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Woodstock; or, The Cavalier

S >> Sir Walter Scott >> Woodstock; or, The Cavalier




Pearson shook his head with an air of doubt, but added, "There was no
choice left."

"Be assured," said the old man, "that if thou dost this folly, thou wilt
cause Israel to sin, and that the General will not be pleased with your
service. Thou knowest, and none better than thou, that Oliver, although
he be like unto David the son of Jesse, in faith, and wisdom, and
courage, yet there are times when the evil spirit cometh upon him as it
did upon Saul, and he uttereth commands which he will not thank any one
for executing."

Pearson was too good a politician to assent directly to a proposition
which he could not deny--he only shook his head once more, and said that
it was easy for those to talk who were not responsible, but the
soldier's duty was to obey his orders, and not to judge of them.

"Very righteous truth," said Merciful Strickalthrow, a grim old
Scotchman; "I marvel where our brother Zerubbabel caught up this
softness of heart?"

"Why, I do but wish," said Zerubbabel, "that four or five human
creatures may draw the breath of God's air for a few hours more; there
can be small harm done by delaying the execution,--and the General will
have some time for reflection."

"Ay," said Captain Pearson, "but I in my service must be more pointedly
obsequious, than thou in thy plainness art bound to be, friend
Zerubbabel."

"Then shall the coarse frieze cassock of the private soldier help the
golden gaberdine of the captain to bear out the blast," said Zerubbabel.
"Ay, indeed, I can show you warrant why we be aidful to each other in
doing acts of kindness and long-suffering, seeing the best of us are
poor sinful creatures, who might suffer, being called to a brief
accounting."

"Of a verity you surprise me, brother Zerubbabel," said Strickalthrow;
"that thou, being an old and experienced soldier, whose head hath grown
grey in battle, shouldst give such advice to a young officer. Is not the
General's commission to take away the wicked from the land, and to root
out the Amalekite, and the Jebusite, and the Perizzite, and the Hittite,
and the Girgashite, and the Amorite? and are not these men justly to be
compared to the five kings, who took shelter in the cave of Makedah, who
were delivered into the hands of Joshua the son of Nun? and he caused
his captains and his soldiers to come near and tread on their necks--and
then he smote them, and he slew them, and then he hanged them on five
trees, even till evening--And thou, Gilbert Pearson by name, be not
withheld from the duty which is appointed to thee, but do even as has
been commanded by him who is raised up to judge and to deliver Israel;
for it is written, 'cursed is he who holdeth back his sword from the
slaughter.'"

Thus wrangled the two military theologians, while Pearson, much more
solicitous to anticipate the wishes of Oliver than to know the will of
Heaven, listened to them with great indecision and perplexity.

* * * * *

CHAPTER THE THIRTY-SIXTH.


But let us now, like soldiers on the watch,
Put the soul's armour on, alike prepared
For all a soldier's warfare brings.
JOANNA BAILLIE.

The reader will recollect, that when Rochecliffe and Joceline were made
prisoners, the party which escorted them had two other captives in their
train, Colonel Everard, namely, and the Rev. Nehemiah Holdenough. When
Cromwell had obtained entrance into Woodstock, and commenced his search
after the fugitive Prince, the prisoners were placed in what had been an
old guardroom, and which was by its strength well calculated to serve
for a prison, and a guard was placed over them by Pearson. No light was
allowed, save that of a glimmering fire of charcoal. The prisoners
remained separated from each other, Colonel Everard conversing with
Nehemiah Holdenough, at a distance from Dr. Rochecliffe, Sir Henry Lee,
and Joceline. The party was soon after augmented by Wildrake, who was
brought down to the Lodge, and thrust in with so little ceremony, that,
his arms being bound, he had very nearly fallen on his nose in the
middle of the prison.

"I thank you, my good friend," he said, looking back to the door, which
they who had pushed him in were securing--"_Point de ceremonie_--no
apology for tumbling, so we light in good company.--Save ye, save ye,
gentlemen all--What, _á la mort_, and nothing stirring to keep the
spirits up, and make a night on't?--the last we shall have, I take it;
for a make [Footnote: A half-penny] to a million, but we trine to the
nubbing cheat [Footnote: Hang on the gallows] to-morrow.--Patron--noble
patron, how goes it? This was but a scurvy trick of Noll so far as you
were concerned: as for me, why I might have deserved something of the
kind at his hand."

"Prithee, Wildrake, sit down," said Everard; "thou art drunk--disturb us
not."

"Drunk? I drunk?" cried Wildrake, "I have been splicing the mainbrace,
as Jack says at Wapping--have been tasting Noll's brandy in a bumper to
the King's health, and another to his Excellency's confusion, and
another to the d--n of Parliament--and it may be one or two more, but
all to devilish good toasts. But I'm not drunk."

"Prithee, friend, be not profane," said Nehemiah Holdenough.

"What, my little Presbyterian Parson, my slender Mass-John? thou shalt
say amen to this world instantly"--said Wildrake; "I have had a weary
time in't for one.--Ha, noble Sir Henry, I kiss your hand--I tell thee,
knight, the point of my Toledo was near Cromwell's heart last night, as
ever a button on the breast of his doublet. Rat him, he wears secret
armour.--He a soldier! Had it not been for a cursed steel shirt, I would
have spitted him like a lark.--Ha, Doctor Rochecliffe!--thou knowest I
can wield my weapon."

"Yes," replied the Doctor, "and you know I can use mine."

"I prithee be quiet, Master Wildrake," said Sir Henry.

"Nay, good knight," answered Wildrake, "be somewhat more cordial with a
comrade in distress. This is a different scene from the Brentford
storming-party. The jade Fortune has been a very step-mother to me. I
will sing you a song I made on my own ill-luck."

"At this moment, Captain Wildrake, we are not in a fitting mood for
singing," said Sir Henry, civilly and gravely.

"Nay, it will aid your devotions--Egad, it sounds like a penitential
psalm.

'When I was a young lad,
My fortune was bad,
If ere I do well 'tis a wonder.
I spent all my means
Amid sharpers and queans;
Then I got a commission to plunder.
I have stockings 'tis true,
But the devil a shoe,
I am forced to wear boots in all weather,
Be d----d the hoot sole,
Curse on the spur-roll.
Confounded be the upper-leather.'"

[Footnote: Such a song, or something very like it, may be found in
Ramsay's Tea-table Miscellany, among the wild slips of minstrelsy which
are there collected.]

The door opened as Wildrake finished this stanza at the top of his
voice, and in rushed a sentinel, who, greeting him by the title of a
"blasphemous bellowing bull of Bashan," bestowed a severe blow, with his
ramrod, on the shoulders of the songster, whose bonds permitted him no
means of returning the compliment.

"Your humble servant again, sir," said Wildrake, shrugging his
shoulders,--"sorry I have no means of showing my gratitude. I am bound
over to keep the peace, like Captain Bobadil--Ha, knight, did you hear
my bones clatter? that blow came twankingly off--the fellow might
inflict the bastinado, were it in presence of the Grand Seignior--he has
no taste for music, knight--is no way moved by the 'concord of sweet
sounds.' I will warrant him fit for treason, stratagem, and spoil--
Eh?--all down in the mouth--well--I'll go to sleep to-night on a bench,
as I've done many a night, and I will be ready to be hanged decently in
the morning, which never happened to me before in all my life--

When I was a young lad,
My fortune was bad--'

Pshaw! This is not the tune it goes to." Here he fell fast asleep, and
sooner or later all his companions in misfortune followed his example.

The benches intended for the repose of the soldiers of the guard,
afforded the prisoners convenience enough to lie down, though their
slumbers, it may be believed, were neither sound nor undisturbed. But
when daylight was but a little while broken, the explosion of gunpowder
which took place, and the subsequent fall of the turret to which the
mine was applied, would have awakened the Seven Sleepers, or Morpheus
himself. The smoke, penetrating through the windows, left them at no
loss for the cause of the din.

"There went my gunpowder," said Rochecliffe, "which has, I trust, blown
up as many rebel villains as it might have been the means of destroying
otherwise in a fair field. It must have caught fire by chance."

"By chance?--No," said Sir Henry; "depend on it, my bold Albert has
fired the train, and that in yonder blast Cromwell was flying towards
the heaven whose battlements he will never reach--Ah, my brave boy! and
perhaps thou art thyself sacrificed, like a youthful Samson among the
rebellious Philistines.--But I will not be long behind thee, Albert."

Everard hastened to the door, hoping to obtain from the guard, to whom
his name and rank might be known, some explanation of the noise, which
seemed to announce some dreadful catastrophe.

But Nehemiah Holdenough, whose rest had been broken by the trumpet which
gave signal for the explosion, appeared in the very acme of horror--"It
is the trumpet of the Archangel!" he cried,--"it is the crushing of this
world of elements--it is the summons to the Judgment-seat! The dead are
obeying the call--they are with us--they are amongst us--they arise in
their bodily frames--they come to summon us!"

As he spoke his eyes were riveted upon Dr. Rochecliffe, who stood
directly opposite to him. In rising hastily, the cap which he commonly
wore, according to a custom then usual both among clergymen and gownmen
of a civil profession, had escaped from his head, and carried with it
the large silk patch which he probably wore for the purpose of disguise;
for the cheek which was disclosed was unscarred, and the eye as good as
that which was usually uncovered.

Colonel Everard returning from the door, endeavoured in vain to make
Master Holdenough comprehend what he learned from the guard without,
that the explosion had involved only the death of one of Cromwell's
soldiers. The Presbyterian divine continued to stare wildly at him of
the Episcopal persuasion.

But Dr. Rochecliffe heard and understood the news brought by Colonel
Everard, and, relieved from the instant anxiety which had kept him
stationary, he advanced towards the retiring Calvinist, extending his
hand in the most friendly manner.

"Avoid thee--Avoid thee!" said Holdenough, "the living may not join
hands with the dead."

"But I," said Rochecliffe, "am as much alive as you are."

"Thou alive!--thou! Joseph Albany, whom my own eyes saw precipitated
from the battlements of Clidesthrow Castle?"

"Ay," answered the Doctor, "but you did not see me swim ashore on a
marsh covered with sedges--_fugit ad salices_--after a manner which I
will explain to you another time."

Holdenough touched his hand with doubt and uncertainty. "Thou art indeed
warm and alive," he said, "and yet after so many blows, and a fall so
tremendous--thou canst not be _my_ Joseph Albany."

"I am Joseph Albany Rochecliffe," said the Doctor, "become so in virtue
of my mother's little estate, which fines and confiscations have made an
end of."

"And is it so indeed?" said Holdenough, "and have I recovered mine old
chum?"

"Even so," replied Rochecliffe, "by the same token I appeared to you in
the Mirror Chamber--Thou wert so bold, Nehemiah, that our whole scheme
would have been shipwrecked, had I not appeared to thee in the shape of
a departed friend. Yet, believe me, it went against my heart to do it."

"Ah, fie on thee, fie on thee," said Holdenough, throwing himself into
his arms, and clasping him to his bosom, "thou wert ever a naughty wag.
How couldst thou play me such a trick?--Ah, Albany, dost thou remember
Dr. Purefoy and Caius College?"

"Marry, do I," said the Doctor, thrusting his arm through the
Presbyterian divine's, and guiding him to a seat apart from the other
prisoners, who witnessed this scene with much surprise. "Remember Caius
College?" said Rochecliffe; "ay, and the good ale we drank, and our
parties to mother Huffcap's."

"Vanity of vanities," said Holdenough, smiling kindly at the same time,
and still holding his recovered friend's arm enclosed and hand-locked in
his.

"But the breaking the Principal's orchard, so cleanly done," said the
Doctor; "it was the first plot I ever framed, and much work I had to
prevail on thee to go into it."

"Oh, name not that iniquity," said Nehemiah, "since I may well say, as
the pious Master Baxter, that these boyish offences have had their
punishment in later years, inasmuch as that inordinate appetite for
fruit hath produced stomachic affections under which I yet labour."

"True, true, dear Nehemiah," said Rochecliffe, "but care not for them--a
dram of brandy will correct it all. Mr. Baxter was," he was about to say
"an ass," but checked himself, and only filled up the sentence with "a
good man, I dare say, but over scrupulous."

So they sat down together the best of friends, and for half an hour
talked with mutual delight over old college stories. By degrees they got
on the politics of the day; and though then they unclasped their hands,
and there occurred between them such expressions as, "Nay, my dear
brother," and, "there I must needs differ," and, "on this point I crave
leave to think;" yet a hue and cry against the Independents and other
sectarists being started, they followed like brethren in full hollo, and
it was hard to guess which was most forward. Unhappily, in the course of
this amicable intercourse, something was mentioned about the bishopric
of Titus, which at once involved them in the doctrinal question of
Church Government. Then, alas! the floodgates were opened, and they
showered on each other Greek and Hebrew texts, while their eyes kindled,
their cheeks glowed, their hands became clenched, and they looked more
like fierce polemics about to rend each other's eyes out, than Christian
divines.

Roger Wildrake, by making himself an auditor of the debate, contrived to
augment its violence. He took, of course, a most decided part in a
question, the merits of which were totally unknown to him. Somewhat
overawed by Holdenough's ready oratory and learning, the cavalier
watched with a face of anxiety the countenance of Dr. Rochecliffe; but
when he saw the proud eye and steady bearing of the Episcopal champion,
and heard him answer Greek with Greek, and Hebrew with Hebrew, Wildrake
backed his arguments as he closed them, with a stout rap upon the bench,
and an exulting laugh in the face of the antagonist. It was with some
difficulty that Sir Henry and Colonel Everard, having at length and
reluctantly interfered, prevailed on the two alienated friends to
adjourn their dispute, removing at the same time to a distance, and
regarding each other with looks in which old friendship appeared to have
totally given way to mutual animosity.

But while they sat lowering on each other, and longing to renew a
contest in which each claimed the victory, Pearson entered the prison,
and in a low and troubled voice, desired the persons whom it contained
to prepare for instant death.

Sir Henry Lee received the doom with the stern composure which he had
hitherto displayed. Colonel Everard attempted the interposition of a
strong and resentful appeal to the Parliament, against the judgment of
the court-martial and the General. But Pearson declined to receive or
transmit any such remonstrance, and with a dejected look and mien of
melancholy presage, renewed his exhortation to them to prepare for the
hour of noon, and withdrew from the prison.

The operation of this intelligence on the two clerical disputants was
more remarkable. They gazed for a moment on each other with eyes in
which repentant kindness and a feeling of generous shame quenched every
lingering feeling of resentment, and joined in the mutual exclamation--
"My brother--my brother, I have sinned, I have sinned in offending
thee!" they rushed into each other's arms, shed tears as they demanded
each other's forgiveness, and, like two warriors, who sacrifice a
personal quarrel to discharge their duty against the common enemy, they
recalled nobler ideas of their sacred character, and assuming the part
which best became them on an occasion so melancholy, began to exhort
those around them to meet the doom that had been announced, with the
firmness and dignity which Christianity alone can give.

* * * * *

CHAPTER THE THIRTY-SEVENTH.


Most gracious prince, good Cannyng cried,
Leave vengeance to our God,
And lay the iron rule aside,
Be thine the olive rod.
BALLAD OF SIR CHARLES BAWDIN.

The hour appointed for execution had been long past, and it was about
five in the evening when the Protector summoned Pearson to his presence.
He went with fear and reluctance, uncertain how he might be received.
After remaining about a quarter of an hour, the aide-de-camp returned to
Victor Lee's parlour, where he found the old soldier, Zerubbabel Robins,
in attendance for his return.

"How is Oliver?" said the old man, anxiously.

"Why, well," answered Pearson, "and hath asked no questions of the
execution, but many concerning the reports we have been able to make
regarding the flight of the young Man, and is much moved at thinking he
must now be beyond pursuit. Also I gave him certain papers belonging to
the malignant Doctor Rochecliffe."

"Then will I venture upon him," said the adjutator; "so give me a napkin
that I may look like a sewer, and fetch up the food which I directed
should be in readiness."

Two troopers attended accordingly with a ration of beef, such as was
distributed to the private soldiers, and dressed after their fashion--a
pewter pot of ale, a trencher with salt, black pepper, and a loaf of
ammunition bread. "Come with me," he said to Pearson, "and fear
not--Noll loves an innocent jest." He boldly entered the General's
sleeping apartment, and said aloud, "Arise, thou that art called to be a
judge in Israel--let there be no more folding of the hands to sleep. Lo,
I come as a sign to thee; wherefore arise, eat, drink, and let thy heart
be glad within thee; for thou shalt eat with joy the food of him that
laboureth in the trenches, seeing that since thou wert commander over
the host, the poor sentinel hath had such provisions as I have now
placed for thine own refreshment."

"Truly, brother Zerubbabel," said Cromwell, accustomed to such acts of
enthusiasm among his followers, "we would wish that it were so; neither
is it our desire to sleep soft, nor feed more highly than the meanest
that ranks under our banners. Verily, thou hast chosen well for my
refreshment, and the smell of the food is savoury in my nostrils."

He arose from the bed, on which he had lain down half dressed, and
wrapping his cloak around him, sate down by the bedside, and partook
heartily of the plain food which was prepared for him. While he was
eating, Cromwell commanded Pearson to finish his report--"You need not
desist for the presence of a worthy soldier, whose spirit is as my
spirit."

"Nay, but," interrupted Robins, "you are to know that Gilbert Pearson
hath not fully executed thy commands, touching a part of those
malignants, all of whom should have died at noon."

"What execution--what malignants?" said Cromwell, laying down his knife
and fork.

"Those in the prison here at Woodstock," answered Zerubbabel, "whom your
Excellency commanded should be executed at noon, as taken in the fact of
rebellion against the Commonwealth."

"Wretch!" said Cromwell, starting up and addressing Pearson, "thou hast
not touched Mark Everard, in whom there was no guilt, for he was
deceived by him who passed between us--neither hast thou put forth thy
hand on the pragmatic Presbyterian minister, to have all those of their
classes cry sacrilege, and alienate them from us for ever?"

"If your Excellency wish them to live, they live--their life and death
are in the power of a word," said Pearson.

"Enfranchise them; I must gain the Presbyterian interest over to us if I
can."

"Rochecliffe, the arch-plotter," said Pearson, "I thought to have
executed, but"--

"Barbarous man," said Cromwell, "alike ungrateful and impolitic--wouldst
thou have destroyed our decoy-duck? This doctor is but like a well, a
shallow one indeed, but something deeper than the springs which
discharge their secret tribute into his keeping; then come I with a
pump, and suck it all up to the open air. Enlarge him, and let him have
money if he wants it. I know his haunts; he can go nowhere but our eye
will be upon him.--But you look at each other darkly, as if you had more
to say than you durst. I trust you have not done to death Sir Henry
Lee?"

"No. Yet the man," replied Pearson, "is a confirmed malignant, and"--

"Ay, but he is also a noble relic of the ancient English Gentleman,"
said the General. "I would I knew how to win the favour of that race.
But we, Pearson, whose royal robes are the armour which we wear on our
bodies, and whose leading staves are our sceptres, are too newly set up
to draw the respect of the proud malignants, who cannot brook to submit
to less than royal lineage. Yet what can they see in the longest kingly
line in Europe, save that it runs back to a successful soldier? I grudge
that one man should be honoured and followed, because he is the
descendant of a victorious commander, while less honour and allegiance
is paid to another, who, in personal qualities, and in success, might
emulate the founder of his rival's dynasty. Well, Sir Henry Lee lives,
and shall live for me. His son, indeed, hath deserved the death which he
has doubtless sustained."

"My lord," stammered Pearson, "since your Excellency has found I am
right in suspending your order in so many instances, I trust you will
not blame me in this also--I thought it best to await more special
orders."

"Thou art in a mighty merciful humour this morning, Pearson," said
Cromwell, not entirely satisfied.

"If your Excellency please, the halter is ready, and so is the
provost-marshal."

"Nay, if such a bloody fellow as thou hast spared him, it would ill
become me to destroy him," said the General. "But then, here is among
Rochecliffe's papers the engagement of twenty desperadoes to take us
off--some example ought to be made."

"My lord," said Zerubbabel, "consider now how often this young man,
Albert Lee, hath been near you, nay, probably, quite close to your
Excellency, in these dark passages which he knew, and we did not. Had he
been of an assassin's nature, it would have cost him but a pistol-shot,
and the light of Israel was extinguished. Nay, in the unavoidable
confusion which must have ensued, the sentinels quitting their posts, he
might have had a fair chance of escape."

"Enough Zerubbabel; he lives," said the General. "He shall remain in
custody for some time, however, and be then banished from England. The
other two are safe, of course; for you would not dream of considering
such paltry fellows as fit victims for my revenge."

"One fellow, the under-keeper, called Joliffe, deserves death, however,"
said Pearson, "since he has frankly admitted that he slew honest Joseph
Tomkins."

"He deserves a reward for saving us a labour," said Cromwell; "that
Tomkins was a most double-hearted villain. I have found evidence among
these papers here, that if we had lost the fight at Worcester, we should
have had reason to regret that we had ever trusted Master Tomkins--it
was only our success which anticipated his treachery--write us down
debtor, not creditor, to Joceline, an you call him so, and to his
quarter-staff."

"There remains the sacrilegious and graceless cavalier who attempted
your Excellency's life last night," said Pearson.

"Nay," said the General, "that were stooping too low for revenge. His
sword had no more power than had he thrusted with a tobacco-pipe. Eagles
stoop not at mallards, or wild-drakes either."

"Yet, sir," said Pearson, "the fellow should be punished as a libeller.
The quantity of foul and pestilential abuse which we found in his
pockets makes me loth he should go altogether free--Please to look at
them, sir."

"A most vile hand," said Oliver, as he looked at a sheet or two of our
friend Wildrake's poetical miscellanies--"The very handwriting seems to
be drunk, and the very poetry not sober--What have we here?

'When I was a young lad,
My fortune was bad--
If e'er I do well, 'tis a wonder'--

Why, what trash is this?--and then again--

'Now a plague on the poll
Of old politic Noll!
We will drink till we bring
In triumph back the King.'

In truth, if it could be done that way, this poet would be a stout
champion. Give the poor knave five pieces, Pearson, and bid him go sell
his ballads. If he come within twenty miles of our person, though, we
will have him flogged till the blood runs down to his heels."

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