Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 9/Son Christopher - Part 3

by Harriet Martineau

SON CHRISTOPHER.

AN HISTORIETTE. BY HARRIET MARTINEAU.

CHAPTER VIII. CONSPIRACY EN ROUTE.

Elizabeth could never have enough of the sea breezes, and their salt and their savour. While the old park and mansion in which she had passed her life had been going to ruin in the king’s service, there had been no money to spare for such an extravagance as travelling was in those days; and, except when visiting Aunt Alice at Winchester, she had scarcely slept from home in all her days. She had seen the sea from the high points of the Downs, on sporting excursions; but she had never till now lived within sound of its voice, or within view of its margin. She had rather at any time steal down the cliff-path,—rough, steep, and narrow,—to the sands, than ascend the grassy slope to the glorious downs, where she could see miles inland. She was on the Cob early every morning, with Arabella or the boys, to watch the fishing-boats putting off; and in the evening she loved to walk to the end of that ancient pier, to see the moonlight on the heavy billows as they rolled in, and think of the old centuries when the very same stones were trodden by Englishmen who called the opposite coast of the Channel their country too.

The sky was cloudy, and the sea cold and grey, one morning in June, when Arabella and Elizabeth leaned over the end of the Cob, as they did every day. They were not watching the fishermen putting out to sea; for the boats were not launched, for the most part; and some which had been a little way out had returned; and the men stood in groups on the shore, talking together, and occasionally condescending to make a remark to their wives. It was strange; but on this calm morning in June, particularly favourable for fishing, all the people seemed smitten with idleness.

There was something to look at, it is true. Three vessels were moored within the bay,—one a large ship, carrying several guns; the two others appearing not at all formidable: yet several fingers pointed that way, and all eyes were fixed upon the ships. It could not be an invasion, could it? Elizabeth’s lively imagination asked. Arabella answered that the French would have been pursued,—so many English ships of war as were watching the opposite coasts.

When old Lieutenant Phinn, known to everybody in Lyme, came stumping along the Cob with his wooden leg, hot and panting, and scarcely able to hold his glass steady, Arabella ventured to ask him what made the boatmen so idle this morning.

“Yon ships,” said the breathless sailor. “They show no colours.”

“Does that mean that they are French?”

“There’s no saying what it means. That’s the criterion,” observed the old man, who enjoyed using a long word to landsfolk, in exaltation of his profession. “The criterion is this;—why not hang out colours if she is English,—yon twenty-sixer,—or if she is French? Or, for that matter, wherever she comes from? There is some stir aboard of her. Her secret will soon leak out.”

In a few minutes the stir was visible to the naked eye. There were boats about the large ship; and, one after another, they came out from the shadow of her side, full of men, and making for the shore.

“Is it an invasion?” Elizabeth now ventured to ask.

“Are they pirates? O! the poor women and children!” cried Arabella, who had heard of the piracies of half a century before. “See how the women run! Elizabeth, we had better go home.”

Elizabeth was unwilling; and it was agreed on all hands that pirates would not choose broad daylight in summer for a raid, nor a town, nor a range of rocks where, as now, the people were gathering to watch the strangers.

The boys were next seen racing down to the Cob and along it. They reached their sister, breathless, just as the second of seven boats touched the beach. The first comers, armed men, but not apparently either soldiers or sailors, had no need to tell the people to stand back; but they made a show of clearing and guarding a space for the landing of the second detachment.

At the moment of that boat grounding, its company stood up, uncovered, and made way for a personage who stepped lightly from the stern, bowed in return to the offers of assistance on either hand, and without aid sprang upon the shingle. He removed his hat, extended his arms as if embracing the scene, gazed along the whole range of rocks, flung himself on his knees, and kissed the beach, and then prayed aloud.

“What is he saying?” the old Lieutenant asked, with his hand behind his ear.

“What can all this mean?” Elizabeth exclaimed.

Anthony insisted that they must go home instantly; and he promised to bring news speedily. But Arabella was little able to walk. With white lips she whispered to Elizabeth,

“It is the Duke of Monmouth.”

“Is it possible? What makes you think so?”

“I remember him perfectly,—face, figure, and voice. He was here five years ago.”

“Eighty at least of these fellows!” the Lieutenant exclaimed, as the seventh and last boat came into view. “Eighty men, all armed! What the devil can it mean?”

“You must go home,” pleaded Anthony to Arabella, “or father will come for you himself; and I am sure he does not wish . . . .”

Arabella made an effort to walk, and recovered her calmness as she proceeded. When they had fairly begun to mount the cliff-road, they stopped a moment to look below.

“Did you see that?” cried Elizabeth.

“It was the gleam of a sword, surely!”

It was so. The Duke, seeing the cliffs now crested with people, drew and waved his sword, and stepped forward, as if to march to the town. It was a critical moment: but it was not altogether discouraging. A few voices shouted “Monmouth! Monmouth!” More joined in with “A Monmouth and the Protestant religion!” And then there were huzzas, above and below, with cries of “Monmouth, our Protestant King!” Not another moment did the girls now linger. They fled homewards.

Just before they emerged from the town, they met the Mayor on horseback, hurrying down. He cast a keen glance at the young people, checked his horse, inquired where the Squire was, and sent word to him that all good citizens must repair to the Mayor’s offices instantly.

The Battiscombe family were of opinion that no pressure of circumstances could release Christians from the duty of addressing God in punctual prayer. If they had braved threats and defied punishment under the Conventicle Act and the Five Mile Act, when they could do it without involving guests, they were not likely to omit their customary worship this morning, because one who might prove their Deliverer had just landed on their shore. Moreover, their way might not be clear; and the fate of their lives might hang on their decisions of this day. So they prayed; and the petitions for direction in the way they should walk were offered with even passionate earnestness. This duty and solace secured, the father of those excited children was eager to be off. He would not stay for breakfast,—would eat as he went,—but gave his orders first.

If the strangers tarried in the place at all, Elizabeth must return home. That was the matter of first concern: but a trusty servant must explore the road, and see that it was safe.

Elizabeth’s decision of tone astonished her friends, who had never known what it was to grow up an orphan, under artificial guidance or none. She considered this house safer than the road to Dorchester, or Dorchester when she got there; and she was not going to leave her best friends in a critical hour like this. If her brother sent for her, she would consider whether she ought to go. Meantime, not a thought or care,—much less an escort,—must be spent upon her.

“Be it so!” her future parents said. This was a day on which conscience must be supreme and free: there should be no interference with it in that house.

Next, every preparation must be made for the removal of the family to their old refuge, Malachi Dunn’s farm. Unless the order was countermanded by noon, the women and children were to be dispatched, under the gardener’s care. The other men must stay: and the Squire expected, whenever he should return, to find the house clear of all but those men. A smile between him and his wife showed that she was not included in the decree. They were one, and the wife did not come within the terms of the order.

Many hours might have passed without news, if the boys had not played scout on the cliff beyond the grounds. They saw the militia ranged along the rocks overlooking the bay; and the wind occasionally brought the word of command of their officers. The soldiers did not seem to be doing anything; and there was little or no noise from the town. Not a shot was fired; and, except that two horsemen were riding away rapidly on the London road over the downs, and that two or three mounted messengers were galloping away in different directions, it might have seemed like a mistake that anything unusual had happened at all. Anthony was just turning into the grounds to beg permission to run down to the market-place for news, when some confusion among the soldiers made him return to his post. What had taken place there was no knowing; but the militia went through some evolutions in a very unsteady way, and were disappearing on the descent to the town, when a roar, as of a mob, seemed to set them flying. Their order was completely broken, and several came running as for their lives,—some plunging down the little path to the beach, some continuing their flight as straight as they could go, and three or four leaping the Squire’s fence, and hiding in his shrubbery. Little Will naturally caught the panic and fled shrieking to his mother; and his brothers turned at first; but they saw no appearance of any foe.

The militia-men talked of an invasion, and of the enemy: but it could not be ascertained that more strangers had landed than the eighty whom Anthony had counted on the beach. There was a rumour that all the authorities had been captured and carried off to the ships: but this was not true. There was going to be a fight which should have driven the invaders into the sea; but when the Dorset militia should have come down in full force on the strangers, somebody set the example of running; and when so many ran, there was no use in others staying; and so they all dispersed. They would have done anything in reason: but when the mayor ordered a gun to be posted on the cliff, and another on the ridge of the road, commanding the passage from the town, it was found that the two guns were unserviceable, and that there was no ammunition.

The Squire found that the state of affairs in the town was pretty much in correspondence with this representation. At the Mayor’s Office there was no Mayor. Where was he? Gone to London, nearly an hour ago. As if another man could not as well have ridden to London with the news! Where was the Port-surveyor? He had gone off to the ships at sunrise; and he had been detained on board. Who was to take the direction of affairs? That was the most embarrassing of all questions at the moment. While the Duke was at the George Inn, holding a reception of citizens favourable to his cause, the municipal functionaries were wrangling in the Mayor’s Office with one another, and with the citizens who had assembled there in obedience to his Worship’s summons.

The Quakers were not likely to take arms on either side; but, being suspected of being Jesuits in disguise, they must be kept within their own houses. Lyme was sorely afflicted with dissenters; and no one of them,—not Squire Battiscombe himself, who offered to help to keep the peace of the town,—must be free to do mischief. Lest they should burn the church, or slay the Tory gentry, all the people of that stamp should be put into jail. Somebody proposed to forbid trade of all sorts for the time, lest the invaders should obtain supplies: but it was already too late for this,—the shopkeepers having, almost to a man, gone to the George Inn, to offer themselves and their goods to King Monmouth, as the pretender to the crown was now called. Word was brought in, that more and more scribes were offering themselves as clerks; and yet they could not register fast enough the names of the volunteers who thronged to Monmouth’s standard.

“Mr. Battiscombe, this will never do!” said a neighbour, who in ordinary times would scarcely speak to a Nonconformist; and especially to one in his own line of life. Sir Henry Foley was vexed and harassed out of his habitual pride by the miserable misconduct of the hour. “This is treason, Mr. Battiscombe. There is not ranker treason going on at the George at this moment. The Mayor has disappeared; and everybody else, I think. What can be done? What do you advise?”

“That we do not lose our time here, but do the best we can, in the absence of authority. We might easily learn what part the citizens will take; and then . . . .”

“What part the citizens will take!”

“Even so, Sir Henry. The strangers might at first have been kept out; and next they might have been driven out. As neither has been done, the citizens are in fact appealed to to choose their own part.”

“This is intolerable!” cried Sir Henry, turning to leap on the horse his groom held. “I shall bring down the militia on my own authority to drive these traitors out.”

The groom grinned, knowing more of the quality of the militia than his master.

“On which side shall I find you, Mr. Battiscombe?” asked Sir Henry, before he rode off. “Perhaps I thought too well of you from finding you among us here. Perhaps you came on behalf of the traitors. Perhaps you came as a spy.”

The Squire looked him full in the face, and then turned away contemptuously. Sir Henry, he knew, was as well aware as himself of the bearings of the spy system of the time—that God’s people did not spy, but were spy-ridden.

At every step he found people in doubt what to do. Many of these were glad to join in an organisation for patrolling the streets and neighbourhood, to prevent bloodshed, if possible, and violence of every sort, till some issue should be found from the perplexity of the day. Monmouth must either march onwards, or re-embark and go away before any force from London could arrive; and nothing could be gained by fighting in the present condition of the town. When it was found that, by preserving the peace of the town, any man helping therein would save his neck in regard to King James, while such conduct would not preclude his joining Monmouth if, on knowing more, he should see fit, the Squire’s company of town-guards increased from moment to moment, till hundreds had fallen into the march.

In the way to the market-place a loud voice was crying out to all good Protestants to repair to the standard of King Monmouth, and see what great things the Lord was that day doing for England—now again England of the Reformation. John Hickes was showing himself openly, and, in a manner, preaching, in defiance of the Five Mile Act. He was on horseback, bareheaded, and in gown and bands, inviting the people by vehement gestures into the market-place: and everybody followed. There he dismounted, and laying hold of the blue flag,—Monmouth’s standard,—erected there, devoutly kissed it, and, displaying it to the people, told them that this day they must look upon it as the banner of Christ. He then addressed himself to preach; and his old friends and hearers in the crowd believed that the very stones of the streets would rise before harm would befall Monmouth in Lyme, after that discourse.

He told his hearers that on the beach cannon were being landed from the ships, and endless suits of brilliant armour; and they had their choice whether to go and see that spectacle or hear from him what should happen to those who should put on that armour on behalf of the Bible and a Protestant king, and what to those who should sell themselves to the popish usurper whose day of mercy was gone by. The picture was so vivid, of woes which were breaking men’s hearts, and of the joys of the rescue which they were praying for day and night, that, if the proceedings had ended with Hickes’s discourse, nearly all Lyme would have been in rebellion long before night.

But there was a Declaration to be read in the name of Monmouth, which divided the crowd. The lower order of them, the fanatics, and the ignorant shouted for King Monmouth more vehemently than ever after it; but the more intelligent and reasonable regretted it on all accounts. As for the Squire, he shook off the impression of the preacher’s eloquence, gathered round him his extempore town-guard, told them that this Declaration was a new danger to the peace of the place, and appointed various beats to certain divisions of their body. As he was setting them forward under their leaders, he was accosted by a gentleman in rich armour, who asked him whether he was not Mr. Battiscombe of this town, saying further that he was sent by one who was charged with despatches for Mr. Battiscombe from M. Emmanuel Florien.

“Probably M. Florien himself,” observed the Squire.

“By no means: M. Florien is not in England. No, nor on the English seas,” continued the messenger, in reply to the glance the Squire directed to the bay.

“I cannot at present leave my company,” said the Squire: and he really meant this: but when he was made to understand that it was Monmouth himself who summoned him, he saw, as he believed, so signal a divine leading in such an incident, that he could have no doubt about his duty. He delegated his command for a short time to a neighbour, and entered the George, heedless of the twitches at his coat, and of the groans and prayers of some, and the cheers of others who had no doubt that in crossing that threshold his fate was sealed, for evil or for good.

Monmouth looked older, and so far better for his enterprise, than the Squire had expected;—certainly more than five years older than on his last visit to the west of England. He was handsomer than ever; and his countenance was radiant with joy at his reception: yet an experienced eye might discern the traces of past anxieties which had worn him long. He was richly dressed; and his armour lay ready to be assumed at any moment. The gentlemen in attendance were in full panoply, as messages were perpetually arriving which might call them hither and thither, without notice.

The Duke advanced a step or two when the Squire entered the room, and made his obeisance. It was no more than a very low bow. There was evidently no intention of kneeling; and the Duke therefore did not offer his hand to be kissed, as he had obviously been about to do. His manner was not the less gracious, as he said,

“We have met before, I think, Mr. Battiscombe. You were our guide, I remember, five years ago, in an admirable day’s sport on your fine downs here.”

“I was so honoured in your Grace’s service.”

Glances and whispers went on behind the Duke’s back at this method of accost; and Lord Grey of Wark made bold to suggest the question whether His Majesty was understood by the country-people to be the same personage that they had received so heartily on that occasion.

“Unquestionably,” was the reply. “Nothing was more clearly apprehended by the people at large than the claims of his Grace, the Duke of Monmouth.”

“His Grace again!” Then the Battiscombes had failed the cause! Anger and gloom overspread all the faces present except Monmouth’s. He looked all good-humour as he related that he had seen M. Florien the day before he sailed. Some time ago, it was true; for the voyage had been wretchedly tedious. Florien had entrusted him with a letter for Mr. Battiscombe, of too much consequence to be confided to the ordinary chances of conveyance. His Grace’s secretary produced the letter; and Mr. Battiscombe was requested, as a favour, to read it without delay, in the next room.

Before he had quite finished the voluminous epistle, Monmouth entered. He threw himself into a large chair, and desired his visitor to take the other, remarking that in these fatiguing days, it was well to repose themselves while they could.

The Squire, however, only bowed without seating himself.

“These are times for plain speaking, Mr. Battiscombe,” said Monmouth, with undisturbed good-humour; “and I am anxious to know what part such a man as you thinks of taking, now that the decisive moment for the fortunes of England has arrived. M. Florien tells me that no man is more anxious for the restoration of Protestantism to the throne.”

“M. Florien is right. No man can be more steadfastly set towards that restoration than I. It is my daily and nightly prayer.”

“That is well: but deeds must follow prayers. I may, therefore, reckon on your friendship, my good sir. I could not seriously doubt this, though some, less well-informed in regard to you, were questioning it just now. You must let me know your wishes. I am right, am I not?”

“I can never be your Grace’s enemy: but if being your friend means taking part in this enterprise, I am bound to say that I am not yet prepared to do so.”

“Permit me,” the Duke said, going to the door, and calling to Lord Grey.

“Here, my Lord Grey!” said the Duke, when the door was closed. “It will be best for Mr. Battiscombe, as well as for me, that our conference should be witnessed,—in order to avoid future mistakes. Is it not so, Mr. Battiscombe?”

The Squire bowed, and did not fail to observe that the Duke did not resume his seat.

“Mr. Battiscombe will tell us,” continued Monmouth, “why, not being our enemy, he cannot be our friend.

The Squire delivered his mind without any hesitation.

“There are more reasons than one,” he said, “why it is impossible for me to enter rashly into engagements which, unless they be loyal towards God and my country, are treason to the throne, and the peace of these realms.”

“So far no question can be raised,” observed Monmouth. “But where is the rashness? You have long counted on a Protestant king to succeed the present Papist Usurper; and, unless I am misinformed, you have trained your children in this expectation.”

“It is true,” answered the Squire. “Such is the confident expectation of my household: but it was not to your Grace that our expectation pointed.”

“I understand: but my cousins have no claim in the presence of mine, as the son of the late king. That, however, is, as you would remark, a point to be cleared up. We shall not differ as to the necessity of full investigation.”

“His Majesty——” interposed Lord Grey.

“Nay, my good Lord,” said Monmouth, “I entreat you to observe my wishes about the postponement of that title. Mr. Battiscombe is more correct in accosting me as the Monmouth I was in my father’s life-time:—more correct even in the manner, if you will allow me to say so, considering the care I have taken to explain that I submit my claims to the decision of a free parliament. Does this satisfy you, Mr. Battiscombe? Do you not see in me a leader to Protestant ascendancy, leaving the personal claim to the decision of parliament?”

“I do not,” was the calm reply. “I am credibly informed that your Grace has this morning touched two young persons for the King’s-evil.”

Monmouth laughed, but he coloured also, as he asked whether in such an emergency a man must not shape his conduct by the desires of the people, whom he must speak fair.

The Squire thought not. But, as he had said, there were other difficulties besides the dread of recommending one who had never been a prince—

“Say a bastard at once,” said Monmouth. “I have been accustomed to the discussion; and I have myself provoked it now.”

The Squire bowed, and proceeded with his sentence—

“To the throne of these realms. I heard your Grace’s Declaration read in the market-place just now.”

“Surely that Declaration must meet your views,” cried Lord Grey, “or you must have turned papist.”

“In its proposals of a free Protestant rule, and its accusations of the present King’s government for its tyranny, bad principle, and bad faith, I fully agree,” the Squire replied. “But I heard with concern the charges against King James of having devised the Great Fire; (the Popish Plot I do not in any way comprehend). More painful still was it to hear the King charged with having made away with the Earl of Essex, and destroyed his own brother by poison.”

“These things are true,” Lord Grey observed.

“I believe them to be false,” replied the Squire; “and I regret the rashness with which such scandals are thrown down before a justly-incensed, but passionate people. I cannot enter into a movement driven on by the engine o false-witness against high or low, whether they be, in regard to myself, friends or persecutors.”

There was a moment’s silence, which the Squire made use of to begin his retreat: but Monmouth spoke again.

“I fear the Declaration is ill-judged,” he said. “The next shall be prepared by myself. I am thankful to Mr. Battiscombe for his sincerity,—disappointing as it will be to others, as to myself. Such avowals leave me no right to inquire further on the subject for which I asked this interview,—what part Mr. Battiscombe intends to take.”

The answer to this was as direct as all that had gone before. A man who thought as he did, the Squire declared, could not be far wrong in waiting for guidance as to the direction of his loyalty, provided he was active meanwhile in keeping the field clear, and the public peace unbroken for the great decision when the moment should arrive. He had his function in the town; and he would crave his Grace’s permission to be no longer absent from it.

He was in the doorway when Monmouth addressed him once more. With his winning smile he said that he and Mr. Battiscombe might yet meet as friends,—yes, even as comrades in establishing the Protestant liberties of England. If Parliament should prefer a Protestant King James to the present popish usurper of the same name, all good Protestants, he presumed, would acquiesce; and the most eager of his champions would be the Nonconformists.

The Squire promised allegiance to the decision of a free Parliament; but there was a coldness in his tone which struck upon Monmouth’s heart. Lord Grey abused the Roundhead as a canting, self-seeking, half-hearted fellow, but was told that he mistook the man. Such a man as this was a great loss to the cause. No, there could not be hundreds of better men pouring into the town every hour. The more the better, such as they were: but men like this Battiscombe were not common: and their adhesion, once obtained, might be relied on. There was a hesitation in his manner at the last, however—

Lord Grey dared not utter further scorn; but he laughed.

“It was not from policy that he kept aloof from me,” said Monmouth, speaking to himself, while answering his attendant’s thought. The next suggestion remained unspoken.

“Perhaps it was from scruple about Henrietta: I suspect that was it. When I have made her my Queen there will be no more such coldness.”

“Please your Majesty—” said a voice from the doorway.

“I could wish that my injunctions were better attended to,” said Monmouth, with some irritation. “It is injurious to my interests to address me otherwise than as the Duke of Monmouth; and how often must I say so in vain?”

“Your Grace must excuse your faithful servants,” Lord Grey answered. “In the market-place, in the streets, and far into two counties the people are shouting ‘King Monmouth.’ If your Grace would but see it, this is your proclamation as sovereign of these realms.”

Monmouth made no reply. But it was remarked that, after a little time had been allowed him, no more chiding was heard when he was spoken of as “His Majesty.”

 

(To be continued.)