The Fifth of November

by L. A. G. Strong

  In the Low Countries, where plunder and the chance of war made sudden changes of fortune common, such contrasts would excite no notice. In sober, conventional London, they would excite a good deal. Even the veteran wondered at Guy’s clothes. Used though he was to the very conditions under which Guy had lived, he had been at home long enough to forget them. Guy had not. He had been at home a few months only, and those he had spent mostly in solitude.

  The error was one which did not bring about the ultimate discovery of the plot, but it was an error none the less: the third which Catesby had made.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Catesby’s first and second mistakes concerned two of the men whom he had admitted to the plot. One he had been reluctant from the first to let in. This was Robert Winter, brother of Thomas. Once Christopher Wright had come in, he had had no choice. He could not, without grave offence to his most trusted friend, take in Wright’s brother and not Winter’s.

  Robert was dangerous to the conspiracy because he abhorred the whole idea of it. He had come in, as he understood, to a plan to help his fellow-Catholics. The fact that his brother was a prime mover in it was enough for him.

  Catesby, knowing his man, kept the actual details from him as long as possible. When at last Robert heard of them, he was horrified, and entreated the others to give up all thought of it. They refused, and, after an angry discussion, highly embarrassing for Thomas Winter, reminded the unhappy Robert of his pledge, and bundled him away to the country. Here he remained, till soon before the day selected for touching off the fuse.

  But Robert Winter, though a weak link in the chain, did his fellow-conspirators no harm. It was the second of Catesby’s errors that was fatal. All these months, he had been travelling about the country, strengthening his plan for the rebellion that was to follow the blowing up of Parliament, and raising money by admitting wealthy co-religionists to the plot. The preparations for the rising, which had now grown beyond the competence of Grant, he entrusted to Sir Everard Digby, a wealthy and highly respected man, popular with all classes, whose social position made him an invaluable ally. Sir Everard, like Robert Winter, proved to have awkward scruples against the wholesale taking of life. He had, moreover, been knighted by the king, and so shrank from proceeding against him. But Catesby, by the exercise of all his powers, persuaded him, appealing to the knight’s loyalty to his faith, and telling him, as he told others, that Father Gerard justified the use of violence on such occasions: a statement which the priest vehemently denied later on.

  Another recruit, chosen also for his wealth and position, and his fine stud of horses, was Ambrose Rokewood. He too had scruples against the taking of life: but he was devoted to Catesby, and, when the unscrupulous leader told him that his father-confessor knew of and approved the plot, he allowed himself to be drawn in. Rokewood’s home was in Suffolk, but, on joining the conspiracy, he moved up to Warwickshire, to be on hand for the great rising in the midlands.

  Neither of these men, however, was fated to bring the conspiracy to naught. Uneasy though their consciences may have been, Digby and Rokewood abode faithfully by their oath. It was a third man, Francis Tresham, admitted like the others for his money, whose scruples went beyond himself and found vent in action.

  In many ways, he was well fitted to be drawn into the plot. He was related both to the Winters and to Catesby himself. Even so, Catesby, a cunning judge of men, was not for letting him in. Then, in September, Tresham’s father died, and he came into the estates and money. Avarice fought with caution in Catesby’s mind, and avarice won. Tresham was invited to join. He was not at first told of the details, for he had nearly lost his life after Essex’s revolt in the previous reign, and the experience had made him at once cautious and crafty. It was not his scruples Catesby feared, but his care for his own skin.

  There were other conspirators, all of them men of good position and standing, except one. This one was Thomas Bates, Catesby’s own personal servant.

  At the start, Catesby had had no idea of including him. He had left him at home when he could, and kept him away from the house. Only when he was living in lodgings at Puddle Wharf did he allow the bewildered man to come and serve him. Bates could not understand why he had so often been left behind on what even he could see were the flimsiest of excuses.

  Once at Puddle Wharf, he soon realized that something was afoot. Bates was a simple, straightforward man. His perplexity showed itself clearly in his face, and was at once apparent to Catesby.

  Accordingly, the servant was one morning called in to his master’s room. Arriving there, he found Catesby and Thomas Winter.

  ‘You called me, sir?’

  They looked at him intently for a minute in silence. Then Catesby spoke.

  ‘You have been marking us lately, Thomas, with a very close and suspicious air.’

  The unhappy Bates, taken by surprise, stammered in his confusion.

  ‘Have I, sir?’

  ‘You have, and well you know it.’ Catesby waited for this to sink in, then went on: ‘Tell me, Thomas. What business do you suppose we are about, that you watch us so intently?’

  The serving-man hesitated.

  ‘Well, sir,’ he said at last, ‘I reckon you be about some dangerous matter.’

  ‘So. And what do you take to be the particulars of this dangerous matter?’

  ‘I reckon it be some dangerous matter about the Parliament House: seeing you sent me to take a lodging near that place. I ask your pardon, sirs; but you asked me to speak my mind.’

  Catesby and Winter exchanged glances. Winter nodded. Catesby turned once more to his man.

  ‘Will you swear, on your soul’s salvation, never to utter a word of what we shall now reveal to you?’

  Bates swore secrecy, and was then told of the plot. The poor fellow was frightened and reluctant, but his devotion to his master gave him no real choice; and Catesby, in kindness to him, limited his part to the carrying of letters from one to another of the conspirators.

  And now, after the long wait of months, the plot was developing, and events beginning to move swiftly towards their conclusion. Guy, soon after his change of lodging, once more had charge of the key, and slept most nights in the conspirators’ house. Old soldier that he was, he remembered how the water had flowed in on the mine, and he made it one of his first tasks to examine the powder. His suspicions were correct: it was for the most part, damp and useless.

  He communicated his discovery to Catesby, who, now in funds, made light of it, and commissioned him and Winter to replace it. Making their purchases in small quantities, they soon amassed a second supply, put it in position, and covered it up as before.

  In addition to this, with Catesby’s approval, Guy and Winter made a change in the arrangements in the cellar. They had merely cut an opening, from their cellar in their own house, big enough to pass the powder through. This opening they concealed each time after using it.

  Guy, who had to use it oftenest, pointed out that it would be not only more convenient, but safer, to cut a regular doorway and make no secret of it. The new cellar belonged to Percy, and it was only reasonable that he should have free access to it from his house.

  Accordingly, he and Winter enlarged the opening, and Guy made a short flight of wooden steps to accommodate the difference in the levels.

  ‘I breathe easier,’ said Guy to his companion, ‘now that is done. It was a weakness, that hidden hole. It could mean only that we had something to hide.’

  And Winter agreed.

  A general meeting of the conspirators took place a few days later: but, before they could lay their final plans, Parliament was prorogued until November the fifth.

  The effect of this was thoroughly to damp their spirits. The long succession of delays and disappointments told heavily on the older members, and the newly joined, quickly catching the atmosphere of discouragement, became nervy and anxious. Catesby, before they could affect one another further, ordered them to disperse, calling them to him
afterwards one by one and interviewing them. By this means, he knew he could do more to strengthen their resolution. Also, he was able to depart from the truth wherever he thought it necessary, and tell the new members things he dared not bring out in front of the old.

  By the middle of October, he had rallied them all and laid his final and definite plan before them. With Fawkes, he came to White Webbes, at Enfield Chace, where Thomas Winter joined him.

  There they received a visit from Francis Tresham, Catesby’s kinsman.

  Catesby received him in the others’ presence. The anxieties of the last weeks, though they had affected them, had in no way shaken the determination of Winter and Fawkes. The latter especially retained his sang-froid, going about his business as quietly and unconcernedly as if he were about to smoke out a wasp’s nest rather than blow up king and Parliament.

  It was more than safe, therefore, to let them hear Tresham, and Tresham them. Hitherto, Catesby had dealt with him by himself. A little support would be all to the good.

  The visitor was seen at once to be both dejected and anxious.

  ‘This business,’ he blurted out, almost as soon as Bates had closed the door behind him. ‘I like it not. It is barbarous. And clumsy. Good cannot come of it.’

  ‘You swore to perform your part in it, did you not?’

  ‘I swore before I knew what it was you purposed.’

  ‘Nay, Francis. That is not true. You swore but secrecy first. There was yet time for you to draw back, if you would.’

  A sulky look came over the weak, handsome face.

  ‘I like it not,’ Tresham repeated. ‘It is too cruel an act.’

  Catesby brought his hand down on the table so sharply as to make them all start.

  ‘Listen. Do you know Father Gerard?’

  ‘Of course I know him,’ replied Tresham.

  ‘What manner of man is he?’

  ‘All that beseems a priest to be. A very kindly, upright, and God-fearing man.’

  ‘Do you know how they used this kindly and Godfearing man, hanging him from his wrists and arms for hours together, till he fainted away: repeating this, day after day, till his very jailer shed tears for pity?’

  ‘I have heard as much.’

  ‘From whom? From his own lips, or from others?’

  Tresham wriggled in his chair.

  ‘From his own lips.’

  ‘He would not lie to you?’

  ‘He would not.’

  ‘Why, do you think, did they use him thus?’

  ‘Because of his faith.’

  ‘If they will use the best of us so, Francis, what hope have we all? Have we not waited long, been patient? If there were any amendment coming from our oppressors, have we not given them time enough to make it? No. We have no hope, and no help, save in God and in our own arms.’

  Tresham made his last objection.

  ‘Father Gerard did not pay back cruelty with its like,’ he said. ‘He has always set his face against violent courses.’

  ‘That he has not. He approved the proceedings against the late queen.’

  Tresham looked up.

  ‘I never heard him say so.’

  ‘You never asked him,’ retorted Catesby contemptuously.

  There was a short silence. Tresham stirred restlessly, prey to an obvious agitation.

  ‘Suffer me at least to warn my Lord Mounteagle,’ he burst out at last, ‘and my Lord Stourton. You make me a traitor to my friends and kinsmen, if I must hazard them with the rest.’

  ‘You are on your oath,’ said Catesby sternly, ‘not to speak a word to a living soul.’

  ‘I need speak no word of what we purpose. Only warn them to absent themselves that once.’

  ‘And have them at once ask why, tell others, and send to find out. Would you ruin us all?’

  Winter and Fawkes had hitherto kept silence. Now, appealed to by Catesby for their opinion, they declared unanimously that what Tresham proposed was impossible. After a little further pleading, the wretched man gave in, sighed heavily, and left them.

  After he had gone, there was an ominous silence. Guy, spreading out his legs, looked down at the floor and gently shook his head.

  ‘He is not fit,’ he said softly.

  Catesby scowled, but he was fair-minded: and no one disputed his authority less than Guy.

  ‘You are right,’ he said grimly. ‘I repent that I brought him in.’

  Guy looked up.

  ‘He has not gone far. Shall I run after him, and entreat him back? And shall we detain him?’

  Catesby shook his head.

  ‘That would be more dangerous than to let him go. He would be missed, and a hue and cry made. No. We must—’

  He broke off abruptly as the door opened. To their amazement, it was Tresham again. Guy at once looked at Catesby, his brows raised in urgent inquiry. Here, the glance seemed to say, he is brought back by Providence into our hands.

  Before Catesby could gesture or reply, Tresham spoke. He was pale, and appeared embarrassed, but determined.

  ‘I had forgot to tell you,’ he said to Catesby. ‘The balance of the money I promised you—’

  ‘Yes?’ Catesby’s voice sharpened.

  ‘I cannot lay hands on it till after the second week in November.’

  There was another silence. Tresham looked down, avoiding the leader’s eye.

  ‘You gave me your word we should have it before this month was out.’

  ‘I know. But I was mistaken. I—I cannot find it by so soon.’

  He hesitated for a moment. Then, as Catesby said nothing, he turned and went out of the room. Guy made a movement of entreaty, but Catesby shook his head.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Let him go.’

  It was, perhaps, the only decision: but it cost them dear.

  Chapter Seventeen

  In a way, the other conspirators were glad that Tresham had come forward with his suggestion that some should be saved. There were a few Catholic peers in Parliament, whom they were naturally anxious to save. The same evening, after they had discussed the matter and given each other confidence, they came to Catesby and asked him, on their own account, to send warning to these.

  Catesby opposed them violently. It was necessary, he said, for the good of all, that a mere handful of the innocent should perish with the guilty. Here, however, he met with the first real opposition he had been shown by his comrades. They had been exceedingly obedient till now. Even the arrogant Percy had kept quiet and efficiently performed the services required of him. Now, united, they begged to be allowed to give some hint to the few selected men of their own faith: and Catesby, seeing even Guy and John Wright on their side, at last reluctantly consented. He asked only that the actual means by which the hint was to be given should be left to him. The others, overjoyed at carrying their point, agreed immediately.

  Before Catesby had done anything further, Tresham came again and asked for Catesby alone. This time he was even more agitated than the last. His hands shook as in a fever, as he tried to persuade Catesby to fly with him to Flanders, and leave Guy to carry out the plot alone.

  To ease his nerves, Catesby flew into a violent rage.

  ‘What?’ he cried. ‘Desert my followers and comrades? Leave Winter, Wright, and Percy? Drop all that I have planned and laboured for?’

  ‘Leave no one. Let them all come with us. Leave only Fawkes. He is a hardened soldier. Such can take care of themselves. He will come to no harm.’

  ‘I should be a traitor and a villain if I did so. I wonder, Francis, that you dare propose it to me.’

  ‘I will propose anything, rather than see you hanged and drawn. And myself soon after.’

  ‘We shall not be hanged and drawn. Go home, Francis. Go to bed and sleep awhile. You are turned childish.’

  ‘Let me be turned what I will,’ cried Tresham desperately. ‘Only never say I have not warned you.’

  ‘That will do; so long as you have not warned anyone else,’ retorted Catesby
, his eyes and jaw terrible: but Tresham, waving his hands in distraction, ran from the room and clattered down the stairs.

  After he had gone, Catesby sat very still. The sweat was flowing from him. He knew now that Tresham had given warning. At last he rose, grimly thanking Heaven that none of the others had been by.

  Catesby was right. The evening bef ore, Lord Mounteagle had suddenly decided, to his servants’ surprise, to sup at Hoxton. Just before supper, one of his footmen was stopped in the street by a tall man, and handed a letter. This he took in at once to the supper table, and handed it to his master. Mounteagle, after a glance at it, gave it to one of the gentlemen of his household, a man named Ward, and bade him read it aloud.

  Ward, clearing his throat self-consciously, read out, in tones of increasing perplexity, the following:

  ‘My Lord, out of the love I bear to some of your friends I have a care of your preservation. Therefore I would advise you, as you tender your life, to devise some excuse to shift of your attendance at this parliament; for God and man hath concurred to punish the wickedness of this time. And think not slightly of this advertisement, but retire yourself into your country, where you may expect the event in safety: for though there be no appearance of any stir, yet I say they shall receive a terrible blow, this parliament; and yet they shall not see who hurts them. This counsel is not to be contemned, because it may do you good, and can do you no harm, for the danger is past as soon as you have burnt the letter. And I hope God will give you the grace to make good use of it, to whose holy protection I commend you.’

  A buzz of excited conjecture followed the reading, but Lord Mounteagle said nothing, and appeared to make light of the whole matter.

  As soon as supper was done, however, he hurried back to London, and laid the letter before Cecil, the chief minister. Cecil was entertaining other ministers of state that night, and all took as grave a view of the letter as had its first recipient.