XLIII
Of Two Strange Meetings in One Day
It was about the middle of the afternoon of that eventful day that I set out from my lodging in Westminster, and walked by way of Whitehall towards Charing Cross. Whither I was bound or with what aim I do not now remember; most likely I had neither aim nor definite destination in my mind, but was simply moving about to calm myself, for the scene of the morning had wrought upon me heavily. Whatever most of his friends felt, none of them could exceed me in sympathy for the unfortunate King; and my heart had been further wounded during the morning by an account of his last interview with his two youngest children, which must indeed have been a bitter matter, and worse to face than the death which so soon followed. All these matters we had spoken of at Master Goodfellow’s, until I could bear no longer to talk of the subject, and had gone forth to walk about the city. I was half minded to saddle my horse and ride away from London, for it seemed to me, who from my birth had been trained to pray for the King’s good estate, that a curse must rest upon the city that had witnessed his murder. But I reflected that I had a duty to perform to myself and my friends—namely, the recovery of my money—and I resolved to stay a while longer, but made up my mind that if I got no redress within reasonable time, I would go home and trouble myself no more in the matter.
It was beginning to grow dark when I came over against Whitehall, where groups of people still lingered about the scene of the King’s death. The scaffold had by that time been removed, and there were no traces of the terrible scene of the morning. I was hurrying past the banqueting house, when a man in a cloak came across from the gardens which lie between Whitehall and the river, and walked behind me for a short space. Suddenly his steps quickened, and he gained upon me and tapped me on the shoulder. I turned quickly to look at him. There was an oil-lamp burning close at hand, and by its light I saw that the man was General Cromwell. His hat was drawn down over his face, and his uniform was hidden by a large horseman’s cloak, but there was no mistaking him when he lifted his head to look at me.
“Well, farmer,” said he, “I knew you, although I could not see your countenance. There are not many Englishmen that stand six feet four. Have you finished the business that brought you hither?”
“No, sir,” I answered, and stood watching him and wondering what thoughts ran in the mind of this remarkable man, who, in my opinion, had been the chief instrument in bringing about the King’s death.
“And how is that? For you have been about your business some time, I think?”
“Two months, sir, all but a day. And, indeed, I cannot waste more time upon it, and must presently return home and suffer the loss of my money rather than hang about in London.”
“Softly, farmer, softly. It will do the Commonwealth no good if its citizens suffer loss. As for your fine of two hundred pounds, that you must lose, being bound for it by reason of your opposition to the nation’s welfare, but you shall have returned all that was taken from you over and above.”
“Why, sir,” said I, “I am much obliged. You would not have me say that I acknowledge the justice of any fine, for I don’t, but I shall certainly be glad to have the value of my stock returned to me. But I have been so sent from one office to another, and from this man to that, that I have grown impatient of the whole matter, not being used to aught but plain yes and no until this time.”
“Ay,” he said, as if talking to himself, “these lawyers with their quibbles and quips! However—well, but hast thou heard aught from thine own country of late? Thy friends at Pontefract Castle, Master Dale, still hold out against us. Beware, and join them not when you go home.”
“Nay, sir,” said I, “there is no cause to join them now. If ever I left my farm it was to fight for the King’s Majesty.”
He looked at me steadfastly and inclined his head.
“And that cause is now gone? Indeed it is so. Well, man, I respect an honest heart. But come with me a moment.”
He laid his hand on my arm and turned me in the direction of a doorway in the side of the palace. We entered and passed along a dark corridor which led to a small courtyard where a picket of soldiers was on duty. From this we passed into a gallery hung with fine pictures, such as I had never seen before, and from that through many great apartments richly decorated, and looking very vast and magnificent in the dim light, until we paused before a door where stood two pikemen on guard. My companion took a lamp from a table that stood near and advanced to the door, which was thrown open by one of the soldiers.
“Follow me,” said Cromwell, and entered the room. I stepped in after him, and the man shut the door again. The apartment was in darkness, and its proportions were so vast that the lamp shed but little light in it. Cromwell advanced to the centre, and, setting down the lamp upon a table, beckoned me to draw near. And then I saw that upon the table stood a coffin, covered over with a dark-coloured pall. While I wondered what this meant my companion turned the pall back, and I suddenly started with amazement.
“Sir, sir!” I said. “It is the King!”
For truly it was the body of the dead monarch that lay there in the coffin before me. His face was calm, and bore no trace of pain; he seemed, indeed, to be asleep rather than dead. I stood bound to the spot with horror, looking from the dead King’s face to the man who had brought me there, and who was beholding his fallen enemy with impassive countenance.
“Yea,” said Cromwell at length; “it is the King—the King that betrayed his great trust. Mark you, Master Dale, what fate is in store for a monarch that opposeth the just demands of his people. Do you know what this day hath done for England and the English nation? It hath made her and them free forever from tyranny.”
“Alas, sir,” said I, “I know naught save that he had children that are now weeping his death.”
He gave me a swift, deep glance, and drew the pall gently back over the dead King’s face.
“Yea,” he said, “there have been many children weep their father’s death of late years, and many fathers that have wept their children’s death. Come, let us go.”
He took up the lamp, and touched the dark pall here and there where it had become disarranged. Then he looked at me curiously.
“Farmer,” said he, “you see that we have treated him with all courtesy and respect. What think you, if they had taken off my head outside this morning, and the heads of my companions, would they have given us decent burial? Alack, more like Tyburn and the gibbet, and the kites to feed upon us.”
I remembered that saying in after-years, when Charles the Second came back to the kingdom, for then they disinterred Cromwell and his friends, and subjected their dead bodies to many foolish and cruel indignities.
We passed out again, and he preceded me through the great halls and apartments until we once more came into the space before Whitehall. There he suddenly turned upon me.
“Get you gone home, Master Dale,” he said, almost fiercely. “You are better in the country than in this city. There are more than you that are longing for a quiet life amongst the woods and fields, but the Lord hath appointed them to other work. Get you gone, get you gone, and keep clean hands and a right spirit. As to your business, it shall be done.”
Without another word he turned away sharply and disappeared in the direction of Westminster, while I, full of wonder and excitement at what I had heard and seen, went forward to Charing Cross, and along the Strand towards St. Paul’s. The streets were thronged with people, and every tongue was discussing the event of the day. The Roundhead soldiery were at every street corner, and bodies of troopers rode about as if in readiness for any rising. Here and there in the crowd was to be seen a Cavalier, distinguished from those among whom he walked by the difference in his garments and his long hair. Such, however, were suffered to pass in silence and unmolested, for the people seemed in no mood to create disturbances that day.
When I came to Ludgate, I was somewhat faint and weary with the excitement I had passed through, and I turned into the inn which has for its sign a holly bush, and called for ale wherewith to refresh myself. In the parlour of the inn there was gathered a numerous company of men—most of them shopkeepers from the surrounding streets—who had come there to drink their glass and smoke their pipe of tobacco. Amongst them I took my seat and listened to the conversation, which ran entirely on the King’s execution. When I entered, the whole attention of the company was being given to two men who were arguing the matter with great heat, the one being a tall, dark-visaged person of grave air, and the other a little stout man with a very red face and quick manners.
“But I say,” said the little man, “that the King’s execution was illegal; yea, and care not who hears me, for ’tis well known I have ever been on the side of the Parliament, and am, moreover, a freeman of the City, and have a right to say what I think. Yea, I say ’twas against the liberties of the people, and that I will uphold forever.”
“But thy arguments, dear sir, thy arguments,” said the tall man.
“Marry, here they are. As the law stands, ’tis the Commons that rule England; which is just law, for, as I say, away with Princes and Lords, and let the people have their rights. But if the Commons are to rule, it must be by a majority of the members. Yea, but what does Colonel Pride do but shut out all such as were unfriendly to the plans made by those in command of the army, so that the remaining members were as wax in the army’s hands.”
“And rightly,” said the tall man, “for the army hath saved England, and could not stand by to see the Commons peril the people’s salvation.”
“Ay, now, there I am with you,” said the little man. “Yea, I am for the army; but what I say is that, while the matter was right, it was, also, as a nice point of law, illegal.”
At this there was a shout of laughter, and the dark-faced man smiled in spite of his gravity.
“Ah, Master Truelove,” said he, “I see thou art naught but a stickler for fine points. Thou knowest well enow that we must look to greater issues at a time like this, and not stop hairsplitting until opportunities are lost.”
“That is right enough, neighbour,” said the little man, not to be beaten out of his argument; “but then, as I say, the matter is—Hallo, friend, thou seemest to be in some haste.”
It was I who interrupted him. I had suddenly leaped to my feet, and my hurried movement upset the tankard at his side. He looked at me with a half-angry, half-curious expression, but I had no time to explain matters to him, and with a hasty expression of regret I strode across the room and out at the door, where but a minute sooner I had seen the face of Dennis Watson.
That it was he I had no doubt. I was looking towards the door of the parlour, listening to the talk of the little stout man, when I saw Dennis’s head and shoulders appear round the doorpost. He looked cautiously into the room, as if in search of someone. His eyes travelled round the company until they met mine; then he gave me one swift glance and drew back his head and vanished.
I was out of the room and in the passage that led to it almost as soon as he disappeared. He was gone, but a serving-wench, bearing a trencher full of tankards, was coming from a room further away, and towards her I darted impetuously. She gave a little scream as she saw me advancing so hastily upon her.
“Nay,” said I, “there is naught to be frightened of. Hast seen a man leave this passage just now?”
“A tall young man, master, with black hair?”
“Yes, yes,” I cried. “Which way has he gone, girl? Tell me, quick!”
“He went through yon door,” she answered, pointing to a door at the end of the passage. “Follow the lane; it will take you to the river.”
I had opened the door before she finished speaking, and running into the night, found myself at the head of a long narrow lane, enclosed by houses on either side, the walls of which were so near together that I could have touched them easily by stretching out my arms. At the far end of this lane hung a lamp, the feeble rays of which shed but a small light on the stones beneath it. All the rest of the lane was dark, and I could see naught of my quarry, but I heard his feet running swiftly along the pavement, and immediately set off after him. Presently I saw him cross the narrow patch of light underneath the lamp, and I gave a shout and went forward at a greater speed. In another instant I, too, had reached the lamp. As I darted into the glare of it I heard the crack of a pistol, and felt a bullet whiz past my ear. I gave a fiercer shout at that, and redoubled my speed, and as I ran I heard my enemy’s feet sounding before me. The lane was very dark after that, but I ran on, and presently came out on a little wharf alongside the river. There was a lamp burning there, but I could see naught of Dennis, till a gentle splash of the water drew my attention to the river, and then I saw that he had leaped into a boat and was rowing away into the darkness.
Now, I could neither swim nor row, and had never been in a boat in my life, so that I stood on the edge of the water cursing my ill luck, while my enemy was rapidly disappearing. But as fortune would have it, there just then came along a stout fellow, who, catching sight of me, made up to my side and asked me if I wanted taking across to Southwark.
“Nay,” said I; “but do you see yonder boat—there, just getting out of sight? Follow that, and land me where the man who is in it lands, and I will pay you well.”
“Jump in here then, master,” said he. “There is no better boat than mine on Thames side, nor a stouter pair of arms. Do you keep t’other boat in sight, and I’ll engage to catch her up.”
So we shot out into the darkness, and I strained my eyes to keep sight of Dennis, urging my boatman to row hard, and promising him a liberal reward if he did not allow the other boat to get away from us. For my heart was all afire by that time, and I was resolved that my enemy should not escape me. He was armed and I was not, for I had naught upon me but a stout oak staff, which I had carried with me everywhere in London; but much as this placed me at a disadvantage with him, I was determined that I should settle with him once and for all.
“Are you a sheriff’s man, master?” asked the boatman presently, as he strained and tugged at the oars.
“No, friend,” I answered. “I am nobody’s man. Yonder man is my enemy, and he hath done me bitter wrongs, to avenge which I have been seeking him this long time. So pull hard, friend, and don’t let him escape me.”
“He shall not escape Tom Drewitt,” said the man. “Not if he pulled like two men. Do you still see him, master?”
“Yes,” I cried. “We are gaining on him. He is altering his course—more to the left.”
“He is making for London Bridge, master,” said the man, swinging his boat round to the north bank of the river. “Make your mind easy; we shall reach the stairs as soon as he.”
So we went along the dark river, in and out between the craft that lay at rest there, but never once did my eyes leave the boat in front, upon which we were steadily gaining.