No Quarter!

“Who are they, Sir Richard?” asked the Governor, as the door was again closed.

“By the description,” answered the knight, “I identify the short man and the very tall woman as cadgers, who follow their humble calling around the Forest of Dean; despite the reversed proportions in stature, being brother and sister.”

“But what, think you, can they be wanting with me?”

“That I can’t say, your Excellency. Though likely something of grave concern, or Rob Wilde wouldn’t be with them as their introducer. He isn’t the man to intrude, without serious purpose.”

Their dialogue was interrupted by sounds in the hallway outside; a scraping and shuffling of heavily-shod feet, with something that resembled the strokes of a wooden mallet upon the stone flags, administered in regular repetition. It was no mystery, however, either to the Governor or the knight, both already aware that they were to see a man with a wooden leg.

Which they did, as the door was again pushed open, and the usher entered for the third time, conducting in Jerky Jack and his sister, the sergeant bringing up the rear.

Chapter Twenty Six

A Despatch Cunningly Conveyed

The officers had separated into two groups, one on each side the Governor, as the odd trinity of personages was presented to him; these, as they came up, falling into line – Rob on the right, the woman left, and Jack central, as a pollard between two tall trees.

Not yet aware of his colonel being in the room, the sergeant, as introducer of the other pair, was about to make known their business – of which Winny after all had given him a hint – when Sir Richard stepped forward to interrogate them. The knight had received instructions for this, on account of his acquaintance with the party.

“Well, sergeant,” he said, after nodding recognition to Jack and his sister, “what may your Forest friends be wanting? I hope they haven’t got into any trouble with our soldiers, or the Bristol folk?”

“No, Sir Richard; nothin’ o’ that sort whatsoever. They ha’ just entered the city, comin’ frae Gloster, an’ wi’ a message from Colonel Massey to his honner here.” The speaker, by a look, indicated the head figure of the listening assemblage; then added, “They think it be somethin’ o’ very great consarn, seein’ how the Colonel ha’ told them not to lose a minnit in the deliverin’ o’t.”

At this all eyes turned eagerly upon the cadgers. A message from Massey, who commanded at Gloucester, and at such a crisis! It should mean something of importance.

“Perhaps your Excellency would prefer hearing it in private?” suggested Sir Richard, with a feint at withdrawing, imitated by the other officers.

“No, no!” rejoined the ci-devant lawyer, who, unlike his confraternity, was of aught but secretive habit. “Stay, gentlemen! Whatever it be, we’re all equally interested in it. Now, my worthy friends,” he continued, his glance alternating between the little man and big woman, “what is this matter with which Colonel Massey has entrusted you? You may speak out openly and without fear.”

The words of encouragement were superfluous. Neither Jerky Jack nor his sister were of the stuff to be affrighted, though they stood in the presence of Royalty itself. They had travelled too far, and seen too much of the world for that.

“It be wrote, yer honner.” The woman it was who spoke. “The thing be’s all put down on paper; an’ Jack – my brother, sir – ha’ got it on him, hid away, as there was a fear us might meet the Cavalières.”

“Well, you needn’t fear meeting them here. So let Jack produce it.”

Which Jack did, though not presto, on the instant. It took some time, with an amount of manipulation, before the secreted despatch could be laid open to the light. The cadger’s artificial leg had to be unstrapped and separated from what remained of the real one; then a cavity in the former, being uncorked, disclosed to view a roll of paper, bearing resemblance to a cartridge.

This, drawn forth by Jerky himself, was handed to Sir Richard, and passed on to the Governor; who, having directed the temporary withdrawal of the messenger party, unrolling it, read —

“Gloucester, March 7. – Report here of Rupert, with 8,000 men, on march for Bristol. Expected to arrive before your gates early in the night. Be careful to keep them shut. Sorry I can do nothing for you in the way of diversion. Myself pressed on Monmouthshire side. Brett and Lord John Somerset, with their Popish crew, have crossed the Forest, and are now threatening us from Highnam. But I’ll hold Gloucester at all hazards, as I know you will Bristol.

“Massey.”

“That will I!” cried Fiennes, in a fresh burst of enthusiasm, inspired by the last words of the despatch. “Hold and defend it to the death. We will, gentlemen!”

Needless to say, they all again echoed his resolve loudly and determinedly as before.

While their responses were still ringing through the room, the door was once more pushed open by a man who entered in haste, without announcement of usher, or introduction of any kind. The expression upon his features was sufficient apology for intrusion, but better the words that leaped from his lips, soon as he was inside:

“Your Excellency – gentlemen all – we’re standing upon a mine!”

“‘Standing upon a mine!’” echoed the Governor. “Explain yourself, Captain Birch!”

“Treason in our midst – a conspiracy – the conspirators met at this very moment.”

“Where?” demanded several voices. “I heard first of a party in the house of Robert Yeomans, and another at George Boucher’s. But I’ve since been told about more of them at Edward Dacre’s.”

“And they’re assembled now, you think?”

“I’m sure of it, your Excellency. Armed, too; ready for rising.”

In view of the contents of Massey’s despatch, now hastily communicated to the Volunteer captain, this seemed probable as intelligible. Rupert to assault from outside, aweing the loyal citizens by an attack, sudden as unexpected; the disloyal ones, these conspirators, to take advantage of it and act in concert – the programme beyond a doubt!

Withal, Langrish and one or two others were disposed to discredit it. For in that confidential council itself was a leaven of treason. Luckily not enough to control it; and when Fiennes put the question, “Shall we arrest these men?” a majority of voices declared promptly and decisively in the affirmative.

“Captain Birch!” said the Governor, once more turning to the young officer of Volunteers, “you hear our determination. I commit this matter to you, who best know the guilty parties, and the places. Take your own men, and whatever other force you think necessary. This gentleman will go with you as my authority for the requisition.”

He referred to an aide-de-camp by his side, who, after receiving some directions in undertone, parted from him, and, with Birch, hastily left the room.

Scarce were they outside, when another officer presented himself in the council-chamber; in haste also, and unannounced, on the plea of pressing matter. A Volunteer captain, too; for Bristol had already raised more than one company of these citizen soldiers. Captain Jeremiah Buck, it was – the “busy mercer,” as the Restoration writers contemptuously style him. But whatever he may have been otherwise, he was a busy soldier, too busy that night for Royalist likings, and brought further intelligence of the conspiracy, obtained from other sources – confirming that of Birch.

And, as the latter, he also received instant commands to proceed on the arrest of the conspirators. As there were several distinct “clatches” of them, more than one force was needed to catch them simultaneously.

So commissioned, off went Buck, to all appearance greatly elated, and possibly indulging himself in the thought of satisfying some private spite.

Whether or no, the door that had closed behind him was still vibrating to the clash, when one who needed no usher to announce him caught hold of its handle and pushed it open, with an alacrity which proclaimed him also the bearer of tidings that would not brook delay.

“What is it, Trevor?” asked Sir Richard Walwyn, advancing to meet his troop captain. “Why have you left your guard at the gate?”

“Because, Colonel,” panted out the young officer, “I’ve thought it better to come myself and make sure of the news reaching you in good time, as the Governor here.”

“What news?”

“Prince Rupert and the Royalist army reported outside the city. A countryman just come in says they are pitching tents on Durdham Down. And his report’s confirmed by what I’ve myself seen from the top of the gate tower.”

“What saw you, Captain Trevor?” asked the Governor, who, with the other officers, had been all the while anxiously listening.

“A glare of light, your Excellency; such as would proceed from the blaze of camp-fires.”

This was confirmation full, of Massey’s warning despatch, the conspiracy, everything. But, for better assurance of it, the Governor, with the assembled officers, rushed out of the council-chamber and up to the Castle donjon; there to see the horizon lit up with a yellowish glare which, as soldiers, they knew to be the reflection from bivouac fires. And a wide spread of them, the sky illumined all over Durdham Down, away to King’s Weston.

“Rupert it must be – he, and his plundering host!”

Captain Birch made quick work of the duty assigned to him. In less than twenty minutes after receiving the Governor’s commands, he stood before the door of Robert Yeomans’s house, demanding admission. He had the strength at his back to enforce it – his own Volunteers afoot, with a body of horse, lest the conspirators should escape by flight. And some of both, distributed round the house, already enfiladed it.

It was a large house, its owner being one of the wealthy citizens of Bristol. Forty men were within it, all armed, as the Volunteer officer had been told. At word of what was without they sprang to their arms, some of the more courageous counselling fight. But when they looked through the windows, saw that formidable array, and heard the stern summons “Surrender!” their hearts failed them, and they surrendered. Wisely, too. Had they resisted, instant death would have been their fate. For, among the men with Birch, were some fresh from the affair of Cirencester; themselves escaped, but leaving behind friends, relatives, even brothers, butchered in cold blood. Exasperated, maddened, by the memory of that slaughter – some of them with wounds still unhealed from it – Birch, who was moderate as brave, had a difficulty to restrain them from dealing out death to the malignants. The troopers who accompanied him, smarting under late reverses, would have gladly hailed the order to “fall on.” But the cowed conspirators submitted like sheep, and were marched off to the Castle, every man-jack of them; there to meet other batches brought in by Buck and the different officers who had been detailed for their arrest.

In houses here and there throughout the city, parties of them were found and picked up; all armed, waiting for a signal to sally forth and shed the blood of their fellow-citizens. This has been denied, but a letter from the barbarous Lord Byron to Prince Rupert puts the design beyond doubt. But for the vigilance of the merchant-soldier Birch, and the activity of the “busy mercer” Buck, that night the streets of Bristol would have run blood, and every house in it belonging to a Parliamentarian been sacked and plundered. For the head plunderer, Rupert – he who introduced the word to the English language – stood at that very hour on the top of King’s Weston hill, awaiting a triple signal – the bells of three churches to be rung – Saint John’s, for summoning the Royalist sailors; that of Saint Nicholas, to call out the butchers for butchers’ work congenial to them; while from the tower of Saint Michael’s he expected to hear a peal more especially meant for himself and his freebooters, as it were saying, “You may come on! The gates of Bristol are unbarred for you!”

But he heard it not. They who had been entrusted with the ringing of that fatal peal never rang it. Instead of bell ropes in their hands, they now had manacles around their wrists, and grim sentries standing guard over them.

Rupert waited, watched, and listened, till the break of day showed him the great seaport of the Severn still calm; its gates close shut; its walls and towers bristling with armed men, in attitudes that told them determined on its defence.

Thinking he had been made a fool of, and fearing further betrayal, he hastily beat retreat from Durdham Down to seek the pillage of some city more easy of being entered.

The rising sun saw his back turned upon Bristol; he and his Cavaliers venting loud curses – reviling their partisans inside, whose misleading correspondence had lured them to an expedition ludicrous as bootless.

Chapter Twenty Seven

A City of Refuge

Of the Foresters who figure in our tale, Rob Wilde, Jerky Jack, and Winny were not the only ones who had found their way into Bristol. Most of Sir Richard Walwyn’s troopers were Foresters. But the master of Hollymead was himself there, with his daughters, their maid Gwenthian, and others of the family servants.

Why he had exchanged his Forest home for a residence in town – that, too, in a city under military occupation, threatened with siege and all its inconveniences – has been already in part explained. With the commencement of hostilities country life became unsafe, more especially for people of quality and those who had anything to lose. Parties of armed men penetrated into the most remote districts, demanding contributions and levying them – at first in the name of the King. Naturally, this aroused the spirit of retaliation, and dictated reprisals; so that in time both sides became more or less blamable for filibusterism. The weight of evidence, however, shows that, as a rule, the Parliamentarian officers did all in their power to restrain, while those of the Royalist army not only encouraged but gloried in it – themselves taking a hand. A Prince had set them the lesson, making robbery fashionable, and they were neither backward nor slow in profiting by it.

As a sample of the spirit in which the Cavaliers made war, thus wrote Sir John, afterwards Lord Byron – the same truculent ruffian already alluded to, commanding a body of the King’s horse – “I put them all to the sword, which I find to be the best way to proceed with these kind of people, for mercy to them is cruelty.”

The gallant defenders of Barthomley Church were “these kind of people,” whom this monster, ungrammatical as inhuman, had massacred to a man!

Fighting under such faith, no wonder the lex talionis soon displayed itself on both sides, and in bitterest, most relentless form. Not only had the main routes of travel become unsafe, but sequestered country roads; while the sanctity of private houses was invaded, and women subjected to insult, oft even to the disregarding of their honour. This was conspicuously the case in the districts where the Cavaliers had control, no decent woman daring to show herself abroad. Even high-born ladies feared encountering them, if having father or brother on the Parliamentary side. Some dames, however, who favoured their side, were bold and free enough with them; and a very incarnation of female shamelessness was the strumpet following of Rupert.

As known, Ambrose Powell had at first thought of fortifying Hollymead, and holding it with his servants, retainers, and such of the Foresters as he could rally around him; of whom he had reason to believe many would respond to his call. The haw-haw around the house was suggestive of his doing so – itself an outer line of defence, which could be easily strengthened. It but needed a parapet of gabions, or fascines, to render it unassailable, save in the face of a scathing fire. And he had the wherewith to deliver this, having long expected the coming storm, and stored up materials to meet it. One of the chambers of Hollymead House was a very armoury and ordnance room, full of the best weapons of the time, which his great wealth had enabled him to provide – muskets of the snap-hans fire, pistols, pikes, and halberds. They but wanted putting into hands capable of making efficient use of them.

And he himself had but waited for Sir Richard Walwyn’s advice, as to whether he should attempt holding Hollymead, or abandon it. He knew he must do one or the other. His partisanship, long since proclaimed and known beyond the borders of the Forest, with the echoes returning, so admonished him.

“Could it be held, think you?” he asked of the soldier knight, on the evening of his arrival with Eustace Trevor – Sir Richard and his host alone closeted in conversation.

“Impossible!” was the answer, backed up by convincing reasons. “Were it a structure of stone, I might say Yes, easily enough; with a force numerous enough to garrison it. But those wooden beams, and roofs dry as tinder – they’d be set ablaze by the first arrow sent at them.”

The reader may fancy Sir Richard’s allusion to arrows was a figure of speech, or anachronism. It was neither. For this primitive weapon, almost universal among savage men, was not then obsolete, or out of the hands of the civilised. In the army of Essex – the Lord General himself – was a corps of bowmen; and others elsewhere. The belief in the bent yew stick and feathered shaft, that had gained for England such renown at Cressy and Agincourt, was still strong in the days of her more glorious struggle – the Great Rebellion.

But it was not to shafts of this kind the knight had reference; instead, arrows projected from muskets and arquebusses for setting fire to assailed forts and houses – a species of ordnance which then formed part of the equipment of every well-appointed corps d’armée.

With the master of Hollymead the argument was conclusive. He saw his house could not be held, with any hope of successful defence, if attacked by a force strong and determined. And that such would come against it he had been as good as sure, ever since that hour when Reginald Trevor placed in his hands the letter of Loan by Privy Seal – altogether sure, when Lunsford, later, came to make the levy itself.

Only a day or two longer had he remained in it, to pack up his plate, with other cherished penates, and have them transmitted to a place of safety – to Gloucester – the nearest city promising asylum to the harried partisans of the Parliament – going thither himself with his family.

He had, however, made but short stay there. The seaport of Bristol beyond was a “city of refuge” more to his mind, because of a house in it that offered him hospitality – a sister’s – and under its roof he and his were sojourning on that night of dread danger, averted almost as soon as apprehended.

Nor in that crisis was the refugee from Dean Forest himself inactive. When men stood gazing with eyes full of keen apprehension at the fire-glare over Durdham Down, Ambrose Powell was moving briskly through Bristol’s streets, urging its citizens to arm and defend it. Along with him a clergyman, who added his appeal with eloquent tongue and passionate speech. He was Tombes, of Leominster, who had been mobbed in that town of woolstaplers, and driven out of it by drunken roughs; no doubt the progenitors of those who in the late Parliamentary election in like manner dishonoured themselves.

To Darwin’s transmutation and improvement theory, the human animals of Leominster seem to be an exception; especially as regards the improvement, for its Jingo cur of to-day is rather a falling off from the quality of his prototype – the Cavalier wolf of the Great war time.

Chapter Twenty Eight

A Home Gayer than Congenial

Madame Lalande, née Powell, was the widow of a West Indian planter, late deceased. Her husband, during life, had held commercial intercourse with Bristol, then chief port of communication with all the Transatlantic colonies. Though a Creole of French descent, the isle of his nativity, in the Antilles, had come under British rule; and he himself rather affected English tastes and habits, often visiting England and making short sojourns in it. At a Bristol ball he had first met Gwendoline Powell, Ambrose’s sister; had married in Bristol, and there designed spending the evening of his days in retirement from the cares of business life. And when the time at length came for carrying this design into execution, he sold off his West Indian plantation – an extensive one, with its human chattels, some hundreds in number – and invested the proceeds in Bristol property, part of it being a handsome dwelling-house meant for his future home:

Into this he had entered about a year before the commencement of the civil strife, which he lived not to see. The cold, moist climate of our island, so different to that of the tropical Antilles, was fatal to him, and in less than twelve months after settling on the Avon’s banks he was buried there, having succumbed to an attack of pleurisy. Possibly fast living may have had something to do with it. He was a man of social inclinings and sumptuous habits, which his great wealth enabled him to indulge without stint; and he had recklessly disregarded the care of his health.

Fortunately for those who inherited his property, his life of extravagance had not been long enough to dissipate it, and Madame Lalande was still one of the wealthiest women in Bristol, with no one to share her wealth, save an only daughter, a girl of some eighteen summers, or, to speak more correctly, one summer of eighteen years in length. For the occasional visits to England with her father and mother had been made in this season, the rest of her life spent in a land where winter is unknown. All summer her life in every sense; from her cradle not a wish denied, or taste ungratified, but everything lavished upon her which money could purchase or parental fondness bestow.

As a consequence, Clarisse Lalande had grown up a spoilt child; and now that she was almost a woman, the fruits of such folly made themselves manifest. Imperious and capricious, she had a temper which would not brook restraint. For this it had never known, accustomed all her life to the obeisance of black slaves, and the flattery of mulatto hand-maidens.

Flattery from others she had received too – a very incense of it – which her beauty, without thought of her prospective wealth, commanded. For a beauty she was, of the true Creole type, with all its characteristics; the golden brown tint of skin, the crimson flush of cheeks, the brilliancy of dark eyes, with a luxuriance of hair that defied confinement by ordinary clasp or comb. There was the suspicion of a “wave” in it; and report said that the blood in her father’s veins had not been pure Circassian, but with a slight admixture of Ethiopian. All the more piquant were the charms it had transmitted to his daughter, as the star-like fire in her brown-black eyes, and a figure of grandly voluptuous outline. Some of her mental characteristics, too, may have come from it – a certain sensuousness, with the impatience of control already adverted to.

Such being Clarisse Lalande, it scarce needs saying that between her and her cousins Powell there was little congeniality either of tastes or sentiments. Though in person more resembling Sabrina, the two were mental antipodes; while sunbright Vaga, who looked altogether unlike her dark-skinned Creole cousin, had yet certain similar traits of temper; the which made mutual antipathy, at first sight, as when alkali and acid come into contact. It afterwards became heart-hatred, inspired and nursed by the most powerful of influences.

Considering that Madame Lalande was Ambrose Powell’s sister, and that her late husband had been a Protestant of Huguenot ancestry – at least four-fifths of him – one would naturally expect her to be on the Parliamentary side – supposing her to take a side at all – with ardent inclinings thereto. Ardent inclinings had she, and side she took; but, strange perversity, against the Parliament, not for it!

And it was like mother, like daughter, for Clarisse, with all her frivolousness of character, had political leanings too, or more properly caprices, the frivolity itself their cause. In the eyes of the imperious young lady Roundheadism and Puritanism were things of reproach, and the terms themselves often scornfully on her lips. Kingly form of government was the only one fit for gentlepeople; and Cavaliers alone worthy to associate with such as she – those curled darlings, “dear delightful creatures,” as, in her fond partiality, she was accustomed to call them.