CHAPTER VI. COMPANIONS IN MISFORTUNE
Through the streets of Worcester the Roundheads dragged Sir Crispin, andfor all that he was as hard and callous a man as any that ever buckledon a cuirass, the horrors that in going he beheld caused him more thanonce to shudder.
The place was become a shambles, and the very kennels ran with blood.The Royalist defeat was by now complete, and Cromwell's fanatic butchersoverran the town, vying to outdo one another in savage crueltyand murder. Houses were being broken into and plundered, and theirinmates--resisting or unresisting; armed or unarmed; men, women andchildren alike were pitilessly being put to the sword. Charged was theair of Worcester with the din of that fierce massacre. The crashing ofshivered timbers, as doors were beaten in, mingled with the clatter andgrind of sword on sword, the crack of musket and pistol, the clank ofarmour, and the stamping of men and horses in that troubled hour.
And above all rang out the fierce, raucous blasphemy of the slayers,and the shrieks of agony, the groans, the prayers, and curses of theirvictims.
All this Sir Crispin saw and heard, and in the misery of it all, hefor the while forgot his own sorry condition, and left unheeded thepike-butt wherewith the Puritan at his heels was urging him along.
They paused at length in a quarter unknown to him before a tolerablylarge house. Its doors hung wide, and across the threshold, in and out,moved two continuous streams of officers and men.
A while Crispin and his captors stood in the spacious hall; then theyushered him roughly into one of the abutting rooms. Here he was broughtface to face with a man of middle height, red and coarse of countenanceand large of nose, who stood fully armed in the centre of the chamber.His head was uncovered, and on the table at his side stood the morion hehad doffed. He looked up as they entered, and for a few seconds restedhis glance sourly upon the lank, bold-eyed prisoner, who coldly returnedhis stare.
"Whom have we here?" he inquired at length, his scrutiny having told himnothing.
"One whose offence is too heinous to have earned him a soldier's death,my lord," answered Pride.
"Therein you lie, you damned rebel!" cried Crispin. "If accuse you must,announce the truth. Tell Master Cromwell"--for he had guessed the man'sidentity--"that single-handed I held my own against you and a score ofyou curs, and that not until I had cut down seven of them was I taken.Tell him that, master psalm-singer, and let him judge whether you liedor not. Tell him, too, that you, who--"
"Have done!" cried Cromwell at length, stamping his foot. "Peace, orI'll have you gagged. Now, Colonel, let us hear your accusation."
At great length, and with endless interlarding of proverbs did Priderelate how this impious malignant had been the means of the young man,Charles Stuart, making good his escape when otherwise he must havefallen into their hands. He accused him also of the murder of his sonand of four other stout, God-fearing troopers, and urged Cromwell to lethim deal with the malignant as he deserved.
The Lord General's answer took expression in a form that was littlepuritanical. Then, checking himself:
"He is the second they have brought me within ten minutes charged withthe same offence," said he. "The other one is a young fool who gaveCharles Stuart his horse at Saint Martin's Gate. But for him again theyoung man had been taken."
"So he has escaped!" cried Crispin. "Now, God be praised!"
Cromwell stared at him blankly for a moment, then:
"You will do well, sir," he muttered sourly, "to address the Lord onyour own behalf. As for that young man of Baal, your master, rejoicenot yet in his escape. By the same crowning mercy in which the Lord hathvouchsafed us victory to-day shall He also deliver the malignant youthinto my hands. For your share in retarding his capture your life, sir,shall pay forfeit. You shall hang at daybreak together with that othermalignant who assisted Charles at the Saint Martin's Gate."
"I shall at least hang in good company," said Crispin pleasantly, "andfor that, sir, I give you thanks."
"You will pass the night with that other fool," Cromwell continued,without heeding the interruption, "and I pray that you may spend it insuch meditation as shall fit you for your end. Take him away."
"But, my lord," exclaimed Pride, advancing.
"What now?"
Crispin caught not his answer, but his half-whispered words were earnestand pleading. Cromwell shook his head.
"I cannot sanction it. Let it satisfy you that he dies. I condole withyou in your bereavement, but it is the fortune of war. Let the thoughtthat your son died in a godly cause be of comfort to you. Bear in mind,Colonel Pride, that Abraham hesitated not to offer up his child to theLord. And so, fare you well."
Colonel Pride's face worked oddly, and his eyes rested for a secondupon the stern, unmoved figure of the Tavern Knight in malice andvindictiveness. Then, shrugging his shoulders in token of unwillingresignation, he withdrew, whilst Crispin was led out.
In the hall again they kept him waiting for some moments, until atlength an officer came up, and bidding him follow, led the way to theguardroom. Here they stripped him of his back-and-breast, and when thatwas done the officer again led the way, and Crispin followed between twotroopers. They made him mount three flights of stairs, and hurried himalong a passage to a door by which a soldier stood mounting guard. Ata word from the officer the sentry turned, and unfastening the heavybolts, he opened the door. Roughly the officer bade Sir Crispin enter,and stood aside that he might pass.
Crispin obeyed him silently, and crossed the threshold to find himselfwithin a mean, gloomy chamber, and to hear the heavy door closed andmade fast again behind him. His stout heart sank a little as he realizedthat that closed door shut out to him the world for ever; but once againwould he cross that threshold, and that would be the preface to thecrossing of the greater threshold of eternity.
Then something stirred in one of that room's dark corners, and hestarted, to see that he was not alone, remembering that Cromwell hadsaid he was to have a companion in his last hours.
"Who are you?" came a dull voice--a voice that was eloquent of misery.
"Master Stewart!" he exclaimed, recognizing his companion. "So it wasyou gave the King your horse at the Saint Martin's Gate! May Heavenreward you. Gadswounds," he added, "I had little thought to meet youagain this side the grave."
"Would to Heaven you had not!" was the doleful answer. "What make youhere?"
"By your good leave and with your help I'll make as merry as a man maywhose sands are all but run. The Lord General--whom the devil roast inhis time will make a pendulum of me at daybreak, and gives me the nightin which to prepare."
The lad came forward into the light, and eyed Sir Crispin sorrowfully.
"We are companions in misfortune, then."
"Were we ever companions in aught else? Come, sir, be of better cheer.Since it is to be our last night in this poor world, let us spend it aspleasantly as may be."
"Pleasantly?"
"Twill clearly be difficult," answered Crispin, with a laugh. "Were wein Christian hands they'd not deny us a black jack over which to relishour last jest, and to warm us against the night air, which must bechill in this garret. But these crop-ears..." He paused to peer into thepitcher on the table. "Water! Pah! A scurvy lot, these psalm-mongers!"
"Merciful Heaven! Have you no thought for your end?"
"Every thought, good youth, every thought, and I would fain prepare mefor the morning's dance in a more jovial and hearty fashion than OldNoll will afford me--damn him!"
Kenneth drew back in horror. His old dislike for Crispin was all arousedby this indecent flippancy at such a time. Just then the thought ofspending the night in his company almost effaced the horror of thegallows whereof he had been a prey.
Noting the movement, Crispin laughed disdainfully, and walked towardsthe window. It was a small opening, by which two iron bars, setcrosswise, defied escape. Moreover, as Crispin looked out, he realizedthat a more effective barrier lay in the height of the window itself.The house overlooked the river on
that side; it was built upon anembankment some thirty feet high; around this, at the base of theedifice, and some forty feet below the window, ran a narrow pathwayprotected by an iron railing. But so narrow was it, that had a mansprung from the casement of Crispin's prison, it was odds he would havefallen into the river some seventy feet below. Crispin turned away witha sigh. He had approached the window almost in hope; he quitted it inabsolute despair.
"Ah, well," said he, "we will hang, and there's the end of it."
Kenneth had resumed his seat in the corner, and, wrapped in his cloak,he sat steeped in meditation, his comely young face seared with lines ofpain. As Crispin looked upon him then, his heart softened and wentout to the lad--went out as it had done on the night when first he hadbeheld him in the courtyard of Perth Castle.
He recalled the details of that meeting; he remembered the sympathythat had drawn him to the boy, and how Kenneth had at first appeared toreciprocate that feeling, until he came to know him for the rakehelly,godless ruffler that he was. He thought of the gulf that gradually hadopened up between them. The lad was righteous and God-fearing, truthfuland sober, filled with stern ideals by which he sought to shapehis life. He had taxed Crispin with his dissoluteness, and Crispin,despising him for a milksop, had returned to his disgust with mockery,and had found a fiendish pleasure in arousing that disgust at everyturn.
To-night, as Crispin eyed the youth, and remembered that at dawn he wasto die in his company, he realized that he had used him ill, that hisbehaviour towards him had been that of the dissolute ruffler he wasbecome, rather than of the gentleman he had once accounted himself.
"Kenneth," he said at length, and his voice bore so unusually mild aring that the lad looked up in surprise. "I have heard tell that itis no uncommon thing for men upon the threshold of eternity to seek torepair some of the evil they may have done in life."
Kenneth shuddered. Crispin's words reminded him again of his approachingend. The ruffler paused a moment, as if awaiting a reply or a word ofencouragement. Then, as none came, he continued:
"I am not one of your repentant sinners, Kenneth. I have lived mylife--God, what a life!--and as I have lived I shall die, unflinchingand unchanged. Dare one to presume that a few hours spent in whiningprayers shall atone for years of reckless dissoluteness? 'Tis adoctrine of cravens, who, having lacked in life the strength to live asconscience bade them, lack in death the courage to stand by that life'sdeeds. I am no such traitor to myself. If my life has been vile mytemptations have been sore, and the rest is in God's hands. But in mycourse I have sinned against many men; many a tall fellow's life haveI wantonly wrecked; some, indeed, I have even taken in wantonness oranger. They are not by, nor, were they, could I now make amends. But youat least are here, and what little reparation may lie in asking pardonI can make. When I first saw you at Perth it was my wish to make you myfriend--a feeling I have not had these twenty years towards any man.I failed. How else could it have been? The dove may not nest with thecarrion bird."
"Say no more, sir," cried Kenneth, genuinely moved, and still moreamazed by this curious humility in one whom he had never known otherthan arrogant and mocking. "I beseech you, say no more. For whattrifling wrongs you may have done me I forgive you as freely as I wouldbe forgiven. Is it not written that it shall be so?" And he held out hishand.
"A little more I must say, Kenneth," answered the other, leaving theoutstretched hand unheeded. "The feeling that was born in me towards youat Perth Castle is on me again. I seek not to account for it. Perchanceit springs from my recognition of the difference betwixt us; perchance Isee in you a reflection of what once I was myself--honourable and true.But let that be. The sun is setting over yonder, and you and I willbehold it no more. That to me is a small thing. I am weary. Hope isdead; and when that is dead what does it signify that the body die also?Yet in these last hours that we shall spend together I would at leasthave your esteem. I would have you forget my past harshness and thewrongs that I may have done you down to that miserable affair of yoursweetheart's letter, yesterday. I would have you realize that if I amvile, I am but such as a vile world hath made me. And tomorrow when wego forth together, I would have you see in me at least a man in whosecompany you are not ashamed to die."
Again the lad shuddered.
"Shall I tell you my story, Kenneth? I have a strong desire to goover this poor life of mine again in memory, and by giving my thoughtsutterance it may be that they will take more vivid shape. For the restmy tale may wile away a little of the time that's left, and when youhave heard me you shall judge me, Kenneth. What say you?"
Despite the parlous condition whereunto the fear of the morrow hadreduced him, this new tone of Galliard's so wrought upon him then thathe was almost eager in his request that Sir Crispin should unfold hisstory. And this the Tavern Knight then set himself to do.