Part 20

And yet this was the man who, in after years, dissolved the Parliament by force, and took the keys home in his pocket. Charles might not order his attendants in as eloquent and strong language, to seize the offenders, as Cromwell used, when he told his servants to take down, “that bauble,”--the mace; but the king was guilty of a less constitutional crime than was the protector.

He continued, in tones of scorn, while malice darkened over his face,--

“If Charles be bad, why, he deserves death; he is unfit to live. If he be good, it is but meet that he should leave this vain and wicked world for another more congenial to his piety, where he may inherit a heavenly crown. Let him bid adieu, and there is no honest man who could object to a monarchy in heaven! Often has Charles called the crown, a crown of thorns. We shall ease him of it. Pity that his tender and royal flesh should be scratched! Often has he called the throne of England a cross. We shall take him down from the cross, _and bury him_. Pity that he should, any longer, be a spectacle to angels and to men! We shall free him of both his crown and his throne!”

“But surely not of his life?” inquired Miss Evelyn, and the question was repeated by Hans and Rachel Skippon.

It was unanswered:--and Cromwell relapsed into one of those silent moods which came frequently over him, even at the commencement of his public career, as well as afterwards, when he became Lord Protector.

In all his conversation, Mary Evelyn had observed that there was something of an innocent hypocrisy about him. He counterfeited tender feelings, when it was evident, from his face, that he had none; and at other times he restrained tender feelings, and appeared what he was not--cold and indifferent. But in his expressed hatred of the king, there could not be a doubt of his sincerity. The awful sarcasm was in deadly earnest, and the very words hissed, and hissed, as if they were coming from a full furnace of burning wrath. Neither was his love for England at that time insincere. Had his life been of as much value to it as his sword, instead of taking up the one, he was willing to have resigned the other.

A knocking was now made at the gate, and when Rachel went to it, a soldier of the common rank inquired,--

“Tarrieth my lord in the house? Verily he hath chosen a peaceful spot. The lines have fallen unto him in pleasant places. Lead me the way.”

“Dost thou preach in the army?” inquired the dame.

“No madam; verily, verily I say unto you, that many shall be called unto that work, but few chosen. But thou wonderest at the fluency of my speech. Ah!--out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaketh. I only edify and exhort in private.”

The good dame could, with difficulty, refrain from laughing at the uncouth soldier. He was tall and thin, and she afterwards remarked,--had Goliath been still alive, the soldier would have been an excellent sword for his huge hand. But he opened his lips so oracularly, and strode so gravely, that these circumstances being taken into consideration, along with his leanness, he was termed by Cromwell himself, with no little blasphemy, when in an unusual fit of jocularity and good humour, “the holy _ghost_!”

When they had gained the house, he made a low reverence to Cromwell, repeating the words, “honour to whom honour is due, fear to whom fear.”

“Well, my good soldier, what wouldst thou?”

“Will it please you, my lord, to walk forth in the cool of the day, and commune with thy servants, our captains and officers?”

“Yes, in a few moments I shall be with them.”

The soldier retreated to the door slowly, whilst he said,

“Now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace.”

Cromwell, in a little, walked forth alone. The miller looked at his form. It was muscular, but not strong, and well built, but not handsome; but all its movements were expressive of power.

“He _will_ save the nation,” exclaimed Miss Evelyn, “and for all his greatness, he is yet so pious and devout.”

“I could trust that man,” replied Rachel, “but I could not feel any attachment or affection to him. He might perish to-morrow, and yet, but for our country, I would not mourn at his loss.”

The good dame here expressed what was the universal feeling of all Cromwell’s supporters towards him. He had their confidence, but not their affection. His own daughters, at one time, were proud of him, but they were never fond. And in the glowing panegyric of Milton, we can but trace a high admiration of Cromwell.

“Arthur Montressor,” said Mary to herself, “must not belong to Cromwell’s troops, else he would surely have come to see me. He is not false or faithless. Oh! when shall civil war be at an end, and we know a home?”

Cromwell returned an hour before sunset. His step was slow. He was in a quiet contemplative mood, evidently not thinking of war. His head was uncovered, and he allowed the air to breathe its fragrance upon it. He paused at the threshold, as if it were painful to enter a dwelling after having wandered about the vale.

The night was beautiful and still. It was early in the month of May, and the sunshine had all its young summer innocence. In mirth it seemed now to rest upon the little green knolls, and then to retreat to the mountain. The shadows were passing over the white cottage, as if chiding the bright rays which shone within.

“My good friends,” said Cromwell “it is now time for our evening devotions. Let them not be performed in a house made with hands, but in the open air. And yet I would rather worship in your dwelling, than in all the gorgeous temples, which speak too much of man, to say any thing of God. But, let us to the garden.”

His eye beamed with a love for nature. He is said often to have dwelt with rapture on the beauty of external objects, and to have wished that his lot, however humble, had been cast in a pastoral retirement, far from bustle and care. Nature had first given him thoughts of liberty. It was not the lightning and the storm, which inspired them. He cared not for the cold mountains, with their terrific heads mantled in the tempest. He looked around upon lovely nature. He called himself her son. It was not because she was free, but because she was beautiful, that he swore never to be a slave. A beautiful mother, and a son with a craven soul: it must not be!

They went forth to the garden. A pleasant arbour at the extremity, topping the eminence, and shaded with trees, was their temple. The balmy fragrance of eve rested on the bushes, and the glow of coming twilight floated in the sky. Cromwell for a moment listened in silence, as if the song of spirits, keeping their sabbath, was borne on the gentle west wind.

“What a temple is this,” he said, “to worship God! I cannot endure to enter churches, and there to gaze upon the gay gilded fluttering sons of pride, clothed in purple and fine linen. But here, I can gaze upon objects still more gaily adorned, and I dare not call them vain.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Miss Evelyn, catching fire and animation from the republican. “Churches teach so much the lesson of our mortality. Many graves are around us. But this temple teaches us of immortality.”

“Thou speakest well, beauteous maiden. Mortality is a great lesson, but immortality is one greater and more useful. Mortality teaches us to trace our connections and relatives in the worm. But immortality in God and angels! Sin brought the first to light, but Christ the other.”

They all joined in singing a psalm. Mary Evelyn’s sweet voice, with its low and tremulous sounds, occasionally induced Cromwell to be silent and listen, while he kindly placed his hand upon hers. He next read a portion of Scripture,--one of the Psalms--which he afterwards commented upon, in his address to Parliament, as Lord Protector of the Commonwealth. He then knelt down on the grass and prayed, “Father above, we come to thee! We now bow at thy feet: soon we shall lie in thine arms! Far above us, still thou hidest not thy face. Excuse us in this act of adoration, for opening our eyes to see the heavens, and for sinking our hands on the ground to feel thy footstool. The moon and the stars may not arise, but the clouds which conceal them, tell their tale. The flowers of the earth may have withered, but the clods of the valley, beneath which their fair young forms are buried, take their place, and speak to us of thee!”

Here he paused, as if overcome by the greatness of the Being whom he addressed. But soon it was the strong republican who prayed, and he raved about Israel; Israel’s God, and himself the deliverer of both, as he presumed.

When he had concluded, he abruptly arose and left them. They followed him into the house, after a few minutes, but he had gone to his apartment for the night. As long however as they themselves were awake, they heard him walking up and down.

* * * * *

On the following morning, the sun was not earlier in arising upon the turrets of Lancaster Castle, than were the soldiers of the garrison. They were in armour, and the cannons were all charged and manned. The Governor was walking about to every post and every circle, encouraging them to do their duty to the king and country.

His eyes were occasionally turned to the vale where Cromwell’s troops were encamped.

“Do they yet move,” said a noble youth who now approached. “Father, shall we able to hold out a siege against such a famed general?”

“Is my son a traitor,” bitterly asked the governor. “If he be, then my first duty of vengeance is against him. No! a king has blessed thee, and wouldst thou fight against him who once took thee, an infant, in his royal arms, and swore that thou wert like thy beautiful mother? Thy mother! Ha, the subject and the name are unfit for me. Let me not think of them.”

“Father,” proudly replied the youth, “thou doest me wrong. Not only my sword, but my very life is pledged for the king’s interest. But to war with Cromwell is to war with destiny. He can pray and he can fight.”

“Let his troops come,” was the scornful answer, “and we shall quickly send them upon their knees, to attend to their devotions. See, there is spare room for a few thousands to pray upon the ground out before us. They shall find room to stretch out their full length carcass, and they may breathe out groans which cannot be uttered, because they are dead!”

“They pray before they come to the battle. During it, you will not find them once on their knees.”

“Ha! doubtest thou?” exclaimed the governor. “If they refuse to kneel in loyalty to Charles while living, why, we shall allow them, in death, to kneel to their mother earth, which they love so fondly, ‘dust to dust,’ as they themselves would say.”

“Not before their garments are rolled in blood!”

“Art thou a canting hypocrite too? Hast thou been baptized with the said holy fire. It is the fire of rebellion. Satan was the first roundhead. He spoke of liberty. He mentioned it in the high court of parliament, but royalty conquered, and the good cavalier angels pushed him and all his troops over the battlements. Let Cromwell scale these turrets, we shall explain to him a precipitous descent. Let him come.”

“Thou hast thy wish,” was the reply. “His troops are advancing. Now for the action.”

“My brave boy,” said the governor, as he placed his hand upon the head of his son, “forgive me for my harsh words. Thou art my only child, my sole hope. Heaven bless thee and shield thee! But haste my men, is all in readiness?”

In half-an-hour Cromwell’s troops were posted upon a neighbouring hill, opposite the castle. A flag of truce was fixed.

A herald from the Roundheads now advanced; and being admitted into the town, proceeded to the castle. The persons usually thus employed were half preachers, and half warriors, who threatened with the sword of the Lord, and of Gideon. The present messenger of peace, belonged to this class. Obadiah Cook was his name, and as he announced it to the governor, who appeared at the drawbridge, all the soldiers gave a loud laugh.

“Friend,” said the governor, “is thy name Obadiah Cook?”

“It is, Sir Governor,” was the reply, “I am like that famous prophet, who sheltered God’s servants from the wicked Ahaz. Oh! for a place in the wilderness, that there my soul might fly away and be at rest!”

“What prevents it from flying? Surely not thy body, for it is so weak. Indeed, Obadiah, thou seemest too like thy namesake of old, and art too fond of _cooking_ for the hundred prophets. Man, consider your own wants.--But your errand, Obadiah?”

“He that hath ears to hear, let him hear. Are ye so deaf? The very loop holes of that idolatrous castle, of that high-place of iniquity, condemned by the Psalmist, take in my words. My master, Cromwell, in the name of the Parliament of England, demands you to surrender the castle, else it shall be razed to the ground, and there shall not be one stone left upon another, which shall not be thrown down. Last night, when I had retired to sleep, in the midst of my meditations, I heard an angel flying through the sky, and crying with a loud voice ‘Babylon is fallen, Lancaster Castle is no more.’”

At this moment a ball whizzed over the head of Obadiah.

“Is that the angel which flew through the sky?” inquired the sentinel, who had discharged it, and who, with curses regretted that it had not gone a little nearer in order that the herald might have known more accurately.

“Darest thou?” exclaimed the governor, as he turned to the sentinel. “Another time, thou receivest thy punishment.”

The herald continued,--

“You are cut off from all provisions, you shall soon be compelled to eat your wives, your little ones, and yourselves. Then surrender in time.”

“Not so,” replied the governor, with a laugh, “we have better dainties than that. We have as good ale, as ever Oliver himself brewed at Huntingdon. Nay, I should like to have a chat with him, over some of it. Sentinel, throw Obadiah a loaf.”

The herald, who did not seem by any means over-fed, caught the descending bread, and stowed it about his person.

“Now, fool, return and tell Oliver that we despise his vengeance, and laugh at his mercy.”

“Then,” exclaimed the angry and indignant messenger, “a voice against Lancaster, a voice against the Castle, a voice against--”

“Yourself. A voice against yourself,” and a well aimed ball, from the governor’s pistol, brought him to the ground, from off his steed.

The report could not have been heard from the hill, where Cromwell’s troops were posted, but the herald’s fall must have been noticed, as instantly active preparations for the attack seemed to be making, and soon several pieces of cannon opened their fire upon the castle in close volley. From the upper batteries it was returned, and from the loop holes over the strong arched gateway, muskets were fired upon those of the Roundhead soldiers, who had broken down the gates of the town, and were advancing furiously.

“Prevent them,” cried the governor, “from recovering the dead body of their comrade. Let him at least be useful in his death, and be a meal to the crows and the vultures.”

But although the musketry wrought havock among the Roundheads who approached, they bore off Obadiah, whilst they put to the sword all the inhabitants whom they met scouring the streets in their fear. They returned reinforced, in spite of the cannon, which was now also turned against them, and they entered the church, and from the broken windows took aim at the besieged with their muskets.

Cromwell remained with the soldiers on the hill, and was seen whenever the dense smoke was occasionally rolled away by sharp breezes which arose, walking from cannon to cannon, encouraging and giving directions. Many a ball was aimed at him, but he seemed to escape unhurt.

“Old Noll, is invincible,” said one of the soldiers, “for, now, I loaded my musket with a silver coin, and took such a correct aim, that I could have wagered that the very wart on his nose would receive the charge, and yet, there he is moving about, and raising his prospective glass. He is the son of a witch!”

Throughout the whole summer’s day the cannons thundered. They had taken effect upon the highest battlements, as well as on the gateway, for these were sadly shattered. Many of the Royalists had fallen as they sallied forth upon the Roundheads, in the church; and a few had been wounded, as they manned the castle walls and served the cannon. But the governor, a brave old man, refused to surrender, as long as one stone of the fortress was left.

“See, my soldiers, the flag of Charles, still waves true to him, although it be in rags. Let us be as faithful.”

At sunset, a signal of truce was displayed, on the hill, and the cannons ceased; but the party who had occupied the church still kept up the fire, and the governor directed his men not to cannonade the church but to retire to the turrets, where the roundhead musketry would be harmless. As night came on, the inmates of the church, however, found that there was little good cheer to be had in Zion. The vestry had been ransacked, the communion cups examined, but no wine could be found, and there was not bread enough to supper a church mouse.

“Well,” exclaimed one, “it is of no use firing, let us barricade the doors, and compose ourselves to rest. I choose the pulpit for my bed. Soft cushions to dose on!”

The same spirit of sleep had descended upon the soldiers of the castle, and even some of the sentries were stretched out on the battlements. The governor and his son, did not awake them, as they walked together. Their eyes were fixed upon the enemy’s camp, when suddenly a wide flash was seen, and a cannon shot struck against the turrets. The firing continued, and soon, it was as regularly returned, when loud shouts arose within the lower courts. The next moment a party of roundheads were among the governor’s men, headed by Cromwell and Captain Birch, who had just arrived to act in concert with the general. The governor was seized and bound, and, along with his son, placed under a strong guard, while his men were put to the sword, overcome by the unexpected attack. The Royal flag was lowered, and in a short time the castle was in the possession of the roundhead troops!

“Captain,” said Cromwell, “our stratagem has succeeded. By playing the cannon, we diverted their attention to the hill where we were posted, and thus we advanced unseen. But where is the gallant officer of your department, who led the way, and clambered up the gateway?”

“Here he is, general, and true stuff he is made of. He was captured by the royalists a few months ago: but last week he effected his escape. Montressor, stand forward, and receive the thanks of General Cromwell, for your bravery.”

It was Arthur Montressor. Cromwell warmly extolled his services, even whilst he reminded him, “that not unto us, but unto God’s name be the glory.”

“General,” said Montressor, as he humbly bowed, “might I ask a favour, which can be of no interest in you to deny. Will you grant me leave of absence from the troops, for this night?”

“Absence!” returned the general, in a harsh voice, “and for what would you take absence? For some nocturnal appointment with a fair one?--young man you are silent: it must be as I have guessed. Then take my unqualified denial. No such license here,” and he turned away abruptly.

“Montressor,” said Birch, as he was about to accompany Cromwell, “you remain in the castle all night. Should you disobey, our sentries have the same liberty to treat you as they would the captive governor. Good night!”

Montressor stood for a moment motionless.

“The governor!--thank God that I have not left the castle!”

Early on the following morning Cromwell, attended by his officers, entered the apartment where the governor was confined. They found him asleep. Cromwell put his finger to his lips, and motioned them to the window, where they stood in silence. It commanded a wide view of the lawn in front, where the hill was almost a flat plain. Sheep and kine were browsing on the grass, and suggested images of rural peace and retirement, as if it had not been the seat of war a few hours previous. From their own thoughts they were aroused by the door of the apartment being cautiously opened. As they themselves stood in a recess, not directly opposite the door, they could watch without being observed. Nothing but a hand groping the way, and two bright eyes gleaming in the shade of the staircase, could be seen. The next moment a tall form, shrouded in a horseman’s cloak, moved silently in. He looked at the sleeper. His hand trembled as it was raised to the brow. He started, as if moved with some sudden resolution, drew forth a pistol, and fired it in the direction of the governor. He threw back his cloak, and perceiving that the ball had not been true to its mark, drew his sword, and rushed forward;--but Cromwell and his officers stood before him.

“Montressor! Beware!” thundered forth Cromwell, as he seized the youth’s arm.

The report had startled the governor.

“Ha! traitors! cowardly traitors! Do I see aright? Is it Cromwell who has played the ruffian? Cromwell,--after pledging my life to myself in the most solemn oath? And that whilst I was asleep! Base,--cowardly, was the act. And why shouldst thou have made the young man your tool? Could not your own withered hands have been stained with my blood, and not the white hands of innocent youth? Base, cowardly!”

“Thou doest me wrong,” replied the general, as calmly as if he had been rebutting a slight and unimportant accusation, “as these my officers, and as the assassin himself can testify. I had entered to propose to you my terms of a negociation with you. You were asleep, and, old man, I had no desire to prevent you enjoying a transient solace. This assassin,--villain I will call him, though he belongs to my troops, entered and fired. Wretch,” and he turned upon Montressor, whilst he stamped in fury, and the sweat broke out on his massive forehead for very anger, “why hast thou dared to inflict death, when I, your general, gave my oath that he should be in safety?”

He became more calm, but his eye relaxed not its awful sternness, although his voice was low as he added,

“Young man, allow me to unbuckle thy sword,--nay, no scruples--and prepare to die!”

All started. Cromwell turned round upon them with a look that forbade remonstrance.

“I refuse not,” proudly answered Montressor, “to die. But listen to my motives for attempting the life of that man. I loved. Oh! she was fair, gentle, and happy, as a spirit of heaven! General, smile not in scorn. Does a dying man rave in a foolish and romantic strain? She was more than an angel to me. She would have been my wife! But her father was murdered, and she was an orphan, deprived of her home; herself,--almost a maniac. Yes, she was mad when her condemned father placed her hand in mine, and betrothed us together, for ever and ever. And who was the murderer? Sir governor,--tell me who caused the death of Sir John Evelyn?”

The governor covered his face with his hands. Cromwell started up from the chair which he had taken.

“Sir John Evelyn! Where is his daughter? Young man, be brief, and answer me. Is she in the care of a miller and his wife, at a short distance from Lancaster?”

“There I left her. But I have been, ever since, a captive, and when I asked permission to leave the castle last night, in order that I might obtain information concerning her fate, you denied me. She may be dead. It would be well!”

“She is alive,” muttered Cromwell, as he again seated himself.