For Faith and Freedom

by Walter Besant

  CHAPTER XXV.

  ILMINSTER CLINK.

  How can I tell--oh! how can I sit down to tell in cold blood thestory of all that followed? Some parts of it for very pity I mustpass over. All that has been told or written of the Bloody Assizeis most true, and yet not half that happened can be told. There arethings, I mean, which the historian cannot, for the sake of pity,decency, and consideration for living people, relate, even if hehath seen them. You who read the printed page may learn how in oneplace so many were hanged; in another place so many; how some werehung in gemmaces, so that at every cross-road there was a frightfulgibbet with a dead man on it; how some died of small-pox in thecrowded prisons, and some of fever; and how Judge Jeffreys rode fromtown to town, followed by gangs of miserable prisoners driven afterhim to stand their trial in towns where they would be known; how thewretched sufferers were drawn and quartered, and their limbs seethedin pitch, and stuck up over the whole country; how the women andboys of tender years were flogged through market-towns--you, I say,who read these things on the cold page presently (even if you be astickler for the Right Divine and hold rebellion as a mortal sin)feel your blood to boil with righteous wrath. The hand of the Lordwas afterwards heavy upon those who ordered these things; nay, atthe very time (this is a most remarkable Judgment, and one littleknown) when this inhuman Judge was thundering at his victims--sothat some went mad and even dropped down dead with fear--he washimself, as Humphrey hath assured me, suffering the most horriblepain from a dire disease; so that the terrors of his voice and ofhis fiery eyes were partly due to the agony of his disease, andhe was enduring all through that Assize, in his own body, pangsgreater than any that he ordered! As for his miserable end, and thefate that overtook his master, that we know; and candid souls cannotbut confess that here were truly Judgments of God, visible for allto see and acknowledge. But no pen can truly depict what the eye sawand the ear heard during that terrible time. And, think you, if itwas a terrible and a wretched time for those who had no relationsamong the rebels, and only looked on and saw these bloody executionsand heard the lamentations of the poor women who lost their loversor their husbands, what must it have been for me, and those likeme, whose friends and all whom they loved--yea, all, all!--wereoverwhelmed in one common ruin, and expected nothing but death?

  Our own misery I cannot truly set forth. Sometimes the memory of itcomes back to me, and it is as if long afterwards one should feelagain the sharpness of the surgeon's knife. Oh! since I must writedown what happened, let me be brief. And you who read it, if youfind the words cold where you would have looked for fire; if youfind no tears where there should have been weeping and wailing,remember that in the mere writing have been shed again (but theseyou cannot see) the tears which belonged to that time, and in thewriting have been renewed (but these you cannot hear) the sobbingsand wailings and terrors of that dreadful autumn.

  The soldiers belonged to a company of Grenadiers of Trelawny'sRegiment, stationed at Ilminster, whither they carried theprisoners. First they handcuffed Barnaby, but, on his giving hisparole not to escape, they let him go free; and he proved useful inthe handling of the cart on which my unhappy father lay. And, thoughthe soldiers' talk was ribald, their jests unseemly, and theircursing and swearing seemed verily to invite the wrath of God, yetthey proved honest fellows in the main. They offered no rudeness tous, nor did they object to our going with the prisoners; nay, theyeven gave us bread and meat and cider from their own provisions whenthey halted for dinner at noon. Barnaby walked sometimes with thesoldiers, and sometimes with us; with them he talked freely, and asif he were their comrade and not their prisoner: with us he put in aword of encouragement or consolation, such as 'Mother, we shall finda way out of this coil yet;' or 'Sister, we shall cheat Tom Hangman.Look not so gloomy upon it;' or, again, he reminded us that many ashipwrecked sailor gets safe ashore, and that where there are somany they cannot hang all. 'Would the King,' he asked, 'hang up thewhole county of Somerset?' But he had already told me too much. Inhis heart I knew he had small hope of escape; yet he preserved hischeerfulness, and walked towards his prison (to outward seeming) asinsensible of fear, and with as unconcerned a countenance as if hewere going to a banquet or a wedding. This cheerfulness of his wasdue to a happy confidence in the ordering of things rather thanto insensibility. A sailor sees men die in many ways, yet himselfremains alive. This gives him something of the disposition of theOriental, who accepts his fate with outward unconcern, whatever itmay be. Perhaps (I know not) there may have been in his mind thatreligious Assurance of which he had told me. Did Barnaby at thisperiod, when death was very near unto him, really believe that therewas one religion for landsmen and another for sailors--one way toheaven for ministers, another for seamen? Indeed, I cannot tell;yet how otherwise account for his courage and cheerfulness at alltimes--even in the very presence of death?

  'Brother,' he asked the Sergeant, 'we have been lying hid for afortnight, and have heard no news. Tell me, how go the hangings?'

  'Why, Captain,' the fellow replied with a grin, 'in this respectthere is little for the rebels to complain of. They ought to besatisfied, so far, with the attentions paid to them. Lord Fevershamhanged twenty odd to begin with. Captain Adlan and three others aretrussed up in chains for their greater honour; and, in order to putthe rest in good heart, one of them ran a race with a horse, beingpromised his life if he should win. When he had beaten the horse,his Lordship, who was ever a merry man, ordered him to be hangedjust to laugh at him. And hanged he was.'

  'Ay,' said Barnaby, 'thus do the Indians in America torture theirprisoners first and kill them afterwards.'

  'There are two hundred prisoners laying in Weston Zoyland church,'the Sergeant went on; 'they would have been hanged, too, but theBishop interfered. Now they are waiting to be tried. Lord! whatsignifies trial, except to give them longer rope?'

  'Ay, ay; and how go things in Bridgwater and Taunton?'

  'From Weston to Bridgwater there is a line of gibbets already; inTaunton, twenty, I believe, have swung--twenty, at least. The drumsbeat, the fifes played, and the trumpets sounded, and Colonel Kirkedrank to the health of every man (such was his condescension!)before he was turned off. 'Twould have done your heart good,Captain, only to see the brave show.'

  'Ay, ay,' said Barnaby, unmoved; 'very like, very like. Perhaps Ishall have the opportunity of playing first part in another braveshow if all goes well. Hath the Duke escaped?'

  'We heard yesterday that he is taken somewhere near the New Forest.So that he will before long lay his lovely head upon the block.Captain, your friends have brought their pigs to a pretty market.'

  'They have, Brother; they have,' replied Barnaby, still with unmovedcountenance. 'Yet many a man hath recovered from worse straits thanthese.'

  I listened with sinking heart. Much I longed to ask if the Sergeantknew aught of Robin; but I refrained, lest merely to name him mightput the soldiers on the look-out for him, should he, happily, be inhiding.

  Next the Sergeant told us (which terrified me greatly) that therewas no part of the country where they were not scouring forfugitives; that they were greatly assisted by the clergy, who, hesaid, were red-hot for King James; that the men were found hiding,as we had hidden, in linneys, in hedges, in barns, in woods; thatthey were captured by treachery--by information laid, and even, mostcruel thing of all, by watching and following the men's sweetheartswho were found taking food to them. He said also that, at thepresent rate, they would have to enlarge their prisons to admit tentimes their number, for they were haling into them not only the menwho had followed Monmouth, but also those who had helped him withmoney, arms, or men. The Sergeant was a brutal fellow, yet therewas about him something of good nature, and even of compassion forthe men he had captured. But he seemed to take delight in speakingof the sufferings of the unfortunate prisoners. The soldiers, hetold us, were greatly enraged towards the rebels--not, I suppose,on account of their rebellion, because three years later theythemselves showed how skin-deep was their loyalty
, but because therustics, whom they thought contemptible, had surprised and nearlybeaten them. And this roused in them the spirit of revenge.

  'Captain,' said the Sergeant, ''tis pity that so lusty a gentlemanas thou shouldst die. Hast thou no friends at Court? No? Nor any whowould speak for thee? 'Tis pity. Yet a man can die but once. Withsuch a thick neck as thine, bespeak, if so much grace be accordedthee, a long rope and a high gallows. Else, when it comes to thequartering'--he stopped and shook his head--'but there--I wish youwell out of it, Captain.'

  In the evening, just before sunset, we arrived at Ilminster, after asad and weary march of ten miles, at least; but we could not leavethe prisoners until we knew how and where they were bestowed; andduring all this time my mother, who commonly walked not abroad fromone Sabbath to the next, was possessed with such a spirit that sheseemed to feel no weariness. When we rode all night in order to jointhe Duke she complained not; when we rode painfully across the hillsto Taunton she murmured not; nor when we carried our wounded manup the rough and steep comb; no, nor on this day, when she walkedbeside her husband's head, careful lest the motion of the cartshould cause him pain. But he felt nothing, poor soul! He would feelnothing any more.

  Ilminster is a goodly town, rich and prosperous with its spinnersand weavers. This evening, however, there was no one in the streetsexcept the troopers, who swaggered up and down or sat drinking atthe tavern door. There is a broad open place before the market,which stands upon great stone pillars. Outside the market isthe Clink, whither the soldiers were taking their prisoners.The troopers paid not the least heed to our mournful littleprocession--a wounded man; a prisoner in scarlet and lace, but thecloth tattered and stained and the lace torn. They were only twomore men on their way to death. What doth a soldier care for thesight of a man about to die?

  'Mother,' said Barnaby when we drew near the prison gates, 'come notwithin. I will do all that I can for him. Go now and find a decentlodging, and, Sister, hark ye, the lads in our army were rough, butthey were as lambs compared with these swaggering troopers. Keepsnug, therefore, and venture not far abroad.'

  I whispered in his ear that I had his bag of money safe, so thathe could have whatever he wanted if that could be bought. Then theprison gates were closed, and we stood without.

  It would have been hard indeed if the wife and daughter of Dr.Comfort Eykin could not find a lodging among godly people, of whomthere are always many in every town of Somerset. We presentlyobtained a room in the house of one Martha Prior, widow of thelearned and pious Joshua Prior, whilom preacher and ejectedminister. Her case was as hard as our own. This poor woman had twosons only, and both had gone to join the Duke; one already risen tobe a Master Serge-maker and one a Draper of the town. Of her sonsshe could hear no news at all: whether they were alive or dead.If they were already dead, or if they should be hanged, she wouldhave no means of support, and so must starve or eat the bread ofcharity. (I learned afterwards that she never did hear anything ofthem, so that it is certain that they must have been killed on thebattle-field or cut down by the dragoons in trying to escape. Butthe poor soul survived not long their loss.)

  The church of Ilminster stands upon a rising ground; on the northof the church is the grammar school, and on the other three sidesare houses of the better sort, of which Mrs. Prior had one. Theplace, which surrounds the churchyard, and hath no inn or ale-housein it, is quiet and retired. The soldiers came not thither, exceptonce or twice, with orders to search the houses (and with a privateresolution to drink everything that they might lay their handsupon), so that, for two poor women in our miserable circumstances,we could not have a more quiet lodging.

  Despite our troubles, I slept so well that night that it waspast seven in the morning when I awoke. The needs of the body dosometimes overcome the cares of the spirit. For a whole fortnighthad we been making our beds on the heather, and, therefore, withouttaking off our clothes; and that day we had walked ten miles, atleast, with the soldiers, so that I slept without moving or wakingall the night. In the morning, I dressed quickly and hurried to thejail, not knowing whether I might be admitted or should be allowedspeech of Barnaby. Outside the gate, however, I found a crowd ofpeople going into the prison and coming out of it. Some of them,women like ourselves, were weeping--they were those whose brothersor lovers, husbands or sons, were in those gloomy walls. Othersthere were who brought, for such of the prisoners as had money tobuy them, eggs, butter, white bread, chickens, fruit, and all kindsof provisions; some brought wine, cider, and ale; some, tobacco. Thewarders who stood at the gates made no opposition to those who wouldenter. I pressed in with a beating heart, prepared for a scene ofthe most dreadful repentance and gloomy forebodings. What I saw wasquite otherwise.

  The gates of the prison opened upon a courtyard, not very big, wherethe people were selling their wares, and some of the prisoners werewalking about, and some were chaffering with the women who had thebaskets. On the right-hand side of the yard was the Clink itself; onthe left hand were houses for the warders or officers of the prison.In general, a single warder, constable, or head-borough is enoughfor a town such as Ilminster, to keep the peace of the prison, whichis for the most part empty, save when they enforce some new Actagainst Nonconformists and fill it with them or with Quakers. Now,however, so great was the press that, instead of two, there werea dozen guards, and, while a stout cudgel had always been weaponenough, now every man went armed with pike and cutlass to keep orderand prevent escapes. Six of them occupied the gate-house; other sixwere within, in a sort of guard-house, where they slept on the lefthand of the court.

  The ground floor of the Clink we found to be a large room, atleast forty feet each side in bigness. On one side of it was agreat fireplace, where, though it was the month of July, there wasburning a great fire of Welsh coal, partly for cooking purposes,because all that the prisoners ate was cooked at this fire; andpartly because a great fire kept continually burning sweetens theair, and wards off jail fever. On another side was a long table andseveral benches. Thick wooden pillars supported the joists of therooms above; the windows were heavily barred, but the shutters hadbeen taken down, and there was no glass in them. In spite of fireand open windows, the place was stifling, and smelt most horrible.Never have I breathed so foul an air. There lived in this room abouteighty prisoners (later on the numbers were doubled); some weresmoking tobacco and drinking cider or ale; some were frying piecesof meat or smoked herrings over the fire; and the tobacco, the ale,the wine, the cooking, and the people themselves--nearly all countrylads, unwashed, who had slept since Sedgemoor, at least, in the sameclothes without once changing--made so foul an air that jail fever,putrid throats, and small-pox (all of which afterwards broke out)should have been expected sooner.

  They were all talking, laughing, and even singing, so that, inaddition to the noisome stench of the place, there was such a din asone may hear at Sherborne Fair of an evening. I expected, as I havesaid, a gloomy silence with the rattling of chains, the groans ofthose who looked for death, and, perhaps, a godly repentance visibleupon every countenance. Yet they were all laughing, except a few whosat retired and who were wounded. I say that they were all laughing.They had nothing to expect but death, or at the best to be horriblyflogged, to be transported, to be fined, branded, and ruined. Yetthey laughed! What means this hardness and indifference in men?Could they not think of the women they had left at home? I warrantthat none of them were laughing.

  Among them--a pipe of tobacco in his lips and a mug of strong alebefore him on the table, his hat flung backwards--sat Barnaby, hisface showing, apparently, complete satisfaction with his lot.

  When he saw us at the door, he rose and came to meet us.

  'Welcome,' he said. 'This is one of the places where King Monmouth'smen are to receive the honour due to them. Courage, gentle hearts.Be not cast down. Everywhere the prisons are full, and more arebrought in every day. Our very numbers are our safety. They cannothang us all. And hark!' here he whispered, 'Sister, we now knowthat Colonel Kirke h
ath been selling pardons at ten pounds, twentypounds, and thirty pounds apiece. Wherefore we are well assured thatsomehow or other we shall be able to buy our release. There areplenty besides Colonel Kirke who will sell a prisoner his freedom.'

  'Where is your father?' asked my mother.

  'He is bestowed above, where it is quieter, except for the groaningof the wounded. Go up-stairs, and you will find him. And there isa surprise for you, besides. You will find with him one you littleexpect to see.'

  'Oh! Barnaby, is there new misery for me? Is Robin a prisoner?'

  'Robin is not here, Sis; and as for misery, why, that is as you takeit. To be sure the man above is in prison, but no harm will happento him. Why should it? He did not go out with Monmouth's men. But goup-stairs--go up-stairs, and see for yourselves.'