The Fifth of November

by L. A. G. Strong

  Next morning Ward, who was a friend of Winter, came and told him of the letter’s arrival. Winter, struck with consternation, hurried to Catesby with the news.

  Although he had been half expecting something of the kind, the actual news was a shock. Catesby, biting his moustache, paced up and down the room.

  Winter, watching him anxiously, asked a question. Catesby silenced him with a gesture, and continued his pacing.

  By degrees, his mind cleared. True, warning had been given, and in plain terms. Yet to him, who knew of the plot, the terms might well seem plainer than to those who did not. King and ministers might fear a blow, and a blow on a given day, without at all suspecting whence or how it was to come.

  The test was, clearly, to see if the cellar was left undisturbed. This was perilous, and might mean sacrificing a man: but what was that, where so many lives were at stake?

  He turned to Winter.

  ‘Where is Fawkes?’

  ‘I do not know. Did you not give him his instructions?’

  ‘Of course. I had forgotten.’ Catesby shook himself impatiently. ‘We will send him to the house, to see if all is well. If it is, they do not suspect the truth. If, on the other hand—’

  Winter raised his brows.

  ‘You are sending the man to his death. Or worse.’

  ‘Someone must go, and someone we can trust.’

  A long look passed between the two. Catesby’s said, as plain as any words, that he did not wish to hazard the lives of his closest friends: that Guy, the only other man they could trust, was relatively a newcomer, and therefore better sacrificed.

  ‘But will he go?’ whispered Winter at last. ‘It is to walk into the lion’s jaws.’

  ‘I shall not tell him of the letter.’

  Winter did not like it. Yet what else could they do?

  ‘Make no bones about it.’ Catesby cut in brusquely on his indecision. ‘I will send for the man, and dispatch him without delay.’

  Winter ventured no more expostulation, but shrugged his shoulders and withdrew.

  Fawkes received the charge with alacrity. He had, on Catesby’s instructions, been hanging about, where he knew nobody and had nothing to do. This, of all things, tried him worst. To the soldier, any action was better than none.

  So, though he realized at once, from the deliberate expressionlessness of Catesby’s face, that something had happened, he received his orders in his usual matter-of-fact way, without betraying any particular interest. So successful was he that Catesby, as he was leaving the room, called him back.

  ‘Keep an eye lifting, as you go,’ he said. ‘We must be cautious now that we are near the consummation of our plan.’

  Guy was about to speak: then he nodded, gave his crooked smile, and went. Catesby stared after him. For once, the leader felt uncomfortable, half ashamed.

  Guy, on the other hand, felt lighter of heart than he had been for weeks. He went his way, whistling to himself on long, low, liquid notes. It was good to be in action again, to feel the thrill of possible danger.

  Guy had always made it a part of his everyday discipline, when action was pending, to assume that he was being followed. Accordingly, he did not go straight to Westminster, but made his way by a variety of circuitous roads and alleys, passing at one point through a street fair, mingling with the crowds, and, as he drew near his destination, waiting, as soon as he had turned a corner, to see if anyone would hurry round it after him.

  But no such person appeared, and he was just preparing to go openly to the house door and open it with his key when he uttered an oath, and started back suddenly into a doorway. Coming towards him, by himself, was the young Oxford gallant, Belcher. Guy bore him a grudge for that talk in the inn. He did not want any more unfavourable attention attracted to him by his chattering acquaintance. Let him run himself into danger, if he liked. That was his affair.

  But the young man passed unsuspecting, and Guy, scowling out from his doorway, saw his back recede up towards White Hall.

  Then, with a glance up and down the street, to make sure no one had seen him take refuge, he walked boldly up to the house, opened the door, and went in.

  Once in, he began to whistle. If they suspected the place, or had found anything, they might be lying in wait for the first of the conspirators to come along. And, even so, they might well be in the house without discovering the secret of the cellar. It would never do, then, to make for the cellar straight away.

  Whistling imperturbably, but at the same time keeping an eye alert for fingermarks or footprints in the dust, Guy wandered from room to room, casting open the windows, and exclaiming aloud at the signs of dust and damp. Seeing nothing suspicious, he then made for the larder, where there were still some dried fish and preserves. Though by now he was certain that no one was in the upper part of the house, he kindled a fire, put a pot on to boil, and made the preparations for a meal, on the off chance that he was being observed or listened to.

  Well—if they were anywhere, they must be in the cellar. There was nowhere else for them to be. He could not see any traces of them, and his trained instinct, alert as an animal’s after years of experience, told him that there was no one in the house. Still, one could never be too sure.

  Guy took the handful of logs from beside the hearth and threw them into a cupboard. Then, with a real excuse for his journey, he made his way down to the cellar.

  He looked round, and drew a deep breath. All was as he had last seen it. Not only had the place been left untouched, but—he could swear it—no one had been in. All was well.

  Stopping only to arrange a little private trap, with fragments of stick and dust, so that on his next visit he might see if anyone had come in, Guy went back. Methodically and quickly, he put away the things he had taken out, and seizing a broom, swept the floor, the stairs, and the space in front of the door. Anyone coming in might, if sharp-eyed, notice that this had been done, but at least they would not see his footprints in the dust.

  Half an hour later, he was on his way back to Catesby, using the same devious caution as before.

  Catesby and Winter received his news with joy. The leader’s spirits soared at once. It was as he had hoped. The Government knew that something was intended, but were not sure what, or from what source.

  Seeing Guy’s eye upon him, in a burst of candour he told him of the letter.

  ‘I hid it from you,’ he concluded, ‘that you might go with a better confidence. To be seen skulking in would have been dangerous. I ask your pardon for hazarding you thus. But, if anyone were to be questioned, there was none we could trust as you.’

  Fawkes smiled.

  ‘You might have told me of the letter,’ he said. ‘’Twould not have stopped me. I would have gone as gladly. I guessed something of the kind.’

  ‘You are a brave man,’ Catesby said. ‘It is the last time I shall hide aught from you. Henceforth, you are privy to all our counsels.’

  ‘I ask only to have my orders,’ returned Guy simply. ‘I am well content.’

  Catesby acknowledged this with a nod.

  ‘Now,’ he said, ‘for our next plans. It is good that you return to the house, and stay there openly, as heretofore. If any question you, you are Percy’s servant, and many may avouch you. You know nothing. Even though they take the house, they may not find the cellar: and it shall go hard that one day, somehow, one of us—’

  Guy nodded.

  ‘I will go back at once,’ he said. ‘You will send me my orders there?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Fare you well, then. Farewell, Master Winter.’

  ‘Farewell’

  They did not meet again.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Catesby’s next concern was to find out what steps had been taken about the letter.

  He and Winter had decided, after long consideration, not to tell the other conspirators of its existence. To reveal it would do no good, and might throw the weaker members into a panic, and so add to their danger.


  They made one exception—Tresham, whom they suspected of being the sender. Catesby sent him a message, quite openly, by Bates, asking him to meet him and Winter at Barnet.

  ‘He will not come,’ Winter decided, shaking his head.

  ‘He will come. He must come, traitor or no. If he does not, it is a confession of his treason.’

  ‘Much good that will be, if they come to apprehend us.’

  ‘Why should they? They know nothing against us yet.’

  ‘If he wrote the letter, he may well have told all besides.’

  ‘If he were going to tell all, he would not have written a secret letter, but signed it with his name; or himself told the man.’

  ‘That is true,’ assented Winter doubtfully. He was discouraged by all the uncertainty.

  His spirits rose again when Catesby was proved right, and Tresham came. They were spared the necessity of telling him about the letter, for, at the first hint, he showed plainly that he knew.

  Catesby’s eyes glittered with menace.

  ‘Francis Tresham,’ he said, ‘you are a traitor.’

  Tresham sprang to his feet. A little too late, his hand went to his sword. Catesby saw, and smiled bitterly.

  ‘How!’ cried Tresham. ‘What do you say?’

  ‘I say you are a traitor. That, having made an oath with us, you are forsworn, and have given warning of our plans.’

  ‘Robert! You go too far. Upon my honour, you shall not—’

  ‘It is plain.’ A sneer twisted Catesby’s pale face. ‘Leave your sword alone, man. We are not children, to be scared with play-acting. I say, it is plain. You wrote that letter with your own hand.’

  ‘I? By my soul, Robert—’

  ‘Can you deny you wrote it?’

  The colour stormed back into Tresham’s face. His voice rose to a shout.

  ‘Assuredly I deny it! I thought to write some such warning to my kinsman,’ he went on, in a quieter tone, ‘but, on your insistence, much against my will, I was persuaded to do nothing. Do you think I am a fool? Am I not bound in this, equally with you all? Would I betray myself? If I betrayed you, I would betray myself with you.

  ‘Moreover,’ he added, a look of cunning rising in his face, ‘if I had been minded to betray you, I could have gone a better way about it. This writing of unsigned letters—why, it is child’s work. If I had been minded to do you harm, do you think I could not devise a way to do myself good with it?’

  Winter was on the point of speaking, when a look from Catesby stopped him: and he listened in surprise while his leader slowly relaxed his pressure on Tresham, and appeared to let himself be convinced at last by his protestations.

  Finally, with every sign of friendship, and many oaths of faithfulness, Tresham took himself off. The moment he had gone, Winter turned angrily to Catesby.

  ‘Nevertheless, I am sure he wrote it.’

  ‘Of course he wrote it,’ Catesby replied. ‘Did you not see how, all the time, he spoke of “betraying” and “not betraying”—though I had but charged him with writing the letter.’

  ‘Nay. Be fair. You called him traitor.’

  ‘It matters not what I called him. The man is carrion, kinsman to me though he be. But to harm him now can only harm ourselves. If he thinks we do not suspect him, all may yet be well.’

  ‘How? If he has betrayed us?’

  ‘I know Francis. He will keep his oath to us, for his soul’s sake. That is, he will not reveal, in so many words, what we plan to do. He gives this warning, and washes his hands of what may follow. If they read it aright, and find us, so: he is not to blame, for he did not tell. If they are such fools that they cannot read it aright, still he is not to blame. He told all he could, and, for his oath’s sake, could tell no more. So, win who may, he is on the safe side. That is how he reasons.

  ‘And now, you and I must separate. I have much to do, and, if they come to take me, they will take only me, leaving you to direct the work.’

  Winter nodded.

  ‘I shall go to Lincoln’s Inn. If I hear no news—’

  ‘Then give Fawkes his word.’

  ‘I like that man. One may trust him.’

  ‘Yes. His hand is the surest.’

  ‘Well—’

  They looked at one another, smiled, and exchanged a firm handgrip.

  ‘God be with you, Bob.’

  ‘And you, Tom.’

  Winter did not reach Lincoln’s Inn till late that night. Next day, soon after he had breakfasted, there was a knock at the door, and, to his amazement, he saw Tresham on the threshold.

  Tresham came straight to his point.

  ‘Master Winter,’ he said hastily, ‘I come to you because you are a man of sense. My kinsman is too hot-blooded, too obstinately set upon his courses. It has always been so with him. Once he is resolved upon a thing, nothing will move him. But you—’

  ‘Master Tresham. I am of one mind with him in all he says and does. But tell me first—how did you come here?’

  ‘How did I come? Why, walked, of course.’

  ‘But how did you know that I was here?’

  Tresham looked confused.

  ‘It is your lodging, is it not?’

  ‘Who told you of it?’

  ‘Master Winter! stay not to quibble on small matters. This plot is dangerous, and must be abandoned. I ran a risk, even in coming here.’

  Winter walked to the door, and held it open.

  ‘Run no more risks, Master Tresham.’

  Tresham flushed.

  ‘Nay, if you take me wrong—’

  ‘Good day, Master Tresham.’

  Tresham hesitated. An ugly expression came over his face. He shrugged his shoulders, and clattered down the stair.

  ‘Good riddance,’ said Winter to himself, as he banged the heavy oaken door.

  But he was not to be rid of Tresham so easily. Next day, Catesby received from Ward the worst news of all. Cecil had taken the warning letter to the king.

  Five minutes after the news came, the faithful Bates went padding off to fetch Winter. Winter, hurrying to the rendezvous behind St. Clement’s, found Tresham with his leader.

  On Catesby’s face was an expression Winter had never seen there before, a stony bleakness that could only mask dismay. And Tresham, who evidently had also perceived it, was talking fast and earnestly. He barely looked up as Winter came in, so intent was he on pressing his advantage home.

  ‘There is nothing for it but to fly,’ he cried. ‘What you purpose is savage, barbarous, inhuman. Such a thing could not prosper. God would not suffer it. Even if you were to succeed, no good could come of it. The country would rise against you, as against monsters. You speak of a sacrifice for our faith. Our faith would not accept it. We should be denounced from every altar in Christendom.’

  Catesby scowled: but, as if he knew what was coming, Tresham hurried on.

  ‘I am at fault to have joined with you; that I know. But—you will bear me witness—from the first, as soon as I knew of it, I spoke against this savage plan. Did I not?’ He turned to Winter.

  Winter passed his tongue over his lips. His face had paled. Tresham, seeing them both irresolute, struck his hands together as if in desperation.

  ‘God, what folly is this! What obstinacy! Do I not tell you all is known—the letter carried to the king, the ministers in alarm, the guards ready! Why do they delay, except to give you time to fly? Why do I come here, risking myself, except for love of you?’

  ‘You come,’ said Catesby, ‘to save your own skin. Having betrayed us, you give us warning, that you may stand well with both sides.’

  ‘I tell you I did not write—’

  ‘’Sblood, man, have done!’

  The words were spat out so venomously that Tresham, blenching, got up and drew his cloak about him.

  ‘On your own head be it, then,’ he said unsteadily. ‘I have warned you. I can do no more.’

  ‘You have saved your skin. Take it away, before I prick a
hole in it.’

  ‘This is your thanks. I might have spared the pains to come.’

  ‘You might. Except that now you can tell your masters you have done their bidding.’ He drew back his lips from the pale gums. ‘We will not go.’

  ‘Stay, then. I have done my best.’

  And, with something like dignity, Tresham withdrew.

  ‘Fool,’ Catesby called after him. ‘They will destroy you, for all your shifts.’

  The street door banged.

  Catesby and Winter looked at one another. Winter, whom nothing had scared so much as seeing his leader shaken, began at once to implore him to give up the plan and fly while he could.

  It was an unwise move; the one thing needed to strengthen Catesby’s obstinacy. He stiffened at once, reminding Winter that they still had no evidence that the details of the plot were known. The most Winter could get from him was a promise to consult Percy, who, being close to the court, might know better what was going on.

  Percy, whatever else might be said of him, did not lack courage. He sent a message back, by Bates, that he would come in an hour’s time. The mere fact of his consenting put heart into Catesby, who was apt now to suspect anyone whom he had not under his eye: for, he argued, if Percy knew more than they did, he would not commit the fatal error of coming to visit a marked man. Therefore, he, Catesby, was not a marked man. In other words, the Government did not know whom they had to fear.

  Winter, to whom he urged these arguments, was little reassured. He smiled wanly, and waited, as best he might, till Percy came. The scare, following on the long wait and the postponements, had broken his nerve.

  When Percy came, confident and splendid, Catesby with a few words put him in possession of the facts, and asked his opinion.

  It was the opportunity for which Percy had been waiting. Coming into the plot in the full belief that he should lead it, he had been subdued to second place by the stronger personality of Catesby. After a struggle or two, he had made a good lieutenant, doing all that was asked of him, and more.