Chapter 13 - No Quarter! by Mayne Reid
Looking Forward to a Fight
Some truth was there in the report that had reached Rob Wilde, of the King being chased out of London. Though not literally chased, after his display in the House of Commons, ludicrous as unconstitutional, he found the metropolis too hot for him. Moreover, there was a whisper about impeaching the Queen; and this arch intrigante, notwithstanding her high notions of Royal right, was now in a fit of Royal trembles. Strafford had lost his head, Laud was in prison, likely to lose his; how knew she but that those bloodthirsty islanders might bring her own under the axe? They had done as much for a Queen more beautiful than she. Mobs daily paraded the streets, passing the Palace; the cry, “No bishops!” came in through its windows, and Charles trembled as he thought of his father’s significant epigram, “No bishop, no king.” So out of Whitehall they slipped—first to Windsor to pack up; the Queen, in fine, clearing out of the country, by Dover, to Holland.
It was a backstairs “skedaddle” with her; carrying off as much plunder as she could in the scramble—chests of jewels of unknown but fabulous value, as that represented as having been found in the isle of Monte Cristo. Enough, at all events, to hold Court abroad; maintain regal surroundings; even raise an army for the reconquest and re-enslavement of the people she had plundered.
It is unpleasant to reflect on such things, far more having to speak of them. Sad to think that though England is two centuries and a half older since Charles Stuart and Henrietta de Medici did all in their power to outrage her people and rob them of their rights, this same people is to-day not a wit the wiser. The late Liberal victory, as it is called, may be urged as contradicting this allegation; but against that is to be set the behaviour of England’s people, as represented by their Parliament for the last six years, sanctioning and endorsing deeds that have brought a blight on the nation’s name, and a cloud over its character, it will take centuries to clear off. And against that, too, the spirit which seems likely will pervade in this new Legislative Assembly, and the action it will take. When the Long Parliament commenced its sittings, the patriots composing it never dreamt of letting crime go unpunished. Instead, their first thoughts and acts were to bring the betrayers of their country to account. “Off with his head—so much for Strafford!”
“To the Tower with Laud and the twelve recalcitrant bishops!”
“Clear out the Star Chamber and High Commission Court!” “Abolish monopolies, Loans of Privy Seal, Ship-tax, Coal and Conduit money, with the other iniquitous imposts!” And, presto! all this was done as by the wand of a magician, though it was the good genius then guiding the destinies of England. Off went Strafford’s head; to the Tower was taken Laud; and the infamous royal edicts of a decade preceding were swept from the statute-book, as by a wet sponge passed over the score of a tapster’s slate.
What do we see now? What hear? A new Parliament entering on power under circumstances so like those that ushered in the “Long” as to seem almost the same. And a Ministry gone out who have outraged the nation as much as did the Straffords, Digbys, and Lauds. But how different the action taken towards them! No Bill of Attainder talked of, no word of impeachment, not even a whisper about voting want of confidence. Instead of being sent to a prison, as the culprits of 1640, they of 1880 walk out of office and away, with a free, jaunty step and air of bold effrontery, blazoned with decorations and brand new titles bestowed on them—a very shower, as the sparks from a Catherine wheel!
Verily was the lot of Thomas Wentworth, Earl of Strafford, laid in unlucky times. Had he lived in these days, so far from losing his head, it would have been surmounted by a ducal coronet. And Laud, already at the top of the ecclesiastical tree, with no possibility of hoisting him to higher earthly honours, would have had heavenly ones bestowed on him by being enrolled among the saints.
Though merely writing a romance, who will say that in this matter I am romancing? The man that does must be what Sir Richard Walwyn pronounced him who is not a Republican; and back to Sir Richard’s dictum I refer him.
Soon as Charles had got his Queen safe out of harm’s way, he betook himself to York, there to enter upon more energetic action. For there he felt safer himself, surrounded by a host of hot partisans. In political sentiment, what a curious reversion has taken place since then between the capitals of the North and South—almost an exchange! Then York was all Royalist, and as a consequence filled with the foes of Liberty; London full of its friends. Now the former has mounted to the very hill-top of Liberal aspiration; the latter sunk into the slough of a shameful retrogression!
But the thing is easily explained. Those who dwell in the kingdom’s capital are nearer to the source of contamination. There Bung and Beadledom, with their vested rights, hold sway; there the scribblers who wear plush find encouragement and promotion; while the corrupting influence of modern finance has nursed into life and strength a swarm of gamblers in stocks, promoters of bubble companies, tricksters in trade, and music-hall cads—a sorry replacement of the honest mercers and trusty apprentices of the Parliamentary times.
Once separated from his Parliament, the King had an instinct that all friendly intercourse between it and himself would soon be at an end; this nursed into conviction by the Hertfords, Digbys, and other like “chicks” who formed his entourage. Active became he now in adopting precautions, and taking measures to sustain himself in the struggle that was imminent. And now more industrious than ever in the way of money raising; anew granting monopolies, and sending letters of Privy Seal all over the land, wherever there seemed a chance of enforcing their demands—for demands were they, as we have seen. To Sir John Wintour had been entrusted some scores of these precious epistles, with authority to deliver them, collect the proceeds, and send them on to replenish the royal exchequer; and it was one such Reginald Trevor saw torn into scraps on the porch of Hollymead House.
This same Sir John was what Scotchmen would call a “canny chiel.” Courtier, and private secretary to the Queen, he had come in for a goodly share of pilferings from the public purse; among other jobs having been endowed with the stewardship of the Forest of Dean, with all its privileges and perquisites. Appointed one of the Commissioners of Array for West Gloucestershire, he had built him a large mansion in the neighbourhood of Lydney—the White House as called—though it is not there now, he with his own hand having afterwards set the torch to it. But then, on the clearing out of the Court from London, Sir John had cleared out too, going to his country residence by Severn’s side, which he at once set about placing in a state of defence. None more clearly than he foresaw the coming storm.
It seemed to him near now when Reginald Trevor returned to the White House and reported his reception at Hollymead, with the defiant message to himself and his King. But Sir John was not a man of hot passions or hasty resolves. Long experience as a courtier had taught him to subdue his temper, or, at all events, the exhibition of it. So, instead of bursting forth into a furious display, he quietly observed,—
“Don’t trouble yourself, Captain Trevor, about what Ambrose Powell has said or done. It won’t help his case any. But,” he added reflectingly, “there seems no particular call for haste in this business. Besides, I’m expecting an addition to the strength of our little garrison. To-morrow, or it may be the day after, we shall have with us a man, if I mistake not, known to you.”
“Who, Sir John?”
“Colonel Thomas Lunsford.”
“Oh! certainly; I know Lunsford well. He was my superior officer in the northern expedition.”
“Ah! yes; now I remember. Well; I have word of his being en route hither with some stanch followers. When he has reported himself, allowing a day or two for rest, we’ll beat up the quarters of this recusant, and make him repent his seditious speech. As for the money, he shall pay that, every pound, or I’ll squeeze it out of him, if there’s stock on the Hollymead estate, or chattels in his house worth so much.”
There was something in the “recusant’s” house Reginald Trevor thought worth far more—one of the recusant’s daughters. Of that, however, he made no mention. To speak of it lay not in the line of his duties; and even thinking of it was now not near so sweet as it had been hitherto. Little as he liked Colonel Lunsford, he would that night have been glad of him for a boon companion—in the bowl to help drown the bitter remembrance of his adventures of the preceding day.