The Brown Mask

P >> Percy J. Brebner >> The Brown Mask

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"Gentlemen, this is a very dear friend of mine," said Monmouth, turning
and presenting him to the company, "Mr. Gilbert Crosby of Lenfield
Manor, than whom we could not welcome a better gentleman."

"Pardon, my lord, but--"

"Ye've come to help a great cause," said a long, lean man, bent in the
shoulder, and with lantern jaws which mouthed out his words in the
strongest of Scotch accents. "I'm Ferguson. Ye've heard of me; and I'm
saying it's a fight against the enemies of the Lord ye've come to wage."

"I would not be misunderstood," said Crosby, turning to Monmouth; "I
came to talk with you in private, not to fight."

"I regret to hear you say so," Monmouth answered. "I am rather weary of
advice, but come with me." And then, having taken a few steps towards a
door leading to another room, he stopped. "No, Crosby; friendship must
stand aside for a while. I must have no secrets from these comrades, who
are with me heart and soul in this enterprise."

"That's better--much better," said Ferguson. "Let us hear the man and
his communication. It is no more than the right of those who are bearing
the heat and burden of the day."

"I would urge that our conversation be in private," said Crosby.

"And I would urge otherwise," said Ferguson. "Such a desire for privacy
has the savour of treachery about it."

"Can a man be a traitor to a cause he has never espoused?" Crosby asked
quietly.

"Is it, then, that ye are afraid to speak before honest men?" Ferguson
demanded roughly, the eruption with which his face was plentifully
covered glowing a fiery red as he thrust his head forward like an angry
vulture.

"Afraid!"

"Gentlemen! Gentlemen! I will have no quarrelling," said Monmouth. "I
will go bail for my friend, even though he does not throw in his lot
with us. I warrant he has naught but kindness in his heart for me, and
that kindness has brought him to Bridgwater."

"The gentleman can certainly not be accused of cowardice if he comes to
vilify your friends," said one man. "That requires courage."

"That is true, Grey," said Monmouth. "Speak freely, Crosby, as you would
to me were we alone; or, if you regret coming, keep silent. You shall
sup with us to-night, and to-morrow depart. We will force no man to
raise a hand for us."

"Why make promises until we have heard the man's communication?" growled
Ferguson. "Those who are not for the Lord are for Baal; there is no
middle course."

"The purpose for which I came shall be fulfilled," said Crosby. "You
gentlemen know nothing of me, nor I of you, except that you stand by the
side of your new-made king. For that I can honour you; on your side,
pray give me credit for honesty."

"Words, words, like sounding brass and a tinkling cymbal," said
Ferguson.

"Most assuredly such words, with their specious promises, have had much
to do with this enterprise," Crosby retorted; and then, turning to
Monmouth, he went on earnestly: "You have been deceived by lying agents,
such men as Wildman and Danvers. By this time you must know that London
will not raise a finger nor spend a guinea to help you, and that there
is not a single Whig nobleman who will draw a sword on your behalf."

"You are full of news, sir," sneered Ferguson. "You must be deep in the
councils of our enemies to know so much. And why limit yourself to
Wildman and Danvers when you speak of liars and deceivers? I am
Ferguson--everybody knows me. This is Lord Grey of Wark. Here stands
Fletcher, and Wade and Anthony Buyse. Why not complete your accusation?"

"You are deceived with your master, rather than deceivers," Crosby
answered. "You are prepared to fight for the cause, therefore you stand
apart. You know that what I say is true, my lord." And he turned to
Monmouth again.

"Finish what you have to say, Crosby."

"Your enterprise is doomed to failure. Here in Somersetshire you are
loved, and a few thousand men, confident that the whole country will
acclaim you, are prepared to lay down their lives for you. The country
is not going to open its arms to you. You can no longer be deceived upon
that point. The train-bands of Wiltshire are mustering, the militia of
Sussex and Oxfordshire are on the road. The Duke of Beaufort supports
the crown, and the undergraduates of Oxford take up arms to oppose you.
Feversham and Churchill march with the regular troops against you, and
your army of yokels must go down like a field of corn before the
reapers."

"I take it that, had there been no doubt of our success, we should have
had the pleasure of your company," said Ferguson.

"No, you would not. I do not favour the rebellion you are raising, and I
come on a self-imposed embassy to plead with my Lord Monmouth, first
because of my friendship for him, secondly to urge that he will not
fashion a scourge for the back of this simple West-Country folk."

Monmouth's face had grown gloomy. He was too good a soldier not to know
that what Crosby said was true, that his chance of success was of the
feeblest kind. Not a single man of real importance had joined him;
already there was regret that he had left his retreat in Brabant to lead
such a desperate venture, and deep down in his heart, perhaps, he
recognised in Ferguson his evil genius.

"You are a veritable Job's comforter," he said with a forced smile. "You
show us a crowd of difficulties, have you any advice how they may be
overcome?"

"Bid these men with their scythes and reaping-hooks disperse, and then
leave England as quietly as you came."

Such a solution had entered into Monmouth's mind already. It seemed more
feasible now that a friend had spoken it.

"You cannot!" exclaimed Lord Grey. "That would be base ingratitude to
the men who are encamped without these walls. We have called them to
arms, we must stand or fall with them."

"I grant it sounds the more honest advice," said Crosby, "but, my lord,
you have to choose between two evils; I only counsel you to take the
lesser. A few will suffer, doubtless, if you abandon your enterprise,
but if you press on with it the whole of the West Country will be
persecuted. King James does not know how to forgive."

"It is too late to turn back," said Monmouth. "Grey is right. These men
look to me to lead them to victory. I will make the attempt. I have
sworn it on the Holy Book."

Crosby bowed his head and was silent. He could not deny that Monmouth's
attitude was that of an honest man.

"And what becomes of this gentleman who is so ready to help our enemies
by giving us advice?" asked Ferguson.

"To-night he sups with us, to-morrow he departs," Monmouth answered.

"Is that wise? He has seen us in our stronghold, he has counted our
numbers, he has knowledge of our weakness. He would be safer shut in
this castle, safer still were he turned loose to the mercies of those
men who are encamped yonder. I would make short work of all spies."

"The gentleman is honest, but gives bad advice," said Grey.

"I'm thinking we shall find him in the ranks of our enemies on the day
of battle," Ferguson retorted.

"Even so, he departs in peace to-morrow," said Monmouth.

"I fight neither for you nor against you," Crosby answered. "Presently
I may try to do something to help these peasants in their need, which
will surely come. If in your hour of need, my Lord Monmouth, you should
think there is safety at Lenfield Manor, I will do my best to find you
a hiding-place there."

"If I enter Lenfield Manor I trust it will not be as a fugitive from my
enemies," said Monmouth. "Now, gentlemen, to supper."

Gilbert Crosby had hardly expected anything else but failure, yet he was
disappointed. Had he seen Monmouth privately he might have been able to
persuade him better. Some honesty there might be in Monmouth's use of
the Protestant faith to further his cause, but it was probably of very
secondary consideration, while with those about him, and who were
responsible for his actions, it was merely a tool to be used so long as
it proved useful. With the peasantry who had flocked to the blue
standard it was everything, and it was chiefly on their account that
Crosby had journeyed to Bridgwater. He would have saved Monmouth if he
could, but after all, Monmouth aspired to a throne and must take the
risks; the people, on the other hand, had nothing to win and everything
to lose, and, although Crosby would not take up arms with them, he was
quite ready to sacrifice himself on their behalf. He was of that stock
which had bred the Pyms and Hampdens of the Civil War. At the
Restoration his father had retired to his Manor of Lenfield and had
mixed no more in politics. Possibly the Restoration was for the general
good of the country rather than the rule of that rabid section of the
Puritans which had caricatured the original spirit in which an appeal to
arms had been made, but Thomas Crosby remained a Puritan, and distrusted
the Stuarts as much as he had ever done. In this atmosphere Gilbert
Crosby had grown to manhood, and since his father's death five years ago
had been master of Lenfield. If he were less of a Puritan than his
father, he was just as opposed to all forms of popery, and had been
quite sensible of the danger which must arise on the accession of James.
He had been active amongst those who were firmly determined to struggle
against the re-establishment of Roman Catholicism in England, but he had
lent himself to no underhand plots against the King, and, although
conscious that there existed an undercurrent of intrigue in favour of
the Duke of Monmouth, neither he nor those with whom he was associated
had expected Monmouth's landing. It was natural, perhaps, that men like
Wildman and Danvers should believe that such an invasion would force the
hands of all those who clung to the Protestant faith, but the body to
which Crosby belonged looked to the Prince of Orange as leader should
open rebellion become necessary; they might be at one with the
West-Country peasantry in religion, but they were not likely to help the
son of Lucy Walters to his father's throne. Gilbert Crosby was prepared
to be his friend, but he was not prepared to be his subject.

He had retired to his room and locked the door. He was to start early in
the morning, and had taken leave of Monmouth, who had striven to appear
in high spirits during supper. His forced gaiety had not deceived
Crosby, whose heart was heavy as he paced the room thoughtfully for a
time. Disaster was in the air, and Monmouth was but the shuttlecock of
unscrupulous men.

"I wish I could help him," he sighed, and then he drew from his neck a
white ribbon. The ends were knotted together so that he could suspend it
round his neck under his clothing, and it had rested there day and night
ever since he had picked it up. He folded it in his hands and kissed it;
so he had done every night, and there had come to him a vision--a
hurrying crowd of men and women, careless of everything but pleasure and
excitement, and a young girl shrinking back against the wall, strangely
out of place there, and alone.

"I wonder whether we shall ever meet again, and, if we do, whether I
shall have the courage to show you the ribbon you dropped," he murmured.

He had slipped the ribbon round his neck again when there was a hasty
knock at the door, and when he opened it Lord Grey entered the room
quietly.

"I am glad to see you have not retired, Mr. Crosby. King Monmouth is
afraid for you. Ferguson, a good man but a fanatic, is set upon
detaining you at Bridgwater--has, perhaps, more sinister designs. He
plots on his own account in this matter to take you in the morning, so
you must needs leave to-night."

"I would rather stay and settle the score with Ferguson," said Crosby.

"One man, while Ferguson has a dozen enthusiasts at his back! It is
impossible. Besides, Monmouth commands, and, in Bridgwater at least, his
word is law."

"I will go," Crosby answered.

Grey led the way down numerous small passages and short flights of
narrow steps until a small door was reached.

"Your horse is here, but I will walk with you through the town. We can
understand men coming in, we do not understand men going out."

"I have already said I should prefer to stay and face Ferguson in the
morning," Crosby returned.

Grey laughed.

"His rage will be wonderful to behold, but you must not be there to see
it. He will fling texts of damnation after you, which, had they power to
kill, would certainly prevent you reaching the end of your journey. His
knowledge of such passages in the Bible is wonderful."

They passed through the town quietly. It was sleeping.

"Farewell, Mr. Crosby. I wish you could have remained with us."

"And I wish that you had never been persuaded to try so mad a venture,"
said Crosby.

"The issue lies still in the balance," Grey returned.

So Gilbert Crosby rode away from Bridgwater, and the mist was thick over
Sedgemoor.

CHAPTER VIII

SEDGEMOOR AND AFTERWARDS

Lentfield Manor, on the borders of Dorsetshire, was a square house set
against a background of woods, with an expanse of park land in front of
it. There was no particular beauty about it; indeed, it had a dreary
look, and evidences of economy were not wanting. Thomas Crosby, never at
any time to be reckoned a wealthy man, had expended much in the cause of
the Parliament, and had left his son Gilbert a comparatively poor man.
Within, the house was spacious and comfortable, with many a hiding-place
in it which had been turned to account before now, and, if the furniture
had grown shabby and showed its age unmistakably, Gilbert had become so
accustomed to it that he hardly noticed its deficiencies. Lenfield was
the home he loved, and this fact touched it, and everything in it and
about it, with magical colours. Lately he had had visions of a fair
woman descending the low, broad stairs, smiling at him as she came; in
fancy he had seen her flitting from room to room, filling them with
laughter and sunshine. So much power had a length of white ribbon which
had once belonged to such a woman.

Crosby returned to Lenfield by many by-roads, more careful, even, than
he had been when riding towards Bridgwater. Once he had turned aside to
avoid a band of militiamen, for he had no desire to be questioned. This
insurrection in the West would bring suspicion on many an innocent
person, and Thomas Crosby had been so well known a Puritan that it would
be well for his son to be found at home when he was inquired for. If
King James persisted in his struggle for popery, there was a much
greater rebellion than Monmouth's to come, infinitely more far-reaching.
In that outburst Gilbert Crosby intended to play his part, but until
then he would safeguard himself as much as possible. There would be
refugees from Monmouth's ragged army presently, he must help them if he
could, but he would play no part in active rebellion.

An old man, who had been servant to the Crosbys when Gilbert was born,
met him in the hall.

"I've been anxious, Master Gilbert," he said, "very anxious indeed, and
the Lord be praised that you've returned in safety. I began to fear you
might have ridden West to join Monmouth."

"Why should you think that, Golding?"

"When one is anxious one thinks of all the worst things that could
possibly happen."

"It seems that they fight in a good cause, Golding."

"Don't let a soul hear you say so, Master Gilbert. They've arrested two
hundred or more in London already, honest merchants many of them, and
they say the gaol at Oxford is full of prisoners. No Puritan is really
safe in these days."

"You've heard far more than I have, Golding. Who has brought you such
news?"

"A gentleman who came to see you yesterday," the man answered. "He
called me a round-headed old scoundrel, but I think there was no malice
in it."

"Who was he?"

"He gave no name, but he wrote you a letter. I told him you were in
London, and that I was hourly expecting your return."

"I did not say I had ridden to London," said Crosby.

"No, Master Gilbert, but he asked me where you were, and I thought it
best to be definite."

"Where is this mysterious stranger's letter?"

Gilbert Crosby looked at the writing on the outside, which told him
nothing. The contents mystified him, and he had no knowledge of the man
who signed it.

"Sir," he read, "I have waited for you, having broken my journey to the
West against these rebels on purpose to see you. This I have done, at
some hazard to myself, at the bidding of one who honours me with
commands. Since I cannot see you I must needs write, a dangerous
proceeding, but your servant seems honest. Know then, sir, that you have
enemies, men who will seek to find occasion to accuse you of disloyalty,
and they may well find an easy opportunity now that Monmouth has landed.
You are likely to be accused of helping his venture, and will know how
best to secure yourself against such an accusation. For myself I know
nothing of your aims, but the person who commands me believes you
incapable of a base action, and would do you a service. This manor of
yours is too near the West to be a safe place for you with an enemy so
bent on your overthrow, and I am commanded to suggest that, for the
present, you go to London and give no occasion for suspicion. The trust
I have in my employer in this matter compels me to urge you to take heed
of this letter, and moreover to offer you my help if at any time I can
be of service to you.--Yours most obediently, Sydney Fellowes."

"The danger I can understand," Crosby murmured, having read the letter a
second time; "the meaning of this gentleman's warning is beyond my
comprehension. I have no knowledge of him, and who can the person be who
commands him?"

"May I inquire if the communication is serious, Master Gilbert?" Golding
asked presently.

"No, no, a kindly message from a man who would do me a service," Crosby
answered. "If I am inquired for, Golding, at any time, or by anyone,
show no hesitation, but bring them to me at once; we have nothing to
hide at Lenfield," and then, when the old man had gone, he added, "at
present, at any rate."

During the following days Crosby did not move abroad, did not leave the
grounds of the manor except to walk into the village and gather any news
he might. It was meagre enough, and was always to the effect that
Monmouth was hard pressed. It was sadly told, too, for in the village
the sympathy was with the Duke.

Doubtless through the length and breadth of the land there was sympathy,
but it had little power to help. It did not bring arms to the rebel
camp; it did not bring the men Monmouth had expected to fly to his
standard. He knew, no one better, that with such an army as he possessed
there could be no real success. His one hope was that, by holding out
and perchance by driving back the enemy in some skirmish which might get
magnified into an important engagement, the men he so longed for--the
great body of the Whigs--would be persuaded to flock to him. He did not
let go this hope even after Crosby's visit to Bridgwater. The one thing
he could not afford was to be inactive, so he marched to Glastonbury,
then to Wells, then to Shepton Mallet, harassed the whole way by a
handful of troops under Churchill, drenched by continuous and heavy
rain. Then he turned to seize Bristol, but, checked at Keynsham, he
turned towards Wiltshire. Bath shut its gates against him, and at Philip
Norton Feversham was close upon his heels. For one wild moment he
contemplated an advance on London, but fell back on Wells, and from
there returned to Bridgwater. Ten days of constant marching had wearied
an army ill-prepared for such toil, and nothing had been accomplished.

This was the news that filtered through to Lenfield, and Crosby waited
for the great disaster which he knew must come.

Feversham, with the King's forces, lay encamped on Sedgemoor, and with
him were some of the very men who had fought with Monmouth at Bothwell
Bridge. As Monmouth surveyed the position of the enemy from the top of
Bridgwater Church there leapt into his heart a wild hope that these men
might desert and fight by his side in the day of battle. A desperate
courage came to him. Feversham was not a general to inspire trust in his
men; it was said that the camp was full of drunkenness. With drunken
soldiers to command even Churchill might find ill-armed but enthusiastic
peasants too much for him. The time to strike had come. Heaven itself
lent aid to the rebels, for the night brought a thick fog over Sedgemoor
as Monmouth left Bridgwater for the last time. Not a drum beat to the
attack, not a shot was fired; only the word "Soho" was whispered that
men might recognise their friends in the darkness.

Two of the broad trenches which intersected the moor, and where the fog
was thickest, were crossed in silence, but there was a third, protecting
the camp, of which Monmouth knew nothing. The check brought confusion,
and some man in his excitement fired a pistol. The battle had begun, and
although the camp was taken by surprise, and drink made many heavy
sleepers, the drums beat quickly to arms and the peasant warriors had
little advantage. Grey's motley cavalry was scattered in a moment, and
Lord Rosmore, who was amongst those who charged upon them, laughed
aloud. This was a rabble, not an army.

But while darkness lasted the peasants did not lose heart. Monmouth was
in the midst of them, fighting with them, pike in hand. He might know
that the battle was lost, might long for some friendly enemy to deal him
his death blow. His enterprise would fail, but his end would be
glorious. Men fell on every side of him, while he remained untouched,
and ever the light grew stronger in the east. The light meant defeat;
Monmouth knew it. Death would not come to him, and life suddenly seemed
precious. They still fought, these soldiers of his; the scythes were red
with blood; the Mendip miners still faced the enemy, and were cut down
as they stood; and Monmouth in his flight turned for a moment to look
back, and shuddered. His courage was gone. Fear took hold of him, and,
hiding the blue riband and his George, he galloped away with Grey and
Buyse, first towards the Bristol Channel, and then, turning, made
towards Hampshire. He remembered that Gilbert Crosby had promised to
find him a hiding-place, and if he could reach Lenfield he might be
safe. The pursuers followed hard after him, Lord Rosmore amongst them,
and he, too, thought of Lenfield Manor and Gilbert Crosby.

No news reached the village on the Sunday or the Monday. Crosby waited
anxiously. The last he had heard was that Feversham was on Sedgemoor and
that a battle was imminent. He walked through the woods to the high
road, and if he saw a peasant whose face was unfamiliar, waited for him
lest he should prove a fugitive and bring news. On Tuesday Lenfield knew
that Sedgemoor had been fought and lost, and that Monmouth was a
fugitive. In which direction he had fled was not known, but Crosby
hazarded a guess and rode some distance towards Cranbourne Chase.

"Be careful, Master Gilbert," Golding whispered. "They've arrested men
on less suspicion than you're giving occasion for."

Crosby was quite aware of this, but he had made a promise. He had not
been prepared to fight for a rebellious Monmouth, but he was prepared to
risk much now that he was defeated and a fugitive. Still, he went
carefully, not seeking danger, and soon had reason to be convinced that
Monmouth had fled in the direction of Lenfield. Men of the Somerset
Militia were beating the country, and Crosby barely escaped falling in
with them.

When he returned to the Manor at nightfall Golding was full of news.
Lord Grey of Wark had been taken that morning, but Monmouth was still at
large.

"But he is surrounded, Master Gilbert; there is no escape for him."

"No one has been to the Manor?" Crosby asked.

"No; but there have been scouts in the neighbourhood all day. Luke the
blacksmith saw them and told me. They don't expect Monmouth to come to
Lenfield, do they, Master Gilbert?"

"It seems certain that he has come in this direction, Golding."

"Then stay you at home, Master Gilbert," pleaded the old man.

"Nonsense. The presence of a few militia-men in the neighbourhood is no
cause for fear. Tell them to let me have my horse at dawn."

Crosby did not sleep that night. Monmouth might come under cover of the
darkness, and he waited and listened through the long hours. At break of
day he was in the saddle again, but did not ride far afield. He hardly
left his own land, and it was evident that Lenfield was surrounded. In
the afternoon he returned home, unconscious that Monmouth had been taken
during the morning, found in a ditch clad in a shepherd's dress, and was
already on his way to Ringwood.

"Monmouth is taken," whispered Golding as Crosby dismounted.

"How do you know that? Who told you?"

"A man who came two hours ago. He is waiting."

"Is he a friend, do you think, Golding?"

"I do not know," Golding answered. "He said he would wait until you
came, and then demanded to be taken to the stables, where he tended his
own horse. A masterful man, Master Gilbert, but whether a friend or an
enemy who can tell?"

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