"No."
He made no effort to speak to any one, or to salute Lady Biron or any of his acquaintances, but stood patiently, his eyes fixed on the ground.
Sir William asked whether he adhered to his statement that the commission he had exhibited was a forgery?
At which he looked up steadily, and said,—
"Yes; it was not written by the King."
As he made the avowal a murmur of indignation passed through the room, and Sir William ordered him to be removed, telling him he should be examined to-morrow, the account of his answers sent up to London, and the will of the Parliament communicated to him as soon as possible. Inglesant bowed in reply and turned to leave the room, making no effort to salute or take leave of any one; but Lord Biron stopped him with a gesture, and said, probably actuated by some feeling which he could not have explained,—
"I wish you good-day, Mr. Inglesant. I may never see you again."
Inglesant looked up, a slight flush passing over his features, and their eyes met.
"I wish you good-day, my lord," he said; "you have acted as a faithful servant of the King."
Lord Biron made no further effort to detain him, and he left the room.
The next day he was brought up before Sir William Brereton, and examined at great length. He stated that the plot had originated with the Roman Catholics, especially the Jesuits, whose envoy Lord Glamorgan was; that all the warrants and papers were forged by them, and that he had received his instructions and the King's commission from Father St. Clare himself. He stated that if the design failed, the King was to know nothing of it, and if it succeeded it was supposed that he would pardon the offenders on consideration of the benefits he would receive. A vast mass of evidence was taken by Sir William from Irish soldiers, inhabitants of Chester, and people of every description, relative to what had taken place in the city, and all was sent to London to the Parliament. In the course of a few days orders came down to bring Inglesant up to town, together with some of the most important witnesses, to be examined before a Committee of the House of Commons; and this was accordingly done at once, Sir William Brereton accompanying his prisoner and conveying him by easy stages to London, where he was confined in St. James's palace till the will of the Parliament should be known.
CHAPTER XIII.
When the news of the arrest of the Earl of Glamorgan reached Oxford, it caused the greatest consternation, and the King wrote letters, in his own name and in that of the Chancellor, to the Parliament and to all the principal politicians denying all participation in or knowledge of his negotiations.
The most violent excitement prevailed on the subject all over England. All parties, except the Papists, joined in expressing the most lively horror and indignation at proposals which not only repudiated the policy of the last hundred years, and let loose the Papists to pursue their course unimpeded, but also placed England at the mercy of the most repulsive and lawless of the followers of the Roman Catholic faith. The barbarities of the Irish rebels, which were sufficiently horrible, were magnified by rumour on every side; and the horror which the English conceived at the thought of their homes being laid open to those monsters, was only equalled by their indignation against those who had conceived so treasonable and unnatural a plot. Besides this, the King having denied all knowledge of such negotiations, the indignation of all loyal Churchmen was excited against those who had so treasonably and miserably done all they could to compromise the King's name, and make him odious to all right-thinking Englishmen. The known actors in this affair being very few, consisting, indeed, only of the Earl and Inglesant, and of the Jesuits (which last was a vague and intangible designation, standing in the ordinary English mind merely as a synonym for all that was wicked, base, and dangerous), and the Earl being, moreover, out of reach, the public indignation concentrated on Inglesant, and his life would have been worth little had he fallen into the hands of the mob. When the news of the fall of Chester and of Inglesant's arrest and subsequent transference to the Parliamentary commander, reached Oxford, the King sent for the Jesuit privately, and received him in his cabinet at Christ Church.
The King appeared anxious and ill, and as though he did not know where to turn or what to do.
"You have heard the news, Father, I suppose," he said. "Lord Biron, as well as Digby, has taken upon himself to keep the King's conscience, and know the King's mind better than he does himself. How many Kings there are in England now, I do not know, but I have ever found my most faithful servants my most strict masters. You know Jack Inglesant has been given over to the rebels? What are we to do for him?"
"Your Majesty can do nothing," said the Jesuit. "All that could be done has been done, and as far as may be has been done well. All that your Majesty has to do now is to be silent."
"Then Inglesant must be given up," said the King.
"He must be given up. Your Majesty has no choice."
"Another!" said the King, bitterly. "Strafford, whose blood tinges every sight I see! Laud, Glamorgan, now another! What right have I to suppose my servants will be faithful to me, when I give them up, one by one, without a word?"
"Your Majesty does not discriminate," said the Jesuit; "your good heart overpowers your clearer reason. It is as much your duty, for the good of the State, to be deaf to the voice of private feeling and friendship, as it is for your servants to be deaf to all but the call of duty to your Majesty; and this your servants know, and do not dream that they have any cause to complain. Strafford and the Archbishop both acknowledged this, and now it will be the same again. There is no fear of John Inglesant, your Majesty."
"No," said the King, rising and pacing the closet with unequal steps, "there is no fear of John Inglesant, I believe you. There is no fear that any man will betray his friends, and be false to his Order and his plighted word, except the King!—except the King!"
Apparently the Jesuit did not think it worth while to answer this outbreak, for he said, after a pause,—
"Your Majesty has written to Glamorgan?"
"Yes, I have told him to keep quiet," said the King, sitting down again; "he is in no danger—I am clear of him. But do you mean to say, Father, that Inglesant must be left to the gallows without a word?"
"No, I do not say that, your Majesty," said the other; "the rebels will do nothing in a hurry, you may depend. They will do all they can to get something from him which may be useful against your Majesty, and it will be months before they have done with him. I have good friends among them, and shall know all that happens. When they are tired of him, and the thing is blown over a little, I shall do what I can."
"And you are sure of him," said the King; "any evidence signed by him would be fatal indeed."
"Your Majesty may be quite easy," said the other, "I am sure of him."
"They will threaten him with the gallows," said the King, "life is sweet to most men."
"I suppose it is," said the Jesuit, as if it were an assertion he had heard several times lately, and began to think he must believe; "I have no experience in such matters. But, however sweet it may be, its sweetness will not induce John Inglesant to utter a syllable against the cause in which he is engaged."
"You are very confident of your pupil," said the King. "I hope you will not be deceived."
The Jesuit smiled, but did not seem to think it necessary to make any further protestations, and soon after left the closet.
* * * * *
Inglesant remained some time in confinement at St. James's before he was summoned before the Parliamentary Committee; but at the beginning of March another of those extraordinary events occurred which seemed arranged by some providential hand to fight against the King. A packet boat put into Padstow, in Cornwall, supposing it to be a royal garrison; on discovering their mistake, and some slight resistance having been overpowered, the captain threw a packet of letters and some loose papers overboard. The papers were lost, but the packet was fished out of the sea, and proved to contain the most important of the correspondence from Lord Digby, describing the discovery of the plot, the articles of agreement with the Papists, the copy of the warrant from the King to the Earl of Glamorgan, and several letters from the Earl himself, all asserting his innocence of any actions but those directed and approved by the King. These letters were published in extenso by the Parliament in a pamphlet which appeared on the 17th of March. The information contained in these papers was of the greatest use to the Parliament, for, though there was nothing in them absolutely to inculpate the King (indeed the letters of Lord Digby, as far as they went, were strong proofs to the contrary), yet it placed it in their power to make assertions and inquiries based upon fact, and it brought forward Lord Glamorgan as an evidence on their side. If they could now have produced a confession signed by Inglesant to the same effect, the case would have been almost complete—at any rate few would have hesitated to call the moral proof certain. A Committee of the Commons was appointed to examine Inglesant, and he was summoned to appear before them.
On the day appointed he was brought from St. James's across the park in a sedan, guarded by soldiers, and not being recognised escaped without any notice from the passers-by.
The Committee sat in one of the rooms of the Parliament House, and began by asking Inglesant his name.
"I understand," said one of the members savagely, "that your name is Inglesant, of a family of courtiers and sycophants, who for generations have earned their wretched food by doing any kind of dirty work the Court set them; and that they never failed to do it so as to earn a reputation even among the mean reptiles of the Court precincts. This is true, is it not? And you have held some of those posts which an honest man would scorn."
Inglesant had recovered his health during his imprisonment, thanks to rest and sufficient food, and his manner was quiet and confident. To the attack of the Parliamentarian he answered simply,—
"My name is Inglesant; I have been Esquire of the Body to the King."
The Chairman checked the warmth of the Puritan, and began to question Inglesant concerning the plot, endeavouring to throw him off his guard by mentioning facts which had come to their knowledge through the recent discoveries. But Inglesant was prepared with his story. Though he was surprised at the amount of knowledge the Committee possessed, yet he stood to his assertion that he knew nothing of any instructions except those which he had himself received, and that the whole plot originated with the Jesuits, as far as he knew, and had every reason to believe. When he was asked how he, a Protestant and a Churchman, could lend himself to such a plot, he replied that he was very much inclined to the Romish Church, and that he thought the King's affairs so desperate that the plan of obtaining help from the Irish rebels appeared to him and to Father St. Clare as almost the only resource left to them. The Committee, finding gentle means fail, adopted a sterner tone, telling him he was guilty of high treason, without benefit, and that he might certainly, on his own confession, be condemned to the gallows without further trial. They then offered him a statement to sign, which, they said, they had sure information contained nothing but the truth. Inglesant looked at it, and saw that in truth it did contain a very fair statement of what had really taken place.
He replied that it was impossible for him to sign anything so opposite to what he had himself confessed; and that even if he did, no one would believe so monstrous a statement, and one so contrary to the known opinions and professions of the King. The Committee then asked him why, if the King's commission was forged, it was kept back, and where it was?
Inglesant said that "the Lord Biron had it, having forcibly taken it from him, and refused to return it, telling him plainly that he should keep it as evidence against him."
He observed that this impressed the Committee, and he was soon after dismissed. He returned to St. James's the same way that he came, but found a strong guard summoned to attend him; for, the news of his examination having got wind, the crowd assembled at the Parliament House, and accompanied him, with hootings and insults of every kind, across the Park.
As one result of his examination, Inglesant was removed from St. James's, and sent by water to the Tower, where a close confinement in a small cell, and insufficient diet, again affected his health. He formed the idea that the Parliament intended to weaken him with long imprisonment, and so cause him to confess what they wished; he feared that the state of his health, and especially the extent to which his brain was affected, would assist this purpose; and this fear preyed upon him, and made him nervous and miserable—dreading above everything that, his mind being clouded, he might say something inadvertently which might discover the truth. His health rapidly declined, and he became again thin and worn. The Parliament Committee now spread a report that the royal party, who pretended to indicate the offenders in this plot, did not really do so; and that in particular they kept back the originals of the King's warrants and commissions, which they asserted to be forgeries, and refused to bring them forward and submit them to proof, which would be the surest way of making the fact of the King's ignorance of them certain. They did this because they knew Lord Biron's character as a man of unstained and unsuspicious honour, and they calculated that such a taunt as this would be certain to bring him forward with the commission, which he had in his keeping, and which they trusted to be able to prove was a genuine document. Their policy had the desired effect. Lord Biron, who was at Newstead, without consulting any one, sent up a special messenger to the Speaker to say that, a safe-conduct being granted him, he would come up to London, and appear before the Committee of Parliament, bringing the commission, which he asserted was a palpable forgery, with him. The safe-conduct was immediately sent him, and he came up. The Committee were rejoiced at the success of their policy, and fixed a day for him to appear before them, and at the same time ordered Inglesant to be fetched up from the Tower to be confronted with his lordship. The affair caused the greatest interest, and the Committee Room was thronged with all who could command sufficient influence to obtain entrance, and crowds filled the corridors and the precincts of the House. Lord Biron was introduced, and gave his evidence with great clearness, describing the arrest of Inglesant, his suspicious conduct, and his attempt to induce Lord Biron to destroy the warrant; and finally produced the paper, and handed it to the clerk of the Committee. The Chairman then ordered Inglesant to be brought in through a side door; and he came up to the bar.
His appearance was so altered, and his manner so cowed and embarrassed, that a murmur ran through the room, and Lord Biron could not restrain an exclamation of pity. Inglesant started when he saw him, for he had been kept in complete ignorance of what had occurred, and his mind immediately recurred to the commission. He was evidently making the greatest efforts to collect himself, and keep himself calm. Nothing could have told more against himself, or in favour of the part he was playing, than his whole demeanour.
He was examined minutely on the circumstances of his arrest, and related everything exactly as it occurred, which, indeed, he had done before—both his relations tallying exactly with Lord Biron's.
When asked what his business was in Chester, he said—to prepare the Cavaliers to receive the Irish help; and added that he had been obliged to communicate a great deal more to Lord Biron than he had wished or intended, and that Lord Biron had always manifested the greatest suspicion of him and of his mission.
He gave his evidence steadily, but without looking at Lord Biron, or indeed at any one.
When asked why he wished to recover possession of the commission, or at least to induce Lord Biron to burn it, he replied,—
"Lest it should serve as evidence against myself."
This seemed to most present a very natural answer; yet it caused Lord Biron to start, and to fix a searching glance on Inglesant.
As a gentleman of high breeding and instinctive honour, it jarred upon his instinct, and conveyed a sudden suspicion that Inglesant was acting. That the latter might be so utterly perverted by his Jesuit teaching as to be lost to all sense of right and truth, he was prepared to believe; that he might have been led into treason knowingly or inadvertently, he was willing to think; but the low and pitiful motive that he gave was so opposed to his previous character, notorious for a fantastic elevation and refinement of sentiment, that it supposed him a monster, or that some miracle had been wrought upon him. A terrible doubt—a doubt which Biron had once or twice already seen faintly in the distance—approached nearer and looked him in the face.
The Committee had examined the commission one by one, comparing it with some of the King's writing which they had before them; finally it passed into the hands of a Mr. Greenway, a lawyer, and skilled in questions of evidence and of writing, who examined it attentively.
It was curious to see the behaviour of the two men under examination while this was going on; Lord Biron, as a noble gentleman, from whose mind the doubt of a few minutes ago had passed, standing erect and confident, looking haughtily and freely at the expert, secure in his own honour and in that of his King; Inglesant, cowed and anxious, leaning forward over the bar, his eyes fixed also on the lawyer—pale, his lips twitching,—the very picture of the guilty prisoner in the dock.
The expert looked at both the men curiously, then threw down the paper contemptuously.
"It is a palpable forgery," he said; "and not even a clever imitation of the King's hand."
And indeed, from some accident or other, the letters were, some of them, formed in a manner unusual to the King.
Inglesant, weakened with illness and anxiety, could not restrain a movement of intense relief. He drew a long breath and stood erect, as if relieved from an oppressive weight. He raised his eyes, and they caught those of Lord Biron, which had been attracted towards him, and were fixed full on his face.
Biron started again; there was not the least doubt that Inglesant rejoiced in the proof of the forgery of the warrant. That terrible doubt stood close now before his lordship and grasped him by the throat.
Suppose, after all, this man whom he had imprisoned and despised, whose mission he had thwarted—this man whom all the royal party were calling by every contemptuous name, who stood there pale, cowed, beaten down;—suppose, after all, that this man, alone against these terrible odds, was all the time fighting a desperate battle for the King's honour, forsaken by God and men! But the consequences which would follow, if this view of the matter were the true one, were, in Lord Biron's estimation, too terrible to be thought of.
"I wish to say," said Inglesant, looking straight before him, "that the Lord Biron obtained possession of that paper when he was in possession of information of which I was ignorant. His lordship would probably have behaved differently, but he thought he was speaking to a thief."
There was something in this covert reproach, so worded, which so exactly accorded with what was passing in Lord Biron's mind that it cut him to the quick.
"I assure you, Mr. Inglesant," he said eagerly, "you are mistaken. Whatever I may think of the cause in which you are engaged, I have always wished to behave to you as to a gentleman. If you consider that you have cause of complaint against me, I shall be ready, when these unhappy complications are well over, as I trust they may be, to give you satisfaction and to beg your pardon afterwards."
He said these last words so pointedly that Inglesant started, and saw at once that his fear had been well founded, and that, thrown off his guard by the success of the examination of the warrant, he had made a mistake. He looked up quickly at Biron—a strange terror in his face—and their eyes met.
That they understood each other is probable; at any rate Inglesant's look was so full of warning that Biron understood that if nothing more, and restrained himself at once. All this had passed almost unnoticed by the Committee, who were consulting together.
Lord Biron left the room, and Inglesant was taken back to the Tower as he had come. Mr. Secretary Milton, who had been present as a spectator, left the Parliament House and proceeded at once to Clerkenwell Green to the house of General Cromwell, and related to him and to General Ireton, who was with him, what had occurred.
"They have gained nothing by getting this warrant," he said; "nay, you have lost rather. You have brought up Lord Biron, who comes forward in the light of day and with the utmost confidence, and challenges this paper to be a forgery, and your own lawyers bear him out in it. I have not the least doubt it is the King's; but some of the letters, either purposely or more probably by accident, are not in his usual hand, and the best judges cannot agree on these matters. Out of Inglesant you will get nothing. He is a consummate actor, as I have known of old. He is prepared at every point, and carefully trained by his masters the Jesuits. I know these men, and have seen them both here and abroad. Acting on select natures the training is perfect. They will go to death more indifferently than to a Court ball. You may rack them to the extremity of anguish, and in the delirium of pain they will say what they have been trained to say, and not the truth. You may wear him out with fasting and anxiety until he makes some mistake; he made two to-day, besides one which was a necessity of the case,—for I do not see what else he could have said,—that was so slight that no one saw it but Biron. Weakened by anxiety, doubtless, he could not restrain a movement of relief when the expert declared the warrant a forgery; Biron saw that too, for I watched him. Last, which was the greatest mistake of all, and would show that his training is not entirely perfect, were we not to make allowance for his broken health, he forgot his part, and suffered his passion to get the better of him, and to taunt Lord Biron in such a way that Biron, who I think till then honestly believed the King's word, very nearly let out the truth in his astonishment. But what do you gain by all this? It rather adds to the apparent truth of the man's story, and gives life to his evidence. Nothing but his written testimony will be of any use, and this you will never get."
"He shall be tried for his life at any rate," said Cromwell.
"You have threatened him with that already."
"Threatening is one thing," replied the General; "to stand beneath the gallows condemned to death another."
* * * * *
News of the taking of Chester and of the arrest of John Inglesant on such a terrible charge—a charge at once of treason against the King, his country, and his religion—as it travelled at once over England, reached Gidding in due course. It caused the greatest dismay and distress in that quiet household. About the middle of April a gentleman of Huntingdon, a Parliament man, who had lately come from London, dined with the family. He told them during dinner that he had been present in the Committee room when Mr. Inglesant had been examined. When dinner was over Mr. John Ferrar, who was now at the head of the family, remained at table with this gentleman, being anxious to hear more, and Mary Collet also stayed to hear what she could of her friend, watching every word with eager eyes. In that family, where there was nothing but love and kindliness and entire sympathy, it was thought only natural that she should do so, and no ill-natured thought occurred to any member of it. The Parliament man described more at full the examination before the Committee, and Inglesant's worn and guilty appearance,—sad news, indeed, to both his hearers. He described Lord Biron's examination and the production of the forged warrant.
"And did John Inglesant admit that it was forged?" said Mr. Ferrar.
"Yes, he said from his own knowledge that it was prepared by Father St. Clare the Jesuit."
"It is a strange world," said Mr. Ferrar dreamily, "and the Divine call seems to lead some of us into slippery places—scarcely the heavenly places in Christ of which the Apostle dreamt."
The gentleman did not understand him, nor did Mary Collet altogether until afterwards.
Presently Mr. Ferrar said,—
"And what do you think of it all? Was the warrant forged or not?"
"I am somewhat at a loss what to think," said the other, "I am not, as you know, Mr. Ferrar, and without wishing to offend you, an admirer of the King, but I do not believe him to be a fool and mad. There is no doubt that he has tampered with the Papists throughout, yet I cannot think, unless he is in greater extremities than we suppose, that he would have practised so wild and mad a scheme as this one of the Irish rebels and murderers. On the other hand, I can conceive nothing too bad for the Jesuits to attempt; and it seems to me that I can discern something of their hand in this—an introduction of an armed Papist force into the country, to be joined, doubtless, by all the English Papists; only I should have thought they could have procured this without bringing in the King's name, but doubtless they had some reason for this also. The general opinion among the Parliament men is that the warrant is the King's, and that he has planned the whole thing. On the other hand, it is plain the Cavaliers do not believe it, or Lord Biron would never have come boldly up of his own accord, and brought up the warrant so confidently."
"But does not the warrant itself prove something one way or the other?" said Mr. Ferrar.
"These things are very difficult to judge upon," said the gentleman. "The expert to whom the Committee gave it pronounced it a forgery upon the spot, but he has been greatly blamed for precipitancy; and others to whom it has been shown pronounce it genuine. Some of the letters certainly are not like the King's, but the style of the hand is the King's, they say, even in these unusual letters. By the way, if you had seen Inglesant's guilty look when the expert took the paper in his hand, you would say with me it was a forgery. You could not, to my mind, have a stronger proof."
"But if the King had ordered this, would not he help Mr. Inglesant?" Mary Collet ventured to say.
"Help? madam," said the gentleman warmly, "when did the King help any of his friends?"
"Whichever way it is," said Mr. Ferrar mildly, "he cannot help. To help would be to condemn himself in public opinion, which in these unhappy distractions he dare not do. Did Lord Biron speak to Mr. Inglesant, sir?"
"Very little. They taunted each other once, and seemed about to come to blows. All the evidence went to show that Lord Biron suspected him from the first."
The gentleman soon after left. Mr. Ferrar returned to the dining-room after seeing him to his horse, and found Mary Collet sitting where they had left her, lost in sad and humiliating thought.
He sat down near her and said kindly,—
"My dear Mrs. Mary, I hardly know which of the two alternatives is the best for your friend—for my friend; but it is better at least for you to know the truth, and I think I can now pretty much tell which is the true one. If this plot were altogether the Jesuits', John Inglesant would not say it. If the King had no hand in it, proof would be given a thousand ways without having recourse to this. There are other facts which to my mind are conclusive that this way of thinking is the right one, but I need not tell them all to you. What I have said I should say to none but you. You will see that it is of the utmost importance that you say nothing of it to any. I believe you may comfort yourself in thinking that, according to the light which is given him, John Inglesant is following what he believes to be his duty, and none can say at any rate that it is a smooth and easy path he has chosen to walk in."
Mary Collet thanked him, her beautiful eyes full of tears, and left the room.
A few days afterwards the news ran like wildfire over England that the King had left Oxford secretly, and that no one knew where he was; and a night or two afterwards Mr. John Ferrar was called up by a gentleman who said he was Dr. Hudson, the King's Chaplain, and that the King was alone, a few paces from the door, and that he would immediately fetch him in.
Mr. Ferrar received His Majesty with all possible respect. But fearing that Gidding, from the known loyalty of the family, might be a suspected place, for better concealment he conducted the King to a private house at Coppingford, an obscure village at a small distance from Gidding, and not far from Stilton. It was a very dark night, and but for the lantern Mr. Ferrar carried, they could not have known the way. As it was, they lost their way once, and wandered for some time in a ploughed field. Mr. Ferrar always spoke with the utmost passionate distress of this night, as of a night the incidents of which must have awakened the compassion of every feeling heart, however biassed against the King. As a proof of the most affecting distress, the King, he said, was serene and even cheerful, and said he was protected by the King of kings. His Majesty slept at Coppingford, but early in the May morning he was up, and parted from Mr. Ferrar, going towards Stamford. Mr. Ferrar returned to his house, and two days after it was known that the King had given himself up to the Scottish army.
CHAPTER XIV.
Inglesant remained in prison, and would have thought that he had been forgotten, but that every few weeks he was sent for by the Committee and examined. The Committee got no new facts from him, and indeed probably did not expect to get any; but it was very useful to the Parliament party to keep him before the public gaze as a Royalist and a Jesuit. It was a common imputation upon the Cavaliers that they were Papists, and anything that strengthened this belief made the King's party odious to the nation. Here was a servant of the King's, an avowed Jesuit, and one self-condemned in the most terrible crimes. It is true he was disowned by the royal party, apparently sincerely; but the general impression conveyed by his case was favourable to the Parliament, and they therefore took care to keep it before the world. These examinations were looked forward to by Inglesant with great pleasure, the row up the river and the sight of fresh faces being such a delight to him. He was not confined to his room, being allowed to walk at certain hours in the court of the Tower, and he found a box containing a few books, a Lucretius, and a few other Latin books, probably left by some former occupant of the cell. These were not taken from him, and he read and re-read them, especially the Lucretius, many times. They saved him from utter prostration and despair,—they, and a secret help which he acknowledged afterwards,—a help, which to men of his nature certainly does come upon prayer to God, to whatever source it may be ascribed;—a help which in terrible sleepless hours, in hours of dread weariness of life, in hours of nervous pain more terrible than all, calms the heart and soothes the brain, and leaves peace and cheerfulness and content in the place of restlessness and despair. Inglesant said that repeating the name of Jesus simply in the lonely nights kept his brain quiet when it was on the point of distraction, being of the same mind as Sir Charles Lucas, when, "many times calling upon the sacred name of Jesus," he was shot dead at Colchester.
More than a year passed over him. From the scraps of news he could gather from his jailer, and from the soldiers in the court during his walks, he learnt that the King had been given up by the Scots, had escaped from Hampton Court, had been retaken and sent to Carisbrooke, and was soon to come to London, the man said, for his trial.
It was soon after he had learnt this last news that his jailer suddenly informed him that he was to be tried for his life.
Accordingly, soon after, a warrant arrived from Bradshaw, the President of the Council of State, to bring him before that body.
The Council sat in Essex House, and some gentlemen, who had surrendered Pembroke upon terms that they should depart the country in three days, but—accounting it base to desert their prince, and hoping that there might be further occasion of service to His Majesty,—had remained in London, were upon their trial. When Inglesant arrived with his guard these gentlemen were under examination, and one of them, who had a wife and children, was fighting hard for his life, arguing the case step by step with the lawyers and the Council. Inglesant was left waiting in the anteroom several hours; from the conversation he overheard, the room being constantly full of all sorts of men coming and going—soldiers, lawyers, divines—he learnt that the King's trial was coming on very soon, and he fancied that his name was mentioned as though the nearness of the King's trial had something to do with his own being hurried on. It was a cold day, and there was a large fire in the anteroom. Inglesant had had nothing to eat since morning, and felt weak and faint. He wished the other examinations over that his own might come on; his, he thought, would not take long. At last the gentlemen were referred to the Council of War, to be dealt with as spies, and came out of the Council chamber with their guards. The one was a plain country gentleman, and neither of them knew Inglesant, but, stopping a moment in the anteroom, while the guard prepared themselves, one of them asked his name, saying he was afraid they had kept him waiting a long time. This was Colonel Eustace Powell, and Inglesant met him again when he thought he had only a few minutes to live.
The Council debated whether they should hear Inglesant that day, as it was now late in the afternoon, and the candles were lighted, but finally he was sent for into the Council.
As soon as he came to the bar, Bradshaw asked him suddenly when he saw the King last, to which he replied that he had not seen the King since Naseby field.
"You were at Naseby, then?" said Bradshaw.
"Yes," said Inglesant.
"And you ran away, I suppose?"
"Yes," said Johnny, "I ran away."
"Then you are a coward as well as a traitor," said Bradshaw.
"I am not braver than other men," said Inglesant.
Inglesant was then examined more in form, but very shortly; everything he said having been said so often before.
The President then told him that, by his own confession, he was guilty of death, and should be hanged at once if he persisted in it, but that the Council did not believe his confession—indeed, had evidence and confessions from others to prove the reverse; and therefore, if he persisted in his course, he was his own murderer, and could hope for no mercy from God. That if he would sign the declaration which they offered him, which they knew to be true, and which stated that he had only acted under the King's orders, he should not only have his life spared, but should very shortly be set at liberty.
To this he replied that if they had evidence to prove what they said, they did not want his; that he could not put his name to evidence so contrary to what he had always confessed, and was prepared to stand by to death; that, as to his fate before God, he left his soul in His hands, who was more merciful than man.
To this Bradshaw replied that they were most merciful to him, and desired to save him from himself; that, if he died, he died with a lie upon his lips, from his own obstinacy and suicide.
Making no answer to this, he was ordered back to the Tower, and warned to prepare himself for death. He saw clearly that their object was to bring out evidence signed by him on the eve of the King's trial, which no doubt would have been a great help to their cause. As he went back in his barge to the Tower, he wondered why they did not publish something with his name attached, without troubling themselves about his consent. As they went down the river, the darkness became denser, and the boat passed close to many other wherries, nearly running them down; the lights on the boats and the barges glimmered indistinctly, and made the course more difficult and uncertain. They shot the bridge under the mass of dark houses and irregular lights, and proceeded across the pool towards the Tower stairs. The pool was somewhat clear of ships, and the lanterns upon the wharves and such vessels as were at anchor made a clearer light than that above the bridge. As they crossed the pool, a wherry, rowed by a single man, came towards them obliquely from the Surrey side, so as to approach near enough to discern their persons, and then, crossing their bows, suffered itself to be run down before the barge could be stopped. The waterman climbed in at the bows, as his own wherry filled and went down. He seemed a stupid, surly man, and might be supposed to be either deaf or drunk. To the abuse of the soldiers and watermen he made no answer but that he was an up-river waterman, and was confused by the lights and the current of the bridge. The officer called him forward into the stern, and as he came towards them Inglesant knew him in spite of his perfect disguise. It was the Jesuit. He answered as many of the officer's questions as he appeared to understand, and took no manner of notice of Inglesant, who of course appeared entirely indifferent and uninterested. When they landed at the stairs, the waterman, with a perfectly professional manner, swung himself over the side into the water, and steadied the boat for the gentlemen to land, which act the officer took as an awkward expression of respect and gratitude. As Inglesant passed him he put his hand up for his to rest on, and Johnny felt a folded note passed into it. Without the least pause, he followed the officer across the Tower wharf, and was conducted to his room. As soon as he was alone he examined the paper, which contained these words only:—
"You are not forgotten. Keep on a little longer. The end is very near."
It made little impression upon him, nor did it influence his after conduct, which had already been sufficiently determined upon. He expected very little help from any one, though he believed that Father St. Clare would do what he could. The Jesuit would have died himself at any moment had his purpose required it, and he could not think that he would regard as of much importance the fall of another soldier in the same rank. He was mistaken, but he did not know it; the Jesuit, beneath his placid exterior, retained for his favourite and cleverest pupil an almost passionate regard, and would have done for him far more than he would have thought worth the doing for himself. Meanwhile, Inglesant translated his words into a different language, and thought more than once that doubtless they were very true, and that, though in a sense not intended, the end was very near.
This took place at the beginning of December, and about a week afterwards the jailer advised Inglesant to prepare for death, for the warrant to behead him was signed, and would be put into execution that day week at Charing Cross. He immediately sent a petition to the Council of State, that a Priest, either of the Roman Catholic or the English Church, he was indifferent which, might be sent him. To this an answer was sent immediately that he was dying with a lie upon his lips, and that the presence of no priest or minister could be of any use to him, and would not be granted. The same day a Presbyterian minister was admitted to him, who used the same arguments for some time without effect, representing the fearful condition that Inglesant was in as an unrepentant sinner. Inglesant began to regret that he had made any application, and this regret was increased two days afterwards when a man, who offered him certain proofs that he was a Roman Catholic Priest, was admitted, and gave him the same advice, refusing him Absolution and the Sacrament unless he complied. Upon this Inglesant became desperate, and refused to speak again. The Priest waited some time and then left, telling him he was eternally lost.
This was the severest trial he had yet met with; but his knowledge of the different parties in the Romish Church, and the extent to which they subordinated their religion to their political intrigues, was too great to allow him to feel it so much as he otherwise would. He resigned himself to die unassisted. He applied for an English Prayer Book, but this also was refused. He remembered the old monastic missals he had possessed at Westacre, and thought over all those days with the tenderest regret.
The fatal morning arrived at last. Inglesant had passed a sleepless night; he had not the slightest fear of death, but excitement made sleep impossible. He thought often of his brother, but he had learned that he was in Paris alone; and even had he been in England, he felt no especial desire to see him under circumstances which could only have been intensely painful. Mary Collet he thought of night and day, but he knew it was impossible to obtain permission to see her, and he was tired of fruitless requests. He was tired and wearied of life, and only wished the excitement and strain over, that he might be at rest. It struck him that the greatest harshness was used towards him; his food was very poor and of the smallest quantity, and no one was admitted to him; but he did not wonder at this, knowing that his case differed from any other Loyalist prisoner.
At about eight o'clock on the appointed morning, the same officer who had conducted him before entered his room with the lieutenant of the Tower, bringing the warrant for his death. The lieutenant parted from him in a careless and indifferent way. They went by water and landed by York Stairs, and proceeded by back ways to a house nearly adjoining Northumberland House, facing the wide street about Charing Cross. From one of the first floor windows a staircase had been contrived, leading up to a high scaffold or platform on which the block was fixed. Inglesant had not known till that morning whether he was to be hanged or beheaded; like every other thought, save one, it was indifferent to him—that one, how he should keep his secret to the last. In the room of this house opening on the scaffold, he found Colonel Eustace Powell, whom he had met at Essex House, who was to precede him to death. He greeted Inglesant with great kindness, but, as Johnny thought, with some reserve. He was a very pious man, strongly attached to the Protestant party in the Church of England, and he had passed the last three days entirely in the company of Dr. S——, who was then in the room with him, engaged in religious exercises, and his piety and resignation had attached the Doctor to him very much. The Doctor now proceeded to ask the Colonel, before Inglesant and the others, a series of questions, in order that he should give some account of his religion, and of his faith, charity, and repentance, to all of which he answered fully; that he acknowledged his death to be a just punishment of God for his former sins; that he acknowledged that his just due was eternal punishment, from which he only expected to escape through the satisfaction made by Christ, by which Mediator, and none other, he hoped to be saved. The Doctor then asking him if, by a miracle (not to put him in vain hope), God should save him that day, what life he would resolve to lead hereafter? he replied, "It is a question of great length, and requires a great time to answer. Men in such straits would promise great things, but a vow I would make, and by God's help endeavour to keep it, though I would first call some friend to limit how far I should make a vow, that I might not make a rash one, and offer the sacrifice of fools."
In answer to other questions, he said,—"He wished well to all lawful governments; that he did not justify himself in having ventured against the existing one; he left God to judge it whether it be righteous, and if it be, it must stand. He desired to make reparation to any he had injured, and he forgave his enemies."
The Doctor then addressed him at length, saying,—
"Sir, I shall trouble you very little farther. I thank you for all those heavenly colloquies I have enjoyed by being in your company these three days, and truly I am sorry I must part with so heavenly an associate. We have known one another heretofore, but never so Christianlike before. I have rather been a scholar to learn from you than an instructor. I wish this stage, wherein you are made a spectacle to God, angels, and the world, may be a school to all about you; for though I will not diminish your sins, yet I think there are few here have a lighter load upon them than you have, and I only wish them your repentance, and that measure of faith that God hath given you, and that measure of courage you have attained from God."
The Colonel, having wished all who were present in the room farewell, went up on the scaffold accompanied by the Divine. The scaffold was so near that Inglesant and the officers and the guards, who stood at the window screened from the sight of the people, could hear every word that passed. They understood that the whole open place was densely crowded, but they could scarcely believe it, the silence was so profound.
Colonel Powell made a speech of some length, clearing himself of Popery in earnest language, not blaming his judges, but throwing the guilt on false witnesses, whom, however, he forgave. He bore no malice to the present Government, nor pretended to decide controversies, and spoke touchingly of the sadness and gloom of violent death, and how mercifully he was dealt with in being able to face it with a quiet mind. He finally thanked the authorities for their courtesy in granting him the death of the axe—a death somewhat worthy of his blood, answerable to his birth and qualification—which courtesy had much helped towards the pacification of his mind.
Inglesant supposed the end was now come, but to his surprise the Doctor again stepped forward, and before all the people repeated the whole former questions, to each of which the Colonel replied in nearly the same words.
Then, stepping forward again to the front of the scaffold, the Colonel said, speaking to the people in a calm and tender voice,—
"There is not one face that looks upon me, though many faces, and perhaps different from me in opinion and practice but methinks hath something of pity in it; and may that mercy which is in your hearts now, be meted to you when you have need of it! I beseech you join with me in prayer."
The completest silence prevailed, broken only by a faint sobbing and whispering sound from the excited and pitying crowd. Colonel Powell prayed for a quarter of an hour with an audible voice; then taking leave again of his friends and directing the executioner when to strike, he knelt down to the block, and repeating the words, "Lord Jesus, receive me," his head was smitten off with a blow.
A long deep groan, followed by an intense silence, ran through the crowd. The officer who accompanied Inglesant looked at him with a peculiar expression; and, bowing in return, Inglesant passed through the window, and as he mounted the steps and his eyes came to the level of, and then rose higher than the interposing scaffold, he saw the dense crowd of heads stretching far away on every hand, the house windows and roofs crowded on every side. He scarcely saw it before he almost lost the sight again. A wild motion that shook the crowd, a roar that filled the air and stunned the sense, a yell of indignation, contempt, hatred, hands shook and clutched at him, wild faces leaping up and staring at him, cries of "Throw him over!" "Give over the Jesuit to us!" "Throw over the Irish murderer!" made his senses reel for a moment, and his heart stop. It was inconceivable that a crowd, the instant before placid, pitiful, silent, should in a moment become like that, deafening, mad, thirsting for blood. The amazing surprise and reaction produced the greatest shock. Hardening himself in a moment, he faced the people, his hat in his hand, his pale face hard set, his teeth closed. Once or twice he tried to speak; it would have been as easy to drown the Atlantic's roar. As he stood, apparently calm, this terrible ordeal had the worst possible effect upon his mind. Other men came to the scaffold calm in mind, prepared by holy thoughts, and the sacred, tender services of the Church of their Lord, feeling His hand indeed in theirs. They spoke, amid silence and solemn prayers, to a pitying people, the name of Jesus on their lips, the old familiar words whispered in their ears, good wishes, deference, respect all around, their path seemed smooth and upward to the heavenly gates. But with him—how different! Denied the aid of prayer and sacrament, alone, overwhelmed with contempt and hatred, deafened with the fiendish noise which racked his excited and overwrought brain. He was indifferent before; he became hardened, fierce, contemptuous now. Hated, he hated again. All the worst spirit of his party and of his age became uppermost. He felt as though engaged in a mad duel with a despised yet too powerful foe. He turned at last to the officer, and said, his voice scarcely heard amid the unceasing roar,—
"You see, sir, I cannot speak; do not let us delay any longer."
The officer hesitated, and glanced at another gentleman, evidently a Parliament man, who advanced to Inglesant, and offered him a paper, the purport of which he knew by this time too well.
He told him in his ear that even now he should be set at liberty if he would sign the true evidence, and not rush upon his fate and lose his soul. He repeated that the Parliament knew he was not guilty, and had no wish to put him to death.
Inglesant saw the natural rejoinder, but did not think it worth his while to make it. Only get this thing over, and escape from this maddening cry, tearing his brain with its terrible roar, to something quieter at any rate.
He rejected the paper, and turning to the officer he said, with a motion towards the people of inexpressible disdain,—
"These good people are impatient for the final act, sir; do not let us keep them any longer."
The officer still hesitated, and looked at the Parliament man, who shook his head, and immediately left the scaffold. The officer then leaned on the rail, and spoke to his lieutenant in the open space round the scaffold within the barriers. The latter gave a word of command, and the soldiers fell out of their rank so as to mingle with the crowd. As soon as the officer saw this manoeuvre completed, he took Inglesant's arm, and said hurriedly,—"Come with me to the house, and be quick." Not knowing what he did, Inglesant followed him hastily into the room. They had need to be quick. A yell, to which the noise preceding it was as nothing—terrible as it had been,—a shower of stones, smashing every pane of glass, and falling in heaps at their feet,—showed the fury of a maddened, injured people, robbed of their expected prey.
The officer looked at Inglesant, and laughed.
"I thought there would be a tumult," he said; "we are not safe here; the troops will not oppose them, and they will break down the doors. Come with me."
He led Inglesant, still almost unconscious, through the back entries and yards, the roar of the people still in their ears, till they reached a stair leading to the river, where was a wherry and two or three guards. The officer stepped in after Inglesant, crying, "Pull away! The Tower!" then, leaning back, and looking at Inglesant, he said,—
"You stood that very well. I would rather mount the deadliest breach than face such a sight as that."
Inglesant asked him if he knew what this extraordinary change of intention meant.
To which he replied,—
"No; I acted to orders. Probably you are of more use to the Parliament alive than dead; besides, I fancy you have friends. I should think you are safe now."
That afternoon, a report spread through London that Inglesant, the King's servant, had confessed all that was required of him upon the scaffold, and had his life given him in return. This report was believed mostly by the lower orders, especially those who had been before the scaffold; but few of the upper classes credited it, and even these only did so for a day or two. The Parliament made no further effort; and Inglesant was left quietly in prison.
This happened on the 19th of December, and on the 20th of January the King's trial began. That could scarcely be called a trial which consisted entirely in a struggle between the King and the Court on a point of law. In the charge of high treason, read in Westminster Hall against the King, special mention was made of the commission which he "doth still continue to the Earl of Ormond, and to the Irish rebels and revolters associated with him, from whom further invasions upon the land are threatened." There appear to have been no witnesses examined on this point, all that were examined during three days, in the painted chamber, simply witnessing to having seen the King in arms. Indeed, all witnesses were unnecessary, the sentence having been already determined upon, and the King utterly refusing to plead or to acknowledge the Court. The King, indeed, never appeared to such advantage as on his trial; he was perfectly unmoved by any personal thought; no fear, hesitation, or wavering appeared in his behaviour. He took his stand simply on the indisputable point of law that neither that Court, nor indeed any Court, had any authority to try him. To Bradshaw's assertion that he derived his authority from the people, he in vain requested a single precedent that the Monarchy of England was elective, or had been elective, for a thousand years. In his abandonment of self, and his unshaken constancy to a point of principle, he contrasted most favourably with his judges, whose sole motive was self. That none of the Parliamentary leaders were safe while the King lived is probable; but sound statesmanship does not acknowledge self-preservation as an excuse for mistaken policy, and the murder of the King was not more a crime than it was a blunder. Having been condemned by this unique Court, he was, with the most indecent haste, hurried to his end. A revolting coarseness marks every detail of the tragic story; the flower of England on either side was beneath the turf or beyond the sea, and the management of affairs was left in the hands of butchers and brewers. Ranting sermons, three in succession, before a brewer in Whitehall, is the medium to which the religious utterance of England is reduced, and Ireton and Harrison in bed together, with Cromwell and others in the room, signed the warrant for the fatal act. The horror and indignation which it impressed on the heart of the people may be understood a little by the fact, that in no country so much as in England the peculiar sacredness of Monarchy has since been carried so far. The impression caused by his death was so profound, that, forty years afterwards, when his son was arrested in his flight, the only thing that during the whole course of that revolution caused the least reaction in his favour was (according to the Whig Burnet) the fear that the people conceived that the same thing was going to be acted over again, and men remembered that saying of King Charles—"The prisons of princes are not far from their graves." He walked across the park from the garden at St. James's that January morning with so firm and quick a pace that the guards could scarcely keep the step, and stepping from his own banqueting house upon the scaffold, where the men who ruled England had so little understood him as to provide ropes and pulleys to drag him down in case of need, he died with that calm and kingly bearing which none could assume so well as he, and by his death he cast a halo of religious sentiment round a cause which, without the final act, would have wanted much of its pathetic charm, and struck that keynote of religious devotion to his person and the Monarchy which has not yet ceased to reverberate in the hearts of men.
"That thence the royal actor borneThe tragic scaffold might adorn,While round the armed bandsDid clap their bloody hands:He nothing common did, nor mean,Upon that memorable scene;But with his keener eyeThe axe's edge did try;Nor called the gods with vulgar spiteTo vindicate his helpless right,But bowed his comely headDown, as upon a bed."The Republican, Andrew Marvell.