, heavy
and pale, betrayed the sorrow of his soul. He stood as
one who neither careth for nor regarded anything. INfy
heart fell like lead to witness the despair which was visible
in his attitude, in his eyes, in his brow. But Barnaby
showed still a cheerful countenance, and looked about him
as it he were arriving a welcome guest instead or a slave.
"You know any of them, child.'' " madam asked.
"Oh, madam," I cried, "they are my friends ; they are
my friends. Oh, help them ; help them."
"How can I help them ?" she replied, coldly. "They
are rebels, and they are justly punished. Let them write
home for money if they have friends, and so they can be
ransomed To make them write the more movingly the
master hath resolved to send them all to work in the tields.
The harder they work, he says, the more they will desire ty
be free again."
"Xn th? fields ! Oh, Robin I mv poor Robin ! '
}-'0K FAITH AA'D FREEDOM. jgi
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
H U M P H R E y's narrative.
With these words — "Oh, Robin! Robin! — the history
as set down in my mistress's handwriting- suddenly comes
to an end. The words are titting, because her whole heart
was full of Robin, and though at this time it seemed to the
poor creature a sin still to nourish affection for her old sweet-
heart, I am sure — nay, I have it on her own confession —
that there was never an hour in the waking day when Robin
was not in her mind, though between herself and her former
Lover stood the dreadful figure of her husband. I suppose
that, although she began this work with the design to com-
plete it, she had not the courage, even when years had
passed away, and much earthly happiness had been her re-
ward, to write down the passages which follow. Where-
fore (and for another reason, namely, a confession which
must be made by myself before I die) I have taken upon
myself to finish that part of Grace Eykin's history which re-
lates to theMonmoutli rising and its unhappy consequences.
You have read how (thanks to my inexperience and igno-
rance of conspiracies, and belief in men's promises) we were
reduced to the lowest point of disgrace and poverty. Grace
did not tell, because till afterwards she did not know, that
on Sir Christopher's death his estate was declared confiscated,
and presently bestowed upon Benjamin by favor of Lord
Jeffreys, so that he whose ambition it was to become lord
chancellor was already (which he had not expected,) the
Lord of the Manor of Bradford Orcas. But of this here-
after.
I have called her my mistress. Truly, all my life she
hath been to me more than was ever Laura to Petrarch, or
even Beatrice to the great Florentine. The ancients rep-
resented every virtue by a goddess, a "grace, or a nymph.
Nay, the arts were also feminine (yet subject to the informing
influence of the other sex, as the muses had Apollo for their
director and chief) To my mind every generous senti-
ment, every worthy thought, all things that are gracious,
all things that lift my soul above the common herd, belong
282 POR FAITH AiVD FREEDOM.
not to me, but to my mistress. In my youth it was sbe
who encourag-ed me to the practice of those arts by which
the soul is borne heavenwards. I mean the arts of poetry
and of music ; it was she who listened patiently when I
would still be prating of myself, and encouraged the ambi-
tions which had already seized my soul. So that if I turned
a set of verseis smoothly, it was to Grace that I gave them,
and for her that I wrote them. When we played heavenly
music together the thoughts inspired by the strain were like
the Italian painter's vision of the angels which attend the
V^irgin. I mean that, sweet and holy as they are, they fall
far short of the holiness and sweetness of her whom they
honor. So whatever my thoughts, or my ambitions, amid
them all I saw continually the face of Grace, always filled
with candor and with sweetness. That quality which en-
ables a woman to think always about others, and never
about herself, was given to Grace in large aiid plenteous
measure. .If she talked wiii me, her soul was all mine ;
if she was waiting on madam, or upon Sir Christopher, or
upon the rector, or on her own mother, she knew their in-
most thoughts, and divined all their wants. Nay, long
afterwards, in the daily exercise of work and study, at the
University of Oxford, in the foreign schools of IMontpellier,
Padua, and Leyden, it was Grace who, though far away,
encouraged me. I could no longer hear her voice, but her
steadfast eyes remained in my mind like twin stars that
dwell in heaven. This is a wondrous power given to a few
women, that they should become, as it were, angels sent
from heaven, lent to the earth awhile, in order to fill men's
minds with worthy thoughts and to lead them in the heaven-
ly way. The Romish Church holds that the age of miracles
hath never passed, which I do also believe, but not in the
sense taught by that church. Saints there are among us
still, who daily work miracles, turning earthly clay into the
jasper and precious marble of heaven.
Again, the great poet INIilton hath represented his Virtuous
Lady unharmed among- the rabble rout of Comus, protected
by her virtue alone. Pity that he hath not also shown a
young- man led by that sweet lady, encouraged, warned,
and guarded along that narrow way, beset with quag and
pitfall, along which he must walk, who would willingly
climb to higher place. And all this apart from earthly love
as in the case of those two Italian poets.
More, I confess, I would have had, and presumptuously
longed for it ; nay, c/en j-iraycd for it with such yearnings
FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 283
and longings as seemed to tear my very heart asunder.
But this was denied to me.
In September, 1685, ten weeks after the fight of Sedge-
m«or, we, being by that time well tired of Exeter prison,
were tried by Lord Jeffreys. It was no true trial, for we were
all advised to plead guilty, upon which thejudge bellowed and
roared at us, abusing us in such language as I never thought
to hear from the bench, and finally sentenced us all to deatn.
(A great deal has been said of this roaring of the judge, but
I am willing to excuse it in great measure, on the ground of
the disease from which he was then suffering. I myself,
who had heard that he was thus afflicted, saw the drops of
agony upon his forehead, and knew that if he was not bawl-
ing at us, he must have been roaring on his own account.)
So we were marched back to prison, and began to prepare
for the last ceremony, which is, I think, needlessly horrible
and barbarous. To cut a man open while he is still living
is a thing not practised even by the savage Turk. At this
gloomy time my cousin Robin set a noble example of forti-
tude which greatly encouraged the rest of us. Nor would
he ever suffer me to reproach myself (as I was continually
tempted to do) with having been the cause of the ruin which
had fallen upon the whole of our unfortunate house. Nay,
he went further, and insisted and would have it that had I
remained in Holland he himself would have joined the duke,
and that I was in no way to blame as an inciter to this un-
fortunate act. We knew by this time that Sir Christopher
had been arrested, and conveyed to Ilminster jail, and thai
with him were Dr. Eykin, grievously wounded, and Bar-
naby, and that Grace, with her mother, was also at Ilminster.
Mr. Boscorel, for his part, was gone to London in order to
exert whatever interest he might possess on behalf of all.
With him went madam, Robin's mother, but she returned
licfore the trial, much dejected, so that we were not encour-
aged to hope for anything from that quarten Madam be-
gan to build some hopes at this time from Benjamin, be-
cause he, who had accompanied the judges from London,
was the boon companion every night of Lord Jeffreys him-
self. But it is one thing to be permitted to drink and sing
with a man at night, and another thing to procure of him
the pardon of rebels, and those not the common sort, but
leaders and captains. That Benjamin would attempt to
save us I did not doubt, because in common decency and
humanity he must needs try to save his grandfather and his
cousins. Eyt that he >vould elfect anything, that indeed 1
384 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
doubted. Whether he did make an attempt I know not.
He came not to the prison, nor did he make any sign that
he knew we were among- the prisoners. What he contrived,
the plot which he laid, and the villainy with which he ca--
ried it out, you have already read. Well, I shall have much
more to say about Benjamin. For the moment, let hin;
pass.
I say, then, that we were lying in Exeter jail, expectin^^t i
be called out for execution at any hour. \\'e were sitting i .
the courtyard on the stone bench, with gloomy hearts.
" Robin ! Humphrey ! lads both ! " cried a voice wc knew.
It was the rector, Mr. Boscorel, himself, who called us.
"Courage, lads ! " he cried, yet looked himself as mournful
as man can look. "I bring you good news. I have this
day ridden from Ilminster. There is other news not so
good. Good news, I say ; for you shall live, and not die !
I have so far succeeded that the lives are spared of Robin
Challis, captain in the rebel cavalry ; Barnaby Eykin, cap-
tain of the green regiment; and Humphrey Challis, chirur-
geon to the duke. Yet must you go to the plantations, poor
lads ! there to stay for ten long years. Well, we will hope
to get your pardon and freedom long before that time is
over. Yet you must perforce sail across the seas."
"Lad," cried Robin, catching my hand, "cease to tear
thy heart with reproaches. See ! none of us will die, after
all."
"On the scaffold, none," said Mr. Boscorel. "On the
scaffold none," he repeated.
"And what saith my grandfather, sir.?" Robin asked.
He is also enlarged, I hope, at last And how is the
learned Dr. Eykin .-* And Grace, my Grace, where is she } ''
"Young man," said the rector, " prepare for tidings of the
worst — yes, of the very worst. Cruel news I bring to you,
boys — and for myself. " (He hung his head. ) ' ' Cruel news
— shameful news."
Alas I you know already what he had to tell us. Worse
than the death of that good old man, Sir Christopher, worse
than the death of the unfortunate Dr. Eykin and his much
tried wife, there was the news of Grace's marriage and of
her flight ; and at hearing this we looked at each other in dis-
may, and Robin sprang to his feet and cried aloud for ven-
geance upon the villain who had done this thing.
" It is my own son," said Mr. Boscorel, "yet spare him
not He deserves all that you can call him and more.
Shameful news I had to tell you. Where the poor child hath
t-'OR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 285
found a retreat, or how she fares I know not. Robin, ask
me not to curse my own son. What is done will bring its
punishment in due time. Doubt it not. But of punishment
we need not speak. If there were any way — any way pos-
sible — out of it. But there is none. It is a fatal blow.
Death itself alone can release her. Consider, Humphrey,
consider. You are not so distracted as your cousin. Con-
sider, I say, that unhappy girl is Benjamin's lawful wife. If
he can find her, he may compel her to live with him. She
is his lawful wife, I say. It is a case in which there is no
remedy. It is a wickedness for which there is no help until
one of the twain shall die."
There was, indeed, no help or remedy possible. I will
not tell of the madness which fell upon Robin at this news,
nor of the distracted things he said, nor how he wept for
Grace at one moment and the next cursed the author of this
wickedness. There was no remedy. Yet Mr. Boscorel
solemnly promised to seek out the poor innocent girl, forced
to break her vows for the one reason which could excuse
her — namely, to save the lives of all she loved.
" They were saved already," INIr. Boscorel added. "He
knew that they were saved. He had seen me. He had the
news that I brought from London. He knew it and he lied
unto her. There is no single particular in which his wicked-
ness can be excused or defended. Yet, I say, curses are of
no avail. The hand of God is heavy upon all sinners, and
will presently fall upon my unhappy son. I pray that be-
fore that hand shall fall his heart may be touched with re-
pentance. "
But Robin fell into a melancholy from which it was im-
possible to rouse him. He who, while death upon the scaf-
fold seemed certain, was cheerful and brave, now, when his
life was spared, sat heavy and gloomy, speaking to no one ;
or if he spoke, then in words of rage and impatience.
Mr. Boscorel remained at Exeter, visiting us daily until the
time came when we were removed. He brought with him
one day a smooth-tongued gentleman, in sober attire, who
was, he told us, a West Indian merchant of Bristol, named
George Penne. You have read and known already how great
a villain was this man.
" This gentleman," said INIr. Boscorel, "is able and will-
ing, for certain considerations: to assist you in your exile.
You have been given, among many others, by the king, to
one Mr. Jerome Nipho, who hath sold all his convicts to this
g;entleman. In hi« turn, he is under bonds to ship you for
286 FOR FAITH AXD FREEDOM.
the plantations, where you will be sold again to the planters. "
" Sirs " — Mr. Penne looked from one to the other of us with
compassionate eyes — "I have heard your melancholy case
and it will be to my great happiness if 1 may be able in any
way to soften the rigors of your exile. Be it known to
you that I have correspondents in Jamaica, Barbadoes, and
Virginia ; and that for certain sums of money, these, my
friends will readily undertake to make your servitude one
merely in name. In other words, as I have already inform-
ed his reverence, I have bought you in the hope of being
useful to you — I wish I could thus buy all unhappy prisoners
— and I can, on paying my friends what they demand, secure
to you freedom from labor, subject only to the condition of
remaining abroad until your term is expired or your friends
at home have procured your pardon. "
" As for the price, Humphrey," said ]Mr. Boscorel, "that
shall be my care. It is nearly certain that Sir Christopher's
estates will be confiscated, seeing that he died in prison
under the charge of high-treason, though he was never tried.
Therefore we must not look to his lands for any help. What
this gentleman proposes is, however, so great a thing, that
we must not hesitate to accept his offer gratefully."
" I must have," said Mr. Penne, "seventy pounds for
each prisoner. I hear that there is a third young gentleman
of your party now in the same trouble at Ilminster. I shall,
therefore, ask for two hundred guineas — two hundred guineas
in all. It is not a large sum in order to secure freedom.
Those who cannot obtain this relief have to work in the
fields or in the mills, under the hot sun of the Spanish Main.
They are subject to the whip of the overseer, they have
wretched food ; they are W'orse treated than the negroes,
because the latter are slaves for life and the former
for ten years only. By paying two hundred guineas
only, you will all be enabled to live at your ease. INIean-
while, your friends at home will be constantly endeavoring
to procure your pardon. I myself, though but a simple
merchant of Bristol city, can boast some influence, which I
will most readily exert to the utmost in your behalf — "
" Say no more, sir," said Mr. Boscorel, interrupting him.
" The bargain is concluded. These young gentlemen shall
not be subjected to any servitude. I will pay you two
hundred guineas."
" I would, sir," — Mr. Penne laid his hand, which was
large, white, and soft, the hand of a liar and a traitor, upon
his treacherous heart — "I would to Hearen, sir," he said,
't^OR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 287
" that I could undertake this service for less. If vcvy cor-
respondents were men of tender hearts the business should
cost you nothing- at all. But they are men of business. They
say that they live not abroad for pleasure, but for profit ;
they cannot forego any advantage that may offer. As for
me, this job brings me no profit. Upon my honor, gentle-
man, profit from such a source I should despise. Every
guinea that you give me will be placed to the credit of my
correspondents, who will, I am assured, turn a pretty penny
by the ransom of the prisoners. But that we cannot help.
And as for me, I say it boldly in the presence of this learned
and pious clergyman, I am richly rewarded with the satisfac-
tion of doing a generous thing. That is enough, I hope, for
any honest man. "
The fellow looked so benevolent and smiled with so much
compassion that it was impossible to doubt his word. Be-
sides, Mr. Boscorel had learned many things during the
journey to London ; among others, that it would be possible
to buy immunity from labor for the convicts. Therefore,
he hesitated not, but gave him what he demanded ; taking
in return a paper, which was to be shown to Mr. Penne's
correspondents, in which he acknowledged the receipt of the
money, and demanded in return a release from actual servi-
tude. This naper I put carefully in my pocket with my
note-book and my case of instruments.
It was, so far as my memory serves me, about six weeks
after our pardon was received when we heard that we were
to be marched to Bristol, there to be shipped for some port
or other across the ocean. At Taunton wc were joined by
a hundred poor fellows as fortunate as ourselves ; and at
Bridgwater by twenty more, whose lives had been bought by
Colonel Kirke. Fortunate we esteemed ourselves, for every-
where the roads were lined with legs, heads, trunks, and
arms, boiled and blackened in pitch, stuck up for the terror
of the country. Well, you shall judge how fortunate we
were.
When we reached Bristol, we found Mr. Pennc upon the
quay with some other merchants. He changed color when
he saw us, but quickly ran to meet us, and whispered that
we were on no account to betray his goodness in the matter
of ransom, otherwise it might be the undoing of us all, and
perhaps cause his own imprisonment. He also told me that
the ship was bound for Barbadoes, and we should have to
mess with the other prisoners on the voyage, but that it
would all be made up to us when we arrived. He further
3 88 I'OR FAiril AND l•^REEDO^f.
added that he had requested his correspondent* to entertain
us ujitil money should arrive from England, and to become
our bankers for all that we should want. And with that he
clasped my hand tenderly, and with a " God be wi' ye " he
left us. and we saw him no more.
CHAPTER XXXIX..
ROBIN, HUMPHREY, AND BARNABY REACH BARBADOES.
It was a numerous company gathered together on the
deck of the ship. By their dress they were country lads ;
by their pale cheeks they were prison birds like ourselves ;
by their dismal faces they were also, like ourselves, rebels
condemned to the plantations. Alas ! how many of these
poor fellows have returned to their homes, and how many
lie in the graves of Jamaica, Virginia, and Barbadoes? As
for preparations for a voyage, not one of us could make any,
either of clothes or of provisions. There was not among the
whole company so much as a change of clothes : nay, there
was not even a razor, and our faces were bristling horribly
with the beards which before long made us look like so
many Heyducs.
Among them I presently discerned, to my great joy, no
other than Barnaby. His coat of scarlet was now so ragged
and stained that neither color nor original shape could be
discerned ; his ruffles and cravat of lace were gone, and the
scarlet sash, which had formerly carried his hanger, was
gone also. In a word, he was in rags and covered with the
dust of the road. Yet his jolly countenance showed a satis-
faction which contrasted greatly with the dejection of his
companions. He sniffed the scent of tar and ropes with a
joy which was visible to all, and he contemplated the ship
and her rigging with the air of one who is at home.
Then he saw us, and shouted to us while he made his way
among the rest
" What cheer, ho ! Humphrey, brave lad of boluses ? " —
never did any man grasp the hand of a friend with greater
vigor. "This is better, I say, than the accursed prison,
where one gets never a breath of fresh air. Here one begins
to smell salt water and tarred rope, which is a downright
FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 289
wholesome smell Already I feel hearty again. I would
willingly drink a tankard of black beer. What, Robin,
what ! We are not going to be hanged after all. Lift up thy
head therefore ; is this a time for looking glum .? We shall
live to hang Judge Jeffreys yet — what! Thy looks aie
poorly, lad. Is it the prison or is it thy disappointment.?
That villain Benjamin ! Hark ye, Robin " — some men's
faces look black when they threaten, but Barnaby's grew
broader, as if the contemplation of revenge made him the
happier — "hark ye, this is my business. No one shall in-
terfere with me in this. Benjamin is my affair. No one
but I myself must kill Benjamin : not you, Humphrey, be-
cause he is your cousin ; nor you Robin, because you must
not kill Grace's husband, even to get back your own sweet-
heart." Barnaby spoke wisdom here ; in spite of Robin's
vows, he could not get Grace for himself by killing her hus-
band, unworthy though he was. " Benjamin," he went on,
"may call her wife, but if he seek to make her his wife, if I
know Sis aright, he will meet his match. As for her safety,
I know that she must be safe. For why } Wherever there
are folks of her religious kidney there will she find frienas.
Cheer up, Robin ; soon or late I will kill this fine husband
of hers. "
But Robin shook his head.
Barnaby then asked if I knew whither we were bound. I
told him Barbadoes, according to the information given me
by I\Ir. Penne.
"Why," said Barnaby, rubbing his hands, " this is brave
news indeed. There is no place I would sooner choose.
'Tis a small island, to begin with ; give me a small island so
that the sea runneth all around it, and is everywhere within
easy reach. Where there is sea there are boats : where there
are boats there are the means of escape. Cheer up, my lads I
I know the Spanish Main right well. Give me a tight boat,
1 care not how small, and a keg of water, and I will sail her
anywhere. Ha ! We are bound to Barbadoes, are we.'' this
is brave news ! "
I asked him next what kind of a place it is.
"'Tis a hot place," he replied. " A man is always thirsty,
and there is plenty to drink except water, which is said to be
scarce. But the merchants and planters want none. They
have wine of the best, of Spain and France and of Madeira.
Cider and strong ale they import from England. And drinks
they make in the country — perino and mobbie, I remember,
guppo and plantain wine and kill-devil. 'Tis a rar« country
3^ FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
for drink, and many there be who die of too much. Hold
up thy head, Robin ; we will drink damnation to Benjamin
yet. But 'tis I who shall kill him. Courage, I say. What !
Our turn will come again."'
I told him, then, what had been done by Mr. George Penne,
namely, the ransom bought by the rector for us all.
" Why," he said, with some discontent, " we shall not be
long upon the island, after all, and perhaps the money might
have been better bestowed. But 'twas kindly done of the
rector. As for the banishment, I value it not one farthing.
One place is as good as another, and for my own part 1 love
the West India islands. We shall have our choice among
them all, because where there are boats and the open sea a
man can go whithersoever pleaseth him best. The voyage
out," — he glanced round him— " will, I fear, be choking work ;
the rations will be short, there will be neither drink, nor to-
bacco, and at nights we shall lie close. A more melancholy
company I never saw. Patience, my lads, our turn will
come.''
Well, 'twas a special mercy that we had with us one man,
at least, who preserved his cheerfulness, for the rest of the
company were as melancholy as King James himself could
have desired. Indeed, to look back upon the voyage is to
recall the most miserable time that can be imagined. Fiist
of all, as I have said, we were wholly unprepared for a voy-
age, having nothing at all with us. Thus we had bad
weather at the outset, which not only made our people ill,
but caused the biscuit to be all spoiled, so that before the
end of the voyage a few pease with the sweepings of the
biscuit-room, and som.etimes a little tough beef, was all our
diet, and for drink nothing, not so much as a pannikin ol
beer, but water, and that turbid and not too much of it
As for me, I kept my health chiefly by the method com-
mon among physicians : namely, by watching the symp-
toms of others. But mostly was I concerned with the
condition of Robin. For the poor lad, taking so much to
heart the dreadful villainy which had been practised upon
Grace, never once held up his head, and would talk and
think of nothing else but of that poor girl.
" Where is she ? " he asked a hundred times. "Where hath
she found a shelter and a hiding-place? How shall she es-
cape the villain, who will now do what he pleases, since we
are out of his way .-* And no help for her ; not any until she
die, or until he dies. And we cannot even send her a letter
to console her poor heart Humphrey, it drives me mad to
FOR FAITH AXD FREEDOM. 29:
think that every day carries us farther from her. If 1
could but be with her, to protect her against her husband !
Humphrey, Barnaby said well, I could not get her back to
me over the dead body of her husband. But to protect her,
to stand between her and the man she hath sworn to obey ! "
There is no more dangerous condition of the mind than
that which we call despair. It is, I take it, a disease, and
that of the most dangerous kind. I have observed many
men in that condition. With some the devil enters into
them, finding all the doors open and unguarded ; nay, and
receives a warm welcome. With others it is as if the body
itself were left without its armor ; a cheerful and hopeful mind
being certainly an armor against disease, capable of warding
off many of those invisible arrows which are always flying
about the air, and striking us down with fevers, agues, cal-
entures, and other pains and grievous diseases.
I marvel that more of the men on board were not sick ;
for, to begin with, the water was thick and swarmed with
wriggling creatures, difficult to avoid in drinking ; and then,
though during the day we were supposed to be on deck
(where the air was fresh even if the sun was hot), at night
we were terribly crowded below, and lay too close for health
or comfort. However, we finally made Carlisle Bay, and
the port of St. Michaels, or the liridge. And I must say this
for Barnaby, that he maintained throughout the whole voy-
age his cheerfulness, and that he never ceased to make his
plans for escape, drawing on a paper, which he procured, a
rough chart of the Spanish INIain, with as many islands as he
could remember. Of these there are hundreds, desolate and
safe for fugitives, some with neither water nor green trees,
and some with springs and woods, wild fruit, land turtles on
the shore, fish in the sea, and everything that man can de-
sire. We made the land one day in the forenoon.
" Barbadoes," said Barnaby, pointing to a little cloud far
away on the horizon. " Well, of this job I am well-nigh
sick. To-morrow, if the wind holds, we shall have sailed
round the island, and shall beat up for Carlisle Bay. Well, it
is lucky for us that we have this letter of Mr. Penne's. We
will go — I know the place well — to the sign of the Rock and
Turtle, kept by old ]\Iother Rosemary, if she lives still, or if
she be dead by one of her daughters — she had fifty daughters
at least, all buxom mulatto girls. There will we put off these
fithy rags, have a wash in a tul) of fine water, get shaven,
and then with smooth chins and clean shirts we will sit down
to a dinner such as the old woman knows how to make—
igi POR FAIT// AND FREEDOM.
a potato pudding and Scots coUops, with Rhenish wine, anil
afterwards a cool cup of beverage, which is nothing in the
world but squeezed limes with sugar and water, fit for such
a womanly stomach as yours, doctor. With this and a pipe
(^f tobacco, and perhaps a song and (when your worship
hath gone to bed) a dance from one of the girls — I say, my
lad, with this I shall be ready to forget Sedgemoor, and to
forgive Judge Jeffreys. When we are tired of Barbadoes, we
will take boat and sail away; I know one island at least
where they care nothing for King James. Thither will we
go. my lad."
\\'ell, what we found at our port and how we fared was
not quite as Barnaby expected and hoped, as you shall hear.
But I must admire the cunning of the man Penne, who not
only took from Grace, poor child, all her brother's money,
amounting to two hundred and lifty pounds or thereabouts
(which you have read) on the pretext of bestowing it for the
advantage of all, but also received two hundred guineas from
Mr. Boscorel on the same pretence. This made in all four
hundred and fifty pounds. And not one penny, not a single
penny, of this great sum did the man spend upon the purpose
for which it was given him.
You have heard how the merchants and planters came
aboard the ships which put in with servants and slaves, and
how these are put for sale, one at a time. As was the sale
described by Grace, just such was ours. Though, I take it,
our lads were not so miserable a company as were those on
board her ship. Pale of cheek they looked, and dejected,
and some were sick with various disorders, caused by the
continement of the prison or the sufferings of the voyage.
They put us up one after the other, and we were sold. I for-
get what I myself fetched, and, indeed, it matters not, save
that many jests were passed at our expense, and that when
one was put up, as Robin, for instance, who had been a cap-
tain in the rebel army, the salesman was eloquent in praise
of his rich and illustrious family, who would never endure
that this unfortunate man should continue in servitude. But
Barnaby put his tongue in his cheek and laughed.
When the sale was concluded, we were bundled into boats
and taken ashore to the barracoon, of which you have heard
from Grace. Here the same officer as read to her party the
laws concerning servants and their duties, and the punish-
ments which await transgressions, read them also to our-
selves.
" Faith," Baniaby whispered, "there will be great scoring
FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
«93
of backs before many days are done, unless their bark is
worse than their bite. "
This done, I thought it was time to present my letter.
Therefore I stepped forward and informed the officer, who,
by reason of his gown and wig, and the beadles who were
with him, I judged to be some lawyer, that, with my cousin
and another, I held a letter which should hold us free from
servitude.
" Ay, ay," he said. " Where is that letter? "
So I gave it to him. Twas addressed to one Jonathan
Polwhele, and enjoined him to receive the three prisoners,
named Humphrey Challis, Robin Challis, and Barnaby
Eykin, pay for them such sums as would reasonably be re-
quired to redeem them from servitude, and to advance them
such moneys as they would want at the outset for maintain-
ance, the whole to be accounted for in IMr. Jonathan Pol-
whele's next dispatches to his obedient much obliged servant,
G. P.
"Sir," said the officer, when he had read the letter through,
"it is addressed to Mr. Jonathan Polwhele. There is no mer-
chant or planter of that name on the whole island."
He gave me back the letter. " If this, " he said, "is all
you have to show, there is no reason why you and your
friends should not march with the rest. "
Truly, we had nothing else to show. Not only was there
no one named Polwhele on the island, but there never had
been any one of that name. Therefore it was plain that we
had been tricked, and that the man named George Penne was
a villain. Alas, poor Barnaby ! Where now were his cool
cups and his pipe of tobacco } Then the officer beckoned to
a gentleman — a sober and grave person — standing near him,
and spoke to him.
" Gentlemen," said the merchant, "permit me to read this
letter. So, it is the handwriting of Mr. George Penne, which
I know well. There is here some strange mistake. The
letter is addressed to Mr. Jonathan Polwhele. But there is
no one of that name in the place. I am, myself, Mr. Penne's
correspondent in this island ; my name, gentlemen, is Sefton ;
not Polwhele. "
"Sir," I said, "do you know Mr. Penne?"
" I have never seen him. He consigns to my care once
or twice a year a cargo of transported servants, being rogues
and thieves sent here instead of to the gallows. He ships
them k> my care, I say, as he hath shipped the company
i^rrived this nrioming, and I sell them for him, taking for my
294 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
share a percentage, as agreed upon, and remitting to him the
balance in sugar and tobacco."
" Is there no letter from him ? "
"There is a letter in which he advises me of so many
rebels consigned to me in order to be sold. Some among
them, he says, were captains and officers in ]\Ionmouth's
army, and some are of good family, among whom he espe-
cially names Robin and Humphrey Challis. But there is not
a word about ransom. "
"Sir, I said, knowing nothing as yet of Grace and her
money, "two hundred guineas have been paid to INIr. Penne
by the Rev. Philip Boscorel, Rector of Bradford Orcas, for
our ransom."
"Nothing is said of this," he replied, gravely. " Plainly,
gentlemen, without despatches from Mr. Penne, I cannot act
for you. You have a letter. It is written by that gentle-
man ; it is addressed to Mr. Polwhele ; it says nothing about
Barbadoes, and would serve for Jamaica or for Virginia. So
great a sum as two hundred guineas cannot have been for-
gotten. I exhort*you, therefore, to patience until other letters
arrive. Why, two hundred guineas would have gone far to
redeem you all three, and to maintain you for a great while.
Gentlemen, I am grieved for you, because there is no help
for it, but that you must go with the planter who hath bought
you, and obey his orders. I will, however, send to J^Ir.
Penne an account of this charge, and I would advise that
you lose no time in writing to your friends at home."
"Heart up, lad, "' cried Barnaby, for I turned faint upon
this terrible discovery, and would have fallen, but he held me
up. ' ' Patience, our turn will come. "
"Write that letter," said the merchant again — "write that
letter quickly, so that it may go with the next vessel. Other-
wise the work is sometimes hard and the heat is great. " So
he turned and left us.
"Courage, man," said Barnaby. "To every dog his day.
If now, for five minutes only, I couldhavemy thumb on Mr.
Penne's windpipe and my fingers round his neck ! And I
thought to spent the evening joyfully at Mother Rosemary's.
Courage, lad ; I have seen already," he whispered, "a dozen
boats in the bay, any one of which will serve our turn. "
But Robin paid no heed, whatever happened. He stood
up when his name was called, and was sold without showing
an.y emotion. When he found that we had been tricked he
seemed as if he neither heard nor regarded.
When all was ready we were marched, twenty in number,
FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
295
along a white and dusty road, to our estate. • By great good-
fortune, rather than by Providence, we were all bought by
the same master. He was, it is true, a bad man, but to be
together was a happiness which we 'Could not expect. He
bought us all because he understood that we belonged to the
same family, and that one of position, in the hope of receiv-
ing substantial ransom. This man rode with us, accom-
panied by two overseers (these were themselves under the
same sentence), who cracked their whips continually, and
cursed us if we lagged. Their bark was worse, we after-
wards found, than their bit* ; for it was only in the master's
presence that they behaved thus brutishly, and in order to
curry favor with him, and to prevent being reduced again to
the rank of those who served in the field. There was no
doubt, from the very outset, that we were afflicted with a
master whose like, I would hope, is not to be found upon
the island of Barbadoes. Briefly, he was one whose appear-
ance, voice, and manner all alike proclaimed him openly to
all the world as a drunkard, a profligate, and a blasphemer.
A drunkard he was of that kind who are seldom wholly
drunk, and yet are never sober ; who begin the day with a
glass, and go on taking more glasses all day long ; with
small ale for breakfast, strong ale and ^Madeira for dinner, a
tankard in the afternoon, and for supper more strong ale and
Madeira, and before bed another tankard. As for compas-
sion, or tenderness, or any of the virtues which a man who
holds other men in slavery ought to possess, he had none
of them.
Let me speak of him with no more bitterness than is nec-
essary. We have, I think, all forgiven him, and he hath
long since gone to a place where he can do no more harm
to any, but awaiteth judgment, perhaps, inthesure and certain
hope of which the funeral service speaks. But this is open
to doubt.
When we arrived at the estate the master dismounted,
gave his horse to a negro, and ordered us to be drawn up in
line.
He then made a short speech. He said that he had bought
us, rebels and villains as we were, and that he meant to get his
money's worth out of us, or he would cut us all to pieces.
Other things he told us which I pass over, because they
were but repetitions of this assurance. He then proceeded
to examine us in detail. When he came to me, he cursed
and swore because, he said, he had been made to pay for a
sound, proper man, and had trot 7\ crookback for his barg^ain.
,^6 POR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
I told him that, with submission, he might find the crook-
back, who was a physician, a more profitable bargain than
many a stronger man.
" What !" he roared. "Thou art a physician, eh ? Wouldst
slink out of the field-work and sit idle among bottles and bo-
luses .'' John," he turned to one of the overseers, "pay
particular attention, I command thee, to this learned physi-
cian. If he so much as turn round in his work, make his
shoulders smart "
"Ay, ay, sir," said the overseer.
" And what art thou, sirrah ? " He turned next to Barnaby.
"Another learned physician, no doubt ; or a divine, a
bishop, likely, or a dean at the least"
"As for what I was," said Barnaby, " that is neither here
nor there. For what I am — I suppose I am your servant
for ten years, until our pardons are sent us. "
"Thou art an impudent dog, I dare swear," returned the
master. "I remember thou wast a captain in the rebel
army, once a sailor ; well, take care, lest thou taste the cat"
" Gentlemen who are made to taste the cat," said Bar-
naby, '*are apt to remember the taste of it when their time
is up. "
" What ! " he cried. " You dare to threaten } Take that
and that" and so began to belabor him about the head. I
trembled, lest Barnaby should return the blows. But he
did not He only held up his arm to protect his head, and
presently, when the master desisted, he shook himself like
a dog.
"I shall remember the taste of that wood," he said
quietly.
The master looked as if he would renew the cudgelling,
but thought better of it
Then, without more violence, we were assigned our
quarters. A cottage or hut was given to us ; we were served
with a hammock and a rug each ; a pannikin, basin, spoon,
and platter for each ; a Monmouth cap, two shirts, common
and coarse, two pair of canvas breeches, and a pair of shoes
for each, so that we looked for all the world like the fellows
who live by loading and unloading the ships in the port of
Bristol. Yet the change after the long voyage was grateful.
They served us next with some of the stuff they called loblol-
lie, and then the night fell, and we lay down in our hammocks,
which were certainly softer than the planks of the ship, and
then fell fast asleep in spite of the humming and the biting
pf the merrywino^s, and so slept till the break of d^ij,
JfOJi FAITlt AND J'\kE£POM, i^^
CHAPTER XL.
WITH THE HOE.
Beforh it was daylight we were aroused by the discord-
«nt clang of the bell. Work was about to begin.
In these latitudes there is little twilight ; the day begin as it
ends, with a kind of suddenness. I arose, being thus sum-
tnoned, and looked out Long rays o* light were shooting
up the sky from the east, and, though the stars were still visi-
ble, the day was fast breaking. In a few moments it be-
came already so light that I could see across the yard, or
what the Italians would call the piazza, with its ragged bon-
unnow leaves, the figures of our fellow-slaves moving about
the huts, and their voices, alas ! — sad and melancholy are
the voices of those who work upon his majesty's plantations.
'I "wo old negresses went about among the new-comers car-
rying a bucket full of a yellow mess which they distributed
among us, and giving us to understand that this bowl of
yellow porridge or loblollie, made out of Indian corn, was
all we should have before dinner. They also gave us to un-
derstand in their broken English, which is far worse than the
jargon talked by some of our country people, that we should
have to prepare our own meals for the future, and that they
would show us how to make this delectable mess.
' ' Eat it, " .said Barnaby. ' ' A pig is "better fed at home. Eat
jt, Robin, lest thou faint in the sun. Perhaps there will be
something better for dinner. Heigh-ho ! only to think of
Mother Rosemary's, where I thought to lie last night 1 Pa-
tience lads."
One would not seem to dwell too long on the simple fare of
convicts, therefore I will say, once for all, that our rations
consisted of nothing at all but the Indian meal, and of salt
beef or salt fish. The old hands and the negro slaves know
how to improve their fare in many ways, and humane mas-
ters will give their servants quantities of the fruits such as
grow here in great abundance, as plantains, lemons, limes,
bonannows, guavas, and the like. And many of the black
slaves have small gardens behind their huts, where they
grow onions. yan»6, potatoes, and other things, which they
298 ^'OR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
\:ultivate on Sundays. They arc all great thieves also, steal-
ing, whenever they can, poultry, eggs, and fruits, so that they
grow fat and sleek, while the white servants daily grow more
meagre and fall into diseases by the poorness of the food.
Then, as to drink ; there are many kinds of drink (apart
from the wines of Spain, Portugal, Canary, Madeira, and
France) made in the country itself : such as mobbie, which
■ '■> a fermented liquor of potatoes ; and perino, from the
iquor of chewed cassava root; punch, which is water and
sugar left to work for ten days ; rum, which is distilled in
every ingenio, and is a spirit as strong as brandy, but not
so wholesome. Those who have been long in the island,
even the servants, though without a penny, know how and
where to get these drinks ; and since there is no consoler, to
the common sort, so good as strong drink, those who are
able to drink every day of these things become somewhat
reconciled to their lot
'* Come out, ye dogs of rebels and traitors ! " It was the
loud and harsh voice of the master himself who thus disturb-
ed us at our breakfast. 'Twas his custom thus to rise early
and to witness the beginning of the day's work. And 'twas
his kindly nature which impelled him thus to welcome and
encourage his newly bought slaves. '"' Come out, I say. Ye
shall now show of what stuff ye are made. Instead of pull-
ing down your lawful king, ye shall pull up your lawful
master and make him rich. If ye never did a day's work in
your lives, ye shall now learn the how b}' the must. Come
forth, I say, ye lazy, guzzling skulkers."
" Ay, ay," said Barnaby, leisurely scraping his bowl. "We
are like, indeed, to be overfed here. "He rolled, sailor-fashion,
out of the hut
" Barnaby," I said, " for God's sake say nothing to anger
the master. There is no help but in patience and in hope."
So we too went forth. The master, red-faced as he was,
looked as if he had been drinking already.
" So," he cried. " Here is the learned physician. Your
health, doctor. And here is the gallant captain, who was
once a sailor. The air of the fields, captain, will remind you,
perchance, of the quarter-deck. This young gentleman
looks so gallant and gay that I warrant he will ply the hoe
with a light and frolic heart. Your healths, gentlemen.
Hark ye now. You are come of a good stock, I hear. There-
fore have I bought you at a great price, looking to get my
money back and more. Some planters would suffer you to
lie at your ease cockered up witii bonavist and Madeira till-
FOR FAITH AXD FREEDOM.
299
ttie money comes. As for me, I shall now show you what
3'ou will continue to do unless the money comes. There-
tore you will at once, I doubt not, ask for paper and pen
and presently write. Si.xty pounds a piece, gentlemen, nof
one penny less, will purchase your freedom. Till then, the
fields. And no difference between white and black, but one
whip for both. '
We made no reply, but took the hoes which were given
out to us, and marched with the rest of the melancholy
troop.
There were as many blacks as whites ; we were divided
into gangs, with every gang a driver armed with a whip ;
and over all the overseers, who, by their severity, showed
their zeal for the master. The condition of slavery hath in
it something devilish both for those who are slaves and those
who are masters. The former it drives into despair and
fills with cunning, dishonesty, treachery, and revenge.
Why, the slaves, have been known to rise in rebellion, and
while they had the power have inflicted tortures unheard of
upon their masters. The latter it makes cruel and unfeel-
ing ; it tempts them continually to sins of all kinds ; it puts
into their power the lives, the bodies — nay, the very souls
of the poor folk whom they buy. I do maintain and con-
ceal not my opinion, that no man ought, in a Christian
country, to be a slave except for a term of years, and then
for punishment. I have been myself a slave, and I know
the misery and the injustice of the condition. But it is idle to
hope that the planters will abandon this means of cultivat-
ing their estates, and it is certain that in hot countries no
man will work except by compulsion.
The whip carried by the driver is a dreadful instrument,
long, thick, and strongly plaited, with a short handle. It is
coiled and slung round the shoulders when it is not being
used to terrify or to punish, and I know well that its loutl
crack produces upon the mind a sensation of fear and ot
horror, such as the thunder of artillery or the sight of the
enemy charging could never cause even to a cowanl. The
fellows are also extremely dexterous in the use of it ; they
can inflict a punishment not worse than the flogging of a
schoolboy ; or, with no greater outward show of strength,
they will cut and gash the flesh like a Russian executioner
with his cruel instrument which they call the knout.
For slight offences, such as laziness or carelessness in the
fiel4, the former-is administered ; but for serious offences
i^ latter. One sad execution (I cannot call it less) I my-
300
FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
self witnessed. What the poor wretch had done I know
not, but I can never forget his piercing shrieks as the whip
cut into the bleeding flesh. This is not punishment ; it is
savage and revengeful cruelty. Yet the master and the
overseers looked on with callous eyes.
They marched us to a field about half a mile from our vil-
lage or camp, and there, drawing us up in a line, set us tc^
work. Our task was with the hoe, to dig out square holes
each of the same depth and size, in which the sugar-cani^s
are planted, a small piece of old cane being laid in each.
These holes are cut with regularity and exactness, in long
lines and equally distant from each other. It i^ the driver's
business to keep all at work at the same rate of progress, so
that no one should lag behind, no one should stop to rest or
breathe, no one should do less than his neighbors. The
poor wretches, with bent bodies streaming with their e.x-
ertions, speedily become afflicted with a burning thirst,
their legs tremble, their backs grow stiff and ache, their
whole bodies become full of pain ; and yet they may not
rest nor stand upright to breathe awhile, nor stop to drink,
until the driver calls a halt. From time to time the negroes,
men and women alike, were dragged out of the ranks and
laid on the ground, three or four at a time, to receive lashes for
not making the holes deep enough or fast enough. At home one
can daily see the poor creatures flogged in Bridewell ; every
day there are rogues tied to the cartwheel and flogged well-
nigh to death ; but a ploughman is not flogged for the badness
of his furrow, nor is a cobbler flogged because he maketh his
shoon ill. And our men do not shriek and scream so wildly
as the negroes, who are an ignorant people, and have never
learned the least self-restraint. It was horrid also to see how
their bodies were scarred with the marks of old floggings,
and branded with letters to show by whom they had been
bought. As for our poor fellows, who had been brave re-
cruits in Monmouth's army, they trembled at the sight and
worked all the harder, yet some of them with the tears in
their eyes, to think that they should be brought to such a
dismal fate, and to herd with these poor ignorant black
people.
'Twas the design of the master to set us to the very hardest
work from the beginning, so that we should be the more
anxious to get remission of our pains. For it must not be
supposed that all the work on the estate was so hard and
irksome as that with the hoes, which is generally kept for
the strongest and hardiest of the negroes, men and women.
POR FAITH AXD 1-KEEDOM. 30I
There are many other employments : some are put to weed
the canes ; some to fell wood, come to cleave it ; some to
attend the ingenio, the boiling-house, the still-house, the
curing-house ; some to cut the maize ; some to gather pro-
visions, of bonavist, maize, yams, potatoes, cassava, and the
like ; some for the smith's forge ; some to attend to the oxen
and sheep ; some to the camels and assenegoes, and the
like — so that had the master pleased he might have set us to
work better fitted to English gentlemen. Well, his greedi-
ness and cruelty were defeated, as you will see. As for the
domestic economy of the estate, there were on it five hundred
acres of land, of which two hundred were planted with sugar,
eighty for pasture, one hundred and twenty for wood, twenty
for tobacco, five for ginger, and as many for cotton-wool,
and seventy for provisions — viz., corn, potatoes, plantains,
cassava, and bonavist, with a few for fruit. There were
ninety-six negroes, two or three Indian women with their
children, and twenty-eight Christian servants, of whom we
were three.
At eleven o'clock we were marched back to dinner. At
one we went out again, the sun being at this time of the day
very fierce, though January is the coldest month in the year.
We worked till six o'clock in the evening, when we re-
turned.
"This, " said Robin, with a groan, "is what we have now
to do every day for ten years."
" Heart up, lad," said Barnaby. "Our time will come.
Give me time to turn round, as a body may say. Why, the
harbor is full of boats. Let me get to the port and look
round a bit If we had any money now, but that is past
praying for. Courage and patience. Doctor, you hoe too
fast. No one looks for zeal. Follow the example of the
black fellows who think all day long how they shall get off
with as little work as possible. As for their lash, I doubt
whether they dare to lay it about us, though they may talk.
Because you see, even if we do not escape, we shall som.e
time or other, through the rector's efforts, get a pardon, and
then we are gentlemen again, and when that moment ar-
rives I will make this master of ours fight, willy-nilly, and I
will kill him, d'ye see, before I go home to kill Benjamin."
He then went on to discourse, either with the hope of
raising our spirits, or because it cheered his mind just to set
them forth, upon his plans for the means of escape,
"A boat," he said, " I can seize. There are many which
would serve our purpose. But a boat without victuals
jo2 i'OK FAITH AXD FREEDOM.
would be of little use. One would not be accused of steal-
ing, yet we may have to break into. the store and take there-
from some beef or biscuit. But where to store our victuals }
We may have a voyage of three or four hundred knots be-
fore us. That is nothing for a tight little boat when the
hurricane season is over. We have no compass either, I
must lay hands upon a compass. The first Saturday . night
1 will make for the port and cast about. Lift up your head,
Robin. Why, man, all bad times pass if only one hath
jiatience."
It was this very working in the field by which the master
thought to drive us to despair which caused in the long run
our deliverance, and that in the most unexpected manner.
CHAPTER XLI.
ONCONDITIONS.
This servitude endured for a week, during which we were
driven forth daily with the negroes to the hardest and most
intolerable toil, the master's intention being so to disgust us
with the life as to make us write the most urgent letters to
our friends at home. Since, as we told him, two hundred
guineas had been already paid on our account — though none
of the money was used for the purpose — he supposed that
another two hundred could easily be raised. Wherefore,
while those of the new servants who were common country
lads were placed in the ingenio, or the curing-house, where
the work is sheltered from the scorching sun, we were made
to endure every hardship that the place permitted. In the
event, however, the man's greed was disappointed, and his
cruelty made of none avail.
In fact, the thing I had foreseen quickly came to pas.s.
When a man lies in a lethargy of despair his body, no longer
fortified by a cheerful mind, ])resently falls into any disease
which is lurking in the air. Diseases of all kinds may be
likened unto wild beasts — invisible, always on the prowl,
seeking whom they may devour. The young fall victims
to some, the weak to others ; the drunkards and gluttons to
others ; the old to others ; and the lethargic again to others.
It was not surprising to. me. therefore, when Robin, coming
/OA' FAITH AND J-REEDOM. ^oj
home one evening, fell to shivering and shaking, chattering
witn his teeth, and showing every external sign of cold,
though the evening was still warm and the sun had that day-
been more than commonly hot. Also, he turned av.-ay from
his food and would eat nothing. Therefore, as there was
nothing we could give him, we covered him with our rugs,
and he presently fell asleep. But in. the morning when we
awoke, behold ! Robin was in a high fever, his hands and
head burning hot, his cheek flushed red, his eyes rolling,
and his brain wandering. I went forth and called the over-
seer to come and look at him. At first he cursed and swore,
saying that the man was malingering — that is to say, pre-
tending to be sick in order to avoid work — that, if he were
a negro instead of a gentleman, a few cuts with his lash
should shortly bring him to his senses ; that, for his part, he
liked not this mixing of gentlemen with negroes ; and that
finally, I must go and bring forth my sick man or take it
upon myself to face the master, who would probably drive
him afield with the stick.
"Sir," I said, "what the master may do, I know not.
Murder may be done by any who are wicked enough. For
my part, I am a physician, and I tell you that to make this
man go forth to work will be murder. But, indeed, he is
lightheaded, and with a thousand lashes you could not make
him understand or obey."
Well, he grumbled, but he followed me into the hut.
"The man hath had a sunstroke," he said, "I wonder
that any of you have escaped. Well, we can carry him to
the siclfhouse, where he will die. When a new hand is
faken this way, he always dies."
"Perhaps he will not die," I said, "if he is properly
'.reated. If he is given nothing but this diet of loblollie and
p.alt beef, and nothing to drink but the foul water of the
pond, and no other doctor than an ignorant old ncgress, he
will surely die."
"Good Lord, man !" said the fellow, "what do you
expect in this country ? It is the master's loss, not mine
'Jarry him between you to the sick-house."
So we carried Robin to the sick-house.
At home we should account it a barn ; being a great
place with a thatched roof, the windows open, without
shutter or lattice, the door breaking away from its hinges.
Within there was a black, lying on a pallet, groaning most
piteously. The poor wretch, for something that he had
done, I know not what, had his flesh cut to pieces with the
304 ^-'Ok FAITH AND FREEDOM.
whip. With him was an old negress, mumbling and
mouthing'.
We laid Robin on another pallet, and covered him with a
rug.
"Now, man," said the overseer, "leave him there, and
come forth to your work."
" Nay," I said, " he must not be left. I am a i)hysician,
and I must stay beside him."
"If he were your son, I would not suffer you to stay with
him."
" Man," I cried, " hast thou »o pity ? "
"Pity ! " — the fellow grinned — " pity ! quotha, pity ! Is
this a place for pity .? Why, if I showed any pity I should
be working beside you in the fields. It is because 1 have
no pity that I am an overseer. Look here ! " (He showed
me his left hand, which had been branded with a red-hot
iron.) "This was done in Newgate, seven years ago and
more. Three years more I have to serve. That done, I
may begin to show some pity, not before. Pity is scarce
among the drivers of Barbadoes. As well ask the beadle
for pity when he flogs a 'prentice."
"Let me go to the master, then.? "
" Best not — best not. Let this man die, and keep your-
self alive. The morning is the worst time for him, because
last night's drink is still in his head. Likely as not you will
only make the sick man's case, and your own, worse.
Leave him in the sick-house, and go back to him in the
evening."
The man spoke with some compassion in his eyes. Just
then, however, a negro boy came running from the houses
and spoke to the overseer.
" \Vhy," he said, " nothing could be more pat. You can
speak to the master if you please. He is in pain, and madam
sends for Dr. Humphrey Challis. Go, doctor. If you cure
him, you will be a lucky man. If you cannot cure him,
the Lord have mercy upon you ! Whereas, if you suffer
him to die," he added, with a grin and a whisper, "every
man on the estate will fall down and worship you. Let
him die— let him die."
I followed the boy, who took me to that part of the
house which fronts the west and north. It was a mean
house of wood, low and small, considering how wealthy a
man was the master of it ; on three sides, however, there
was built out a kind of loggia, as the Italians call it, of
wood instead of marble, forming a cloister, or open cham-
FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
305
ber, outside the house. They call it a veranda, and part ot
it they hang with mats, made of grass, so as to keep it
shaded in the afternoon and evening, when the sun is in
the west The boy brought me to this place, pointed to a
chair where the master sat, and then ran away as quickly
as he could.
It was easy to understand why he ran away. Because
the master, at this moment, sprang out of his chair, and be-
gan to stamp up and down the veranda, roaring and curs-
ing. He was clad in a white linen dressing-gown and linen
nightcap. On a small table beside him stood a bottle of
beer, newly opened, and a silver tankard.
When he saw me, he began to swear at me for my delay
in coming, though I had not lost a moment.
"Sir," I said, " if you will cease railing and blaspheming,
I will examine into your malady. Otherwise, I will do
nothing for you. "
"What ! " he cried, "you dare to make conditions with
me, you dog, you ? "
" Fair words, " I said, "fair words. lam your servant,
to work on your plantation as you may command. I am
not your physician ; and I promise you, sir, upon the honor
of a gentleman, and without using the sacred name which
is so often on your lips, that if you continue to rail at me, I
will suffer you to die rather than stir a little finger in your
help. "
"Suffer the physician to examine the place," said a wom-
an's voice, " What good is it to curse and to swear .? "
The voice came from a hammock swinging at the end of
the veranda. It was made, I observed, of a kind of coarse
grass loosely woven.
The man sat down, sulkily bade me find a remedy for the
pain which he was enduring. So I consented ; and ex-
amined his upper jaw, where I soon found out the cause of
his pain in a good-sized tumor, formed over the fangs of a
grinder. Such a thing causes agony even to a person of
cool blood, but to a man whose veins are inflamed with
strong drink the pain of it is maddening.
"You have got a tumor," I told him. "It has been
forming for some days. It has now nearly, or quite, reached
its head. It began about the time when you w^ere cursing
and insulting certain unfortunate gentlemen who are for the
time under your power. Take it, therefore, as a divine
judgment upon you for your cruelty and insolence."
He glared at mc, but said nothing, the hope of relief
29
3o6 /OA' FAJTJI AXD FREEDOM.
causing fiim to receive this admonition with patience if not
yn g^ood part. Besides, my finger was still upon the spot,
and if I so much as pressed gently I could cause him agony
unspeakable. Truly, the power of the physician' is great.
"■ The pain," I told him, "is already grown almost intol-
erable. But it will be much greater in a few hours unless
something is done. It is now like unto a little ball of red-
hot fire in your jaw ; in an hour or two it will seem as if the
whole of your face was a burning fiery furnace ; your cheek
will swell out until your left eye is closed ; your tortures,
which now make you bawl, will then make you scream ;
you now walk about and stamp ; you will then lie down on
your back and kick. No negro slave ever suffered half so
much under your accursed lash as you will suffer under this
tumor — unless something is done."'
" Doctor " — it was again the woman's voice froni the ham-
mock — "you have frightened him enough."
"Strong drink," I went on, pointing to the tankard, "will
only make you worse. It inflames your blood and adds
fuel to the raging fire. Unless something is done, the pain
will be followed by delirium, that by fever, and the fever by
death. Sir, are you prepared for death .? "
He turned horribly pale, and gasped.
"Do something for me," he said. "Do something for
me, and that without more words."
"Nay, but I will first make a bargain with you. There
is in the sick-house a gentleman, my cousin, Robin Challis
by name, one of the newly arrived rebels, and your servant.
He is lying sick unto death of a sunstroke and fever, caused
by your hellish cruelty in sending him out to work in the
fields with the negroes, instead of putting him to light labor
in the ingenio or elsewhere. I say, his sickness is caused
by your barbarity. Wherefore, I will do nothing for you at
all— do you hear .'' — nothing — nothing — unless I am set free
to do all I can for him. Yea, and I must have such cordials
and generous diet as the place can afford, otherwise I will
not stir a finger to help you. Otherwise endure the torments
of the damned ; ra\c in madness and in fever. Die, and go
to your own place. I will not help you. So. That is my
last word. "
Upon this I really thought that the man had gone stark
staring mad. For, at the impudence of a mere servant,
though a gentleman of far better family than his own, dar-
ing to make conditions \\'ith him. he became purple in th«
tlieeks, and, seizing his ^reat stick, which lay on the table.
FOR FATTH ASW FREEDOM. 307
he began belaboring- me with all his mig-ht about the head
and shorlders. But I caug-ht up a chair and used it for a
shield, while he capered about, striking wildly and swear-
ing most horribly.
At this moment the lady who was in the hammock stepped
out of it and walked towards us slowly, like a queen. She
was without any doubt the most beautiful woman I had
ever seen. She was dressed in a kind of dressing-gown of
flowered silk, which covered her from head to foot ; her
head was adorned with the most lovely glossy-black ring-
lets ; a heavy gold chain lay round her neck, and a chain of
gold with pearls was twined in her hair so that it looked
like a coronet ; her fingers were covered with rings, and
gold bracelets hung upon her bare white arms. Her figure
was tall and full ; her face inclined to the Spanish, being
full and yet regular, with large black eyes. Though I was
fighting with a madman, I could not resist the wish that I
could paint her. And I plainly perceived that she was one
of that race which is called quadroon, being most likely the
daughter of a mulatto woman and a white father. This
was evident by the character of her skin, which had in it
what the Italians call the morhidessa, and by a certain dark
hue under the eyes.
" Why," she said, speaking to the master as if he had been
a petulant schoolboy, "you only make yourself worse by
all this fury. Sit down and lay aside your stick. And you,
sir," she addressed herself to me, "you may be a great
physician and at home a gentleman ; but here you are a
servant, and, therefore, bound to help your master in all
you can without first making conditions."
"I know too well," I replied. "He bought me as his
servant, but not as his physician. I will not heal him with-
out my fee. And my fee is that my sick cousin be attended
tf) with humanity."
" Take him away ! " cried the master, beside himself with
rage. "Clap him in the stocks. Let him sit there all day
long in the sun. He shall have nothing to eat or to drink.
In the evening he shall be flogged. If it were the Duke of
Monmouth himself he should be tied up and flogged.
Where the devil are the servants .-* "
A great hulking negro came running.
"Vouhave now," I told him quietly, "permitted your-
self to be inflamed with violent rage. The pain will there-
fore more rapidly increase ; when it becomes intolerable you
will be glad to send for me."
The negro dragged nie away (but I made no resistance),
and led me to the courtyard where stood the stocks and a
whipping-post. He pointed to the latter with a horrid grin,
and then laid me fast in the former. Fortunately he left me
my hat, otherwise the hot sun would have made an end of
me. I was, however, quite easy in my mind. I knew
that this poor wretch, who already suffered so horribly,
would before long feel in that jaw of his, as it were, a ball
ol re; he would drink in order to deaden the pain, but the
win would only make the agony more horrible. Then he
would be forced to send for me.
This, in fact, was exactly what he did.
I sat in those abominable stocks for no more than an
hour. Then madam herself came to me followed by the
negro fellow who had locked my heels in those two holes.
"He is now much worse, " she said. "He is now in
pain that cannot be endured. Canst thou truly relieve his
sufferings ? "
" Certainly I can. But on conditions. INfy cousin will
die if he is neglected. Suffer me to minister to his needs.
Give me what I want for him and I will cure your — " I did
not know whether I might say "your husband" — so I
changed the words into " my master. After that I will
cheerfully endure again his accursed cruelty of the fields."
She bade the negro unlock the bar.
"Come," she said. "Let us hear no more about any
bargains. I will see to it that you are able to attend to
your cousin. Nay, there is an unfortunate young gentle-
woman here, a rebel, and a servant like yourself; for the
fast week she doth nothing but weep for the misfortunes of
her friends ; meaning you and your company. I will ask
her to nurse the sick man. She will desire nothing better,
being a most tender-hearted woman. And as for you, it
will be easy for you to look after your cousin and your
master at the same timcj."
"Then, madam," I replied, "take me to him, and I will
speedily do all I can ^o relieve him. "
I found my patient in a condition of mind and body most
dangerous. I wondered that he had not already fallen into
a fit, so great was his wrath and so dreadful his pain. He
rolled his eyes, his cheeks were purple, he clenched his fists,
he would have gnashed his teeth but for the pain in his jaw.
'■ Make yourself easy," said madam. "This learned phy-
sician will cause your pain to cease. I have talked with
him, and put him into a better mind."
FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
3oy
The master shook his head, as much as to say that abetter
mind would hardly be arrived at without the assistance oi
the whipping-post But the emergency of the case prevented
that indulgence. Briefly, therefore, I took out my lancet
and pierced the place, which instantly relieved the pain.
Then I placed him in bed, bled him copiously, and forbade
his taking anything stronger than small beer. Freedom
from pain and exhaustion presently caused him to fall into a
deep and tranquil sleep. After all this was done, I was
anxious to see Robin.
" Madam," I said, " I have now done all I can. He will
awake at noon, I dare say. Give him a little broth, but not
much. There is danger of fever. You had better call me
again when he awakes. Warn him, solemnly, that rage,
revenge, cursing and beating must be all postponed untii
such time as he is stronger. I go to visit my cousin in the
sick-house, where I await your commands."
" Sir, " she said, courteously, " I cannot sufficiently thatik
your skill and zeal. You will find the nurse of whom I
spoke in the sick-room with your cousin. She took with
her some cordial, and will tell me what else you order for
your patient. I hope your cousin may recover. But in-
deed — " she stopped and sighed.
"You would say, madam, that it would be better for him,
and for all of us, to die ; perhaps so. But we must not
choose to die, but rather strive to live, as more in accord-
ance with the Word of God."
"The white servants have been hitherto the common
rogues and thieves, and sweepings of your English streets,"
she said. "Sturdy rogues are they all, who fear naught
but the lash, and have nothing of tenderness left but tender
skins ; they rob and steal ; they will not work, save by
compulsion ; they are far worse than the negroes for lazi-
ness and drunkenness. I know not why they are sent out,
or why the planters buy them, when the blacks do so much
better serve their turn, and they can without rei)roach beat
and flog the negroes, while to flog and beat the whites is by
some accounted cruel."
"All this, madam, is doubtless true, but my friends are
not the sweeping of the street."
" No, but you are treated as if you were. It is n new
thing having gentlemen among the servants, and the plant-
ers are not yet accustomed to them. They are a masterful
and a wilful folk, the planters of Barbadoes ; from childhood
upward they have their own war, nnd brook not oppositioi),
310
FOR FAITH A.\'D FREEDOM.
You have seen into what a madness of wrath you threw the
master by your opposition. Believe me, sir, the place is not
wholesome for you and for your friends. The master looks
to get a profit, not from your labor, but by your ransom.
Sir," she looked me very earnestly in the face, "if you
have friends at home, if you have any friends at all, entreat
them, command them, immediately to send money for your
ransom. It will not cost them much. If you do not get the
money you will most assuredly die, with the life that you
will have to live. All the white servants die except the very
strongest and lustiest, whether they work in the fields or in
the garden, or in the ingenio, or in the stables — they die.
They cannot endure the hot sun and the hard fare. They
presently catch fever, or a calenture, or a cramp, and so
they die. This young gentlewoman who is now with your
cousin will presently fall into melancholy and die. There
is no help for her, or for you — believe me, sir — there is no
hope but to get your freedom." She broke off here, and
never at any other time spoke to me again upon this sub-
ject.
In three weeks' time, indeed, we were to regain our free-
dom, but not in the way madam imagined.
Before I go on to tell of the wonderful surprise which
awaited me, I must say that there was, after this day, no
more any question about field Avork for me. In this island
there was then a great scarcity of physicians — nay, there
were none properly qualified to call themselves physicians,
though a few quacks ; the sick servants on the estates were
attended by the negresses, some of whom have, I confess, a
wonderful knowledge of herbs, in which respect they may
be likened to our countrywomen, who for fevers, agues,
toothache, and the like, are as good as any physician in the
world. It was therefore speedily rumored abroad that there
was a physician upon my masters estate, whereupon there
was immediately a great demand for his services ; and hence-
forth I went daily, with the master's consent, to visit the sick
people on the neighboring estates ; nay, I was even called
upon by his excellency the lieutenant-governor himself, Mr.
Steed, for a complaint from which he suffered. And I noV
only gave advice and medicines, but I also received a fee,
just as if I had been practicing in London. But the fees
went to my master, who took them all, and offered me no
better diet than before. That, however, mattered little, be-
cause wherever I went I asked for and always received food
of a more g-encrous kind, and a glass or two of wine, so that
FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
3ir
I fared well and kept my health during the short time that
we remained upon the island. I had also to thank madam
for many a glass of Madeira, dish of cocoa, plate of fruit,
and other things, not only for my patient Robin, but also
for myself, and for another, of whom I have now to speak.
When, therefore, the master was at length free from p.iin,
and in a comfortable sleep, I left him, with madam's per-
mission, and sought the sick-house in a most melancholy
mood, because I believed that Robin would surely die what-
ever I should do. And I confess that, having had but little
experience of sunstroke, and the kind of fever Avhich follow-
eth upon it, and having no books to consult, and no medicine
at hand, I knew not what I could do for him. And the
boasted skill of the physician, one must confess, availeth lit-
tle against a disease which hath once laid hold upon a man.
'Tis better for him so to order the lives of his patients while
they are well as to prevent disease, just as those who
dwell beside an unruly river, as I have seen upon the great
river Rhone, build up a high levee, or bank, which it cannot
pass.
In the sick-house, the floor was of earth without boards ;
there was no other furniture but two or three wooden pallets ;
on each a coarse mattress with a rug ; and all was horribly
filthy, unwashed, and foul. Beside the pallet where Robin
lay there knelt, praying, a woman with her head in her
hands. Heavens ! There was then in this dark and heath-
enif^h place one woman who still remembered her Maker.
Robin was awake. His restless eyes rolled about, his
hands clutched uneasily at his blanket, and he was talking.
Alas ! the poet" brain, disordered and wandering, carried him
back to the old village. He was at home again in imagina-
tion, though we were so far away. Yea, he had crossed
the broad Atlantic, and was in fair Somerset among the
orchards and the hills. And only to hear him talk me tears
rolled down my cheeks.
■'Grace, "he said. Alas! he thought that he was again
with the sweet companion of his youth. "Grace, the nuts
arc ripe in the woods. We will to-morrow take a basket and
go gather them. Benjamin shall not come to spoil sport ;
besides, he would want to cat them all himself Humphrey
shall come, and you, and I That will be enough. "
Then his thoughts changed again. "Oh, my dear," he
said — in a moment he had passed over ten years, and was
now with his mistress, a child no longer — " My dear, thou
hast so sweet a face. Nowhere in the whole world is there
3i«
FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
SO sweet a face. I have always loved thy face ; not a day
but it has been in my mind. Always my love, my sweet-
heart, my soul, my life. My dear, we will never leave the
country ; we want no grandeur of rank and state and town ;
we will always continue here. Old age shall find vis lovers
still. Death cannot part us ; oh, my dear ; save for a little
while, and then sweet Heaven will unite us again to love
each other forever and forever — "
"Oh, Robin! Robin! Robin!"
I knew that voice. Oh, heavens ! 'Was I dreaming? Was I
too, wandering .' Were we all back in Somerset .''
For the voice was none other than the voice of Grace her-
ael£
CHAPTER XUL
GRACE.
"Grace I" I cried.
She rose from her knees and turned to meet me. Het
face was pale ; her eyes were heavy, and they were full ot
tears,
"Grace ! "
" I saw you when you came here, a week ago," she said.
*' Oh, Humphrey, I saw you, and I was ashamed to let
you know that 1 was here."
"Ashamed? My dear, ashamed? But now — why —
what dost thou here ? "
" How could I meet Robin's eyes after what I had done?"
" It was done for him, and for his mother, and for all of
us. Poor child, there is no reason to be ashamed."
"And now I meet him and he is in a fever and his mind
wanders. He knows me not. "
"He is sorely stricken, Grace. I know not how the
disease may end — mind and body are sick alike. For the
mind I can do nothing, for the body I can do little ; yet,
with cleanliness and good food we may hel]:) him to mend.
But tell me, child, in the name of Heaven, how earnest thou
in this place ? "
But before anything she would attend to the sick man.
Amd presently she brought half a dozen negresses, who
cleaned and swept the place, and sheets were fetched, and
POR FAITH AiVD FREEDOM.
313
a linen shirt, in which we dressed our patient, with such
other things as we could devise for his comfort. Then I
bathed his head with cold water, continually changing- his
bandages, so as to keep him cool ; and I took some blood
from him, but not much, because he was greatly reduced
oy bad food and hard work.
When he was a little easier we talked. But, heavens ! to
think of the villainy which had worked its will upon this
poor child ! As if it were not enough that she should be
forced to fly from a man who had so strangely betrayed
her ! And as if it were not enough that she should be robbed
of all her money, but she must also be put on board
falsely and treacherously, as one, like ourselves, sentenced
to ten years' servitude in the plantations ! For, indeed, I
knew and was quite certain that none of the maids of
Taunton were thus sent abroad. It was notorious, before
we were sent away, that, with the exception of Susan Blake,
who died of jail fever at Dorchester, all the maids were
given to the queen's ladies, and by them suffered to go
free on the payment by their parents of thirty to forty pounds
apiece. And as for Grace, she was a stranger in the place,
and it was not known that she had joined that unfortunate
procession. So that if ever a man was kidnapper and vil-
lian, that man was George Penne.
It behooves a physican to keep his mind, under all circum-
stances, calmed and composed. He must not suffer him-
self to be carried away by passion, by rage, hatred, or even
anxiety ; yet I confess that my mind was clean distracted
by the discovery that Grace herself was with us, a prisoner
like ourselves. I was, I say, distracted, nor could I tell
what to think of this event and its consequences. For, to
begin with, the pooi child was near those who would protect
her. But what kind of protection could be given by such
helpless slaves ? Then was she beyond her husband's
reach ; he would not, it was quite certain, get possession of
her at this vast distance. So far she was safe. But 'hen
the master who looked to make a i)rofit by her, as he looked
to make a profit by us — through the ransom of her fric: .ds !
She had no friends to ransom her. There was but one —
the rector — and he was her husband's father. The time
would come when the avarice of the master would make
him do or threaten something barbarous towards her. Then
she had found favor with madam, this beautiful mulatto
woman, whom Grace innocently supposed to be the master's
wife. And there was the young planter, who wished to
^14 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
buy her with the honorable intention of marrying her. In
short, I know not what to think or to say, because at one
moment it seemed as if it were the most providential thing
in the world that Grace should have been brought here,
and the next moment it seemed as if her presence only
magnified our evils.
"Nay," she said, when I opened my mind to her,
"seeing that the world is so large, what but a special rul-
ing of Providence could have brought us all to this same
island, out of the whole multitude of isles, and then again
to this same estate, out of so many.'' Humphrey, your
faith was wont to be stronger. I believe — nay, I am
quite sure — that it was for the strengthening and help of
all alike that this hath been ordained, First, it enables me
to nurse my poor Robin ; mine, alas ! no longer. Yet
must I still love him as long as I have a heart to beat."
" Love him always, child," I said ; " this is no sin to love
the companion of thy childhood, thy sweetheart, from
whom thou wast torn by the most wicked treachery — " but
could say no more, because the contemplation of that
sweet face, now so mournful, yet so patient, made my voice
to choke and my eyes to fill with tears. Said I not that a
physician must still keep his mind free from all emotion ?
All that day I conversed with her. We agreed that, for
the present, she should neither acknowledge nor conceal the
truth from madam, upon whose good-will was now placed
all our hopes. That is to say, if madam questioned her she
was to acknowledge that we were her former friends ; but if
madam neither suspected anything nor asked her anything
she should keep the matter to herself She told me during
this day all that had happened unto her since I saw her last,
when we marched out of Taunton. Among other things, I
heard of the woman called Deb, who was now working in
the corn-fields (she was one of a company whose duty it
was to weed the canes). In the evening this woman, when
the people returned, came to the sick-house. She was a
great, strapping woman, stronger than most men. She was
dressed, like all the women on the estate, in a smock and
petticoat, with a thick coif to keep off the sun, and a pair of
strong shoes.
She came to help her mistress, as she fondly called Grace.
She wanted to sit up and watch the sick man. so that her
mistress might go to sleep ; but Grace refused. Then this
taithful creature rolled herself up in her rug and laid herself
FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
3^5
at the door, so that no one should g-o in or out without step-
ping over her ; and so she fell asleep.
Then we began our night-watch, and talked in whispers,
sitting by the bedside of the fevered man. Presently I for-
got the wretchedness of our condition, the place where we
were, our hopeless, helpless lot, our anxieties and our fears,
in the joy and happiness of once more conversing with my
mistress. She spoke to me after the manner of the old days,
but with more seriousness, about the marvellous workings
of the Lord among his people, and presently we began to
talk of the music which we love to play, and how the sweet
concord and harmony of the notes lifts up the soul ; and of
pictures and painting, and ]\Ir. Boscorel's drawings and my
own poor attempts, and my studies in the schools, and so
forth, as if my life were indeed but just beginning, and in-
stead of the Monmouth cap and the canvas breeches and
common shirt I was once more arrayed in velvet, with a
physician's wig and a gold-headed cane.
Lastly, she prayed, entreating merciful Heaven to bestow
health of mind and enlargement of body to the sick man
upon the bed, and her brother, and her dear friend (meaning
myself), and to all the poor sufferers for religion. And she
asked that, as it had been permitted that she should be
taken from her earthly lover by treachery, so it might now
be granted to her to lay down her life for his, so that he
might go free and she die in his place.
Through the open window I saw the four stars which
make the constellation they call the Cruseroes, being like a
cross fixed in the heavens. The night was still, and there
was no sound save the shrill noise of the cigala, which is
here as shrill as in Padua. Slave and master, bondman and
free were all asleep save in this house, where Robin rolled
his heavy head and murmured without ceasing, ami
Grace communed with her God. Surely, surely, I thought,
here was fio room for doul)t. Tliis my mistress had been
brought here by the hand of God himself to be as an angel
or messenger of his own for our help and succor — haply for our
spiritual help alone, seeing; that no longer was there any help
from man.
3i6 i^OR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
CHAPTER XLIII.
BARNABY HEARS THE NEWS.
Th« master, my patient, got up from his bed in a few
days, somewhat pale and weak after his copious blood-let-
ting- and the drastic medicines with which I purged the gross-
ness of his habit and expelled the noxious humors caused
by his many intemperances. These had greatly injured
what we call (because we know not what it is nor what
else to call it) the pure volatile spirit, and, so to speak,
turned sour the humor radicalis, the sweet oil and balsamical
virtues of the body. I gave him such counsel as was fitting
for his case, admonishing him urgently to abstain from strong
liquors, except in their moderate use ; to drink only after
his meals, to keep his head cool and sober, and, above all
things, to repress and govern his raging temper, which
would otherwise most certainly catch him by the throat like
some fierce and invisible devil, and throw him into a fit, and
so kill him. I told him, also, what might be meant by the
wise man (who certainly thought of all the bearings which
his words could have) when he said that one who is slow to
wrath is of great understanding, namely, that many men do
throw away their lives by falling into excessive fits of rage.
But I found that the words of Holy Scripture had ^ittle au-
thority over him: for he lived without prayer or praise,
trampled on the laws of God, and gave no heed at all to the
flight of time and the coming of the next world.
For a day or two he followed my injunctions, taking a
tankard of small ale to his breakfast, the same quantity with
his dinner, a pint of INladeira for his supper, and a sober
glass or two before going to bed. But when he grew well
his brother planters came round him again, the drinking
was renewed, and in the morning I would find him again
with parched throat, tongue dry, and shaking hand, ready
to belabor, to curse, and to rail at everybody. If one
wanted an example for the young how strong drink biteth
like a serpent and stingeth like an adder, here was a case
the sight of which might have caused all young men to for-
swear drunkenness. Alas ! there are plenty of such ex-
amples to be seen in every part of England, yet the younger
FOR FAITH AXD FREEDOM'.
zn
men still continue to drink, and that, I think, worse than
their fathers. This man, however, who was not yet five-
and-thirty, in the very prime of strong and healthy man-
hood, had his finger-joints swollen and stony from taking-
much wine ; he commonly ate but little meat, craving con-
tinually for more drink ; and his understanding, which was
by nature, I doubt not, clear and strong, was now brutish
and stupid. Thinking over this man, and of the power,
even unto death, which he possessed over his servants and
slaves, the words came into my mind, "It is not for kings,
O Lemuel, it is not for kings to drink wine, nor for princes
strong drink."
Nay, more (and this I say knowing that many godly men
will not agree with me), I am fully persuaded that there is
no man in the whole world so good and so strong in virtue
and rehgion that he should be suffered to become the mas-
ter or despot over any other man, even over a company of
poor and ignorant blacks, or a gang of transported thieves.
When I think of those unhappy people, driven forth in the
morning, heavy-eyed and down-cast, to the hard day's
work, and when I remember how they crept home at night,
after being driven, cursed, and beaten all day long, and
when I think upon their drivers, overseers, and masters,
and of their hard and callous hearts, I am moved to cry
aloud (if any would hear me) that to be a slave is wretched
indeed, but that to own and drive slaves should be a thing
most dangerous for one who would continue a member of
Christ's Church.
When I told Barnaby the surprising news that his sister
was not only safe, but was a servant, like ourselves, upon
the same estate, I looked that he would rejoice. On the
contrary, he fell into a strange mood, swearing at this il
stroke, as he called it. He said that he never had Uie least
doubt as to her safety, seeing there were so many in the
West Country who knew and respected her father, and
would willingly shelter her. Then he dwelt upon certain
evils of which, I confess, I had thought little, which might
befall her. And, lastly, he set forth with great plainnessthe
increased dangers in escaping when one has to carry a wo-
man or a wounded man — a thing he pointed out which had
caused his own capture after Scdgemoor.
Then he opened up to me the whole business of our
escape.
" Last Saturday night," he said, "while you were sleep-
ing, I made my way to the port, and having a few shillings
^T^ ^OR I-'AIJ'JI AND FREEDOfd.
left, I sought out a tavern. There is one hard by the Bridge,
a house of call for sailors, where I had the good-fortune to
find a fellow who can do for us all we want, if his money-
hold out, which I doubt. He is a carver by trade, and a
convict like ourselves, but is permitted by his master to
work at his trade in the town. He hath been, it is true,
branded in the hand, but, Lord, what signifies that.' He
was once a thief; well, he is now an honest lad again, who
asks for nothing but to get home again. John Nuthall is his
name."
"Go on, Barnaby. We are already in such good com-
pany that another rogue or two matters little."
"This man came here secretly last night, while you were
in the sick-house, lad. He is very hot upon gettLiig away.
And because I am a sailor, and can navigate a craft (which
he cannot do), he will take with him not only myself, but
also all my party. Now listen, Humphrey. He hath
bought a boat of a Guinea man in the harbor ; and because,
to prevent the escape of servants, every boat is licensed,
and her owner has to give security to the governor's ofticers,
he hath taken this boat, secretly, up a little creek of which
he knows, and hath there sunk her three feet deep. The
masts, the sails, the oars, and the other gear he hath also
bestowed in a secret place. But we cannot sail without
Water, provisions, nor without a compass, at least. If our
party is to consist of sister, Robin, you, Joha Nuthall, and
myself, live in all, we shall have to load the boat with pro-
visions, and I must have a compass. I look for a boatful
with ourselves and John Nuthall. Now we have Sis as
well ; and the boat is but small. Where shall we get pro-
visions } and where shall we lay our hands upon the money
to buy what we want ? "
He could talk of nothing else, because his mind was full
of his plan. Yet it seemed to me a most desperate enter-
prise thus to launch a small boat upon the wide ocean, and
in this cockleshell to brave the waves which are often fatal
to the tallest ships.
"Tut, man," said Barnaby. "We are not now in the
season of the tornadoes, and there is no other danger upon
these seas. I would as lief be in an open boat as in a
brigantine. Sharks may follow us, but they will not attack
a boat ; calamaries they talk of, big enough to lay their
arms round the boat, and so to drag it under ; but such
monsters have I never seen, any more than I have seen the
j:reat whale of Norway or the monstrous birds of the South"
FOR I'A/TH AND FREEDOM.
319
em Seas. There is only one danger, Humphrey, my lad " —
here he laid his hand upon mine, and became mighty
serious — "if we are taken we shall be flogged, all of us.
Thirty-nine lashes they will lay on, and they will brand us.
For myself, I value not their thirty-nine lashes a brass farth-
ing, nor their branding with a hot iron, which can but make
a man jump for a day or two. To me this risk against the
chance of escape matters nothing. Why, when I was
cabin-boy I got daily more than thirty-nine lashes, kicks,
cuffs, and rope's-endings. Nay, I remember, when we sat
over the Latin syntax together, my daily ration must have
been thirty-nine, more or less, and dad's ami was stronger
than you would judge to look at him. If they catch me, let
them lay on their thirty-nine, and be damned to them. But
you and Robin, I doubt, think otherwise. "
"I would not willingly be flogged, Barnaby, if there were
any way of escape, even by death."
"So I thought. So I thought."
"And as for Robin, if he recovers, which I doubt, he,
too, if I know him, would rather be killed than be flogged."
"That comes of Oxford," said Barnaby. "And then
there is Sis. Humphrey, my lad, it goes to my heart to
think of that poor girl, stripped to be lashed like a black slave
or a Bristol drab. "
" Barnaby, slie must never run that dreadful risk."
"Then she must remain behind. And here she runs that
risk every day. What prevents yon drunken sot — the taste
of that stick still sticks in my gizzard — I say, what prevents
him from tying her up to-day, or to-morrow, or every day ? "
" Barnaby, I say that she must never run that risk, for if
we are caught — "' I stopped.
" Before we are caught you would say, Humphrey. We
are of the same mind there. But who is to kill her ? Not
Robin, for he loves her ; not you, because you have too
great a kindness for her ; not I, because I am her brother.
What should I say to my mother when I meet her after we
are dead, and she asks me who killed Grace ? "
" Barnaby, if she is to die, let us all die together."
"Ay," he replied, "though I have, I confess, no great
stomach for dying, yet, since we have got her with us, it
must be done. 'Tis easy to let the water into the boat, and
so, in three minutes, with no suspicion at all, and my mother
never to know anything about it, she would have said her
last prayers, and we should be all sinking together with
never a gasp left."
320
FOR FAITH A\D FREEDOM.
I took him, after this talk, to the sick-house, wnerc Grace
was beginning- her second night of nursing. Barnaby
sakited his sister as briefly as if her presence were the thing
he most expected.
The room was Ht by a horn lantern containing a candle,
which gave enough light to see Robin on the bed antHirace
standing beside him. Tlae woman called Deb was sitting on_
the floor, wrapped in her rug.
*• Sis," said Barnaby, " I have heard from Humphrey how
thou wast cozened out of thy money and enticed on board
ship. Well, this world is full of villains, and I doul»t whether
I shall live to kill them all. One I must kill, and one I must
cudgel. Patience, therefore, and no more upon this head.
Sis, dost love to be a servant .? "
"Surely not, Barnaby."'
" Wouldst like to get thy freedom again } ''
" I know not the meaning of thy words, brother. Madam
says that those who have interest at home may procure par-
dons for their friends in the plantations. Also that those
whose friends have money may buy their freedom from ser-
vitude. I am sure that Mr. Boscorel would Avillingly do this
for Robin and for Humphrey, but for myself, how can I ask ?
How can I ever let him know where I am and in what con-
dition ? "
" Ay, ay. But I meant not that way. Child, wilt thou
trust thyself to us ? ''
She looked at Robin. '' I cannot leave him," she said.
" No, no. We shall wait till he is dead, or, perhaps, bet-
ter " — but he only added this to please his sister. ' ' When
he is better. Sis, thou wilt not be afraid to trust thyself with
us ? "
" I am not afraid of any danger, even of death, with you,
if that is the danger in your mind, Barnaby."
"Good! Then we understand each other. There are
other dangers for a young and handsome woman, and may
be worse dangers. Hast any money at all, by chance? '
" Nay, the man Penne took all my money. '"
Barnaby, for five or six minutes, without stopping, spoke
upon this topic after the manner of a sailor. " INIy turn will
come," he added. "No money, child.' 'Tis a great pity.
Had we a few gold pieces now ! Some women have rings
and chains. But, of course — "
"Nay, brother, chains I never had; and as for rings,
there were but two that ever I liad — one from Robin the day
that I was plighted to him, and one from the man that made
FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
%t\
m© many him and put it on in church. The former did I
break and throw away when I agreed for your dear hves,
Barnaby. Oh, for the Hves of all ! "
" I know, I know," said Barnaby. " Patience, patience.
Oh, I shall get such a chance some day ! "
" The other I threw away when I tied from my husband
at the church door."
" Ay, ay, If we only had a little money. 'Tis a pity
that we should fail for want of a little money."
" Why," said Grace, " I had quite forgotten. I have
something that may bring money." She pulled from her
neck a black ribbon, on which wa:. a little leathern bag
" 'Tis the ring the duke gave me at Ilchestcr long ago. I have
never parted with it. ' God grant, ' he said, when he gave it
tome, 'that it may bring thee luck.' Will the ring help,
Barnaby .'' '
I took it first from her hand.
" Why," I said, " it is a sweet and costly ring. Jewels, I
know, and have studied. If I mistake not, these emeralds
must be worth a great sum. But how shall we dispose of
so valuable a ring in this place, and without causing suspi-
picion } "
" Give it to me." Barnaby took it, looked at it, and laid
it, bag and all, in his pocket " There are at the port mer-
chants of all kinds, who will buy a ship's cargo of sugar one
minute, and the next will sell you as red herrings. They
will also advajice you money upon a ring. As for suspicion,
there are hundreds of convicts and servants here, 'lis but
to call the ring the property of such an one, and no questions
will be asked. My friend John Nuthall, the carver, shall do
this for us. And now, Sis, I think that our business is as good
*s done. Have no fear, we shall getaway. First get Robin
well, and then — " Here Barnaby gazed upon her face with
affection and with pity. " But, sister, understand rightly,
'tis no child's play of hide-and-go-seek. 'Tis life or death —
life or death. If we fly we must never come back again,
understand that well. "
" Since we are in the Lord's hands, l)rothcr, why should
we fear ? Take me with you ; let me die, if you must die ;
and if you live I am content to live with you, so that my
husband never finds me out. "
21
33« FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
CHAPTER XLIV.
A SCARE.
There is between the condition of the mind and that of
the body an interdependence which cannot but be recognized
by every physician. So greatly has this connection affected
some of the modern physicians, as to cause doubts in their
minds whether there be any life at all hereafter, or if, when
the pulse ceases to beat, the whole man should become a
dead and senseless lump of clay. In this they confuse the
immortal soul with the perishable instruments of brain and
body through which in life, it manifests its being, and be-
trays its true nature, M'hether of good or ill.
Thus the condition in which Robin now lay clearly corre-
sponded, as I now understand, with the state of his mind in-
duced by the news that Grace to save his life had been be-
trayed into marrying his cousin. For, at the hearing of that
dreadful news he was seized with such a transport of rage
(not against that poor innocent victim, but against his cous-
in) as threatened to throw him into madness, and on recover-
ing from this access he presently fell into a kind of despair in
which he languished during the whole voyage. So also in
a corresponding manner after a fever, the violence of which
was like to have torn him to pieces, he fell into a lethargy in
which, though his fever left him, he continued to wander in
his mind and grew, as I covild not fail to mark, daily weaker
in his body, refusing to eat, though Grace brought him daily
broth of chicken, delicate panadas of bread-and-butter, fruit
boiled with sugar, and other things fit to tempt a sick man's
appetite, provided by the goodness of madam. This lady
was in religion a Romanist ; by birth she was a Spanish
quadroon ; to escape the slavery to which the color of her
grandmother doomed her, she escaped from Cuba and found
her way to Jamaica, where she met with our master. And
whether she was lawfully married unto him I will not, after
her kindness to Grace and her faithfulness to myself as re-
gards Robin, so much as ask.
Robin, therefore, though the fever left him, did not mend.
On the contrary, as I have said, he grew daily weaker, so
FOR FAITH AXD FREEJDO.V.
i^i
that I marvelled at his lasting so long, and looked to see him
die, as so many die, in the early morning, when there is a
sharpness or eagerness in the air, and the body is exhausted
by long sleep. Yet he died not.
And now you shall hear how, through the Duke of Mon-
mouth s ring, we escaped from our servitude. "God grant,"
said the duke, " that it bring thee good luck." This was a
light and unconsidered prayer, forgotten as soon as uttered,
meant only to please the ear of a child. And yet, in a man-
ner most marvelous to consider, it proved the salvation of us
all. What better luck could that ring cause than that we
should escape from the land of Egypt — the House of Bond-
age?
"I have disposed of the ring," Barnaby told me a few days
later. "That is to say, John Xuthall hath secretly pledged
it with a merchant for twenty guineas. He said that the
ring belonged to a convict, but many of them have brought
such precious things with them in order to buy their freedom.
He owns that the stones are fine, and very wiUingly gave the
money on their security."
"Then nothing remains," I said, "but to get away."
"John Nuthall has bought provisions and all we want,
little by little, so as to excite no suspicion ; they are secretly
and safely bestowed, and half the money still remains in his
hands. How goes Robin .'' "
"He draws daily nearer to his grave. We cannot depart
until he either, mends or dies. 'Tis another disaster, Bar-
naby. "
"Ay, but of disaster we must not think. Robin will die ;
yet our own case may be as bad if it comes to scuttling the
ship. Cheer up, lad ! many men die, but the world goes on.
Poor Robin ! Every man for himself, and the Lord for us
all. Sis will cry ; but even if Robin recovers, he cannot
marry her, a consideration which ought to comfort her. And
for him, since nothing else will serve him, it is best that he
should die. Better make an end at once than go all his life
with hanging head for the sake of a woman. As if there
are not plenty of women in the world to serve his turn."
"I know not what ails him that he doth not get better.
The air is too hot for him ; he hath lost his appetite. Bar-
naby," I cried, moved to a sudden passion of pity such as
would often seize me at that time, "saw one ever ruin more
complete than ours .-* Had we been fighting for Spain and
the accursed Inquisition we could not have been more
heavily punished. And we were fighting on the Lord's side."
334
FOR FAITH AND FREEDOAf.
" We were — dad was with us, too. And see how he waa
served. The Lord, it seems, doth not provide his servants
with arms, or with ammunition, or with commanders. Other-
wise, the duke this day would be in St. James's Palace wear-
ing his father's crown, and you would be a court physician
with a great wig and a velvet coat, instead of a Monmouth
cap and a canvas shirt. And I should be an admiral. But
what doth it profit to ask why and wherefore ! Let us first
get clear of the wreck. Well, I wish we were to take Robin
with us. 'Twill be a poor business going back to Bradford
Orcas without him. "
We waited, therefore, day after day, for Robin either to
get better or to die, and still he lingered, seemingly in a
waste or decline, but such as I had never before seen, and I
know not what would have happened to him, whether he
would have lived or died. But then there happened a thing
which caused us to wait no longer. It was this :
The master, having, according to his daily custom, gone
the round of his estate, that is to say, having seen his ser-
vants all at work under their drivers — some planting with
the hoe, some weeding, some cutting the maize, some gath-
ering yams, potatoes, cassava, or bonavist for provisions,
some attending the ingenio or the still-house — did unluckily
take into his head to visit the sick-house. What was more
unfortunate, this desire came upon him after he had taken a
morning dram, and that of the stiffest ; not, indeed, enough
to make him drunk, but enough to make him obstinate and
wilful. When I saw him standing at the open door, I per-
ceived by the glassiness of his eyes and the unsteadiness of
his shoulders that he had already began the day s debauch.
He was now in the most dangerous condition of mind.
Later in the day, when he was more advanced in drink, he
might be violent, but he would be much less dangerous, be-
cause he would afterwards forget what he had said or done
in his cups.
"So, Sir Doctor," he said, "I have truly a profitable pair
of servants — one who pretends to cure everybody and so
escapes work, and your cousin who pretends to be sick, and
so will do none. A mighty bargain I made, truly, when I
bought you both. "
"With submission, sir," I said, "I have within the last
week earned for your honor ten guineas' worth of fees.''
"Well, that is as it may be. How do I know what hath
gone into your own pocket ? Where is this malinger fellow ?
Make him sit up. Sit up, I say, ye skulking dog — sit up 1 *
FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
325
"Sir," I said, still speaking with the greatest humility,
" nobody but the Lord can make this man sit up." And,
indeed, Robin did not comprehend one word that was
said.
" I gave fifty pounds for him only a month ago. Am I to
lose all that money, I ask ? Fifty pounds, because I was
told that he was a gentleman, and would be ransomed by
his family. Hark ye, doctor, you must either cure this man
for me, or else, by the Lord ! you shall have his ransom
added to your own. If he dies, I will double your price,
mark that."
I said nothing, hoping that he would depart. As for
Grace, she had turned her back upon him at his first appear-
ance (as madam had ordered her to do), so that he might
not notice her.
Unfortunately he did not depart, but came into the room,
looking about him. Certainly he was not one who would
suffer his servants to be negligent even in the smallest
things.
"Here is fine work," he said. "Sheets of the best —
a pillow ; what hath a servant to do with such luxuries } "
" My cousin is a gentleman," I told him, "and accus-
tomed to lie in linen. The rug which is enough for him
in health must have a sheet to it as well now that he is
sick."
" Humph ! And whom ha\'c we here ? Wlio iwt thc)u,
madam, I wish to know ? "
Grace turned
"I an^ your honor's servant," she said. "1 am cni-
ployed in this sick-house when I am not in the sewing-
room."
"A servant? oh, madam, I humbly crave your pardon.
I took you for some fine lady. I am honored by having
such a servant. All the rest of my women servants go in
plain smock and petticoats. But — "here he smiled — "to
so lovely a girl as Grace Eykin — fair Grace — sweet Grace — ■
we must give the bravest and daintiest. To thee, my dear,
nothing can be denied. Those dainty cheeks, those white
hands, were never made to adorn a common coif. Mistress
Grace, we must be better accpiaintcd. This is no fit place
for you. Not the sick-house, but the best room in my house
shall be at thy service."
"Sir, I ask for nothing but to sit retired, and to render
such service as is in my power."
"To sit retired? Why, that cannot be longer suffered.
326 FOR FAITH AND FREED03f.
'Twould be a sin to keep hidden any longer this treasure,
this marvel, I say, of beauty and grace. INIy servant? Nay,
'tis I, 'tis the whole island, who are thy servants. Thou to
render service ? 'Tis for me, madam, to render service to
thy beauty." He took off his hat and flourished it, making
a leg.
"Then, sir," said Grace, "suffer me, I pray, to go about
my business, which is with this sick man, and not to hear
compliments."
He caught her hand and would have kissed it, but she
drew it back.
"Nay, coy damsel," he said, "I swear I will not go
without a kiss from thy lips. Kiss me, my dear."
She started back and I rushed between them. At that
moment madam herself appeared.
"What do you here.? "' she cried, catching his arm.
" What has this girl to do with you.'' Come away* Come
away and leave her in peace."
"Go back to the house, woman ! " he roared, breaking
from her and flourishing his stick so that I thought he was
actually going to cudgel her. "Go back, or it will be the
worse for you. What ! am I master here, or you ? Go
back, I say ! "
Then a strange thing happened. She made no reply,
but she turned upon him eyes so full of authority that she
looked like a queen. He shifted his feet, made as if he
would speak, and finally obeyed and went out of the place
to his own house with the greatest meekness, soberness,
and quietness.
Presently madam came back.
"I blame thee not, child," she said. "It is with him as
I have told thee. When he begins to drink the devil enters
into him. Dost think he came here to see the sick man ?
No, but for thy fair eyes, inflamed with love as well as with
drink. At such times no one can rule him but myself, and
even I may fail. Keep snug, therefore. Perhaps he may
forget thee again. But, indeed, I know not."
She sighed and left u».
f^OK FAITH AND FREEDOM. ja/
CHAPTER XLV.
BARNABY THE AVENGER.
Thk man did not come back. During the whole day 1
remained with Grace in fear. But he molested us not.
When the sun set and the field-hands returned, 1 was in
two minds whether to tell Barnaby what had happened or
not But when I saw his honest face, streaked with the
dust of the day's work, and watched him eating his lump of
salt beef and basin of yellow porridge with as much satis-
faction as if it had been a banquet of all the dainties, I could
not bear, without greater cause, to disturb his mind.
"To-night," he told me, when there was no more beef
and the porridge was all eaten, " there is a great feast at the
Bridge. I would we had some of their sherries and Madeira.
The Governor of Nevis landed yesterday, and is entertained
to-day by our governor. All the militia are feasting, offi-
cers and men ; nobody will be on the lookout anywhere ;
and it is a dark night, with no moon. What a chance for
us, could we make our escape to-night ! There may never
again happen such a chance for us. How goes Robin ? "
And so after a little more talk we lay down in our ham-
mocks, and I, for one, fell instantly asleep, having no fear
at all for Grace ; first, because the master would be now at
the Bridge feasting, and too drunk for anything but to
sleep ; and next, because she had with her the woman Deb,
as stout and lusty as any man.
The master was not at the Bridge with the rest of the
planters and gentlemen. Perhaps the drink which he took
in the morning caused him to forget the great banquet.
However that may be, he was, most unluckily for himself
drinking at home and alone, yet dressed in his best coat and
wig, and with his sword, all of which he had put on for the
governor's banquet.
After a while the devil entered into him, finding easy ad-
mission, S9 to speak — all doors thrown wide open and
tven a welcome in that debauched and ]irofligate soul.
About eight o'clock, therefore, i)r()mi)ted by the Evil One,
the master rose and stcalthilv crept out of the house.
2 28 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
It was a dark night, but he needed no light to guide his
footsteps. He crossed the court and made straight for the
sick-house.
He pushed the door open and stood for a httle looking
within. By the light of the horn lantern he saw the girl
whose image was in his mind. The sight might have caused
him to return, repentant and ashamed. For she was on
her knees, praying aloud beside the bedside of the sick
man.
As he stood in the door the woman named Deb, who lay
upon the floor asleep, woke up and raised her head. But
he saw her not. Then she sat up, watching him with sus-
picion. But his eyes were fixed on the figure of Grace.
Then she sprang to her feet, for now she knew that mischief
was meant, and she stood in readiness, prepared with her
great strong arms to defend her mistress. But he thought
nobody was in the house but Grace and the sick man. He
saw nothing but the girl at the bedside.
I say that I was sleeping. I was awakened at the sound
of a shriek ; I knew the voice ; I sprang from the hammock.
"God of mercy!" I cried. "It is Grace! Barnaby,
awake — awake, I say ! It is the cry of Grace ! "
Then I rushed to the sick-house.
There I saw Grace shrieking and crying for help. And
before her the master struggling and wrestling with the
woman Deb. She had her arms round his neck, and made
as if she were trying to throttle him. Nay, I think that she
would have throttled him, so strong she was and possessed
of such a spirit, and by the light of the lantern gleaming
upon the blade I saw that his sword had either fallen from
his hand or from the scabbard, and now lay upon the floor.
" Standback ! " cried Barnaby, pushing me aside. "Leave
^o of him, woman. Let me deal with him."
The thing was done in a moment. Merciful heavens !
To think that thus suddenly should the soul of man be
called to its account ! I had seen the poor /ellows shot
down and cut to pieces on Sedgemoor, but then they knew
that they were going forth to fight and so might be killed.
There was time before the battle for a prayer ; but this man
had no time, and he was more than half drunk as well.
He lay at our feet, lifeless, Barnaby standing over him
with a broken sword in his hand.
For a while no one spoke or moved. But the woman
called Deb gasped and panted, and even laughed, as one
who is well pleased because slic halh had her revenge,
FOR FAITH AXD FREEDOM. 33^
The madam herself, clad in a long white night-dress and
with bare feet, suddenly pushed us aside and fell upon her
knees beside the wounded man.
She lifted his head. The face was pale and the eyes
closed. She laid it gently down and looked round.
"You have killed him," she said, speaking not in a rage
or passion, but quietly. " You have killed him. To-morrow
you will hang. You will all hang."
We said nothing.
"Doctor, " she turned to me, "tell me if he is dead or
living. "
She snatched the lantern and held it, while I made such
examination as was possible. I opened his waistcoat and
laid back his shirt. The sword had run straight through him
and broken off short, perhaps by contact with his ribs. The
broken point remained in the wound and the flesh had closed
around it, so that, save for a drop of blood or two oozing
out, there was no flow.
It needs not great knowledge to understand that when a
man hath six inches of steel in his body which cannot be
■pulled out, and when he is bleeding inwardly, he must die.
Still, as physicians use, I did not tell her so.
" Madam," I said, "he is not dead. He is living. While
there is life there is hope."
" Oh ! " she cried, "why did he buy you when he could
have had the common sort? You will hang — you will hang,
every one."
"That shall we presently discover," said Barnaby.
"Humphrey, we have now no choice left ; what did I tell
thee about the chances of the night.? We must go this night
As for this villain, let him bleed to death."
"Go } " said madam. " Whither, unhappy men, will you
go } There is no place in the island where you can hide,
but with bloodhounds they will have you out. You can go
nowhere in this island but you will be found and hanged,
unless you are shot like rats in a hole."
"Come, Humphrey, "said Barnaby, "we will carry Robin.
This poor woman must go too ; she will else be hanged for
trying to throttle him. Well, she can lend a hand to carry
Robin. Madam, by your leave we will not hang, nor will
be shot. In the — in the — the cave — that I know of your
bloodhounds will never find us."
" Madam," I said, "it is true that we shall attempt to es-
cape. For what hath happened I am truly sorry. Yet we
may not suffer such a thing as waa this night attempted
330 J-'OR FAiril AXD FREEDOM.
without resistance. Else should we be worse than the ig^
norant blacks. The master will perhaps live and not die.
Listen, and take heed therefore."
" Doctor," she said, "do not leave me. Stay with me, or
he will die. Doctor, stay with me and I will save your life.
I will swear that you came at my call.' Stay with me ; I
will save Grace as well. I will save you both. You shall
be neither flogged nor hanged. I swear it ; I will^ say that
I called you for help when it was too late. Only this man
and this woman shall hang. Who are they.? a rogue
and — "
Barnaby laughed aloud.
" Doctor," she said, " if you stay, he will perhaps, re-
cover and forgive you all — "
Barnaby laughed again.
"Madam," I told her, "better death upon the gallows
than any further term of life with such a man."
" Oh ! " she cried. " He will die where he is lying."
" That may be, I know not." I gave her certain directions,
bidding her, above all, watch the man and cause him to lie
perfectly quiet, and not to speak a word even in a whisper,
and to give him a few drops of cordial from time to time.
" Come," said Barnaby, " we lose time which is precious.
Madam, if your husband recover — and for my part I care
nothing whether he recover or whether he die ; but if he
should recover, tell him from me, Captain Barnaby Eykin,
that I shall very likely return to this island, and that I shall
then, the Lord helping, kill him in fair duello to wipe out the
lash of the cudgel which he was good enough once to lay
about my head. If he die of this trifling thrust with his own
sword, he must lay that to the account of my sister. Enough, "
said Barnaby, " we will now make our way to the woods,
and the cave. "
This said, Barnaby went to the head of Robin's bed and
ordered Deb to take the foot, and so between them they carried
him forth with them, while Grace followed, and I went
last.
We heard, long afterwards, though one Mn Anstiss, the
same young gentleman who loved Grace and would have
married her, what had happened when we were gone. An
hour, or thereabouts, afterwards, madam woke up one of
the overseers, telling him what had happened, and bidding
him be ready at daybreak, with the bloodhounds, horses,
and loaded guns, to follow in pursuit and bring us back,
There -would be, they thought, no difficulty at all in catch-
FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
33«
iwg" us, because we were encumbered by a sick man and two
women.
There was, however, more difficulty than they expected.
For the footsteps led the bloodhounds to the seashore, and
here the trace was lost, nor could it ever afterwards be re-
covered. And though the hue and cry was out over all the
island, and the woods and the ravines and caves, where run-
away neg-roes hide, were searched, we were never found.
Therefore, since no boat at all was missing (the Guineaman
had sailed away), it was certain that we could not have es-
caped by sea. It was fortunate, indeed, that Barnaby drop-
ped no hint about the sea, otherwise there would have been
despatched some of the boats of the port in search of us, and
in that case the scuttling of our craft might have been neces-
sary. For, had we been caught, we should certainly have
been hanged for murder, after being flogged for attempted
escape. For the master died. He lay speechless until the
day broke ; then he became conscious, and presently breath-
ed his last in great anguish of body and terror of mind.
What hath since become of madam and of that miserable
family of servants and slaves I know not Certain it is that
they could not find a more barbarous or a more savage
master in place of him whom Barnaby slew, if they were
to search the whole of the Spanish Main and the islands
upon it
CHAPTER XLVI.
A PERILOUS VOYAGE.
In this way, unexpected and tragical, arrived our chance
of escape. We walked to Carlisle Bay by way of the sea-
shore, so that we might be met by none, and in order that
the bloodhounds (if they should use them) in the morning
might be thrown off the track. On the march that stout and
lusty wench who carried one end of the bed neither called for
a halt nor complained of the burden she carried all the way.
It was nigh unto midnight when we arrived at the creek in
which the boat lay sunk. This was within a stone's throw
of John Nuthall's cottage, where were bestowed the mast
sails, oars, and gear, with such provisions as he had gotten to*
332 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
gether for the voyage. The man was sleeping when Barnaby
called him, but he quickly got up, and in less than an hour
we had the boat hauled out of the water, the provisions hastily
thrown in, the mast stepped, our sick man and the woman plac-
ed in the bows, the stern and middle of the boat being encum-
bered with our provisions ; we had pushed down the muddy
and stinking creek, we had hoisted sail, and we were stealing
silently out of Carlisle Bay under a light breeze. Three or four
ships were lying in the bay, but either there was no watch kept
aboard, or (which is more probable) it was no one's business
to hail a small sail boat going out, probably for fishing at dawn.
Besides, the night was so dark that we may very well have
escaped notice. However that might be, in a quarter of an
hour we were well out at sea, beyond the reach of the guns
of Carlisle Bay, no longer visible to the ships in port, and
without any fear of being seen until daybreak. The wind,
which sometimes dropped altogether in the night, still con-
tinued favorable, though very light.
"My lads," said Barnaby, presently, drawing a long
breath, "I verily believe that we have given them the slip
this time. In the morning they may go forth, if they please,
with their bloodhounds to hunt for us. Let them hunt.
If any inquiry is made for us at the Bridge, no boat will be
missing, and so no suspicion will be awakened. They \\\\\
then, I suppose, search for us among the caves and ravines
of which 1 have heard, where there are hiding-places in
plenty, but no water to drink, so that the poor devils who
run away and seek a refuge there are speedily forced to
come out for water, and so are caught or shot down. Well,
they will hunt a long time before they find us. This boat
makes a little water, but I think not much. If she proves
water-tight and the breeze holds, by daylight we should be
well to the south of the Island : courage, therefore — all will
be well yet. How goes Robin } "
He was lying as easily as we could manage for him, one
rug over him and another under him. Grace sat on one
side of him, and the woman they call Deb on the other.
Then, because the boat sometimes shipped a little water when
she dipped in the waves, Barnaby rigged a tarpaulin round
the bows to prevent this, and (but this was not till next day)
over the tarpaulin he made out of a rug and a spare spar a
low tilt which, unless the weather grew bad, should shelter
those three by night from dew and spray, and by day from
the sun overhead and the glare and heat of tl:ie water,
" Peb," he said softly, " art afraid.' "
FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
333
"No, sir; not while my mistress is here" (meaning
Grace).
" If we are taken we shall all be flogged well-nigh unto
death, and very likely hanged as well."
"I am not afraid, sir."
" We may spring a leak," said Barnaby, " and so all go
to the bottom and be devoured. Art not afraid to die ? "
"No, sir; not if I hold my mistress by the hand, so that
she may take me whither she goes herself."
"Good," said Barnaby. "As for me, I shall have to go
alone. Well, there will be a goodly company of us. Go
to sleep, my girl. In the morning we will serve around
the first ration, with, perhaps, if all be well, a dram of
cordial."
In the dim light of the stars I watched all night the three
figures in the bow. Robin lay white and motionless ; Grace
sat covered with her hood, bending over him ; and Deb,
from whose head her coif had fallen, lay head on arm sound
asleep. She had no fear, any more than a common soldier
has when he goes into action, because he trusts his captain.
Thus began our voyage, in an open boat, twenty feet
long, with a company of three sound men, two women,
and a sick man. For arms, in case we needed them, we
had none at all. If any ship crossed our track and should
call upon us to surrender, we could not deny that we were es-
caped convicts, because the dress of all but one proclaimed
the fact. Who, in such a climate, would choose to wear
a coarse shirt and canvas breeches, with a Monmouth cap,
except it was a servant or a slave who had no choice, but
must take what is given him ?
But we should not surrender, come what might. If we
could neither fight nor fly, we could sink. Said Barnaby in
the dead of the night, whispering in my ear, "Lad, 'tis
agreed between us, we will have that clear. Sooner than
be taken we will scuttle the ship, and so sink altogethei .
If 'tis accounted murder, the blame shall lie between us."
A little before daybreak the breeze freshened and the wave"?
began to rise, but not so high as to threaten the boal,
which proved indeed a most gallant little craft, dancing
over the waters as if she enjoyed being driven by the breeze.
Some boats, as sailors will tell you, being always apt t )
compare these craft with living creatures, come thus froli-:
and sprightly from their makers' hands, while others, bui!t
of the same material, and on the same lines, are, on the
contrary, and always remain, heavy and lumpish, just as
334
FOR FAITH AND FRLEDOM.
some children are lively and gay, while others, bom of thd
same parents, are dull and morose.
Then the sun rose, seeming to leap out of the water, a
must glorious ball of fire, which instantly warmed the cool
air, and began to burn and scorch our hands and faces.
In these hot latitudes one understands what the ancients
meant when they spoke of the dreadful sun-god, who both
gives and destroys life, and is so beneficial and yet so ter-
rible. We, who live in a cold country, are sometimes
greatly comforted by the sun, but are never burned ; we
feel his warmth, but understand not his power.
Then Barnaby began to gaze curiously all round the horizon.
We had no glass or telescope, but his eyes were to him as
good as any telescope is to most men.
" I thank the Lord,"' he said, drawing breath. (It was
rare for Barnaby thus openly to give praise.) " There is no
sail in sight. To be sure we have the day before us. But
yet — " here he began to talk as some men use when they
desire to place before their own minds, clearly, the position
of affairs. ' ' Very well, then — Barbadoes laying thirty
miles or more northeast by north. Vessels bound for the
island from Bristol, commonly sailing round the north.
Very well, then — we are out of their track. Yet — then again
— some are driven south by stress of- weather. Ay, there
is our danger. Yet again, if one should see us, would she
bear down upon us ? I greatly doubt it. The wind will
continue, that is pretty sure. If they were to discover that
we had gone by boat, would they sail after us 1 Why, whom
could they send .? And whither would they steer } And what
boat have they that can sail faster than this little craft ? Yet
we are pretty low down in the water. Humphrey, lad," he
turned upon me his broad and sunburnt face, full of cheer-
fulness, "we are not within many hours of scuttling yet.
A tight boat, a fair wind, a smooth sea ; let us hope for the
best, How goes Robin } "
There was no change in Robin, either for better or for
worse.
"Sis," said Barnaby, "art sleeping still, Sis? Wake up
and let us eat, drink, and be jolly. What ! Grace, I say ?
Why, we have escaped. We are far away at sea. Let us
laugh and sing. If there were room in this coi^kle I would
dance also."
She lifted her head and threw back her hood. Ah ! what
a mournful face was there.
POR FAITH AXD J-RhEDO.\L
tl'i
"Oh, brother," she said, "canst thou laugh and sing?
Hast thou forgotten last night ? "
" Why, no," he replied, " one must not forget last night,
because it was the night of our escape. All else, I own, I can
forget Let it not stick in thy gizzard, my dear, that the
man frightened thee. Rejoice rather that he thus afforded
me a chance of giving him a taste of his own cold iron."
''Nay, brother," she said, shaking her head; then she
looked round her. "We are a long way from the land,"
she said. "When will they send out a ship to bring us
')ack } "
"Why, d'ye see.?" Barnaby replied. "Give us twelve
hours more, and they may send out all their fleet, if they
have one, and sail the wide world round for us, and yet not
capture us. And now let us overhaul the provisions, and
examine the ship's stores." Grace pulled her hood down
again and said no more. The woman they called Deb was
now wide awake, and staring about her with the greatest
satisfaction.
"Come John Nuthall," Barnaby went on. "We are
hungry and thirsty. Where is the list I made for thee .?
Thou art our purser, our supercargo, our cook, and our steward.
Thou art also bo's'n and carpenter and half the crew. Where
is my list, I say ? Give it me and we will examine our
stores. Look up, Sis ; never cry over what is done and
over. What ! A villain hath received a lesson and thou
hangest thy head therefore. Look up, I say. There is now
hope for all ; thou shalt merrily dance at my wedding
yet. "
Then he read the list, and examined each parcel or box
with great care.
" A hundred and a half of bread ; a soft cheese ; plantains ;
a keg of water — nine gallons ; six bottles of Canary — not one
broken ; a compass ; a half-hourglass ; a spare rug — 'tis over
Robin's legs ; flint and steel ; a bit of tarpaulin ; a hatchet
and hammer ; a saw ; some nails ; a spar or two ; a coil of
rope and yarn ; a lump of tobacco — we can chew it, though
I would rather put it into a pipe. Candles — Faugh ! they
are run together in a lump ; they will serve to calk some-
thing presently."
We had, in fact, no light during our voyage, but the tallow
proved useful when (I think it was the next day) the boat
started a leak.
This was all our store. 'Twas not much for six people,
but Barnaby hoped that the voyage would be short. If he
'};^^ FOR J-AJT/I AXD FKEEDO.U.
should be disappointed, who would not put up with short
rations for a day or two for the sake of freedom ?
" And now," he said, when everything- was stowed away
according to his mind, " we will have breakfast. Our pro-
visions are not great things, but after the accursed loblollie.
a bit of bread and cheese will be a feast."
A feast indeed it was, and our captain gratified us by
opening a flask of Canary, which raised all our hearts. Strange
;hat men should be able to recover their spirits, which should
oe independent of the creature comforts, by a dram of wine.
As for Barnaby, I thought he would have kissed the bottle.
" It is now three nionths and more," he said, "that we
have had nothing save a sup of kill-devil fresh from the still
and now we are mercifully permitted to taste again a glass
of Canary. ' ' ' Tis too much, " he sighed, drinking his ration.
" Well, we have birt a few bottles, and the voyage may be
longer than we hope. Therefore, we must go upon short
allowance. But fear not, sis; there shall always be enough
for Robin, poor lad."
He then proceeded to tell us what he intended, and whither
he would steer.
" We have no chart," he said. "What then .? I can draw
one as good as they are made to steer by in these seas. "
He could not draw one because he had no paper or pencil,
but he carved one with the point of his knife on the seat, and
marked out our course upon it day by day. "See," he said,
' ' here is Barbadoes. Our course all night hath been sou'west.
She now makes five knots an hour. It is now eight, I take
it, and we must therefore be about forty miles from Barba-
does. To-morrow morning we should make the Grenadilloes,
which are a hundred and fifty miles from Carlisle Bay. Hark
ye ! there may be a Bristol vessel sailing from Great Granada
to Barbadoes, or the other way. That would be the devil.
But such ships are rare, and there is no trade between the
two islands. Well ; we shall give Granada as wide a berth
as may be." Here he considered a little. "Therefore,
'twill be our wiser plan to bear more to the south. Once
south of Granada, I take it, there will be no more danger.
Off the main of South America the sea is covered with islands.
They are No INIan's Land. Inhabitants have they none
Navigators for the most part know them not. English, French,
and Spanish ships come never to these islands. My purpose,
therefore, is to put in at Great Margaritos or Tortuga, for
rest and fresh water, and so presently make the Dutch island
of Cura9oa. "
FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. -i^^-j
" And after that ? "
"Then, my lad, we shall take ship to some country where
a sailor may get a berth and a physician may find patients.
It must be to Holland first ; but never fear, we shall get
back to England some time, and perhaps, fight another
battle, with a different tale to tell afterwards.''
As the day advanced the coast of Barbadoes continually
receded, until, before sunset, the island lay like a purple
cloud low down in the horizon. The northeast breeze blew
steadily, but the sun caused a most dreadful heat in the air,
and our eyes smarted from the glare of the water and the
spray that was blown upon us. It was at this time that
Barnaby constructed the tilt of which I have spoken. The
sea lay spread out round us in a broad circle of which we
were the centre, and the cloudless blue sky lay over us like
unto a roof laid there for us alone. It is only in a ship one
doth feel thus alone in the centre of creation — even as if
there were nothing but the sea around, the sky above, and
our boat in the centre. Thus must the patriarch, Noah, have
felt when his ark floated upon the vast face of the water,
and even the tops of the high hills were hidden and covered
over. All day Barnaby scanned the horizon anxiously, but
there came into sight no sail or ship whatever. To us, who
sometimes see the vessels lying in a crowded port and hear
how they bring argosies from every land, it seems as if every
part of the ocean must be covered with sails, driving before
the wind from whatever quarter it may blow. But he who
considers the mappa mundi\x\\\ presently discover that there
are vast expanses of sea where never a sail is seen, unless
it be the fugitive sail of the pirate or the bark canoe of the
native. We were now nearing such a lonely sea or part of
the ocean. Barnaby knew, what these planters did not, \\ow
to steer across the unknown water to a port of safety beyond.
At midday our captain served out another drink of \\-atcr,
and to Robin I gave a sop of bread in Canary, which he
seemed to suck up and to swallow with readiness.
In such a voyage, wdiere there is nothing to do but to keep
the ship on her course and to watch the horizon for a strange
sail, one speedily falls into silence and sits manyhours with-
out speech ; sometimes falling asleep, lulled by the ripple
of the water as the boat flies through it.
I have said nothing about the man John Nuthall. He was
a plain, honest-looking man, and we found him, throughout
all this business, faithful, brave, and patient, obedient to
Barnaby, and of an even temper, and contented with his
«a
338 FOR FAITH AXD FREEDOM.
share. That he had formerly been a thief in his native
country cannot be denied, but I hope that we shall not deny
to any man the right of repentance. Barnaby divided the
crew — namely, himself, John Nuthall, and me — into three
watches, of eight hours each, of which each man kept two
at a stretch. Thus, beginning the day at noon, which was
the only time we knew for certain, Barnaby would himself
— but this was after the first two days — lie down and sleep
till sunset or a little later. Then John Nuthall lay down an I
took his turn of sleep till Barnaby thought it was two o'clock
in the morning, when he woke him and I took his place.
But for the first day or two Barnaby slept not at all, and the
whole of the voyage he slept as a good watch-dog sleeps —
namely, with one eye open.
At sunset he gave out another pannikin of cold water to
each of us, a ration of bread and cheese, and a dram of wine.
Then he commanded John Nuthall to lie down and sleep,
while I took the tiller, and he himself held the ropes. Then
the night fell once more upon us.
Presently, while we sat there in silence, Grace rose up
from her seat and came aft and sat down beside me.
"Humphrey," she whispered, " think you that he is truly
dead ? " She was speaking not of Robin, but of the master.
" I know not, my dear."
"I can think of nothing but of that man's sudden end,
and of what may happen to us. Say something to comfort
me, Humphrey. You always had some good word to say
— like manna for refreshment. My soul is low in the dust.
I cannot even pray."
"Why, my dear, what could I say .'' 'Tis true that the
man was struck down, and that suddenly. And yet — "
" To think that my brother — that Barnaby — should have
killed him."
' ' Why, " said Barnaby, ' ' if some one had to kill him, why
not I as well as another 1 What odds who killed him } "
"Oh," she said, "that a man should be called away at
such a moment, when his brain was reeling with wine and
wicked thoughts."
" He was not dead," I told her, though I knew very well
what would be the end, " when we came away. Many a
man recovers who hath had a sword thrust through the body.
He may now be on the mend — who can tell .'' " yet I knew,
I say, very well how it must have ended. "Consider, my
dear, he tempted the wrath of God, if any man ever did. If
he is destroyed, on his own head be it, not im ours. If
tOR FAITH AND l-REEDOM. 339
he recover, he will have had a lesson which will serve him
for the rest of his life. If he doth not recover, he may have
time left him for something of repentance and of prayer.
Why, Grace, if we get safely to our port we ought to con-
sider the punishment of this sinner, which was in self-
defence, as one may truly say, the very means granted by
Providence for our own escape. How else should we have
got away ? How else should we have resolved to venture
all. even to carrying Robin with us .'' " All this, I repeat, I
said to encourage her, because, if I know aught of wounds,
a man bleeding inwardly of a sword-thrust through his vitals
would have short time for the collecting of his thoughts or
the repentance of his sins, being as truly cut off in the midst
of them as if he had been struck down by a thunderbolt. A
man may groan and writhe under the dreadful torture of such
a wound, but there is little room for meditation or for
repentance.
Then I asked her if she were in fear as to the event of the
voyage.
" 1 fear nothing," she told me, "but to be captured and
taken back to the place whence we came, there to be put in
])rison and flogged. That is my only fear. Humphrey, we
have suffered so much that this last shame would be too
great for me to bear. Oh, to be tied up before all the men
and flogged like the black women. 'Twould kill me,
Humphrey."
"Grace," I said, very earnestly, "art thou, indeed, brave
enough to endure death itself rather than this last barbarity .-• "
"Oh, death, death!" she cried, clasping her hands,
" what is death to me, who have lost everything 1 "
"Ay, but consider, my dear. To die at sea — it means to
sink down under the cold water, out of the light of day ; to
be choked for want of air ; perhaps to be devoured quick by
sharks ; to lie at the bottom of the water, the sea-weed grow-
ing over your bones ; to be rolled about by the troubled
waves — "
" Humphrey, these are old wives' tales. Why, if it had
been lawful, I would have killed myself long ago. But I
must not lose heaven as well as earth. A brief pang it is to
die, and then to be happy forever. What do I care whether
the sea-weed covers my bones or the cold clay .'' Oh,
Humphrey, Humphrey ! why should I care any longer to
Hve ? "
"My dear," I said, "if we escape in safety there may
yet be happiness in store. No man knoweth the future."
^40 ^O/^ FAJ-J'Jf .LVD IREEDd.\f.
She shook her head. " Happiness,"' I told her, " doth not
commonly come to man in the way which he most desires
and prays ; for if he doth obtain the thing for which he
hath so ardently prayed, he presently finds that the thing-
bringeth not the joy he so much expected. Or it comes too
late, as is the case often with honors and wealth, when one
foot is already in the grave. I mean, my dear, that we
must not despair, because the thing which most we desired
is taken from us. Perhaps we ought not to desire anything
at all except what the Lord shall provide. But that is a
hard saying, and if men desired nothing, it is certain that
they would no longer work." I talked thus at length to
divert her mind from her troubles. "To thee, poor child,"
I said, "have been given afflictions many and great — the
loss of godly parents, a husband whom thou must avoid,
and the deprivation of earthly love. Yet, since thou art so
brave, Grace, I will tell thee. I thought not to tell thee
anything of this — "
"What, Humphrey, what.?"
"Briefly, Grace, thou shalt not be taken alive."
" How, unless you kill me.?"
"We are agreed, my dear, Barnaby and I, that if we can-
not escape any boats which may pursue us, the boat shall
be sunk, and so we shall drown together. Indeed, Grace,
I confess that I am n.ot myself so much in love with life as
to return to that captivity and intolerable oppression from
which we have gotten away. Therefore, be assured, we
will all drown rather than go back,"
"Oh ! " she sighed, heavily, "now shall I fear nothing.
I have not lost everything since I have thee still — and
Barnaby. Alas ! my head has been so full of what madam
said — that we should be certainly caught, and all of us flog-
ged. To be flogged! Who would not rather die?" She
shivered and trembled. "To be flogged! Humphrey, 1
could not bear the shame." She trembled and shivered at
the very thought.
" Fear not, my dear," I said, "there are those on the
boat who love thee too well to suffer that extreme of bar-
barity. Put that fear out of thy mind. Think only that
we may have to die, but that we shall not be taken. To
die, indeed, is very likely our fate, for we have but a quar-
ter of an inch of frail wood between us and the seas. If a
storm should arise, we fill with water and go down ; if the
wind should drop we should be becalmed, and so perish
FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
341
miserably of hunger and thirst; if Barnaby steer not
aright — "
" Humphrey," said Barnaby, " fill not her innocent head
with rubbish. 'Tis not the time of tornadoes, and there will
be no storm ; the wind at this season never drops, therefore
we shall not lie becalmed ; and as for my steering aright,
why, with a compass — Am I a lubber ? "
"Brother," she said, " if I am not to be flogged the rest
concerns me little. Let us say no more about it. I am
now easy in my mind. Robin sleeps, Humphrey. He
hath slept since the sun went down, and this afternoon he
looked as if he knew me. Also, he took the bread sopped
in Canary eagerly, as if he relished it."
"These seas," said Barnaby, "are full of sharks, I tell
you."
I knew not what he meant, because we were speaking of
Robin.
" Sharks have got their share of sense as well as humans,"
he went on.
Still I understood him not.
"When a man on board a ship is going to die the sharks
find it out, and they follow that ship until he does die and
is flung overboard. Then they devour his body and go
away, unless there is more to follow. I have looked for
sharks, and there are none following the boat, wherefore,
though I am not a doctor, I am sure that Robin will not
die. "
" I know not at all," I said, " how that may be. There
are many things believed by sailors which are superstitions,
fond beliefs nourished by the continual presence of perils.
On the other hand, the senses of man are notoriously as
far below those of creatures as their intellects are abox'c
them, yet a skilful man may read the premonition of death
in a sick man's face. Therefore, I know not but a shark
may have a sense like unto the eye of a hawk, or the scent
of a hound, with which to sniff the approach of death afar
off. Let us comfort ourselves, Grace, with Barnaby's as-
surance. '''
"Tis a well-proved and tried thing," said Barnaby ; " and
sailors, let me tell thee, master doctor, have no superstitions
or idle beliefs."
"Well, that maybe. As to Robin's disease, I can pro-
nounce nothing upon it. Nay, had I the whole library o/
Padua to consult I could learn nothing that would help me.
First, the mind falls into a languisliing and spiritless condi-
342
FOR FAITH AND FREEDOAt.
tion. That causeth the body to lie open to attacks of any
disease which may be threatening. Then, the body, being
ill at ease, works upon the mind, and causes it to wander
beyond control. So that the soul, which is bound up with
body and mind, cannot show herself or manifest her will.
It is the will which shows the presence of the soul — the will
M'hich governs body and mind alone. But, it I know aught
of disease, if a change comes upon Robin, it will either
swiftly cure or swiftly kill."
" Humphrey," she whispered, "if he recover, kow shall
I meet his face.'' How shall I reply when he asks me con-
cerning my faith .' "
"j\Iy dear, he knows all. Twas that knowledge, the'
pity of it, and the madness of it, believe me, which threw
him into so low a condition."
" I have looked daily for reproaches in thy kind eyes,
Humphrey. I have found none, truly. But, from Robin.
Oh ! I dare not think of meeting those eyes of his."
"Reproach thee will he never, Grace. Sorrow and love,
I doubt not, will lie in his eyes all his life. What thou hast
done was for him and for thy father and thy brother and for
all of us. But oh, the pity and the villainy 1 Fear not to
meet the poor lad's eyes, Grace."
" I long to see the light of reason in those dear eyes^
and yet I fear. Humphrey, I am married, but against
my will. I am a wife, and yet no wife. I am resolved
that, come what may, I will never, never go to my hus-
band. And I love my Robin still. Oh ! " she sobbed, "I
love my Robin still."
"If we die," I told her, " you shall go down with your
arm round his neck, and so you shall die together."
Then we sat silent awhile.
"My dear," I said, " lie down and take some sleep."
" I cannot sleep, Humphrey, for the peace of mind which
hath fallen upon me. If Robin come to his senses again I
shall not fear him. And the night, it is so peaceful — so cool
and so peaceful." (The wind had dropped till there was
barely enough to fill the sail, and only enough way on the
boat to make a soft murmur of the water along her sides. )
"The sea is so smooth ; the sky is so bright, and so full of
stars. Can there be anywhere a peace like this ? Alas ! if
we could sail still upon a silent and a peaceful ocean. But
we must land somewhere. There will be men ; and where
there are men there is wickedness, with drink and wrath and
evil passions, such as we \\ix\c left behind us. Plumphrey,
FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
343
oh, my brother Humphrey, it would be sweet if the boat
would sink beneath us now, and so, with Robin's hand in
mine, we could all go together to the happy land where
there is neither marrying nor giving in marriage."
From beneath 'the tilt there came a voice — 1 verily believe
it was the answer sent straight from heaven to comfort this
poor, faithful soul. "Grace" — it was the voice of Robin,
in his right mind at last. "Grace," he said, "we will con-
tinue to love each other, yet without sin."
"Oh, Robin, Robin." She moved quickly to his side and
fell upon her knees. ' ' Robin, thou wilt recover. "
"Stay," I interposed. "Robin will first have a cup of
(Cordial. "
" I have been sleeping," he said. "I know not what
hath happened. We are in a boat, it seems, and on the
open sea. Unless I am still dreaming, we are slaves to a
planter in Barbadoes. And this is Grace, who was in Eng-
land — and I know not what it means."
" You have been ill, Robin," I told him. "You have
been nigh unto death. Many things have happened of
which we will speak, but not now. Grace is at your side
and Barnaby is navigating the boat. Drink this cup of wine
— so. Sleep now, and in the morning, if it please Heaven,
you shall be so strong that you shall hear everything. Ask
no more questions, but sleep. Give him your hand, Grace."
She obeyed me, sitting at his side and taking his hand in
hers, and so continued for the rest of the night, Robin sleep-
ing peacefully.
In a word, he was restored. The fresh sea-breeze brought
him back to life and reason ; and though he was still weak,
he was now as sound in his mind as any man could desire
to be. And in the morning we told him all that had been
done, whereat he marvelled.
Grace might love him still. That was most true ; yet
between them stood the man. Why, there was another
man in the boat who also loved a girl he could never wed.
His passion, I swear, was full of constancy, tenderness,
and patience, ^^'ould Robin be as patient.''
When the day broke again we were still sailing over a
lovely sea, with never a sail in sight and never a sign of
land.
But now Robin was sitting up, his face pale and his hands
thin ; but the light of reason was in his eyes, and on his
lips Buch a smile of tenderness as we were wont to see there
in the days of old.
344
FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
"Said I not," cried Barnaby, "that he would recover?
Trust the sharks for common-sense. And again an open
sea, with never a sail in sight. Praise the Lord therefore. "
But Grace, when the sun rose above the wares, threw
back her hood and burst forth into singing :
" O Lord, how glorious is thy grace I
And wondrous large thy love I
At such a dreadful tune and place
To such as faithful prove."
The tears came into my eyes only to see the change that
had fallen upon her gracious, smiling countenance ; it was
not, truly, the sweet and happy face that we remembered
before her troubles fell upon her, but that face graver with
the knowledge of evil and of pain. And now it was like
unto such a face as one may see in many an altar-piece in
Italy, glorilied with gratitude and love.
Then the woman called Deb fell to weeping and blubber-
ing for very joy that her mistress looked happy again.
'Twas a faithful, loving creature.
" Humphrey," said Grace, "forgive me that I murmured.
Things that are done cannot be undone. Robin is restored
to us. With three such brothers, who should not be con-
tent to live ? I hope, now, that we shall get safely to our
port ; but if we die, we shall die contented in each other's
arms. Going through the vale of misery," she added,
softly, "we will use it as a well."
CHAPTER XLVII.
«rE SAIL FOR THE BAHAMAS.
"I TAKE it," said Barnaby, on the third morning— the
weather continuing fine and the sea clear of ships — "that
we are now clear out of the track of any British vessels.
We may fall into the hands of the Spaniard, but he is mild
and merciful of late, compared with his temper a hundred
years ago. 'Tis true we have given him many lessons m
humanity. We should no^\', before nightfall, make the
islands of Testigos ; but I think they are only rocks and sandy
lOK FAITH AXU FREEDOM.
M5
flats, such as they call Keys, where we need not land, see-
ing- that we should get nothing by so doing, except to go
out of the way, and so make the rations shorter. Robin" —
'twas at breakfast, when he served out a dram of wine to
every one — -"I drink to thy better health, lad. Thou hast
cheated the devil — Nay, Sis, look not so angry ; I meant,
thou wilt not go to heaven — this bout. Up heart, then, and
get strong. We will find thee another sweetheart shall make
thee lift up thy head again. What ! is there but one woman
in the world.? "
"I was saying, then," he went on, "that we shall pres-
ently make the islands of Testigos. There followeth there-
after, to one who steereth west, a swarm of little islands.
'Twas here that the pirates used to lie in the good old days,
snug and retired, with their girls and their drink. Ay, and
plenty of both. A happy time they had ! " Barnaby wagged
his head and sighed. "South of this archipelago, which I
will some day visit in order to search for treasure, there
lieth the great and mountainous island of Margaritos. This
great island we shall do well to keep upon our south, and
so bear away to the desert island of Tortuga, where we
shall find wafer for certain, and that, I have been told, the
best spring-water that flows ; turtles we may also find, and
fish we may catch ; and when we have recovered our
strength with a few days' rest ashore we will once more put
to sea, and make for the island of Cura(^oa and the protec-
tion of the Dutchmen."
It needs not to tell much more about the voyage, in which
we were favored by Heaven with everything that we could
desire — steady breeze from the best quarter, a sea never too
rough, provisions in sufficiency, the absence of any ships,
and, above all, the recovery of Robin.
I say, then, that we sighted, and presently passed, the
group of islets called the Testigos ; that we coasted along the
great island of Margaritos, where we landed not, because
Barnaby feared that certain smoke which we saw might be-
token the presence of the Spaniard, whom, in spite of his new
character for mildness, he was anxious to avoid. 'Tis strange
thus to sail along the shore of a great island whereon are no
inhabitants, or, if any, a few sailors put in for water, for
turtle, and for cocoanuts ; to see afar off the forests climbing
round the mountain-sides, the waterfalls leaping over the
precipices, and to think of the happy life one might lead in
such a place, far from men and their ways. I confess, since
my mistress will nevcrsce this page, that my thoughts for a
34ti FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
whole day, while we sailed along the shores of Margaritos,
turned upon those pirates of whom Barnaby spoke. They
lived here at ease and in gi'eat happiness. 'Tis of such a life
that a man sometimes dreams; but if he were suffered so to
lie in sloth, farewell heaven, farewell future hopes, farewell
our old talk of lifting the soul above the flesh! Let us hence-
forth live the lives of those who are content, since they can
have no more, with a few years of love and wine and revelry !
It is in climates like that of the West Indies that such a
temptation seizes on men the most strongly, for here every-
thing is made for man's enjoyment. Here is no cold, no
frost, no snow or ice; here eternal summer reigns and the
world seems made for the senses and for nothing else. Of
these confessions enough. 'Twas impossible that in such a
luxurious dream the image of Grace could have any part.
We landed, therefore, on the desert island of Tortuga,
where we remained for several days, hauling up our boat and
covering her with branches to keep off the sun. Here we
lived luxuriously upon turtle, fresh fish, the remains of our
bread, and what was left of our Canary, setting up huts in
which we could sleep, and finding water of the freshest and
brightest I ever saw. Here Robin mended apaqe, and began
to walk about with no more help from his nurses.
We were minded, as I have said, to sail as far as the island
of Curacoa, but an accident prevented this.
One day, when we had been ashore for ten days or there-
abouts, we were terrified by the sight of a small vessel rigged
in the fashion of a ketch — that is, with a small mizzen — beat-
ing about outside the bay, which is the only port of Tortuga.
"She will put in here," said Barnaby; "that is most cer-
tain. Now, from the cut of her, she is of New England
build, and from the handling of her she is undermanned, and
I think that we have nothing to fear from her, unless she is
bound for Barbadoes, or for Granada or Jamaica."
Presently the vessel came to anchor, and a small boat was
lowered, into which three men descended. They were un-
armed.
"She is certainly from New England," said Barnaby
"Well, they are not from Barbadoes in quest of us, other-
wise they would not send ashore three unarmed men to cap-
ture four desperate men. That is certain. And as we can-
not hide our boat, though we might hide ourselves, I will
e'en go forth and parley with these strangers."
This he did, we watching from a safe place. The con.-
FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
347
rersation was long and earnest, and apparently friendly.
Presently Barnaby returned to us.
"There offers," he said, " a chance which is perhaps bet-
ter than to make for Cura^oa, where, after all, we might get
scurvy treatment These men, in a word, are privateers ;
or, since we are at war with none, they are pirates. They
fitted out a brigantine, or bilander, I know not which, and
designed to sail round Cape Horn, to attack the Spaniard on
the South Seas. On the way they took a prize, which you
now see in the bay. Ten men were sent aboard to navigate
her as a tender to their ship. But they fell into bad weather
off Brazil, and their ship went down with all hands. Now
they are bound for Providence, only seven hands left, and
they will take us aboard and carry us to that island for our
services. Truly, I think we should go. They have provi-
sions in plenty, with Madeira wine, and Providence is too
far for the arm of King James to reach. What say ye all .''
Grace, what sayest thou 1 "
"Truly, brother, I say nothing."
"Then we will agree, aixl go with them."
We went on board, taking with us a good supply of turtle,
clear water, and cocoanuts, being all that the isle afforded.
Honest fellows we found our pirates to be. They belonged
to the island of Providence, in the Bahamas, which have lonj^
been the rendezvous of English privateers. Ten years before
this the Spaniards plucked up courage to attack and destroy
the settlement, when those who escaped destruction found
shelter in some of the adjacent islands or on the mainland ot
Virginia. Now, some of them have come back again, and
this settlement, or colony, is re-established.
Thither, therefore, we sailed. It seemed as if we were
become a mere shuttlecock of fortune, beaten and driven
hither and thither upon the face of the earth.
CHAPTER XLVni.
THE ISLAND OF PROVIDENCB.
It was some time in the month of March, Anno Domini
1686, that we landed in Providence. The settlement, from
which the Spaniards had now notliing to fear, then consisted
348 J^R FAITH AND FREEDOM.
(it is now, I leaiji, much larger) of no more than one
hundred and fifty people in all, the men being all sailors, and
ready to carry on again the old trade of privateer or pirate
as you please to call it, when they should be strong enough
to buy or hire a ship and to equip her.
We stayed on the island for two years and a quarter, or
thereabouts. It is one of an archipelago, for the most part.
I believe, desert. The settlement was, as I have said, bui
a small one, living in scattered houses. There were plenty
of these to spare (which had belonged to the former settle
ment), if only one took the trouble to clear away the creep-
ing plants and cut down the trees which had grown up round
them since the Spaniards came and destroyed the colony.
Such a house, built of wood, with a shingle roof, we found
convenient for us, and after we had cleared the ground round
about it, and repaired it, we lived in it. Some of the people
helped us to a porker or two and some chickens. They also
gave us some salt beef and maize to start with. That we
had little money (only what was left over from the sale of
Grace's ring) made no difference to us here, because no one
had any at all, and at this time there was neither buying nor
selling on the island ; a happy condition of things which
will not, I take it, last long. So great is the fertility of the
ground here, and such is the abundance which prevails, that
we very shortly found ourselves provided with all that we
wanted to make life pleasant. Work there was for us, but
easy and pleasant work, such as weeding our patches of
vegetables and fruit in the early mornings, or going to fish,
or planting maize, or attending to our pigs, poultry, and
turkeys ; and for the rest of the time sitting in the shade con-
versing. It is none too hot in this place, though one would
not, in the summer, walk abroad at noon ; nor is it ever too
cold. All the fruits which flourish under the tropics grow
here, with those also which belong to the temperate zone.
Here are splendid forests, where you can cut the mahogany-
tree and build your house, if you please, of that lovely wood.
Here we ourselves grew, for our use, maize, tobacco, coffee,
cocoa, plantains, pines, potatoes, and many other fruits and
vegetables.
Bamaby soon grew tired ot this quiet life, and went ou
board a vessel bound for New England, promising that we
should hear from him. After two years we did receive a
letter from him, as you shall 'mniediately learn. When he
was gone we carried on a fiuicl and peaceful life. Books,
paper, and pen there were none upon the island. Nor were
FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 549
•
(here any clothes, so that the raggedness of our attire (we
were dressed in the sailors' clothes our friends the privateers
gave us) became incredible. I made some kind of guitar
on which we played, and in the evening we would have
very good playing and singing together of such pieces and
songs as we could remember. I read verses, too, foramuse-
ment, and Grace learned them. We found our brother-
settlers a rough but honest folk ; to them we taught many
arts : how to procure sea-salt, how to make wine from
pineapples, how to cure the tobacco-leaf — things which
greatly added to their comfort ; and seeing that there was
no church on the island, we every Sabbath had a meeting
for prayer and exhortation.
Seemg, then, that we had all that man could desire, with
perfect freedom from anxiety, our liberty, a delightful climate,
and plenty to eat and drink — ay, and of the very best — and
that at home there was nothing for us but prison again, and
to be sent back to the place whence we had escaped, we
ought, every one will acknowledge, to have felt the greatest
contentment and gratitude for this sure and quiet refuge.
We did not. The only contented members of our house-
hold were John Nuthall and the woman Deb, who cheerfully
cultivated the garden and fed the poultry and pigs (for we
had now everything around us that is wanting to make life
pleasant). Yet we were not contented. I could read the
signs of impatience in the face whose changes I had studied
for so long. Other women would have shown their discon-
tent in ill-temper and a shrewish tongue. Grace showed
hers in silence, sitting apart, and communing with herself.
I dare say I also showed my own discontent ; for I confess
that I now began to long vehemently for books. Consider,
it was more than two years since I had seen a book. There
were no books at all on the island of Providence ; not one
book except a Bible or two, and perhaps a Book of Common
Prayer. I longed, therefore, for the smell of leather bind-
ings, the sight of books on shelves, and the holy company
of the wise and the ingenious. No one, again, could look
upon Robin without perceiving that he was afflicted with a
constant yearning for that which he could not have. What
that was I understood very well, although he never opened
his mouth unto me.
Now I confess that at this time I was grievously tormented
with the thought that Grace's marriage, having been no true
marriage, because, first, she was betrayed and deceived,
and, next, she had left her husband at the very church porch,
350 fOR FAIIH AND FREEDOM.
there was no reason in the world why she should not dis-
regard that ceremony altogether, and contract a marriage
after her own heart. I turned this over in my mind a long
while, and, indeed, I am still of the opinion that there woirid
have been nothing sinful in such an act. But the law of
the country would not so regard it. That is quite true.
If, therefore, I had advised these unhappy lovers in such a
sense they would have been compelled to live for the rest
of their lives on this island, and their offspring would have
been illegitimate. So that, though the letter of the law
caused a most cruel injustice — sununiim Jus, sumnium
ne/as — it was better that it should be obeyed. In the end it
was a most happy circumstance that it was so obeyed.
I have presently to relate the means by which this injus-
tice was removed. As for my own share in it, I shall
neither exaggerate nor shall I extenuate it. I shall not de-
fend it. I shall simply set it down, and leave judgment to a
higher court than the opinion of those who read these pages.
I must, however, acknowledge that, partly on Barbadoes
and partly on Providence, I learned from the negresses,
who possess many secrets, and have a wonderful knowl-
edge of plants and their powers, the simple remedies with
which they treat fevers, agues, rheumatisms, and other
common disorders. I say simple, because they will, with
a single cup of liquor, boiled with certain leaves, or with a
pinch of some potent powder gotten from a plant, effect a
speedier cure than our longest prescriptions, even though
they contain more than fifty different ingredients. Had I
possessed this knowledge, for example, while we lay in
Exeter jail, not one prisoner (except the old and feeble)
should have died of the fever. This said, you will under-
stand presently what it was I did.
It was, then, about the month of March, ni the year 1688,
;hat a ship, laden with wine, and bound from New York to
Jamaica, put in at the port of Providence. Her captain
carried a letter for me, and this was the first news of the
world that came to us since our flight.
The letter was from Barnaby. It was short, because Bar-
naby had never practised the art of letter-writing, but it was
l^ertinent. First he told us that he had made the acquaint-
(uice, at Boston (I mean the little town Boston, of New Eng-
land), of his cousins, whom he found to be substantial
merchants (so that here at least the man George Penne lied
not) and zealous upholders of the independent way of think-
ing; that these cousins had given him a hearty welcome
iVk FAITH Ai\D FREEDOM. 35 I
for the sake of his father ; that he had learned from them,
first, that the Monmouth business was long since concluded,
and so great was the public indignation against the cruelties
of«the Bloody Assize that no one would be again molested
on that account, not even those who had been sent abroad,
should they venture to return. He also said, but this we
understood not, that it was thought things would, before
long, improve.
"And now," he continued, " my cousins, tinding that I
am well skilled, and have already navigated a ship with
credit, have made me captain of their own vessel, ihe Pilgrim,
which sails every year to Bristol and back again. She will
be despatched in the month of August or September. Come,
therefore, by the first ship which will set you ashore either
at New York or at Boston, and I will give you all a passage
home. Afterwards, if you find not a welcome there, you
may come back with me. Here a physician may find
practice, Robin may find a farm, and sister will be safe.
From B. E. "
At this proposal we pricked up our ears, as you may very
well believe. Finally, we resolved to agree to it, promising
each other to protect Grace from her husband and to go back
to Boston with Barnaby if we found no reason to stay in
England. But the woman called Deb, though she wept at
leaving her mistress, would not go back to the place where
her past wickedness might be remembered, and as John
Nuthall was also unwilling, for the same reason, to return,
and as this honest couple had now a kindness for each other,
I advised them to marry, and remain where they were.
There was on the island no minister of religion, nor any
magistrate, or form of government whatever (yet all were
honest), therefore I ventured to hear their vows of fidelity,
and prayed with them while I joined tlieir hands — a form of
marriage, to my mind, as binding and as sacred as any
wanting the assistance of a priest. So we handed over to
them all our property (which was already as much theirs as
ours), and left them in that sunny and delightful place. If the
man was a repentant thief, the woman was a repentant Mag-
dalen, and so they were well matched. I hope and believe
that, being well resolved for the future, they will lead a
godly and virtuous life, and will be blessed with children
who will never learn the reason why their parents left their
native country.
There is little trade at Providence, but many vessels touch
at the port, because it lies between the English possessions
352 ^'OR FAITH AXD FREEDOAt.
\\\ America and those in the West Indies. They put in for
water, for fruit, and sometimes, if they are short-handed, for
men, most of them in the place being sailors. Therefore we
had not to wait long- before a vessel put in bound from
Jamaica to New York. We bargained with the captain for a
passage, agreeing that he should find us provisions and
wine, and that we would pay him (by means of Barneby)
on our reaching Boston (which is but a short distance from
Xew York). Strange to say, though we had been discon-
tented with our lot, when we sailed away Grace fell to weep-
ing. We had murmured, and our murmuring was heard.
We shall now live out what is left to us in England, and we
shall die and be buried among our own folk. Yet there are
times when I remember the sweet and tranquil life we led in
the island of Providence, its soft and sunny air, the cool sea-
breeze, the shade of its orange-groves, and the fruits which
grew in such abundance to our hands.
CHAPTER XLIX.
HOME.
In one thing alone the villain Penne spoke the truth. The
Eykin family of Boston (I say again of New England) was
one of the most considerable in the place, great sticklers for
freedom and for religion (but, indeed, it is a most God-fear-
ing town, and severe towards transgressors). They received
us with so much kindness that nothing could surpass it ; we
were treated as Christian martyrs at the least, and towards
Grac-?, of whose cruel lot they had heard from Barnaby,
chey howed (but that no one could help) an affection quite
ancommon. They generously furnished us all with apparel
becoming our station, and with money for our daily occa-
sions ; they approved of our going with Barnaby, but in the
event of onr finding no welcome, or means of livelihood at
home, and if Grace should be molested by her husband,
they engaged us to return to New England. Here, they
said, Robin might become a farmer, if he had no inclination
for trade ; they would joyfully receive Grace to live with
them ; and I myself would certainly find practice as a phy-
sician, while Barnaby should continue to command their
FOR FAITH- AND FREEDOM.
353
;hip. When I considered the many conveniences which
exist in Boston (it is already, though young, better provided
with everything than Barbadoes), the excehence of the
climate, the books which are there, the printing-press which
hath already been established, the learned ministers, th« col-
lege, the schools, and the freedom of religion, I should have
been nothing loath to remain there. But I was constrained
first to go home. I found also, which astonished me, so
great a love of liberty that the people speak slightingly of
the English at home who tamely suffer the disabilities of the
Nonconformists and the prerogative of the crown, and they
ask why, when the country had succeeded in establishing a
commonwealth, they could not keep it. It certainly cannot
be denied, as they argue, that Israel acted against the will
of the Lord in seeking a king.
So we left them. But in how changed a condition did we
now cross the ocean. Instead of huddling in a noisome and
stinking dungeon, unclean for want of water, ill fed, and
with no change of raiment, we had now comfortable cabins,
clothes such as become a gentleman, and food of the best.
And Barnaby, who had then sat humbly in the waist, where
the prisoners were confined, now walked the quarter-deck, a
lace kerchief round his neck, lace ruffles at his wrists, a
scarlet coat, a sword at his side, and gold lace in his hat, the
captain of the ship.
The winds were contrary, and it was not until the last
days of October that we arrived at Bristol. Here we lay for
a few days while Barnaby transacted his business, resolving
to remain in retirement, for fear of accidents, until our cap-
tain should be ready to ride with us to Bradford Orcas.
The first news we learned was joyful indeed. It was that
the Prince of Orange himself was about to invade England,
with intent to drive his father-in-law from the throne. (He
had, indeed, already sailed, but his fleet was driven back by
a storm. ) It was also stated that he had with him a great
army of Dutch and English, and such preparations of arms
and ammunition as (it was hoped) would make such a fail-
ure as that of our unhappy duke impossible.
We also confirmed Barnal)y's information that Monmouth's
men could now go about without fear or molestation. As
to the position of affairs at Bradford Orcas, we could learn
nothing.
There was one point in which I was curious : namely, as
to what Barnaby would do in the matter of the villain Penne.
On the one hand it was certain that Barnaby would not for-
354
FOR FAITH jiiVD FREEDOM.
get this man, nor was he likely to sit down with his arms
folded after he had been robbed of so great a sum.
Therefore, I was not surprised when, the evening before
we rode out of Bristol, he brought a big bag of blue stuff in
his hands and poured out the contents, a vast shower of gold
pieces, into the lap of his astonished sister.
"Grace," he said, " I bring you back your money. Yo',
will tind it all here, andJNIr. Boscorel's money to boot. IK-
hath disgorged.''
With that he s-at down and laughed, but as one who hat'.!
a joke in secret, and would tell us no more.
For a day or two after this he would (on the road to Brad-
ford Orcas) begin to laugh at intervals, rolling about in his
saddle, shaking his sides, choking with laughter, insomuch
that I presently lost patience with him, and, as a physician,
ordered 'him instantly to make full confidence, or I would
not answer for it but he would have a fit.
Then he told us what he had done.
Towards five in the afternoon, when the winter day is
ended, he repaired to the man Penne's counting-house, a
place easily found on inquiry, having with him one of those
fellows who bawl at fairs, selling medicines and charms,
drawing teeth, letting blood, and so forth. At the sight of
a sea-captain, many of whom came to this place, the worthy
merchant's servant without suspicion opened the door of his
private office, or chamber, where I\Ir. Penne transacted his
affairs. Barnaby found him dozing by the fire, his wig on
the table, a silk handkerchief over his head, and the candles
already lighted.
He awoke, however, on the opening of the door.
" Friend," said Barnaby, " I am Captain Barnaby Eykin,
commanding the ship Pilgrim from Boston, at your service.
1 am also brother to the young woman, Grace Fykin, whom
you robbed ('twas my money) of two hundred and lifty
pounds, and afterwards kidnapped. "
Mr. Penne looked about him and would have cried out for
assistance ; but Barnaby clapped a pistol to his forehead.
Then he sank in his chair and gasped.
" Stir not," said his enemy. "I am also one of the three
rebels for whose ransom the Reverend Philip Boscorel,
Rector of Bradford Orcas, paid the sum of two hundred and
ten pounds — which you have also stolen.''
"Sir," said Mr. Penne, "upon my honor those moneys
Were sent to Barbadoes. Upon my honor, sir."
' ' You will therefore," said Barnaby, taking no heed of this
FOR FAITH AND rt^LEDOM.
355
assurance, "pay over to me the sum of four hundred and
sixty pounds with interest at five per cent for three years,
which I have calculated. The whole amount is five hun-
dred and twenty-nine pounds. Begin by paying this."
Well, to make a long story short, though the man protested
that he had not so much in the world, yet he presently
opened his strong box and counted out the money, all in
gold. This done he hoped to be let off.
"There now remains," said Barnaby, "the punishment.
And I forgot sister's ring. I ought to have added fifty pounds
for that ; but time presses. Perhaps I shall come back ; I
did intend to kill thee, brother, for thy great villainy.
However — "
He then beckoned the man with him, who lugged out of
his pocket an instrument which made Mr. Penne shake and
quake with terror. Barnaby then informed his victim that
as he had been the means of inflicting grievous bodily suffer-
ing upon four undeserving people, it was meet and right
that he himself should experience something which, by its
present agony, should make him compassionate for the fu-
ture, and by its permanence of injury should prevent his
ever forgetting that compassion for the rest of his life.
He therefore, he told him, intended to draw from his head
four of his stoutest and strongest grinders.
This, in a word, he did, the man with him dragging them
out with the pincers, Barnaby holding the pistol to the poor
wretch's head, so that he should not bellow and call for as-
sistance.
His laughter was caused by the remembrance of the
twisting of the man's features in this agony and by his
moanings and groanings. The grinders he had brought
away with him in his pocket, and showed them in triumph.
It was late in the afternoon when we rode into Bradford
Orcas. The wintry sun, now setting, lay upon the woods,
yellow and red with the autumn leaves not yet fallen. As
we neared the village the sun went down and a mist began
to rise. The doors wero closed and no one looked forth to
greet us ; the old cottage where Grace was born and lived,
so long was empty still ; the door was open, the shutter
hung upon one hinge ; the honey hives were overturned,
the thatch was broken, the garden was neglected.
"Why, Sis," said Barnaby, "thy mother is not there, nor
dad ; is he ? Poor old dad ! "
We rode up the village till we came to the church and the
manor-house beside it. Alas ! the house itself was closed,
J5^
FOR FAITH A.Vn FRFFDOyf.
which had formerly stood open to all. There was no smoke
from its chimneys, and the grass grew in the courtyard.
We dismounted and opened the door, which was not locked.
We went into the house ; all was cold, was empty, and de-
serted. The twilight falling outside made the rooms dark.
Beside the fireplace stood Sir Christopher's great chair,
empty ; his tankard was on the table, and his tobacco, pipe,
and — strange — lay forgotten, the unhappy duke's proclama-
tion.
Then a truly wonderful thing happened. Barnaby says
that I must have dreamed it, for he saw nothing. Suddenly
Sir Christopher appeared sitting in the chair ; on his knees
lay the Bible, open. Beside him stood with upraised fore-
finger, as if commenting on some knotty point, the Rev.
Dr. Comfort Eykin. I declare that I saw them plainly, as
plainly as I now behold the paper on which I write. They
were but as shadows in the dark, shadows of the empty
room, and they appeared but for a moment and then van-
ished, and I saw them no more.
" Come to the rectorv," said Robin. "It chokes us to be
here."
"Listen," said Grace, outside the house.
From the rectory there came the sound of a violoncello.
Then was the good rector himself there, comforting his
soul.
We opened the garden gate and walked softly across the
lawn and looked in at the window ; 'twas made after the
foreign fashion, to open upon the lawn. Beside the fire sat
madam, her hands clasped, thin, pale, and prematurely aged.
Thus had she sat for three long years, still waiting for news
of her son.
The rector laid down his bow, crossed the room, and sat
down to the spinnet, on which he played prettily, but not
with such command as he possessed over the other instru-
ment. He played — I caught Grace's hand — an air of my
own making, to which I had set certain words, also of my
own.
Then, while he played, we began to sing outside the
window, Grace singing treble, or first, and I the second part,
the words of that little song. We sang it piano, or softly,
at first, and then crescendo, or louder :
"As rides the 7110011 in azure skies
The twinkling stars beside ;
As when in splendor she doth rise,
The lesser lights they hide.
FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 357
" So beside Celia, when her face we see,
All unregarded other maidens be."
When we began, softly as I said, the rector looked round
him, playing still and listening. He thought the voices were
in his own brain, echoes or memories of the past. Madam
heard them, too, and sat up, listening as one who listens in
a dream. When we sang louder, madam sprang to her feet
and held out her arms, but the rector played the verse quite
through. Then he opened the window for us.
" My son, my son ! " cried madam.
CHAPTER L
THE GREAT LORD CHANCELLOR.
But the Prince of Orange had already landed.
We learned this news next day, and you may be sure that
we were in the saddle again and riding to Exeter, there to
join his standard.
This we did with the full consent of madam and of Grace ;
much as we had suffered already, they would not deter us,
because this thing would have been approved by Sir Chris-
topher and Dr. Eykin. Therefore we went.
My second campaign, as everybody knows, was blood-
less. To begin with, we had an army, not of raw country
lads armed indifferently and untrained, but of veteran troops,
fifteen thousand strong, all well equipped, and with the best
general in Europe at their head. At first, indeed, such was
the dread in men's mind caused by Lord Jeffrey's cruelties,
few came in ; yet this was presently made up by what fol-
lowed, when, without any fighting at all, the king's rcgiment«
melted away, his priests tied, and his friends deserted him.
This was a very different business from that other, when we
followed one whom I now know to have been a mere tinsel
pretender, no better fitted to be a king than a vagabond
actor at a fair is fit to be a lord. Alas ! what blood was
wasted in that mad attempt, of which I was myself one of
the most eager promoters ! I was then young, and I be-
lieved all that I was told by the conspirators in Holland ; I
took their list of well-wishers for insurgents already armed
and waiting only for a signal ; 1 thought the roll of noble
358 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
names set down for sturdy Protestants as that of men al-
ready pledged to the cause ; I believed that the whole nation
would rise at the first opportunity to turn out the priests ; I
even believed in the legitimacy of the duke, and that against
the express statement of his father (if King Charles was in
reality his father), and I believed what they told me of his
^ rincely virtues, hisknowledgeoftheartufwar, andhisheroic
valor. I say that I believed all these things, and that I be-
came a willing and zealous tool in their hands. As for what
those who planned the expedition believed, I know not ;
nor will any one now ever learn what promises were made
to the duke, what were broken, and why he was, from the
outset, save for a few days at Taunton, so dejected and
disappointed. As for me, I shall always believe that the un-
happy man, unwise and soft-hearted, was betrayed by those
whom he trusted.
It is now an old tale, though King Monmouth will not
speedily be forgotten in the West Country, nor will the
memor}'- of the Bloody Assize. The brave lads who follow-
ed him are dead and buried, some in unhonored graves hard
by the place where they were hanged ; some under the burn-
ing sun of the West Indies ; the duke himself hath long since
paid the penalty of his rash attempt All is over and ended,
except the memory of it.
It is now common history, known to everybody, how the
Prince of Orange lingered in the West Country, his army
inactive, as if he knew (doubtless he was well informed
upon the particular) that the longer he remained idle, the
more likely was the king's cause to fall to pieces. There
are some who think that if King James had risked an ac-
tion he could not but have gained, whatsoever its event ; I
mean that, the blood of his soldiers once roused, they would
have remained steadfast to him and would have fought for
him. But this he dared not to risk, wherefore the prince
did nothing, while the king's regiments fell to pieces, and
his friends deserted him. It was in December when the
prince came to Windsor, and I with him, once more chir-
urgeon in a rebel army. While there I rode to London,
partly with the intention of judging for myself on the temper
of this people, partly because, after so long an absence, I
wished once more to visit a place where there are books and
pictures, and partly because there were certain roots and
herbs which I desired to communicate to the college of phy-
sicians in Warwick Lane. It happened to be the very day
when the king's first flig-ht — that, namely, when he was
FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 359
f*ken in the Isle of Sheppy — became known. The streets
in the city of London I found crowded with people hurrying
to and fro, running in bands and companies, shouting and
crying as if in the presence of some great and imminent
danger. It was reported, and currently believed, that the
disbanded Irish soldiers had begun to massacre the Protes-
tants. There was no truth at all in the report, but yet the
bells were ringing from all the towers, the crowds were ex-
horting each other to tear down and destroy the Romish
chapels, to hunt for and to hang the priests, and especially
Jesuits (I know not whether they found any), and to shout
for the Prince of Orange. I stood aside to let the crowds
(thus religiously disposed) run past, but there seemed no
end to them. Presently, however (this was in the front of
the new Royal Exchange), there drew near another kind of
crowd. There marched six or eight sturdy fellows bearing
stout cudgels and hauling along a prisoner. Round them
there ran shrieking, hooting, and cursing a mob of a hundred
men and more ; they continually made attacks upon the
guard, fighting them with sticks and fists, but they were
always thrust back. I thought at first that they had caught
some poor wretched priest whom they desired to murder.
But it proved to be a prize worth many priests. As they
drew nearer, I discerned the prisoner. He was dressed in
the garb of a common sailor, with short petticoats (what
they call slops) and a jacket ; his cap had been torn off,
leaving the bare skull, which showed that he was no sailor
(because common sailors do not wear wigs) ; blood was
flowing down his cheek from a fresh wound ; his eyes rolled
hither and thither in an extremity of terror ; I could not
hear what he said, for the shouting of those around him,
but his lips moved, and I think he was praying his guards
to close in and to protect him. Never, surely, -was seen a
more terror-stricken creature.
I knew his face. Once seen (I had seen it once) it could
never be forgotten. The red and bloated cheeks which even
his fear could not make pale ; the eyes, more terrible than
have been given to any other human creature, these I could
not forget ; in dreams I sec them still. I saw that face at
Exeter, when the cruel judge exulted over our misery, and
rejoiced over the sentence which he pronounced. Yea, he
laughed when he told us how we should swing, but not till
we were dead, and then the knife — delivering his sentence so
that no single point of its horror should be lost to us. Yes ;
it was the face of Judge Jeffreys — none other — this abject
j(5o FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
wretch was that great Judge. Why, when we went back t«
our prison, there were some who cast themselves upon the
ground, and for terror of what was to come fell into a mere
dementia. And now I saw him thus humbled, thus dis-
graced, thus threatened, thus in the last extremity and agony
of terror.
They had discovered him thus disguised and in hiding at
SI tavern in Wapping, and were dragging him to the presence
of the lord mayon It is a long distance from Wapping to
Guildhall, and they went but slowly, because they were
beset and surrounded by these wolves who howled to have
his blood. And all the way he shrieked and trembled for
fear !
Sure and certain is the vengeance of the Lord !
This Haman, this unjust judge, was thus suffering, at the
hands of the savage mob, pangs far worse than those en-
dured by the poor rustics whom he had delivered to the
executioner. I say worse, because I have not only read,
but have myself proved, that the rich and the learned, those,
(hat is, who live luxuriously, and those who have power to
imagine and to feel beforehand, do suffer far more in disease
than the common ignorant folk. The scholar dies of terror
before ever he feels the surgeon's knife, while the rustic bares
his limb, insensible and callous, however deep the cut, or
keen the pain. I make no doubt, therefore, that the great
lord chancellor, while they haled all the way from Wap-
ping to Guildhall, suffered as much as fifty ploughboys flog-
ged at the cart-tail.
Many thousands there were who desired revenge upon
him. I know not what revenge would satisfy the implaca-
ble, because revenge can do no more than kill the body ;
but his worst enemy should be satisfied with this his dread-
ful fate. Even Barnaby, who was sad because he could get
no revenge on his own account (he wanted a bloody battle,
with the rout of the king's armies, and the pursuit of a flying
enemy, such as had happened at Sedgemoor), was satisfied
with the justice which was done to that miserable man. It
is wonderful that he was not killed amidst so many threaten-
ing cudgels ; but his guards prevented that, not for any love
they bare him, but quite the contrary (more unforgiving
faces one never saw) ; for they intended to hand him over
to the lord mayor, and that he should be tried for all his
cruelties and treacheries, and perhaps experience, himself
that punishment of hanging and disembowelling which he
had inflicted on so many ignorant and misled men.
Jrdk FAITH AND FREEDOAf. j6t
How he was committed to the Tower, where he shortly
died in the greatest torture of body as well as mind, every-
body knows.
CHAPTER LL
THE CONFESSION.
Now I am come to the last event of this history, and I
have to write down the confession of my own share in that
event For the others — for Grace and Robin — the thing
must be considered as the crown and completion of all the
mercies. For me — what is it } But you shall hear. When
the secrets of all hearts are laid open, then will Grace hear it
also ; what she will then say, or what think, I know not.
It was done for her sake ; for her happiness have I laid this
guilt upon my soul. Nay, when the voice of conscience
doth exhort me to repent, and to confess my sin, then there
still ariseth within my soul, as it were, the strain of a joyful
hymn, a song of gratitude that I was enabled to return her
to freedom and the arms of the man she loved. If any
learned doctor of divinity, or any versed in that science
which the Romanists love (they call it casuistry), should
happen to read this chapter of confession, I pray that they
consider my case, even though it will then be useless as far
as I myself am concerned, seeing that I shall be gone be-
fore a judge who will, I hope — even though my earthly af-
fections do not suffer me to separate my sin from the conse-
quences which followed — be more merciful than I have
ieserved.
While, then, I stood watching this signal example of God's
^-rath, I was plucked gently by the sleeve, and turning, saw
one whose countenance I knew not. He was dressed as a
lawyer, but his gown was ragged and his bands yellow.
He looked sunk in poverty, and his face was inflated with
those signs which proclaim aloud the habit of immoderate
drinking.
" Sir," he said, " if I mistake not, you are Dr. Humphrey
Challis."
"The same, sic, at your service," I replied, with some
misgivings ; and yet, being one of the prince's following,
there needed none.
j^Ht ^'OJi FAirn AND FREEDOM.
"I have seen you, sir, in the chambers of your cousin,
Mr. Benjamin Boscorel, my brother learned in the law. We
drank together, though I remember, you still passed the
bottle. It is now four or five years ago ; I wonder not that
you have forgotten me. We change quickly, we who are
the jolly companions of the bottle ; we drink our noses red,
and we paint our cheeks purple. Nay, we drink ourselves
out of our last gumea and our very apparel. What then,
sir.? A short life and a merry. Sir, yonder is a sorry sight.
The first law officer of the crown thus to be hauled along
the streets by a howling mob. Ought such a thing to be suf-
fered ? 'Tis a sad and sorry sight, I say."
"Sir," I replied, hotly, "ought such villains as Judge
Jeffreys to be suffered to live ! "
He considered a little, as one who is astonished and de-
sires to collect his thoughts. Perhaps he had already taken
more than a morning draught.
" I remember now," he said. " My memory is not so
good as it was. We drink that away as well. Yes, I re-
member ; I crave your forgiveness, doctor. You were
yourself engaged with Monmouth. Your cousin told me as
much. Naturally, you love not this good judge, who yet
did nothing but what the king, his master, ordered him to
do. I, sir, have often had the honor of sitting over a bottle
with his lordship. When his infirmities allowed — though
not yet old he is grievously afflicted — he had no equal for a
song or a jest, and would drink so long as any Avere left to
keep him company. Ha ! They have knocked him down,
now they will kill him. No ; he is again upon his feet.
Those who protect him close in ; so, they have passed out
of our sight Doctor, shall we crack a flask together .? I
have no money, unhappily, but I will, with pleasure, drink
at thy expense."
I remembered the man's face now, but not his name.
'Twas one of Ben's boon companions. Well, if hard drink-
ing brings men so speedily to rags and poverty, even though
it be a merry life, which I doubt, give me moderation.
" Pray, sir," I said, coldly, "have me excused. I am no
drinker. "
"Then, doctor, you will, perhaps, lend me, until we
meet again, a single guinea." I foolishly complied with this
request. " Doctor, I thank you," he said. "Will you now
come and drink with me, at my expense.? Sir, I say plainly.
you do not well to refuse a friendly glass. I could tell you
many things, if you would but drink with me, concerning
FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. ■j^^^'i^
my Lord Jeffreys. There are things which would make
you laugh. Come, doctor, I love not to drink alone. Your
cousin, now, was always ready to drink with any man,
until he fell ill. "
" How, is my cousin ill .? "
"Assuredly. He is sick unto death. Yesterday I went to
visit him, thinking to drink a glass with him, and, perhaps,
to borrow a guinea or two, but found him in bed and rav-
ing. If you will drink with me, doctor, I can tell you many
curious things about your cousin. And now, I remember,
you were sent to the plantations ; your cousin told me so.
You have returned before your time. Well, the king hath
run away ; you are doubtless safe. Your cousin hath got-
ten his grandfather's estate. Lord Jeffreys, who loved him
mightily, procured that grant for him. When your cousin
wakes at night he swears that he sees his grandfather by
his bedside, looking at him reproachfully, so that he drinks
the harder — 'tis a merry life. He hath also married a wife,
and she ran away from him at the church door, and he now
cannot hear of her or find her anywhere. So that he curses
her and drinks the harder — oh, 'tis always the jolliest dog.
They say that he is not the lawyer that he was, and that his
clients are leaving him. All mine have left me long since.
Come and drink with me, doctor."
I broke away from the poor toper who had drunk up his
wits as well as his money, and hurried to my cousin's
chambers, into which I had not thought to enter,, save as
one who brings reproaches — a useless burden.
Benjamin was lying in bed ; an old crone sat by the fire,
nodding. Beside her was a bottle, and she was, I found,
half drunk. Her I quickly sent about her business. No
one else had been attending him. Yet he was laid low, as I
presently discovered with that kind of fever which is bred in
the villainous air of our prisons — the same fever which had
carried off his grandfather.
Perhaps if there were no foul and stinking wards, jails,
and chinks, this kind of fever would be banished altogether,
and be no more seen. So, if we could discover the origin
and cause of all diseases we might, once more, restore man
to his primitive condition, which I take to have been one
/ree from any kind of disease or infirmity, designed at first
by his Creator so to live forever, and after the Fall, enabled,
when medicine hath so far advanced, to die of old age after
such prolong^ation of life and strenjjth as yet we cannot ev«n
understand.
364 ^OR FAITH AND FREEDOM.
"Cousin," I said, "I am sorry to find thee lying m this
condition."
" Ay," he replied, in a voice weak and low, not like his
old blustering tones. "Curse me and upbraid me if yon
will. How art thou come hither? Is it the ghost of Hum-
phrey .? Art thou dead, like my grandfather ? Are we on the
plantations of Barbadoes ? "
" Indeed I am no ghost, Benjamin. As for curses, I have
none ; and as for reproaches, I leave them to your con-
science. "
" Humphrey, I am sore afflicted. I am now so low that
I cannot even sit upright in my bed. But you are a doctor ;
you will bring me back to health. I am already better only
for seeing you here."
I declare that as yet I had no thought, no thought at all,
of what I was to do. I was but a physician in presence of
a sick man, and therefore bound to help him if I could.
I asked him, first, certain questions, as physicians use, con-
cerning his disorder and its symptoms. I learned that, after
attending at the court, he was attacked by fits of shivering
and of great heat, being hot and cold alternately, and that
in order to expel the fever he had sat drinking the whole
evening — a most dangerous thing to do. Next, that in the
morning he had been unable to rise from his bed, and being
thirsty had drunk more wine — a thing enough of itself to
kill a man in such a fever. Then he lost his head, and
could tell me no more what had happened until he saw me
standing by his bedside. In short, he had been in delirium,
and was now in a lucid interval, out of which he would pres-
ently fall a-wandering again, and perhaps raving ; and so
another lucid interval, after which he would die unless some-
thing could be done for him.
I liked not his appearance nor the account whictiTie gave
me, nor did I like his pulse or the strange look in his eyes.
Death doth often show his coming by such a prophetic
terror of the eyes.
" Humphrey," he said, pitifully. " It was by no fault ol
mine that thou wast sent to the plantations."
"That I know full well, cousin," I answered him. " Be
easy on that score. "
" And as for Grace," he went on. " All is fair in love."
I made n» reply because, at this point, a great temptation
assailed my soul.
You have heard how Ilearned many secrets of the women
while I was abroad. Now. while we were in Providence
FOR FAITH A.VD FKEED9M.
365
Island, I found a woman of the breed they call half-caste,
that is, half Indian and half Portuguese, living in what she
called wedlock with an English sailor, who did impart to
me a great secret of her own people. I obtained from her,
not only the knowledge of a most potent drug (known al-
ready to the Jesuits), but also a goodly quantity of the drug
itself. This, with certain other discoveries and observations
of my own, I was about to communicate to the college in
Warwick Lane.
As for this drug, I verily believe it is the most potent
medicine ever yet discovered. It is now some years since
it was first brought over to Europe by the Jesuits, and is
therefore called Pulvis Jesuiticus, and sometimes Peruvian
Bark. When administered at such a stage of the fever as
had now been reached by my unhappy cousin, it seldom
fails to vivify the spirits and so to act upon the nerves as to
restore the sinking, and to call back to life a man almost
moribund.
Remembering this, I lugged the packet out of my pocket
and laid it on the table.
" Be of good cheer, cousin, " I said. "I have a drug
which is strong enough, with the help of God, to make a
dying man sit up again. Courage, then."
When I had said these words my temptation fell upon
me. It came in the guise of a voice which whispered in
my ear.
" Should this man die," it said, "there will be freedom
for Grace. She can then marry the man she loves. She
will be restored to happiness. While he lives she must
still continue in misery, being cut off from love. Let him
die, therefore."
" Humphrey," said Ben, " in this matter of Grace ; if she
will come to me, I will make her happy. But I know not
where she is hidden. Things go ill with me since that un-
lucky day. I would to God I had not done it. Nothing
hath gone well since ; and I drink daily to hide her face.
Yet at night she haunts me, with her father who threatens,
and her mother who weeps, and my grandfather who re-
proaches. Humphrey, tell me, what is it, man ? What
mean your looks ? "
For while he spoke that other voice was in my ears also.
" Should he die Grace will be happy again. Should he
Hve she will continue in misery." At these words, which
were but my own thoughts, yet involuntary, I felt so great
a pity, such an overwhelming love for Grace, that my spirit
366 ^'OR FAITH AXD FREEDOM.
was wholly carried away. To restore-her freedom 1 Oil,
what price was too great for such a gift ? Nay, I was
seized with the thought that to give her so great a thing,
even my own destruction would be a light price to pay.
Never, until that moment, had I known how fondly and
truly I loved her ; why, if it were to be done over again —
but this matters not — I have to make my confession.
"Humphrey, speak!" I suppose that my trouble
showed itself in my face.
"Thou art married to Grace," I said, slowly. "That
cannot be denied. So long as thou livest, Benjamin,
so long will she be robbed of everything that she desires ;
so long will she be unhappy. Now, if thou shouldst die — "
"Die ! I cannot die; I must live." He tried to raise
himself, but he was too weak. "Cousin, save my life!"
"If thou shouldst die, Benjamin," I went on, regard-
less of his words, "she will be set free. It is only
by thy death that she can be set free. Say, then, to
thyself, "I have done this poor woman so great an injury
that nothing but my death can atone for it. \\'illingly,
therefore, will I lay down my life, hoping thus to atone for
this abominable wickedness."
" Humphrey, do not mock me. Give me — give me —
give me speedily the drug of which you spoke. I die — ^I
die — oh, give me of your drug ! "
Then I took the packet containing the Piilvis Jesuiticus and
threw it upon the fire, where in a moment it was a little
heap of ashes.
"Now, Benjamin," I said, "I cannot help thee- lliou
must surely die."
He shrieked, he wept, he implored me to do something to
keep him alive. He began to curse and to swear.
"No one can now save thee, Benjamin," I told him.
"Not all the College of Physicians, not all the medicines
in England. Thou must die. Listen and heed. In a short
time, unless thy present sickness causeth thee to expire, there
will fall upon thee another fit of fever and delirium, after
which another interval of reason. Perhaps another ; but yet
thou must surely die. Prepare thy soul, therefore. Is there
any message for Grace that thou wouldst send to her, being
now at the point of death 1 "
His only answer was to curse and weep alternately.
Then I knelt beside his bed, and prayed aloud for him ;
but incessantly he cried for help, wearing^ himself out with
prayers and curses.
hOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 367
•* Benjamin," I said, when I had thus prayed awhile, but
faiefFectually, " I shall take to Grace, instead of these curses,
which avail nothing, a prayer for pardon, in order to touch
her heart and cause her to think of thee with forgiveness, as
of one who repented at the end. This I shall do for her sake.
I shall also tell thy father that thy death was repentant, and
shall take to him also a prayer for forgiveness as from thee.
This will lighten his sorrow, and cause him to remember
thee with the greater love. And to Robin, too, so that he
may cease to call thee villain, I will carry not these ravings
but a humble prayer, as from thyself, for forgiveness."
This is my confession. I, who might have saved my cousin,
suffered him to die.
The sick man, when he found that prayers or curses would
not avail, fell to moaning, rolling his head from side to side.
When he was thus quiet I prayed again for him, exhorting
him to lift up his soul to his Judge, and assuring him of our
full forgiveness. But, indeed, I know not if he heard or un-
derstood. It was then about four of the clock, and growing
dark. I lit a candle and examined him again. I think that
he was now unconscious. He seemed as if he slept I sat
down and watched.
I think that at midnight, or thereabouts, I must have fallen
asleep.
When I awoke the candle was out and the fire was out
The room was in perfect darkness. I laid my hand upon
my cousin's forehead. He was cold and dead.
Then I heard the voice of the watchman in the street
"Past two o'clock, and a frosty morning."
The voice which I had heard before whispered again in my
ear.
"Grace is free, Grace is free. Thou — thou — thou alone
hast set her free. Thou hast killed her husband. "
I threw myself upon my knees, and spent the rest of thai
long night in seeking for repentance. But, even as now, the
lamentation of a sinner was mingled with the joy of think-
ing that Grace was free at last, and by none other hand than
mine.
This is my confession. I might have saved my cousin,
and I suffered him to die. Wherefore I have left the profes-
sion in which it was my ambition to distinguish myself, and
am no longer anything but a poor and obscurt person living
on the charity of my friends in a remote village.
Two days afterwards I was sitting at tlie table k)okinj>
368 i'Ok FAIl'M AND FKJ^EDOM.
through the dead man's papers, when I heard a footstep o«
the stair.
It was Bamaby, who broke noisily into the room.
"Where is Benjamin?" he cried. "Where is that
villain ? "
"What do you want with him? "
" I want to kill him. I am come to kill him."
"Look upon the bed, Barnaby." I laid back the sheet and
showed him the pale face of the dead man. "The hand of
the Lord — or that of another — hath already killed him. Art
thou now content?"
CHAPTER LIL
CONCLUSION.
In the decline of years, when the sixtieth birthday is near
at hand, and one looks not to live much longer, and the fu-
ture hath no fresh joy to bring with it, but only infirmities
of age and pain, it is profitable and pleasant to look back
upon the past, to observe the guidance of the Unseen Hand,
to repent one's sins, and to live over again those seasons,
whether of sorrow or of joy, which we now perceive to have
been providentially ordered.
This have I done, both in reading the history of our lives,
as related by my mistress, and in writing this latter part.
To the former have I added nothing, nor have I subtracted
anything therefrom, because I would not suffer the sweet
and candid soul of her whom I have always loved to be
tarnished by any words of mine breaking in upon her own
as jarring notes in some lovely harmony. It is strictly laid
upon me to deliver her words just as she hath written thwn
down.
Now, after the death of Benjamin, I took it upon myself,
being his cousin, in the absence of his father, to examine
the papers which he had left. Among them I found abun-
dance of songs, chiefly in praise of wine and women, with,
tavern bills. Also there were notes of legal cases, very
voluminous ; and I found notes of payment made to various
persons engaged in inquiring after his wife in those towns
of the West Country where her father's name would pro-
FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM, 369
cure triends for her. But there was no will : Benjamin had
died (never looking for so early an end) without making any
will. Therefore all his estate, including the manor of Brad-
ford Orcas — indeed, he had nothing else — now belonged to
Grace, a widow who had never been a wife.
It is thirty years ago and more. King William III, is
dead. Queen Anne is dead. King George, who cannot,
they say, speak English, but is a stout Protestant, sits upon
our throne. The Nonconformists are free, save that they
cannot enter the universities, and are subject to other dis-
abilities, which will doubtless be removed in the course of
years. But English people, I think, love power beyond all
earthly things, and so long as the Church is in a majority,
the Churchmen will exercise their power and will not part
with it To us of Bradford Orcas it matters little. We wor-
ship at the parish church. Every Sunday I contemplate, as
I did fifty years ago, the monument of Filipa kneeling apart,
and of her husband and his second wife kneeling together.
There is a new tablet in the chancel put up to the memory
of Sir Christopher, and another to that of Dr. Comfort Eykin.
Their bodies lie somewhere among the mounds on the north
side of Ilminster church.
Forty years ago, as you have seen, there stood three boys
in tho garden of the manor-house, discoursing on their
future. One wished never to go anywhere, but to remain
always a country gentleman, like his grandfather ; one
would be a great lawyer, a judge, even the lord chancellor;
the third would be a great physician. Lo ! the end of all.
The first, but after divers miseries, perils, and wanderings,
hath attained to his desire ; the second lies buried in the
churchyard of SL Andrews, Holborn, forgotten long since
by his companions — who indeed are now with him in the
pit — and remembered only among his own kin for the great
wickedness which he wrought before the Lord ; and as for
the third and last, no illustrious physician is he, but one
who lives obscure, but content, in a remote village, in the
very cottage where his mistress was born, with books and
music, and the society of the sweetest woman who ever
graced this earth for his solace. She was always gracious
— she was gracious in her childhood ; gracious as a maiden ;
more gracious still is she in these latter days when her hair
is gray and her daughters stand about her tall and comely.
Now, had I administered that powder — that sovereign
remedy (the Pulvis Jesuitkus) — what would have been hex
7u\
370 i''OK FAITH AND FREEDOM.
"Humphrey," said Robin. " a penny for thy thoughts.*
" Robin, I was thinking — it is not a new thing, but thirty
years old — that Cousin Benjamin never did anything in his
life so useful as to die. "
"Ay. Poor Benjamin ! That he had at the end the grace
to ask our forgiveness and to repent hath in it something of
a miracle. We have long forgiven him. But consider. We
were saved from the fight ; we were saved from the sea ;
we were saved from slavery ; we were enabled to strike
the last blow for the Protestant religion. What were all
these blessings worth if Benjamin still lived 1 To think,
Humphrey, that Grace would never have been my wife,
and never a mother, and all these children should have re-
mained unborn. I say, that though we may not desire the
death of a sinner, we were not human if we rejoiced not at
the death of our poor cousin."
Yes, that is the thought which will not suffer me to re-
pent A pinch of the Pidvis Jesuiticus, and he might have
been living unto this very day. Then would Grace have
lost the crowning blessing of a woman's life.
Yet, I was, it is true, a physician, whose duty it is to
save life — even the life of the wretched criminal who is to
die upon the gallows.
Yet, again. If he had been saved. As I write these lines
I see my mistress walking down the village street. She
looks over my garden gate ; she lifts the latchet and enters,
smiling gravely and tenderly. A sober happiness sits upon
her brow. The terror of her first marriage has long been
forgotten.
Why, as I watch her tranquil life, busy with her house-
hold and her children ; full of the piety which asks not — as
her father was wont to ask — how and where the mercy of
Heaven is limited, and if, indeed, it will embrace all she
loves ; as I mark the tender love of husband and of children,
which lies around her like a garment and prevents all her
doings, there comes back to me continually a bedroom in
which a man lies dying. Again in memory, again in m-
/entio?i, I throw upon the fire that handful oi Pulvis Jesuiticus
K^hich should have driven away his fever and restored him
to health again. A great and strong man he was, who
might have lived till eighty years. Where then would have
been that love, where those children, where that tranquil
heart, and that contented mind ? " Tzvili not save his life" I
say apain, in my mind, '* Iwil/ not save him. He shall die."
"Humphrey," my mistress says, "leave thy books
FOJi FAITH AA'D FREEDOM, 371
awhile and walk with me. The winter sun is warm upon
the hills. Come, dear cousin. It is the day when Ben-
jamin died, repentant What better could we wish ? What
greater blessing could have been bestowed upon him and
upon us than a true repentance and to die ? Oh, dear bro-
ther, let us walk and talk of these blessings which have
been showered upon my und^erving head"
r
i
THE END.
f/o4
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