“It will be some satisfaction to hang the villain,” observed Charles.
“Your majesty may rely upon having that gratification,” replied Careless. “With your permission, I will set about his capture at once. Nor will I rest till I have effected it.”
And bowing to the king he quitted the hall.
In the court-yard of the Commandery was the king’s ordinary guard. Taking two of the men with him, Careless proceeded to the Sidbury-gate, passed through the wicket with his attendants, and in another minute was in Friars’-street.
So dark was the narrow street, owing to the projecting stories of the ancient timber houses lining it on either side, that Careless was unable to discern any object unless close at hand. A heavy, measured tread, however, informed him of the approach of the rounds, and the next moment the patrol came up.
Captain Woolfe, who was with the guard, immediately recognised his superior officer, and on learning Careless’s business, proffered his aid. They proceeded together to the old inn, followed by the whole party.
It would seem that all the inmates had retired to rest, but the knocking of a halbert staff against the door soon caused it to be opened by Master Kilvert, the host, who had hastily huddled on his apparel, and in a trembling voice inquired the meaning of this nocturnal visitation.
No explanation was vouchsafed him. Ordering the guard to post themselves secretly on the other side of the street and be ready to answer any summons, Careless and Captain Woolfe entered the house, shutting the street door after them.
The terrified host conducted them to the principal room, and setting down the light with which he was provided, humbly waited their pleasure to address him.
“Answer truly the questions I shall put, and you have nought to fear,” said Careless. “You have a lodger named Urso Gives?”
“Your honour has been rightly informed,” replied Kilvert. “Master Gives, the tailor, with his wife and his wife’s grandmother, are lodging in my house. Master Gives is a worthy and God-fearing man, or I would not have him as a guest.”
“Your description of him is altogether inaccurate. He is a traitor and a spy. Lead us to his chamber instantly, and call him forth,” said Careless, drawing his sword.
“I will lead your honour to his chamber,” replied Kilvert, now still more alarmed. “But it will be useless to call him, seeing he is not there.”
“I must be assured of this,” said Careless. “Lead us to the room.”
“I shall not need to do so, for here comes his wife, who will confirm what I have just declared to your honour.”
And as he spoke Dame Gives entered, bearing a light. It was evident from her attire that she had not been in bed. Careless sheathed his sword on her appearance.
“Why have you come here at this hour? What do you want with Urso?” she cried, rushing up to him.
Careless, however, turned away, and said, in a low voice, to Captain Woolfe:
“Explain our errand to her.”
“We have come to arrest your husband,” said Woolfe.
“Arrest him! What crime has he committed?”
“The highest crime a man can commit,” rejoined Woolfe. “He has betrayed the king to his enemies.”
“I hope he can disprove the charge — but you will not find him here,” she exclaimed. “Master Kilvert will satisfy you that he is not in the house.”
“I have striven to do so, but ineffectually,” said the host.
“Since it appears that your husband has not returned from his secret visit to the enemy’s camp, we must wait for him,” said Careless. “Have him we will.”
“The house must be searched. He may be concealed within it,” said Captain Woolfe. “Show me to the upper rooms,” he added to the host.
“Readily,” replied Kilvert. “And should you discover him, I will be content to take his place, and that I would not do for a thousand pound. This way, captain! this way!”
As soon as they were gone, Dame Gives exclaimed, distractedly:
“Cruel and ungrateful man! Is this the way you reward me? In my desire to serve you, I have destroyed poor Urso.”
“You ought to thank me for ridding you of such a miscreant,” rejoined Careless. “You do not seem to comprehend the magnitude of his offence.”
“Yes, I do comprehend it,” she rejoined. “I regard the crime with horror. But I am his wife. Save him! save him!”
“Impossible!” exclaimed Careless. “I would not save him if I could. I am sorry for you, Mary, but I cannot feel the slightest compassion for the villain you have married. It pains me that his arrest cannot be accomplished without your taking part in it.”
“Oh! that I could warn him of his danger,” she exclaimed. “If I could only give him a signal!”
“The signal would be useless,” said Careless. “A guard is posted outside.”
“But he will not enter from the street!” she cried. “The door at the back is left open. I must fasten it.”
And she would have rushed forth to execute her design if Careless had not prevented her.
“I cannot allow you to stir, Mary,” he said, detaining her.
She besought him to let her go, but he refused. Just then, footsteps were heard in the passage.
“Ah, he is here!” she exclaimed.
Next moment Urso Gives entered the room, and started on beholding his wife and Careless together. By an instant and rapid retreat he might, perhaps, have escaped, for the way was then clear, but yielding to a sudden impulse of jealous fury, he drew a pistol and fired.
His aim was Careless, but the shot took effect on his wife, who was slightly wounded in the arm. Uttering a scream, she would have fallen if Careless had not caught her and placed her in a chair.
The report of the pistol brought Captain Woolfe and Kilvert into the room, and in another moment the guard rushed in from the street. Urso, who attempted no resistance, was seized and secured.
“Is this the man you seek, Major Careless?” asked Captain Woolfe.
“Ay, this is the accursed traitor,” was the reply. “And now he would have added murder to his other crimes.”
“I should be satisfied if I had slain thee,” rejoined Urso, fiercely. “I have wrongs enough to avenge.”
“Search him to see that he hath no concealed weapons,” said Careless. “He shall then be taken to the Commandery, in order that his majesty may interrogate him.”
“I know well what my doom will be, and am prepared for it,” said Urso. “Before I am taken hence let me look for the last time upon my wife.”
Careless signed to the guard to bring him forward.
Poor Mary was still lying in the chair in which she had been placed, and was tended by the hostess and a female servant, who had come into the room. A handkerchief had been bound round her arm by Careless to stanch the blood.
The prisoner gazed at her for some moments with a look of unutterable affection.
“She will live,” he murmured. “Heaven be thanked I have not killed her!”
“No, thou art spared that crime,” said Careless. “She is not much hurt.”
Bending down, Urso kissed her pallid brow. The contact of his lips caused her to open her eyes, but on beholding him she shuddered, and immediately closed them.
With a sharp pang Urso turned away.
Attended by the guard, the prisoner was taken at once to the Commandery.
Though it was now close upon daybreak, Charles had not retired to rest. He was so much disturbed by the result of the night attack that, feeling he could not sleep, he remained in converse with Middleton and the two other unsuccessful commanders.
The king and his companions were in the refectory, when Careless entered and informed his majesty that he had captured the spy.
He then explained how the arrest had been accomplished, and after giving the king all needful particulars, the prisoner was introduced.
Urso Gives did not seem at all intimidated by the presence in which he stood, but maintai
ned a resolute demeanour. General Middleton at once recognised him as the eavesdropper he had noticed in the garden.
When interrogated by Charles, the prisoner refused to answer any questions, and though threatened by Middleton with the thumbscrew, declared, with a firmness that carried conviction with it, that no torture should force him to make a confession.
After hearing Careless’s relation, confirmed as it was by various circumstances, and, above all, by the discovery on the person of the prisoner of an order in Cromwell’s handwriting, Charles could entertain no doubt of Urso’s guilt. He ordered him to be hanged at mid-day on the Sidbury-gate, so that the spectacle of his ignominious death might be witnessed by the rebel army.
The prisoner, who heard his sentence without betraying the slightest emotion, was then removed, and taken by the guard to Edgar’s Tower, where the king had ordered him to be kept till the hour appointed for his execution.
* * *
CHAPTER XXI.
SHOWING HOW DAME GIVES BECAME A WIDOW.
Careless did not lose sight of the prisoner until he had seen him safely bestowed in Edgar’s Tower. With the strictest injunctions to watch carefully over him, he then committed him to the custody of Martin Vosper, who, it may be remembered, was one of the party that bivouacked on Pitchcroft on the night of the Grand Muster. Vosper had since been promoted to the rank of lieutenant. Placed in the strong room in which Dr. Crosby had been confined by Colonel James, Urso immediately threw himself upon the pallet that formed part of the scanty furniture, and, being greatly fatigued, soon fell asleep. But his slumber was disturbed by fearful dreams, and his broken exclamations seemed to have reference to some dark deed he had committed. These muttered words attracted the attention of Lieutenant Vosper, who remained with him in the chamber. From the first Vosper had been struck with the prisoner’s resemblance to the spy whom he and Trubshaw — now a corporal — had pursued, and he now felt sure he was the same individual.
While the wretched sleeper was muttering some incoherent words, but amidst which the name “Wicked Will” was plainly to be distinguished, Vosper stepped up to the couch and shook him violently.
Thus roused, the guilty wretch started up, looking the picture of horror and despair. His hue was death-like, his eyes stared wildly, and cold drops gathered thickly upon his brow.
“Lighten your breast of its heavy load,” said Vosper. “When you played the spy on me and my comrades at Pitchcroft, you cried out in a solemn voice that Wicked Will’s death was a judgment. But you neglected to tell us who was the instrument of the judgment. Supply the information now. Who drowned him in the Severn?”
“Not I,” replied Urso, shuddering. “If I have talked in my sleep, as I do sometimes, my words must not be taken against me.”
“Die not with a lie on thy lips,” said Vosper. “Since thou art certain to be hanged, give yourself a chance hereafter, by confession and repentance.”
“I will not confess my transgressions to thee,” rejoined Urso. “If I may have some godly man to pray with me, I will lay bare my breast to him. I would fain see the Reverend Laban Foxe, who hath known me long and well.”
“And needs not to be told of thine iniquities, I’ll be sworn,” said Vosper. “I know the Reverend Laban, and a cunning old fox he is — his name suits him perfectly.”
“A sorry jest, and ill-timed,” said Urso. “Shall I see him?”
“Content thee — thou shalt.”
“I thank thee,” replied Urso. “In return, I will tell thee how Captain Hodgkins perished. Though I hated him as a bloodthirsty and wicked malignant, I did not compass his destruction. One evening, about dusk, he was staggering along the bank of the Severn, raging and roaring from strong drink, when he fell into the river.”
“Wretch! you pushed him in,” said Vosper, sternly.
“No,” rejoined Urso. “It happened as I have said. I was standing by, and could have saved him had I stretched out my hand. But I hated him, and let him drown. Ah! I shall never forget his agonised, imploring looks, for the cold water had sobered him. I can see him now,” he added, covering his eyes, as if to exclude some terrible object.
“With such a crime on thy conscience, no wonder thou canst not sleep soundly,” said Vosper, regarding him with mingled pity and abhorrence.
“Thou sayst truly,” rejoined the wretched man. “Since that night I have not been able to lay me down in peace. But I shall soon sleep the quiet and unbroken sleep of death.”
“Hast thou aught more to tell me?” asked Vosper, after a pause.
“Ay, I will tell thee of another matter, though I feel no remorse for it,” rejoined Urso. “Not many days ago I laid an ambush for thy king on one of the Malvern Hills, which he was foolish enough to ascend in company with Major Careless, whom I bitterly hate. Had I captured Charles Stuart, as I hoped to do, I should not be a prisoner here; and, better than all, I should have been avenged of Careless.”
“I heard of his majesty’s providential escape,” said Vosper. “But I knew not that thou wert the contriver of the ambuscade.”
“I can talk no more,” said Urso. “I pray thee fulfil thy promise to let me see the godly man I have named.”
Lieutenant Vosper immediately opened the door, and conferred for a moment with Corporal Trubshaw, who was standing outside.
This done, he re-entered the room.
Nearly an hour, however, elapsed before the corporal appeared with the Independent minister, and during this interval Urso turned his face to the wall, and maintained a profound silence, which Vosper did not care to interrupt.
The Reverend Laban Foxe was a sour-visaged old man. He wore a tall steeple-crowned hat and a long black cloak, but his attire had nothing of the divine about it.
He seemed much moved on beholding Urso, who rose from the pallet on his entrance, and a sad greeting took place between them.
The minister prayed to be left alone with the prisoner. Vosper assented and withdrew, but after awhile, thinking time enough had been allowed, he returned, and found Urso listening to the words of consolation addressed to him.
He therefore again retired, but returning after another long interval, and finding the exhortation still going on, he deemed it necessary to interrupt it.
“Since you sincerely repent of your sins, my son, I need say no more,” observed the minister. “Bear your cross with resignation. Godly sorrow, like yours, worketh repentance to salvation.” After a moment’s pause he added, “But have you no message for your wife?”
“May I not see her?” cried Urso, casting an imploring look at Vosper, who made no reply.
“Alas! she cannot come to you, my son, even were she permitted,” interposed the minister. “Her wound is not dangerous, but she has not strength for the painful interview.”
“’Tis better thus!” exclaimed Urso, in a voice that betrayed profound emotion. “The parting with her would be a greater pang than death itself. Bid her an eternal farewell from me, and say to her — —”
And he stopped.
“What must I add, my son?” inquired the minister.
“Say that I have left her a good legacy,” rejoined Urso.
“Know you not that any money you may have bequeathed her will be forfeited?” remarked Vosper.
“Forfeited to whom?” demanded the prisoner.
“To whom should it be forfeited except to the king?” rejoined Vosper.
“I am easy on that score,” said Urso. “Charles Stuart will not keep this money from her. The provision I have made is secure. Tell her so,” he added to the minister. “She may not understand my meaning now, but she will understand it hereafter.”
“Your words shall be faithfully repeated,” said the Reverend Laban. “Farewell, my son!”
And with an earnest look at the prisoner, he departed.
When the hour fixed for the execution approached, a strong mounted guard was drawn up in front of the beautiful old gateway. Without a moment’s delay, the prisoner was brought for
th by Lieutenant Vosper, Corporal Trubshaw, and a party of halberdiers, who marched on either side of him.
Urso was bareheaded, his hands tied behind him, and a rope coiled round his neck. Before him walked the hangman — a caitiff apparently chosen for the revolting office from his savage and repulsive looks. The mounted guard, previously mentioned, rode on in front to clear the way.
As the cortége passed slowly down Edgar-street and along Sidbury-street, Urso’s appearance was everywhere greeted with yells and execrations, and if the infuriated concourse could have reached him, the hangman would have been spared a labour. Ever since it had become known that the night attack had been betrayed, the greatest indignation was manifested by the citizens, who demanded that the severest punishment should be inflicted on the traitor. Mere hanging was too good for him. They would have him drawn and quartered, and his head fixed on the Sidbury-gate, that Old Noll might see it.
Though Urso had nerved himself to the utmost, he was not equal to the terrible ordeal he was exposed to, and his agony during the march to the place of execution was far greater than that which he subsequently endured.
At length the Sidbury-gate was reached, and being taken inside the structure, he was for some minutes lost to sight.
The spectators awaited his reappearance with a fierce impatience, which they did not seek to control or disguise. The large area in front of the Sidbury-gate, which has been described as surrounded by the new fortifications, was crowded with soldiers; the ramparts of Fort Royal, the walls, the towers, were likewise thronged by soldiers. But there were hundreds, nay, thousands, of distant spectators of the tragic scene.
On the top of the Sidbury-gate a gallows had been reared. So lofty was it, that it could be seen from most parts of the city, while it formed a conspicuous object to the enemy on the heights.
Towards this extraordinary gallows every eye was now directed. Deep silence pervaded the vast assemblage.
At length the hangman came forth, and, climbing the long ladder quickly, seated himself astride on the transverse bar of the gallows, and proceeded deliberately to fasten the fatal rope to it.
The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth Page 650