CHAPTER XXVI
FLEET PRISON
I was kept in Fleet Prison for wellnigh two years, and during the firstyear of that time I scarce ever spoke to a fellow-prisoner. Moreover,none of my gaolers ever had speech with me. So silent were they whenthey brought me my meals that I judged they had been commanded to besilent. It was easy to divine a meaning in this, for if the king hadbidden that no man should speak to me he would be obeyed. And I believedthat he had done this, else why was I treated differently from allothers who were immured within those grim walls? Moreover there was areason why he should give the command. He did not desire that hismarriage with Lucy Walters should be known; he did not wish that the boyJames Croft should be spoken of as the future King of England.
Of my sufferings during that year I will say but little. It is butlittle to a man's credit that he should make known his tale of woe,rather should he endeavour to make the best of his lot, and think ofwhat comforts he had. And yet if I would tell my story truly I must e'enremark on the dark days I spent there, for they were dark days. For atime I almost wished that I had no hope that Constance loved me, for itseemed to make my burden harder to bear. But it was only for a time. Icould not help being glad because of the lovelight I had seen in hereyes, even though the thought of it brought me pain; For bring me painit did. How could it be otherwise? I remembered the words of the king,and I knew that he meant what he said. All nights have I lain awake,heedless of the vermin that swarmed the cell, thinking of what hadbecome of her, and how she fared. For not one word did I hear. Whethershe was dead or alive I knew not. Whether she had escaped from theking's power, or whether he cruelly persecuted her no one could tellme. And this made my burden hardest to bear. If I knew she was dead Ithink I could have borne up better, for I should know that she had diedthinking of me. Ay, I knew that, for no woman could look at a man as shelooked at me without thinking of him always. Even as I lay in thedarkness I remembered that look, and rejoiced. My imprisonment I wouldnot have minded one whit, if I knew she was safe. I did not even fearher being a hunted refugee as she was when I had seen her first of all.Nay, it was the thought of what was in the king's mind that drove mewellnigh mad, and many a time while I was in prison had I wished that Ihad seized his fleshy neck and strangled the life out of him, evenalthough I suffered the tortures of hell as a consequence.
But I could do nothing. Day succeeded day, and week succeeded week, andI heard not so much as a breath of a whisper. Besides I could donothing, for my prison door was safely locked, and not a vestige ofchance to hear aught of the outside world came to me.
Thus a year passed away. During that time I had grown as weak as achild. Each morning as I awoke a great nausea mastered me, and my mouthwas full of bitterness, until one day one of my gaolers watched me as Iwas retching, and saw how faint and giddy I was afterwards, and then achange was made in my condition. I was allowed clean clothes, a big tubwas brought to me so that I could bath myself, and a better cell wasgiven me.
It was just after this that I heard something which set me thinking. Twogaolers were outside my door, and I heard them talking.
"Young Master Rashcliffe is better, eh?"
"Ay, he is better. I am told he is to have more liberty."
"What, mix with the other prisoners?"
"Ah, why the change? Know you?"
"No, I know not. For my part I am glad. It was fair sad to see him. Hewas mad at one time."
"Ay, that he was. Well, the prisoners be treated more harshly now thanin Old Nol's time."
"Ay, and there are far more of them too. Have you heard about the king'soath?"
"Nay, I have heard of no oath save that he is going to stamp out theDissenters."
"Nay, it hath nought to do with that, although the place is full enoughof them. It is about the black box."
"What black box?"
"Have you not heard? One of the big lords, I know not which, said thatan old man had shewed him the marriage certificate between the king andthat pretty Welsh wench, Lucy Walters."
"Ah, no, I had not heard."
"But it is so. Well, the king hath taken an oath that, while the lad ofwhom there hath been so much talk is his son, he never wedded Lucy. Ihear the king was wellnigh angered to death when the thing got noisedabroad."
"And what hath become of the old man who shewed the great lord thething?"
"I know not; but the strange thing is that he claims to be Lucy Walters'father."
"And the king says it is a forgery?"
"Ay, that is his oath."
"That will end in the old man being caught and hanged."
"Ay, they will have to hang him, for of a truth every prison in Englandis full."
"Perhaps the king will hang the Dissenters instead, and yet I should besorry. They cause no trouble in prison, even although there are so many.The only thing for which I do not like them, is that they look at one somournfully if he should happen upon oath, or say something that is notover pious."
"Ha, ha! Then must they often look mournfully on you. But I do not liketheir pious talk. I would rather have to do with prisoners which oughtto be here. As it is, the place is full of these pious people who werepreaching and praying in barns instead of in the parish church, andsinging their own hymns instead of abiding by the Prayer-book, while theblackguards who used to be clapped into prison in Old Nol's time areallowed to go free. Then prisoners were real prisoners--drunkards, andwife-beaters, and thieves, and wizards, and witches; but now we havehardly any but these pious people, who are guilty of nought worse thansinging hymns and preaching."
"Still law is law, and the king is king. Besides, what would you, if theking and the bishops will have everybody pray according to thePrayer-book, what right have these Dissenters to pray in their own way?"
After this they went away, and I heard no more of them. For several daysmoreover there was no change in my condition, except that my prison wasclean and my food a little more wholesome. At the end of a week,however, I found myself at liberty to move freely around among myfellow-prisoners, and it was then that I understood the meaning of theconversation I have recorded. For in truth the place seemed full of menwho were sent hither because they had disobeyed certain Acts ofParliament, the which, as I understood it, meant that if any number ofpeople worshipped God in any other way than that prescribed by thePrayer-book, or in any other place than the parish church, theirmeetings could at once be pounced upon by the constables, and theoffenders haled before the magistrates, and sentenced to imprisonment. Iwas also told that these Acts prohibited any person who had been guiltyof preaching the Gospel, other than those empowered by the laws of thecountry, living within five miles of the town where they had preached.With this news there came to me also the information that about twothousand clergymen, most of whom were pious Godfearing men, were ejectedfrom their parishes because they could not obey laws which they believedwere contrary to the laws of God. Moreover, many of these clergymen,believing they were called of God to preach, had continued to ministerto their flocks, with the result that the prisons of England were fullof them.
In addition to this, the law, having regarded not only Nonconformistpreachers but Nonconformist worshippers as equally guilty, meetings werebroken up, and the guilty people were clapped into gaol without moreado.
I had never taken any considerable interest in such matters, yet nowthat I saw these people in gaol, and heard their stories, I realizedthat what the squire and vicar of the parish where I had seen such astrange sight in the county of Kent had predicted had come to pass.
One old man interested me greatly, for he spoke kindly to me, andinquired lovingly after my condition. He had, so he told me, marriedlate in life, and had a family of a wife and five children. When the Actof Uniformity was passed he was cast forth from his parish because hewould not be re-ordained, and then having been guilty of preaching theGospel to a few of his flock, and praying with them, he was seized bythe magistrates and cast into prison.
"And what hath becom
e of your wife and family?" I asked.
"Ah, that is what grieves me sorely," he replied; "for myself I do notmind one whit, except that I can no longer proclaim the glad news whichI was called to preach; but to think of my poor delicate wife wanderinghelpless and homeless with my dear little ones grieves me beyond words.I can do nought but pray for them, the which I do continually."
"But why could you not obey the law?" I asked.
"Obey the law! How could I? I had been ministering to my people for manyyears, and God had given seals to my ministry by enabling me to leadmany to the Lamb of God, which taketh away the sins of the world. Thencame this law, which said that I had not hitherto been ordained of God,and must be ordained according to priestly traditions. Now, how could Ido that? If I did, it would be tantamount to confessing that my previousordination was not of God. Then, again, I could not subscribe to everyword of the Prayer-book, for it is riddled with popery. The questionwhich the Apostle asked came to me--'Whether it be right to obey God orman judge ye,' and I could only answer it in one way."
"And be there many Nonconformists?" I asked.
"You can judge something of that by the number who preferred to obey Godrather than man," he replied. "Two thousand and more have been ejectedfrom their parishes, while thousands of the people belonging to theirflocks are to-day suffering imprisonment for love of the true Gospel."
"And who do you blame for all this?" I asked. "The king?"
"Ay, I blame the king, but not him only. I blame the king because hepromised us fairly. Had he not so promised he would not have beeninvited back. He promised that none of us should be disturbed, and thatevery man should worship God according to the dictates of his ownconscience. As you know also the Act of Oblivion was passed, whereby allthose who took part in the death of the late king should be forgiven.But what hath happened? His Majesty hath hanged many of those whothought it their duty to put that man to death, and not contented withthis he hath dragged others from their graves and had their bodiesdegraded."
"Who among the living hath he hanged?" I asked.
He named some whose names I did not know, and then I heard the name ofMaster John Leslie.
"Master John Leslie!" I cried, "hath he been put to death?"
"Hanged at Tyburn," said the old man solemnly. "A good man and afaithful he was, although I agreed not with all his tenets. He wassomewhat influenced by the Quaker doctrines of the man Fox, and wouldnot allow himself to be called Sir John Leslie, although he was entitledto that honour."
"And his daughters," I cried, "know you aught of them?"
"They are both in hiding I am told."
"The wife of Sir Charles Denman hath never been captured then?"
"No, although how she hath escaped is a mystery, for Sir Charles hathfled out of the country."
"And the other sister?" I asked feverishly, for my heart was all aflame.
"Ah, the other sister. God only knows what hath become of her, for it issaid that she found favour in the eyes of the king," he replied.
At this I could not speak another word, for it seemed to me that noughtwas left worth living for. But the old man did not heed my grief,instead he went on speaking.
"Not that I blame the king for all. The episcopal bishops and thepopishly inclined clergy have allowed him no rest. My brethren haveappealed for justice, but in order to please the clergy, Parliament hathpassed one law after another, each more abominable in the sight of Godthan the other. Our greatest enemies everywhere have been those who havewanted the heresies of the Prayer-book. They have hunted us from placeto place, they have given information to the magistrates, and have notbeen contented until the Nonconformists have either sworn allegiance tothe Prayer-book or been thrust into prison. As for the king, he carethmore for his pleasures than aught else."
"But if this is all for the good of religion?" I asked presently,although my heart went not with my words.
"Religion!" cried the old man. "Religion! where can we find it? Religionis laughed at on every hand. Those in high places live in open sin, andthere are none to say them nay. The Court is turned into a pigsty.Obscene plays are in all the theatres, while vice and profligacy areactually boasted of in the streets of London. Even while weNonconformists be imprisoned in stinking cells the very worst sins arecondoned, excused, and in many places even praised, while the clergyopenly proclaim that they would rather have open sin than Nonconformity.But this cannot be for long."
"Why, do you think the king will relent?"
"Relent! It is well known that he careth little for religion. How canhe, seeing the life he lives? It is said by those who know him best,that he favours the Papist religion more than any other, and would bringit back if he could. His mother hath a host of intriguing priests fromRome with her every day; these priests are treated like great nobles,and the king allows it--nay, smiles upon it. I have been told thatCharles Stuart doth not believe in our Lord Christ at all, and callshimself a Deist. Such is the state of religion. People live for carnalpleasures, while the virtue of maidens is laughed at as an idle tale."
Conversation like this I heard again and again during the next fewmonths, and I judged from all that came to me from the outside worldthat it was true. Meanwhile the prison became more and more crowded withNonconformists. Men, women, and even children were packed in thisevil-smelling place, and as far as I could discover their only crime wasthat they desired to pray and to preach according to the dictates oftheir conscience.
Meanwhile, I learnt no more concerning Constance. I asked manyquestions, but no man could give me an answer except that the kingregarded her with favour.
Not once did my father visit me, at the which I wondered greatly, for Iknew that he loved me, and would not willingly allow me to remain hereto die like a rat in a hole as I was like to do. One day, however, afterI had been a long time here, my heart gave a great leap, for I heard hisvoice speaking to a gaoler, and shortly after we were alone together.
"I grieve much for you, Roland," he said presently, "and yet it is yourown fault."
"My own fault, father?"
"Ay, your own fault."
"Why, what have I done?" I asked.
"You have opposed the king's will," he replied; "you have used yourinformation like a fool."
"But perchance you do not know all that hath taken place," I said; "youdo not know what the king would have had me do?"
"Ay, I have heard all. Not that the news hath long come to me, for Ihave only but lately arrived from France, where I have been at thebehest of James of York. Had I known earlier I would have been to seeyou before, but I never dreamed that you would have been such a fool."
My heart grew cold at these words, for my father spoke, as I thought,strangely.
"I went away with a light heart," he went on, "for I believed that youhad wit enough to make good use of whatever you should find out. I leftyou enough money for all needs, and I believed that when I came back Ishould find you in high favour with the king. Instead, I find that youhave espoused the cause of the daughter of a regicide, that you haverefused to obey the king's commands, and that you have acted like a foolin relation to the discovery which you made."
"What would you have had me do?" I asked.
"Do!" he replied. "Did I not tell you from your earliest childhood thatno man would do aught for you, except that which would help forward hisown plans? And did I not trust you to make a wise use of yourknowledge? That is why I laid down no plan of action for you when we metat Dover. I said 'the boy hath all his wits, and will be able to actwisely when the right time comes,' Why, having once obtained the ear ofthe king, thou shouldst have gone to him after what thou didst find out,and thou shouldst have appeared before him as one anxious to serve him.He would then, in his own interests, have rewarded thee with some fairdemesne and a wealthy dame's hand. Instead, what dost thou do? Thou dostbecome the aider and abettor of this daughter of John Leslie, and whenobedience to the king would have found his favour, thou didst like afool refuse to do his biddin
g. Ay, and what happened then? The king,being desirous of keeping his marriage with Lucy Walters a secret, andknowing that thou wert a dangerous fool, clapped thee into prison."
"And you, father," I said, "what have you done?"
"I have done what I meant to do," he replied. "If the son is a foolthere is no reason why the father should be. I have so managed the king,through His Grace of York that I have got my old lands back, so that inspite of thine own foolishness thou wilt no longer be a landlessRashcliffe. The king's marriage with Lucy Walters was not the only cardI had to play, so when my time came I played it, and I took the tricktoo."
At this I was silent, for somehow I felt my father to be a differentman.
"If ever a man had his chances you had," my father went on. "I had knownfor years that Katharine Harcomb had been trying to find out throughLucy Walters' mother where the old madman Walters was, and I knew thatwhen she found out she would come and tell me."
"How did you know?" I asked.
"Because I had power over her. Because in her young days she had donethat which, if I had chosen to make known, would have sent her to thegallows. Because I had made her promise that if ever she found out whereold Solomon, as he called himself, was, she dared do no other than totell me. She knew that he had got hold of the marriage contract; thequestion was, where the old man was hiding." And then my father told mea long story which I will not here set down, because it hath no realbearing on my history.
"You have disappointed me greatly," he went on presently. "You had achance such as few men have, and you spoiled it; you have gained theking's enmity, and you have allowed yourself to be mewed up here in thisstinking hole with a lot of psalm-singing Nonconformists. Besides, youhave done no good by it all. The story hath come out, and the king hathtaken an oath that he did never wed Lucy. Therefore your knowledge dothavail nothing."
"But I saw the contract," I cried.
"Ay, but the king hath taken his oath," he laughed.
"What, to a lie!" I said.
"The oath of Charles Stuart!" said my father. "What was his father'soath worth? What is the son's oath worth? But you have spoiled yourchance. What matters whether the thing is a forgery or no? Now that thething hath come to light it doth not matter. That is what angers me. Theson in whom I trusted to have clever wits hath acted like a Puritan."
"And am I to remain in gaol?" I asked.
"As to that, no," he replied. "Now that the thing hath come to lightnought matters. Had I come back earlier I had set you at liberty longago. As soon as I discovered how matters stood I took steps to gain yourfreedom."
"Then I may leave this place?" I cried.
"Ay, be thankful that your father is not a fool. You can e'en return toyour old home to-morrow."
"And know you aught of Mistress Constance Leslie?" I asked.
"Ay, I do," he replied.
"What? Tell me!" I cried.
My father turned and looked around him before speaking, as though hefeared some one was listening.