# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 9/Son Christopher - Part 8

←Part 7
SON CHRISTOPHER.
AN HISTORIETTE. BY HARRIET MARTINEAU.
CHAPTER XII. CHRISTOPHER, MY SON!
It seems strange,—and to many who lived at the time it appeared incredible,—that life should not only have been endurable to the people of the Western Counties that autumn, but that it had satisfactions,—even joys of its own, which made appear to old and young who survived it the most heavenly season of their whole existence. Those whose hearts it was intended to break—those whose spirit it was needful to subdue—disappointed the King, and his councillors and his judges, by proving themselves beyond the reach of tyranny. This could not be true of all, nor of most: but the oppressors felt the vexation as keenly as if their tortures had ceased to give pain. Among the four hundred families who contributed victims to the scaffold, or to the impromptu gibbets, there were doubtless many who underwent keen agony of mind, and whose afterlives were darkened by the events of the Assize of September, 1685; but the King and his tools could scarcely enjoy the pain, while there were some who did not shrink, nor supplicate, nor even mourn. The King and his priests said the time was out of joint, when punishment could not humble and alarm. The Bishops said the time was out of joint, when the Church of the Reformation was despised and deserted in high places in the very home of the Reformation, where Papists and schismatics were evidently tending to mutual toleration, in a common enmity to the Church. The Puritans could not but think the time out of joint, when, a century after the Reformation, the Lord’s people found the kingdom one great prison ​of the Inquisition. All these parties gave the same account of the time they were living in. But the Royalists and priests expected to set their heel on the neck of their enemies: the churchmen, aristocracy, and gentry, who preserved the spirit of the Reformation, looked for a season of humiliation and dread: while the Puritans were in a mood of enthusiasm, which raised them above fear, and turned much of their woe into triumph.
The first atrocity of that Assize was at Winchester: and Winchester did not endure the horror and pain so well as the towns farther west. From the Bishop in his palace to the old widow in the cottage—from the squire who heard the news while out in the stubbles with his gun to the children making mud-pies in the gutter—there was no one who could tolerate the news of the sentence on Lady Alice. The first sentence,—burning at the stake on the same day,—could not be executed on the Judge’s own authority, in defiance of all Winchester, lay and clerical. The second sentence,—beheading,—was sustained by the King with an obstinacy of cruelty which appalled his own tools. An act so excessively impolitic as the execution of the old dame, gave effectual consolation to Madam Lisle’s own friends. While the Winchester clergy would not pass beyond the cathedral precincts for days, lest they should see signs of the scaffold, or meet either friends or strangers; while Bishop Ken could not point out the justice of this retribution without being silenced by his own grief; while the High Sheriff of Dorset showed a frowning brow, and dropped harder sayings about the Stuarts than it was safe to utter while the King’s congenial Judge (Jeffreys) was in the neighbourhood,—Madam Lisle’s own communion, and her nearest friends, were thankful to God and joyful on her behalf. She had done what she could for the Lord’s people for many years,—by her hospitality, her purse, and her countenance; but now, she had done tenfold more than in all past years. Her story would be told to the King of France on his throne, and to the Prince of Orange in the hearing of his Protestant troops. The Pope would hear of it in the South of Europe, and the Swedes in the North:—the Vaudois in their Alpine valleys, and the Quakers in the woods of Sylvania. At home this aged martyr would, in the spirit, lead the deliverance of her own people. And, thank Heaven! it was done in all composure and peace of mind, so that she died as easily as she could in her own bed.
When little children cried, in natural horror, they were told to dry their eyes, for Lady Alice had not been at all unhappy.—No; she was not frightened. The cruel, angry judge had scared everybody else in court, but not her. She had become feeble and much aged in prison; and in court the fatigue, and the light, and the hum of numbers, and perhaps the very ranting of the judge, had made her drowsy; and she slept while her enemies were settling how long she should live. She had smiled when told their conclusion. At her years she had nothing to keep her here; and she could die more easily in this way, for having sheltered those two fugitives, than in any other way after having turned them out to be hunted in the Forest. Her old head was worth little now, she said, for age was encroaching on her mind; and the King was welcome to it, as he was so set upon having it. He was not so young, however, but that he should know that what we vehemently desire is not always good for us. That was his affair, however. Hers was to be thankful for a swift death, amidst the prayers of friends;—for she knew she had friends in Winchester. Never did venerable lady die more beloved,—more honoured,—more serene,—more secure of the white robe and the palm, the children and the poor were told: and therefore there was to be no mourning for Lady Alice.
This first martyrdom and its reception no doubt gave the tone to many more. The magistrates in one town after another were amazed and confounded at what they saw.
“How is it with the Battiscombes, Alford? Can you tell me?” asked Sir Henry Foley of the Mayor of Lyme. “Clear as the young man’s case is,—quite hopelessly detestable as his conduct has been, I cannot help——”
“He was one of Monmouth’s aids and advisers, Sir Henry.”
“I know it. I was not going to extenuate his case. But I cannot help feeling for his father. I saw him,—I observed him closely the day of Monmouth’s landing; and I can testify that he gave him no encouragement, but the contrary.”
“Of course! No doubt of that,” replied the Mayor. “Such is the family policy in all such cases,—at least where there is land at risk,—or money when there may be penalties of fines.”
“You do not know that family, Alford; you mistake their character and conduct. Excuse me;—I must bear my testimony to them while this calamity is upon them.”
“I believe you may spare your good feelings, Sir Henry. That family is a fitting monument of John Hickes’s ministry. They are hardened beyond belief. If you pass their house this afternoon, at the very hour of the young man’s execution, you will see no closed shutters—you will find no locked gates: and if you should see any of them——”
“God forbid!”
“Well: if it should so chance, you will see no sign of mourning in apparel, or of fasting, or any kind of humiliation.”
“It is not stubbornness,” Sir Henry observed. “I know that it was with the father’s consent that the young lady—(poor thing! the young man was a paragon of a lover, they say)—that the young lady went to the Judge this morning. She, and all of them, would leave nothing undone.”
“She had better have left that undone,” observed the Mayor. “I fear the story will get abroad. It is not good for authority that unseemly things should be said by the King’s Judges. I can go as far as most men in sustaining authority: but this Judge is too much for the most loyal of us. For once he might have refrained from a jest.”
​“A jest!—to Mistress Bankshope,—begging for her lover’s life!”
“Do not speak of it, Sir Henry, I beg of you in the King’s name.”
“To the King himself I shall speak of it.—But what became of the girl?”
“I would tell you if I could: but I cannot say whether it was Fury or Angel that she was turned into by the spell of that jest. Such a look I never saw in human face. But I know what the vindictiveness of women is: and I will warrant that the Fury will get the upper hand. See what she is six months hence.”
“You are very hard, Alford.”
“And you are astonishingly soft, you must allow me to say. Who would believe you had lived almost within hearing of these people’s disloyal prayers, and their canting songs of Zion? If you knew as much as I have had occasion to know,—(I have had my eye on them since they opened an illegal meeting-house one night last winter), you would see what pernicious and dangerous people they are.”
“You take your impression from your informers, I suppose?”
“Of course,—from that body.”
“From Reuben Coad?”
“Yes,—from him among others. You need not look solemn about Reuben to me. I know the fellow well enough.”
“Yes, all Lyme knows him,—all Winchester knows him. He had better look to his safety. If the people cannot rescue Battiscombe, they will express their feelings on his treacherous servant, if they can lay hands on him.”
“That is provided for, as you must be aware. His relations down on the beach there would have nothing to do with him: so I have to harbour him till the affair has blown over.”
“‘Blown over!’” thought Sir Henry as he went to his stables, to mount, and ride far away from the market-place of Lyme. “‘Blown over!’ as if Lyme, or anybody in it, could ever again be, after this day, as they were before!”
He could leave Lyme only by passing the Squire’s house. It was true that the blinds were not down, and that there were no signs of disorder about the place. The marks of wheels and of horses’ feet, which had disturbed the gravel-drive in the morning, were raked away.—Loyal as he was to Church and King, Sir Henry felt, in passing that gate, as if his heart would burst at thinking of the breaking hearts within.
The hearts within were not breaking. They were very, -very full; but not fuller than they could bear.
That evening the large dining-room was brilliantly lighted up for service,—it being concluded that on such a day the law would remit its gripe, and devotion might have its way. The whole house was filled with members of the true congregation, who had come up boldly from the town. There was no lack of preachers, though they would hear Hickes no more; and there was a remarkable oneness of spirit among them all. The service was almost entirely an outpouring of lofty thanksgiving. Whatever was not that, was a celebrating of the Divine compassion, and a joyous announcement of heavenly promises, supposed to be on the verge of accomplishment. God had permitted this generation to witness the last lease of power given to Satan, whom they saw walking the earth, trying men’s souls, and dismissing to martyrdom those whom he could not bend or spoil. These were the last days; and great days they were for the fathers and mothers, the brethren, and the spouses of martyrs. For them, and for all, a blessed season was at hand, when all should see Satan as it were falling from heaven, and the heavenly host coming again to sing a new promise of “Peace on earth, and goodwill to men.”
After the service, all assembled were entreated to take food and wine,—to mark distinctly the difference between this day of sacrifice and a day of humiliation. Host and hostess dismissed each individually, with thanks for their presence.
The autumn night had clouded over; and it was so dark that the Squire himself carried a lantern as far as the gate. Some distant shouts and cries had been noticed in the midst of the service; and now the tread of many feet was heard in the road. A voice announced, as groups passed, that half Lyme had been hunting Reuben Coad over the town to destroy him. They had stormed the Mayor’s house till he was let out at the back, to take his chance of escape by flight. The Squire hoped no such murder had taken place. It had not: Reuben had escaped in the twilight, but nobody believed that it would be for long.
The household were about to separate for the night,—careful not to break through their ordinary habit of life,—when the storm which had been rising burst over the coast. Each had felt stifled for hours, and all had supposed it was part of the suffering of the day. Now it was some relief to throw open the back-windows, and see, by the flashes of the lightning, the wide expanse of sea, and feel the gusts as they passed. The tempest was not unwelcome to any; and the children were permitted to remain and see it out. Joanna sat on her father’s knee; and she did not hide her face from the brightest flash. So had they all striven this day, her father said, not to flinch from the lightnings of terror and woe which God had sent to try their souls. That great and terrible day was over—the greatest day, perhaps, of all their lives. Death had never been in that household before, and now the noblest and best was taken: but it was a great honour. They were honoured by being the parents and the brothers and sisters of a martyr—a martyr as holy and devout and cheerful in his death as any that had so died since Stephen. Elizabeth (whom he drew to him as he spoke) was the most honoured of them all; for she was, freely and of her own faith and love, the spouse of a martyr. Thus it was a great day in their house.
Then Joanna told again what Christopher and she had agreed that evening at Taunton, and how he had desired her to remember it, if either of them should ever be a martyr or in trouble for the right. “But I shall never be a martyr,” Joanna said with a sigh.
Her father said that she might be nearer to ​such a fate than she thought: and he felt the bound of her heart against his breast as she heard him. He knew it was hope and not fear which so stirred her; and it was more for the sake of others than for hers that he told what might befal Joanna. It was known at Court that she had been one of the school-children who had gone out to meet Monmouth with standards of their own embroidering; and notice had been issued that every little maiden of the whole number was liable to be sent out as a slave to the plantations. There was no fear of such a fate in reality for Joanna, or any one of them whose father was a man of substance. An agent had come down into the Western Counties: no other than the George Penne whose greed of money was so well known; and Mr. George Penne had put a price on the heads of the little maidens, which should relieve them from slavery and transportation, and endow the court-ladies with little fortunes as their gain from the rebellion—Mr. George Penne being careful to pay himself first.
Joanna was troubled lest her father should be made poor by any fault of hers; but he told her that, first, it was no fault of hers that she went forth to meet the Duke: and that, next, he could pay the sum needed to keep his little daughter in her home. It was on no vain pretence that she had been sent to that school. It was more probable now than then that the family property would be absorbed or wasted by persecution, and that the daughters of the house, as well as the sons—(the involuntary pause here was soon got over)—would have to work for a subsistence; and it was with this view that Joanna had been placed in such training as Madam Lisle desired. All their fortunes seemed desperate now. Soldiers would no doubt be quartered upon them: prosecutions and fines would drive them to ruin: in a little while they might have nothing that they could call their own.
This was no trouble to them. Nothing could trouble them to-night, from the point of view at which they stood. They slept, as the Lord’s people should, after bringing down His presence about them: and when they met in the morning no spirit had quailed.
A shock awaited them, however, before noon had arrived. A knot of people came down the road, bearing some burden which they seemed anxious to lay down before the Squire’s door.
It looked like a charred log of wood; but it was not. It was the body of Reuben Coad,—known by the hat and the riding-whip, which had been Christopher’s, and had been taken by Reuben, as he brutally said, to remember his young master by. Hunted out of Lyme by the enraged spectators of his victim’s death, he had gained a wood to hide in, and had taken shelter under an oak—to be laid low by lightning. There he died, all alone,—an outcast from men, and with no other help to flee to. For generations to come, the people would certainly believe that that storm was sent to cut off Reuben the traitor in his accursed career.
The Battiscombes soon left the home in which their fathers had dwelt for generations. Loyal magistrates thought proper to set up the head of a rebel immediately opposite their gate; but they would have stood this, disdaining to flinch. The reason for their removing to a small house on the shore was that their property was so much reduced, by the imposition of fines and securities, that they must descend to a humbler mode of life. Elizabeth was one with them—as firmly fixed with them for a life of duty and devotion—as wedded to their martyr as a nun could be in her convent as the spouse of Christ. She was a kind of apostle among the poor fishing-people, who lived under the cliffs with nobody to care for them till the Squire’s ladies became their helpers and spiritual teachers. Not even Elizabeth looked as if so blasting a calamity had swept over her. Their faces were cheerful, for their hands were full of good works, while they waited for the coming salvation of the world of the Reformation.
Before the people could see whether Monmouth would reappear in Eighty-nine, there was a Protestant king on the throne.
As Prince William of Orange,—he who was about to become the great King William was on his way, in grand procession, from Devonshire to London, amidst the homage of the Western Counties, one of his suite rode up and told him something in a low voice. William was not wont to express his feelings by outward act; but now he nodded to M. Florien, and stopped to address himself to a gentleman in the midst of a group of the country party who had ridden far to greet him. All gave way to enable the grey-haired Squire to approach; and what the Prince said to him was:
“Let us rejoice together, Mr. Battiscombe, in that final establishment of the Reformation in England for which you have waited so wisely and suffered so much.”
And when both riders bowed uncovered, the obeisance of Prince William was the deeper of the two.
THE END.