Take Courage (54 page)

Well, I saw all the sights of London; Paul's and Westminster, and Whitehall, with the very window where the late King was executed; and Cheapside, with the shops and the bustling crowds; and the Thames, with the pretty boats sailing up and down the river; and the Tower, very stern and frowning, and Blackwell Hall in Basinghall Street, with its heaped piles of pieces and its many little rooms, and its hall where business was done in whispers at the ringing of a bell. Sam was very eager about Blackwell Hall; he spoke much of it and of some part he called “the City,” the locality of which I never could quite fathom. It was Sam who took us sightseeing—Chris and myself, I mean, for John had seen all the sights many times while he was about the country with Lord Fairfax. Chris seemed quite different in London from what he was in Bradford; there were no more moods or lassitudes, he was always bright and eager and helpful, so that the Bagnalls greatly admired him. I spoke of this to John, and he said it was the same on the journey; Chris was the favourite of all the men, being always ready to put his shoulder to a bogged wheel, or his fingers to mending bits and reins, and very quick and apt at any messages, and extremely skilful and daring in horsemanship.

“So it will be best for him to leave us,” said John soberly. “He will do best away and alone.”

Only once did I see the look of distaste and irritation shadow the lad's face after we left Bradford. It was when I put Sam on to urge him not to cross the sea.

“Wilt stay with me in London, Chris lad?” said Sam heartily. “Could'st live with me and my wife here.”

“You would be very welcome, Chris,” said Constance with a kindly look.

But Chris's bright face clouded, so we all saw it was no use.

Sam and his Constance were duly married, at St. Giles' in Cripplegate, and, what gave both the Bagnalls and us great pleasure, David came up from the country and gave us a sermon at the wedding. It was a great pride to me, I own, to see my little brother in a London pulpit. David was as fair and slender as ever, but there was a stern strength, a grave dignity, about him now. He preached on that text from the Philippians:
And this I pray, that your love may abound.
It was a fine noble sermon on the true nature of love, delivered with singular sincerity and beauty; full of scholarly allusions, and yet so clear and simple that a child could follow. Even Sam and Chris, who were neither of them very fond of hearing sermons, listened with all their ears, not stirring; the congregation were very much moved to the Lord's service; as for me, it was only David's sermon that brought me through the next forenoon, when Chris's ship, the
Beaver
, sailed.

For she sailed, that ship, she sailed; she moved away from the land, drawing my heartstrings after her till they broke at last. We all went far down the river in a small boat with a sail, beneath bridges and between clustered grey houses and then open green fields, till we came to a very large ship hanging in the middle of the water, which had many masts and sails and spars and ropes all entangled, just as you see depicted in the prints. There were waves in the river, grey tipped with white, for it was a chill and windy day, though only September; our little boat rocked
and bounced on the water, so that sometimes there seemed to come a hard knock on the bottom of the boat, and the spray flew high all round us. At another time I should have been terrified of all these strange new things, rivers and boats and waves and ships, but then I felt nothing of it at all; I sat and held Chris's hand, so warm and young and strong, clasped in mine beneath my cloak, and thought only of Chris and his going from me. We reached the big ship, which had
Beaver
carved on its hull in very large letters, and lay tossing below its huge bulk, and then we all clambered aboard by a narrow ladder of rope, which swayed in the wind, so that I was very thankful when we all stood safe on deck. Sam took us all up some stairs to see the captain, whom he had met before: a large man with a brown face and kind blue eyes. I could see he liked the look of Chris; he said there was a great chance for young men in the Virginia plantation, and Chris seemed just the sort of lad to go. Then there came a deal of shouting and the captain turned hurriedly away and Sam bustled us down the stairs to the deck, and there were sailors running, and ropes sliding over the deck, and men pulling on other ropes, and sails rising, and masts creaking, and over it all the wind and the strange wild smell of the sea. Then John touched me on the shoulder and said:

“It is now, Penninah.”

I took my son in my arms and held him, and kissed him once strongly, and let him go.

I meant to be strong, I did not mean to draw out my farewells; but as I hung on the ladder below, descending to our boat, my flesh betrayed me, and I looked up at him. Chris was standing in the forepart of the ship; he was not looking at me, or at our boat, or at the hurry on the ship, but out to sea. His head was lifted, his rich golden hair blowing in the wind; his eyes were very wide, and there was a smile of joy on his fine red lips. As I watched, he drew a deep breath, and sighed it out, then flung back his head and began to whistle joyously—the clear bright sound was borne on the wind to my ears.

“He is happy,” I thought: “He is fully himself, and going to meet his destiny. I could not wish a better thing for him. So I must be glad.”

We saw the ship sail, watching at a distance from our little boat, though we had long enough to wait before she moved, and the wind rose and rose, so that the waves grew great and the boat tossed lamentably. David, poor lad, was constrained suddenly to vomit, for which he apologized with his usual courtesy. But at last the sails were all in place, and billowed out with the wind, very white and curved and huge, and there came a sound of singing and a rattling of chains, and our boatmen said the
Beaver
was taking up her anchor. And then with infinite grace the ship moved, heeling over to the wind, shearing easily through the tossing waters, and she glided ever more swiftly away and away and away, till at last we could scarcely see her, and then our boatmen shipped their oars, put up our sail, turned our boat about and made for London. I gazed back, shading my eyes, till I could see the ship no longer.

And so the son of Francis Ferrand set sail for the New World.

When I reached the Bagnalls' house I told John and Sam I must go home. I felt I must have the familiar things of The Breck about me, quickly, or my brain would crack; I could endure no further strain. At first Sam put me off, and I saw he meant to try to keep me for a longer stay, but after he had been out next forenoon he came to us with a very sober face, and said it was best for John and myself to go at once.

“I have it on good authority,” said he, “that the Protector is very ill and like to die.”

“Then England will be free again!” cried John.

Sam grimaced. “Maybe,” he said. “Or maybe not. I think we shan't see better till we have seen worse. You and my mother are best at home.”

We took him at his word very thankfully, and set off with the Halifax carrier the next morning. John was to ride one of our horses and lead the other, but his knee had
grown so bad, with too little rest and too much anxiety, that he was fain to sit, while for my part I still felt feverish and sick. We pushed on with the rest, however, enduring as best we could, and at last we came to Bradford, and to the lane, and to our own dear home.

Although we had so longed to see it, when we reached it we felt strange there after our travels, and as if we should never settle down. But time went on and we grew into our old ways again, with letters coming often from Sam and Thomas, and Abraham a great joy to John. I picked up my old duties and found some new ones, and tried to put my love for Chris into them, visiting old Ralph, whom I had put to board with Sarah, very regularly, and devoting myself very carefully to Abraham and John. And presently my whirling thoughts settled, I was able to see things clearly again; I dared begin at last to remind myself of Chris's sailing.

Whenever I thought of it, the picture of his eager daring face, keen set for adventure, between the ship's sails and the tossing waves, came before my eyes, and I knew we had been right to let him go. I know I shall never see him again; I have lost him. England has lost him too. Something of brightness and joy, something of the glory and splendour of life, left the West Riding, perhaps for ever, when Chris found he could not endure to live there any more. I am sorry for that loss, as I am for my own. Still, he will help to make that far land bright. I am glad to think that there is something of Francis, and something of myself, in that far New World.

Sam was right when he said we should not see better till we had suffered worse. From a tyranny, England now turned into a chaos, so dreadful that at last decent men thought any government at all, however tyrannous, would be preferable to this state of having none.

How this chaos came about, I do not altogether know; I did not take as much notice of what went on as I should. At the time I excused myself for this, saying that I was so tired, so worn-out and weary with all the long struggles, private and public, I had gone through in my life, that I could struggle no more. But now I see that I was in fault; it was because too many English folk were tired and allowed themselves to take little notice, that the good old cause went down in ruin.

On his deathbed, Oliver, perhaps because he was afraid to trust anyone else, named his son Richard as his successor, and so we had as Protector a young gentleman who, as the soldiers said with truth, had never drawn sword or lifted voice in the Commonwealth's cause. If Richard had possessed the virtues of angels, still to many zealots of our cause, and I own to myself also, it was very repugnant that we should have shed so much blood simply to establish another dynasty on the throne. But as it chanced, Richard Cromwell, though doubtless a mild good lad enough, had no qualities fitting him to govern England; indeed he was less fitted even than princes are who inherit a kingdom on the hereditary principle, for he had not been trained and exercised to government as are princes of the blood. If there is anything worse for a nation than a strong tyrant, it is a weak one; and looking back on poor Richard Cromwell
now I am reminded of that Old Testament King—Reho-boam I think his name was, yes, Rehoboam, Solomon's son—who, speaking very high to his people on his accession, with threats to chastise them with scorpions where his father had used only whips, very soon found himself with but few subjects left to chastise. So it was, perhaps, with poor weak Richard; he spoke high but lost all.

At first things went well; a Parliament was called, Lord Fairfax was welcomed there warmly as Member for Yorkshire, and the Duke of Buckingham was released. But this quiet did not last long. The Royalists sprang up and rebelled, though for the time they were put down again; Parliament was angry with the Army, and the Army with Parliament. Parliament contended that the sword should lie in the people's hand, that is, the Army should obey the Parliament; but the Army objected that it had fought the battles and won the victories, and it was not right to leave the soldiers rebuked and scorned and on free quarter and in such long arrears of pay. Then there came divisions in the Army itself, the older officers playing a haughty, self-seeking game, the younger ones, as we heard, caring more for Parliamentary government and a quiet behaviour. Lambert was in favour again, and then out, and then in again. Richard was turned out, and the Army came in; then somehow the Parliament seemed to be in power again. I simply could not make head or tail of it all; the people we had been used to trust and admire seemed all at each other's throats, so we knew not whom to believe in.

I remember one day when there had come some news or other about General Monck, who was in command in Scotland, refusing to allow his soldiers to sign, or even to read, a petition which Lambert's soldiers had got up to send to Parliament. Lambert was in Yorkshire at that time, and he was a Yorkshireman and had been a friend of Lord Fairfax's and had relieved Bradford in the Civil War and fought many fine battles and Captain Hodgson was still serving under him, and we had always trusted him; but now it seemed as if Monck, who had changed his side after that
battle long ago in Cheshire so that I never liked him, was supporting Parliament, while Lambert was against it; so I knew not whom to look to. Well, that day John was out at the side of the house making a new place for chickens for me, and I went out to see how the work was going, and stood watching for a little time. He was as skilful as ever with carpentry. I did not like to see him at such work at his age; but owing to the confused state of the country the cloth trade was in terrible straits, and we had to take thought about our outgoings and straiten our expenditure in many ways, and so he made this himself instead of hiring a man to do it for him. I mentioned the news about Monck which had come, and asked him what he thought of it, but he said nothing. I asked him other questions about political matters too, but got no reply; and so at last I burst out in a grieved tone:

“I am fairly puzzled, John, where to find our cause. What do you think of it all?”

“Why ask me?” muttered John, placing a nail very carefully, ready to strike it with the hammer.

“But John,” I persisted: “which is in the right, Monck or Lambert?”

“I do not know,” said John. “I do not know!” he shouted suddenly, and he gave me a strange angry glare, and threw down the hammer, and limped off into the house.

I followed very soberly, greatly troubled to think that a man so straight in purpose, so honest, decent and experienced, as my John, should not know which course was the right one.

Before I reached the house he came out again, holding another hammer in his hand; as he passed me he mumbled something to the effect that he had need of this hammer and had been obliged to fetch it. But this was all pretence; he could not meet my eyes, and spoke in a very conciliatory way; it was meant as a kind of apology for speaking to me harshly. I smiled.and replied in a very friendly tone; but I must own, what is a strange interconnection of small things with great ones, that I have always disliked that
chicken-run, feeling always in it John's perplexity and distress.