On gaining Millbank, he speedily discovered the Chequers, and entering the house, recognised his old acquaintance, the former landlord of the Rose and Crown. The latter, however, did not recollect him, but eyed him rather suspiciously, till Randulph told him he came recommended by Mr. Cordwell Firebras.
“Hush!” exclaimed the host. “He’s only known as Captain Vizard here. My right name is Tom Wiles, but I’m now called Dick Chinnock. I fancy I’ve seen you before, sir.”
“I was introduced to the club when it met at your house in Gardiner’s Street, Petty France,” replied Randulph, “on the night when the members were pursued by the guard.”
“And an unlucky night it was!” exclaimed Chinnock. “We’ve never prospered since. I remember you now. I hope you won’t bring the same ill luck again. How soon will the captain be here, sir?”
“Not before midnight, I believe,” replied Randulph, “and as I’m a good deal fatigued, I should like to go to bed for a few hours. I wish to be as private as possible.”
“I’ll get a room ready for you directly, sir,” replied the host; “and in the meantime, perhaps you’ll step this way.”
And passing through a back door, he crossed a little garden, at the lower end of which stood a little square summer-house, with a pointed, tiled roof, surmounted by a vane. It overlooked the river, and on this side there was a platform, protected by a railing, with steps descending to the water’s edge. On the left stood an old mill — a tall, picturesque, wooden structure. Between the summer-house and the mill flowed a small brook, which turned a large water-wheel, connected with the latter building. At the back of the mill, over a dense mass of habitations, could be distinguished the towers of Westminster Abbey.
Having shewn Randulph into the summer-house, the landlord promised to let him know as soon as his bed was ready, and left him. The little chamber was furnished with a small deal table painted green, and a couple of chairs. Its internal decorations were much injured by damp and neglect. The gay paintings on the walls and ceilings were nearly effaced; the gilding had turned black; and the looking glasses were so dim that they scarcely reflected an object. As Randulph, after taking a momentary survey of the room, was about to seat himself, he noticed a ring in the floor, concealed by a bit of carpet, which he removed, and perceived that it covered a trap-door. Impelled by curiosity, he lifted the latter by means of the ring, and discovered a lower chamber, accessible by a ladder, placed against the stout pile supporting the floor. There appeared to be nothing in it; and satisfied with the discovery he had made, Randulph closed the trap-door, and restored the carpet to its original position.
Drawing his chair to a little window on the left, he threw it open, and amused himself by examining the old mill. A small vessel was moored in front of it, apparently filled with sacks of corn and straw, which some of the crew were unloading.
While watching their proceedings, Randulph could not help suspecting (though he scarcely knew why,) that some underhand business was going forward. The sacks were teagled to the upper story of the mill, and one of them chancing to fall, proved by its sound that its contents were not what they seemed. The trusses of straw, too, seemed oddly shaped, and Randulph persuaded himself that muskets and other arms were concealed within them.
If he had not felt quite certain that these proceedings had some connexion with the Jacobite cause, a circumstance that occurred almost immediately afterwards would have satisfied him of the fact. One of the crew in the little vessel observing him at the window of the summer-house made various signs to him, which, though he could not precisely interpret he understood to bear relation to the articles they were landing, as well as to their object.
Soon after this, Mr. Chinnock presented himself, and apologizing for his delay, said:— “The only bed-room I have is engaged by an invalid, but I’ve made you up a nice bed on a sofa in a snug little closet, where no one will disturb you.”
Following the host into the house, Randulph was shewn into a closet opening from a larger room, where, as had been stated, a sofa bed was prepared. He threw himself upon it, without undressing, and presently fell asleep. How long he remained in this state he knew not, but he was awakened by the sound of muttered voices in the next apartment, and became an involuntary listener to their discourse.
“They will all be here at midnight,” said a voice, “and you may capture them without difficulty.”
“If we do, sir,” replied another, “your reward is certain, though you are a Jesuit priest. I shall bring a strong party of men with me.”
“And I’ll take care to admit them,” said a third, whose voice Randulph recognised as that of the landlord, “provided you promise me a third of the reward, and undertake that I shall not be implicated in the matter.”
“I give you my word, as an officer in his majesty’s grenadier guards, that it shall be so,” rejoined the previous speaker, “and that is better than the written engagement of any Jacobite.”
“The reward is three hundred pounds,” said a sharp, conceited voice. “That’s one hundred to Mr. Chinnock, another hundred to Father Verselyn, and a third to me. Is that distinctly understood?”
“Distinctly, Mr. Cripps,” replied the officer— “provided I take them.”
“Yes, of course,” said the landlord; “but you can’t fail to do so, if you follow my instructions. I’ll put them into your hands.”
“Can’t you come down with something beforehand, captain?” asked Mr. Cripps.
“Not with a crown,” replied the officer. “I have already pledged my word that you shall receive the reward, and that must content you. It is as much as traitors can expect,” he added, with a contemptuous laugh.
“You’ll take care I am not injured?” said the Jesuit.
“I’ll do my best,” replied the officer; “but you must look to yourself. And now to arrange our plans. As soon as it gets dark, I’ll place half-a-dozen of my grenadiers, under the care of Tom Pratt, (Long Tom, as the men call him) in the summer-house near the river. They’ll cut off their retreat, if any should be attempted, by that way.”
“Long Tom and his men must hide themselves in the lower room of the summer-house, till Captain Vizard — I mean Cordwell Firebras has made his search,” said Chinnock. “He’s sure to be here the first, and if he’s seized too soon, you may lose the others.”
“I must have the whole pack, or you don’t get the reward,” said the officer.
“There’s a young man asleep in that closet, sent by the captain,” said the landlord— “I’m not quite sure that he’s a Jacobite. What shall we do with him?”
“Detain him,” replied the officer. “I hold you responsible for his safe custody.”
“But he’s a stout resolute fellow,” said Chinnock, “and may get off in spite of me.”
“I’ll leave you a couple of my grenadiers,” replied the officer;— “they’ll remain in the bar, like chance customers. Call them, if you require assistance.”
After a little further conversation, which Randulph could not catch, they separated, and he began to reflect upon the new posture of affairs. He was now involved in a fresh difficulty, from which he did not see how he could escape. Though anxious to warn Cordwell Firebras and the other Jacobites of their danger, he felt it would be almost impracticable. Any attempt at flight from the house must be attended with great risk, after the precautions taken by the others to prevent it, and he finally resolved to let things take their course, and to be guided in his plan of action by circumstances.
Determined, however, to ascertain whether his movements were watched, he walked forth, and proceeded towards the summer-house. The host was instantly by his side, and he caught a glimpse of Mr. Cripps in the doorway, and behind him the two grenadiers. Taking no sort of notice of these hostile preparations, he talked indifferently to the landlord, and presently returned with him to the house, and ordered some refreshment.
Evening at length arrived, and as it grew dusk, Randulph gazed into the garden
, and perceived the figures of the grenadiers, headed by Long Tom, steal off towards the summer-house. He also fancied he saw others station themselves at the side of the brook running between the inn garden and the mill yard, and he had no doubt the street-door was guarded in a similar manner. The trap was thus completely set, and he trembled to think what might be the fate of those for whom, however he differed with them in political opinions, he still entertained a strong friendship.
Slowly as the hours had hitherto passed, the interval between this time and that appointed for the arrival of Cordwell Firebras appeared yet more tedious. Twelve o’clock came — half-past — and yet none of the club had arrived; and Randulph began to hope that they had received some intimation of the plot against them. The same idea apparently occurred to the landlord, for he became very fidgety, and kept coming constantly into Randulph’s room, asking whether he knew what could be the cause of Captain Vizard’s being so late.
“I’m afraid something must have happened to him and the other gentlemen,” he said; “the Captain is punctuality itself, and so indeed are they all. I wonder what can have occurred.”
“Perhaps they may have been betrayed,” said Randulph.
“I hope not!” cried the landlord— “if so, I should lose — my best friends,” he added, correcting himself hastily.
“Do you expect Sir Norfolk Salusbury tonight?” asked Randulph.
“I did, sir,” replied the landlord, “but I don’t know what to think now.”
“And Sir Bulkeley Price and Father Verselyn?”
“Both, sir,” was the reply.
“Any others?” inquired Randulph,
“Several, I believe,” returned the landlord. “A very full meeting of the club was expected. What can have kept them away? — Ah! as I live! that’s the captain’s voice. All’s right now.”
So saying, he rushed out, and presently afterwards returned, ushering in Cordwell Firebras. The latter looked greatly exhausted.
“Give me a cup of wine, landlord,” he said— “I feel faint. I’ve had some hard work to do.”
The host instantly flew to a cupboard, and produced a flask and a large glass. Filling the latter, he presented it to Firebras, who emptied it at a draught.
“You are late, to-night, Captain,” said the landlord; “I had almost given you up. Will the rest of the gentlemen be here?”
“I expect so,” replied Firebras. “I thought they would have been here before me. Have you looked into the garden and the summer-house?”
“I have,” replied the landlord.
“I’ll go there myself,” said the other, taking a brace of pistols from his pocket. “Stay where you are,” he added to Randulph, who was about to follow him.
Accompanied by the host, who carried a lantern, Firebras crossed the garden, but though he glanced around, he perceived nothing, and marched direct to the summer-house.
On approaching it, Chinnock ran forward, and pretending to try the door, drew out the key, crying, so as to be heard by those inside— “Dear me! it’s locked — wait a minute, sir, and I’ll fetch the key.”
Without pausing for a reply, he darted off to the house. In a couple of minutes he returned, apologizing to Firebras — whom he found impatiently pacing the platform in front of the summer-house, and gazing at the darkling tide flowing past him — for his delay; and unlocked the door.
The summer-house was empty; the grenadiers had taken the hint, and descended to the lower chamber. A glance satisfied Firebras that all was right, and he returned slowly to the house, the landlord stamping upon the floor as he quitted the building, as a signal to the grenadiers that they may now come forth from their concealment.
On reaching the house, Firebras dismissed the landlord, and going up to Randulph, clapped him on the shoulder, and said: “I have rare news for you.”
“And I have news for you,” replied the other.
“Hear mine first,” cried Firebras. “What if I tell you I am come to offer you your estates and the hand of Hilda, if you join the Jacobite party?”
“There would be no use in joining you now,” returned Randulph.
“You think I am trifling with you,” cried Firebras, producing a packet; “but this will speak to the contrary. Here is the assignment of your estates to Isaac Isaacs. A receipt in full of all claims is attached to it. The deed is yours, provided you join us.”
“You amaze me!” cried Randulph, gazing at the packet; “that is unquestionably the deed I executed.”
“Most certainly it is,” replied Firebras. “It is too long a story to tell you how I became possessed of it,” he added, replacing it in his pocket, “but I have other intelligence for you. Mr. Scarve is dead!”
Randulph uttered an exclamation of surprise.
“He died last night,” pursued Firebras, “and left his property to Philip Frewin, in case of Hilda’s refusal to marry him.”
“But Philip may not live to claim the fulfilment of the condition,” cried Randulph.
“Philip, also, is dead,” replied Firebras. And smiling at Randulph’s astonishment, he added, “Now you see that all is in your grasp. Fate has given you the lady of your love. I offer you your fortune. Can you refuse to join us?”
“Mr. Firebras,” said Randulph, composing himself, “this is not a time to put such a question to me.”
“Pardon me,” cried Firebras, sternly, “I must have an answer now — at this moment — or you lose your estates and Hilda for ever. Do not suppose I threaten lightly. I can, and will make good my words.”
“You mistake me altogether,” rejoined Randulph. “I mean to say that it would be useless in me to assent. You are betrayed!”
“Betrayed!” exclaimed Firebras, in a voice of thunder, “How! by whom? But this is a mere assertion made to turn me from my purpose.”
“You will find it too true,” replied Randulph. “The house is environed on all sides by grenadiers.”
“I have just visited the summer-house,” said Firebras. “There were no one there.”
“The men were concealed in the lower chamber,” said Randulph.
“It may be so,” cried Firebras, with a terrible imprecation. “But they shall not take me easily. My pistols! ha! they have been removed! The landlord, then, is our betrayer.”
“He is,” replied Randulph. “Your only chance of escape is apparent unconsciousness of the design. You might, perhaps, make good your own retreat — but the others—”
“I will never desert them,” said Firebras. “There is a boat at hand, for I ordered Jacob Post to be in waiting for you off the summer-house for another purpose, and I caught a glimpse of him just now. Ha! here come our friends.”
And as he spoke, Sir Norfolk Salusbury, Sir Bulkeley Price, Father Verselyn, Mr. Travers, and four or five other gentlemen, entered the room.
“Leave us, landlord,” said Firebras; “we will call you when we want you.”
And the order being obeyed, he bolted the door.
“We are betrayed, gentlemen,” said Firebras, in a low tone; “the house is surrounded by guards, and our retreat is cut off by the river.”
As the words were uttered, the door was tried by some persons without, who finding it fastened, proceeded to burst it open.
“To the garden! to the garden!” cried Firebras.
And the party made for the window. Before, however, the whole of them could pass through it, the officer and a party of grenadiers burst open the door, and endeavoured to seize them. Firebras and the others, with the exception of Randulph, drew their swords, and the next instant, an encounter took place. But as all was buried in darkness, little mischief was done.
In spite of the efforts of the soldiers to prevent them, five or six of the Jacobites contrived to get across the ditch, and gaining the mill, took shelter within it. They were followed by a party of grenadiers, who fired a few shots at them. Whether the circumstance was the result of accident or design is immaterial, but a few minutes afterwards, the mill was
found to be on fire. Flames burst from the upper windows, throwing a fierce glare on the groups below, and brightly illuminating the towers of Westminster Abbey.
Repeated loud explosions were next heard, threatening each moment to shake the mill to pieces, while some of the unfortunate Jacobites were seen springing from a side window upon the water-wheel, and trying to descend by it. Two others, at the risk of breaking their necks, dropped from a window facing the river, and endeavoured to gain the vessel moored beside it.
The fugitives on the water-wheel were held in check by a party of grenadiers, who, having thrown a couple of planks over the little stream, were enabled to reach them.
Meanwhile, favoured by the previous darkness, for all was now bright as day, Firebras, Salusbury, and the rest of the Jacobites, had made good their retreat as far as the summer-house; some of them even managed to force their way to the platform. Here a desperate struggle took place, in which Sir Norfolk was severely wounded in the side by a bayonet.
By this time, the fire had broken out in the mill, and its glare shewed Jacob at a little distance in a skiff. Notwithstanding the menaces of the soldiers, who pointed their guns at him, and threatened to fire, if he approached nearer, Jacob pushed resolutely towards the summer-house. He was now close under the platform, and made signs to Randulph to descend; but the latter would not desert Sir Norfolk, who had been seized by a couple of grenadiers. He threw himself upon the old baronet’s captors, and, in the struggle that ensued, the railing gave way, precipitating Sir Bulkeley Price, the Jesuit, and the grenadiers into the tide. Before the other soldiers had recovered from their surprise at this occurrence, Randulph had lowered Sir Norfolk into the skiff, and sprung in after him.
Jacob’s efforts to push off were impeded by Sir Bulkeley Price, who clung to the stern of the skiff, earnestly imploring them to take him in. Father Verselyn caught hold of the steps, and apprehensive of some further disaster, crept along the side of the summer-house, and took refuge in a small sewer, in the slime of which it is supposed he perished, for he was never heard of more.
The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth Page 327