Chapter 14 The Gates of Doom by Rafael Sabatini
THE ROAD TO TYBURN
That afternoon Captain Gaynor, once more completely master of himself, and showing no least outward sign of the storm through which his spirit had so lately passed, of the rage that for a while had so entirely governed him, took his leave of Lady Kynaston, informing her that business of some urgency compelled him to depart at once without awaiting Sir John's return.
Her ladyship made no allusion to the fracas in the rose-garden, of which her servants had brought her word; but she did not doubt that his departure was concerned with it, and that this urgent business which he pleaded was the continuation of that quarrel. Upon what grounds it had arisen she had formed the obvious opinion, but dared not ask its confirmation. The Captain's manner was respectfully forbidding. She did not go so far as to connect with it the fact that both her daughter and her niece had kept their respective chambers since the event.
Unquestioned, then, he was permitted to go his ways. He did not see Damaris again, which caused him no surprise. To the circumstance that he did not see Evelyn again he gave no thought, perturbed as he was.
He put up at an obscure inn in the neighbourhood of Charing Cross, and there he dismissed Fisher. That done he cast about him for a friend who would wait upon Lord Pauncefort on his behalf, and he bethought him of Sir Richard Templeton, whose residence in St James's Street was within a stone's throw of Pauncefort House. It was possible that the baronet had already departed for Devonshire. But he would ascertain.
He went, then, to make the discovery that in St James's Street he was already expected—not, indeed, by Sir Richard, who had, in fact, departed already, but by the tip staves set to watch for him by Lord Pauncefort, who counted upon a visit to himself. As the Captain was turning out of Pall Mall he was suddenly confronted by a couple of burly, coarsely garbed fellows, the foremost of whom desired a word with him.
"With me?" he said, stiffening haughtily, yet more than guessing their business.
"I have a warrant for you here," said the taller of the twain—the very man who had been the leader of that raid at "The World's End." He produced his parchment, and thrust it under the Captain's very nose.
"I think ye'll be the person mentioned there—Captain Jenkyn."
What, Captain Gaynor asked himself, could it avail him to deny? They held him, and they would not be like to let him go upon a denial, however emphatic. Moreover, it came to him suddenly that he did not want to go. The cause he served was ruined for the time being, set back for many a year, perhaps, if not for ever. The woman he had come to love—he, who hitherto had held himself aloof from all women, being wholly wedded to his master's service—deemed him base and unworthy, and must so deem him. What, then, remained in life?—the avenging of their betrayal upon that traitor Pauncefort; and that, he knew, another hand than his would execute ere long.
This arrest seemed to him in that despondent hour to resolve his difficulties, to remove from him a heavy burden. He had sickened at the very thought of returning to Rome with the dismal report of his failure; he had sickened further at the thought of living on, a dastard in the eyes of the only woman whose esteem he courted.
He considered his captors, and his glance was almost friendly. Were they not good friends of his, the best he had ever known, friends who came to him in the hour of his most urgent need? "'Tis so," he said quite simply. "I am the man you seek. I am Captain Jenkyn."
The trial of Captain Jenkyn—which, under instructions from the Secretary of State was hurried forward, so that it took place within three days of his arrest—attracted little notice at the time.
As in the case of all matters relating to Jacobite plottings, it was the desire of the Government that it should be disposed of as quietly and speedily as possible. Therefore the news of his capture was not allowed to transpire until his trial was over, and he himself under sentence of death.
The prisoner's admission that he was Captain Jenkyn had saved the court both time and trouble, for all that it was exercised not a little by this sudden supineness in one whom they had every reason to believe bold and resolute. They accounted for it upon the assumption that, being caught, his resourcefulness and courage had deserted him, and that perhaps he had hoped by pleading guilty to the charges preferred to earn the clemency of his judges. Lord Carteret was relieved to learn that the fellow had, himself, admitted his identity, since that disposed of the necessity of unmasking so very valuable a Government spy as Pauncefort. Under the circumstances sufficient evidence was afforded by the three tipstaves who had arrested him, and Sir Henry Tresh's lady, who came forward to identify him with the man who had invaded her chamber at "The World's End" on that evening when the plotters were taken there.
The affair was a very brief one, summarily dealt with, as you may see by consulting the "State Trials," where you will find all the details of it if you have a mind for them. The prisoner himself seemed intent upon assisting the court at every turn, readily admitting, one after another, the charges brought against him—whether concerned with previous visits to England or with the present one—charges which had long been drawn up in preparation for and awaiting such a day as this—a preparation which explains the Government's ability to expedite the affair.
On one point only was the prisoner stubborn. Whilst ready to admit that he was Captain Jenkyn, he would not admit that his real name was Captain Gaynor. He did not deny it; but he refused to admit it. They had arrested him, he said, as Captain Jenkyn, and as Captain Jenkyn he was indicted. Let that suffice them.
This apparently curious attitude was based upon the reflection that to admit his real identity might be to assist the Government in proceedings against many of those who were known to have been the associates of Captain Gaynor and against whom there was no independent evidence of Jacobitism. He did not know to what extent the absence of positive knowledge would hamper the Government; but, in any event, he was resolved to make no admissions that might assist it.
The court did not press, obedient always to its instructions. It could have done so, obviously. It could easily have produced witnesses to swear that he was Captain Gaynor; it could have fetched Sir John Kynaston and his family from Chertsey; it might even have thrust the discomfited Second Secretary Templeton into the humiliating position of saying by what name he had known this man who had so imposed upon him. But the Government desired, above all, that the matter should be swiftly and quietly determined, with as few witnesses and as little stir as might be necessary to procure the conviction and sentence of so very desperate and dangerous a rebel.
So the court waived this minor point, and as Captain Jenkyn our Jacobite was duly sentenced to be hanged at Tyburn like any common cutpurse.
There was calculation even in this, and wise calculation. He was to die obscurely, at the hands of the common hangman; this, too, it was deemed must prove a deterrent—that is to say, not merely the death, but the inglorious manner of it.
There were few people in court when the sentence was passed, and no single face did Captain Gaynor see with which he was acquainted. Pauncefort, he imagined, might have looked in to gloat over his plight. But Pauncefort wisely had kept away. Templeton, he had fancied, might have desired to come there and satisfy himself of a thing that to him must seem incredible. He marvelled at the Second Secretary's absence; but then he did not know that the Second Secretary found the ridicule which he had sought to heap upon Lord Carteret concerning Captain Gaynor all recoiling upon himself; that he had taken to his bed, announcing himself assailed by gout. (When Templeton came to hear that sentence had been passed upon the prisoner, he immediately resigned his office as the only possible step remaining to his tattered dignity.)
Sir John Kynaston, the Captain had thought, would surely have come. For he did not know that Sir John, like all the rest of the world, was in ignorance of the fact that the trial was taking place, conceiving that a trial upon charges so complex and difficult to establish must be long in preparing.
Captain Gaynor heard his sentence entirely unmoved. He had expected nothing else. He was no trivial foolish plotter, but an accredited agent, the disturber—as the indictment had it—of the peace of the realm, a man who aimed at the overthrow of the dynasty and, if necessary, at the death of the reigning sovereign, a man who was looked upon as a spy of the Pretender's, and for whom there could be no fate but the spy's.
Nor was his immobility merely external, or born of pride as it is with so many who show themselves outwardly undaunted at the prospect of an early death. His pulses remained calm, his heart tranquil. It was no more than he desired. Standing in the face of death he was enabled to do a thing he could not have done with life before him—a thing to be done at all costs, even at the cost of life itself, as he was doing it.
His trial took place on a Monday—the last Monday in June—and he was informed that same evening that he was accorded three days in which to set his affairs in order and make his soul. On the following Thursday he was to hang.
The time was more than he desired; certainly more than he required for what remained him to do. Relatives who mattered, he had none. With his friends he did not dare to communicate for fear of implicating them. To his master in Rome it would have pleasured him to send a dying message of devotion. But he knew that no such message would be allowed to reach its destination. There remained, then, but the letter to Damaris to indite. When that was done, he would be done with all matters of this world, and that was the thing which the near approach of death enabled him to do, the thing he could not have done had the way of life been open still before him.
But it was not until the evening of Wednesday that he asked for pen, ink and paper. He desired to make that communion with her almost the very latest act of his swiftly ebbing life, setting at last to paper the thoughts that since his trial had almost entirely occupied his mind.
He headed his epistle:
"From my cell in Newgate, on the even of my death."
That done he was fretted awhile, as he sat pen in hand, to know how to address her. He solved the riddle, at last, by confining himself simply to her name.
Damaris [he wrote], when you read these lines I shall have gone where neither execration nor compassion can pursue me, and for that reason if for no other I have the consolation in these my last hours of hoping that you will read what assuredly you would not read were I still living and at large. For that reason alone I think that I am glad to die, since death gives me certain privileges and rights that are denied the living. Further still, since I stand upon the dread threshold, since the gates of doom are opening to admit me, and I am on the eve of facing my Eternal Judge, I have a claim to be believed when I write of things that might seem to you incredible did I still walk the great highway of life. For it is not to be thought that I should in such an hour and for no possible temporal profit sully myself with falsehood in matters whereupon I might without temporal loss continue silent to the end. When you consider, then, how little falsehood can avail me now, when you consider how repellent it is even to the most abandoned to deal in falsehood with the cold eye of death upon him, the icy scythe severing him already from all earthly hopes, desires and aspirations, I die content in the knowledge that what I am writing here you must believe, and believing will come to give me dead that treasure of your loving thought which living I could never have claimed again.
All that my Lord Pauncefort told you was true, yet no less true was my assurance, when you asked me to deny his story—that only were I the dastard he represented me could I have saved myself by the falsehood of such denial. You did not understand. You do not yet. For in these words, until all is known, must seem to dwell nothing but confusion. Yet in them dwells the whole and absolute truth. For never, O Damaris, was truth more untruly told than by Lord Pauncefort on that evil day.
It is true, then, that I played with him that ill-considered game. It was on a night when he had lost to me some eight thousand guineas, and he was bewailing that he stood upon the brink of utter ruin and in peril of a debtor's gaol. In that ill-omened hour, I bethought me that he had something yet to stake—his right to wed you—for I believed him still betrothed to you—and it is true that when I made him that proposal I had no thought of winning your own self, and that your fortune was the real stake I saw upon the board. But it is not true that by this—assuming that I succeeded with you did I win that game with him—I was an adventurer seeking your fortune for myself. My only thought was to devote that fortune to the service of my master, who is in such dire straits for means to his high ends. It was for him that I played that game, as my Lord Pauncefort well knows. That I should sacrifice you to a cause to which already I had sacrificed myself, in which I was imperilling the life that at last I am about to lose, did not then—nor does it yet—seem so heinous and unforgivable a thing.
His lordship won the cut. I paid him his guineas, and there the matter ended, or would have ended but for the deception which for reasons that I cannot fathom you thought it well, with your cousin, to play upon me. For here we touch upon a truth which should efface all other things in this mistaken enterprise, a truth which already I have uttered. I did not know, nor ever dreamt, that you were other than you represented yourself to be. I did not know, nor ever dreamt, that you were Damaris Hollinstone until you told me so in the garden a moment before his lordship came upon us. I looked upon your cousin as the heiress—as, I suppose, you intended that I should—and from the hour in which I met you I was glad that it was not you—you, Damaris—whom I was pledged by the fortune of the cards to abstain from wooing. I was glad in that hour to think that I had not won a game, whose stakes my honour must have compelled me to take up—for my honour is so bound up with the service of my king and master that I must account dishonourable all measures that do not aim at its advancement.
There, my beloved, you have all the truth, and it is my hope as I write—nay, it is my certainty—that the knowledge will help to comfort you. You need not take shame in any thought that you were the mere prey of an unscrupulous fortune-hunter, that you gave the pure and holy treasure of your love to an adventurer, a mercenary and a scoundrel.
The thought that you will come to know and to understand enheartens me and irradiates a season that must otherwise be very dark indeed. It warms and gladdens me in this hour, and I shall go blithely to my end, knowing that it is the modest price I pay for the sublime good of sending you this undoubtable assurance.
Tomorrow, for as long as thought can hold a place in this poor head, that thought will be of you. What is to follow after I do not know, nor do I fear. But if memory of life is still to be retained in the great beyond, one memory will linger to make my heaven—the memory of you, the consciousness that, knowing all, you will hold the memory of me in tenderness until we meet again, if there be meetings yonder.
And so, my sweet lady, my dearest love, goodnight!
It was late when the letter was concluded. He folded the sheets, tied them together, sealed them and placed them in his breast-pocket. Then he lay down, and soon was very peacefully asleep.
Before the hangman's minions came to seek him in the morning, he had given the letter into the hands of a friendly gaoler, together with his purse, containing some twenty guineas in recompense for the service the fellow had promised to do him.
Soon after eight the ordinary was introduced. He was a short, stoutish man with mild eyes but a heavy jowl, and the stubble of beard—a weeks growth at least—that blackened his face lent him an almost ferocious aspect. He wore a soiled surplice; there was a peck of snuff hanging about his bands and in the stubble of his upper lip.
Captain Gaynor gave him a very courteous if somewhat distant welcome, presuming upon which the parson straightway fell to talking of the Captain's soul. In this the Captain cut him short.
"By your leave, good sir," said he, "I am of opinion, look you, that I know more of my own soul than any man can tell me. So leave me, I entreat you, to search it for myself. Meanwhile I can minister to your body. You'll find some passable Hollands in that jar, and there is a bottle of Burgundy which the gaoler has just procured me. Pray honour me." And the Captain waved him to the rude table where stood the vessels and a couple of drinking cans.
Thereafter he was but little troubled as he paced to and fro in his cell, awaiting with some impatience the coming of those who should take him for his last ride. They arrived at last, at a little before eleven. They conducted him to the courtyard, where the cart was waiting, a company of redcoats drawn up about it, and every window of the gaol packed with villainous faces, their eyes greedy of as much of the coming spectacle as it might be theirs to witness.
He leapt lightly into the cart, and the ordinary, somewhat flushed with Burgundy, clambered after him. Gladly would he have dispensed with the fellow's company; but the rules did not permit it. The parson must be with him to the end—must, indeed, intone the psalm that would be sung at the turning-off. So perforce he submitted with the best grace possible.
The driver stood up and turned to the prisoner. He held a length of whipcord in his hand, and with this he pinioned the doomed man's wrists behind his back. Then he took up a length of hempen rope with a running noose in it, and deftly flicked this noose over the Captain's head, leaving the end of the rope to hang behind him. That done—and with the utmost nonchalance, the ruffian puffing, meantime, a short and very foul pipe—the gates were opened. The Sheriff's Deputy, a splendid figure in a gold-laced, scarlet coat, gave the word of command, and the procession formed up and started.
Ahead went the military in their red coats and mitre-shaped hats, opening a way with their musket-butts through the mob that had collected about the prison gates. Out into that seething, human ocean rolled the cart. With dispassionate, almost pitiful eyes the Captain looked upon that surface of upturned faces. One bestial fellow was singing an obscene song allusive to the Captain's grim condition. The Captain's eyes fell upon him in a look so profoundly compassionate that the rascal broke off short in the middle of his ditty, and after a moment's silence loosed a volley of lewd oaths at him.
Looking, the Captain had wondered in what circumstances death would come to find such a man, and he had seen—with that extraordinary vision which is vouchsafed to men who stand upon the Threshold—an image dreadful beyond words, an image that had informed that profound compassion of his glance.
They pushed on. Crowds everywhere along the cart's way; every window held a little mob, assembled there to see a man pass to his death. To Harry Gaynor though ever dispassionate now and beyond resentment of such trifles, there seemed something foul and obscene in this curiosity.
He turned his gaze from it at last and met the mild eyes of the ordinary They were full of tears. This he deemed very odd. He was almost touched by it, forgetting entirely the amount of Burgundy which the chaplain had consumed and in which his heart had been softened so that the death of a stray dog would have rendered him maudlin.
"Sir," he said very gently, "I beg that ye'll not weep for me who do not weep for myself."
"That is the very reason of my weeping," the parson answered him, and a tear detached itself at last, ran down his ample cheek and joined the snuff on his neckband, all of which the Captain observed with extraordinary interest.
"This is very odd," he said. "Do you, then, not believe in what you teach? Do you not believe in a joyous and glorious hereafter?"
The ordinary stared at him, and in his surprise forgot his weeping. "Or is it that in your own experience this world has proved it so extraordinarily delectable a place that you will not barter it for any other?"
"Nay, nay, sir. But you, so young—" the fellow mumbled inconclusively
"Am I not fortunate therein, since I shall be spared the infirmities of age?"
"But to be cut off in mid-life, thus! It is so monstrous pitiful. Oh, sir," he implored, "turn your thoughts, I beg, to other things."
"They are so turned," the Captain answered quietly. "'Tis yours, sir, that seem to be earth-bound, else why this grief in which I cannot share? Sir, I do think you lay too much store by this little moment we call life." And lo! it was the doomed man who set himself to offer spiritual comfort to the parson.
"Since go we must in the end, what shall it signify that we go today or tarry until tomorrow? Shall we bewail a day? Let me tell you a story I heard once in the East."
"God forbid!" ejaculated the ordinary "In such an hour!" he cried, all scandalised. "Would you still dwell upon your past when your thoughts should be all of the future?"
The Captain smiled a little, and said no more. Still overlooking the Burgundy, he accounted this fellow unfit for the ordeal of bearing solace to the doomed. The task, it was evident, confused him. There fell a silence between them. The cart, at a snail's pace, was crawling up Holborn Hill, and everywhere surged the same brutal, unfeeling crowd, staring, shouting, jesting, jeering.
Do not suppose that in this was any political rancour. Few, indeed, had any notion of the offence for which the Captain was to suffer. He was just a man going to be hanged, and a man going to be hanged was ever an interesting and often a somewhat amusing spectacle, always sufficient to justify a holiday.
The ordinary, watching his face, saw its almost contemptuous wonder, and misinterpreted it.
"I marvel vastly, sir," he said, "that you did not get leave to come in a coach."
"Could I have done so?" asked the Captain, with but indifferent interest.
"At your own expense," the parson assured him.
"Ah, well, 'tis little matter."
But now another thought occurred to the ordinary. He had just observed that the cart contained no coffin.
"Have you no friends?" he asked abruptly He was obliged to shout almost that he might be heard above the din.
"Friends? I hope so."
"Where are they, then?"
The Captain's brows were knit in an instant. "Would you have them here to swell this dreadful throng?" he asked.
"Nay, nay; but what provision have they made?"
"Provision, sir?"
"Ay, for your burial. Have they obtained leave to bury you?"
The Captain looked at him, and smiled. "The thought has never engaged me. I had imagined, if I imagined anything, that all this was the concern of those that hang me."
"Then ye were mistaken, sir."
"Does it signify so much?" he asked. And before the extraordinary calm of the soldier's eyes, the ordinary became suddenly aware that he was very far astray from the path of his duty, that his thoughts were all for this wretched, perishable body instead of for the imperishable soul.
He uttered some commonplaces of religion, some of the minor currency that it was his trade to circulate. The soldier sat silent, his thoughts far away, thankful for this respite from the man's more trivial chatter of trivial things. He turned his head to look forward, and he heard the ordinary's sudden, alarmed "Don't look!"
But it did not deter him. They were trundling downhill now, the mob growing more and more dense, the houses thinning. Below there, at the hill's foot, the ground was black with swarming humanity, and from the midst of it, a dark triangular object reared itself—the sinister triple beam.
Captain Gaynor eyed it steadily, then turned him to the ordinary once more.
"We approach the journey's end," he said, and smiled. "It is very well, for the journey itself is none so pleasant."