“So far, well,” observed Catesby, flinging himself into a chair; “the first battle has been won.”
“True,” replied Grant; “but it will not do to tarry here long. This house cannot hold out against a prolonged attack.”
“We will not remain here more than a couple of hours,” replied Catesby: “but where shall we go next? I am for making some desperate attempt, which shall strike terror into our foes.”
“Are we strong enough to march to the Earl of Harrington’s mansion near Coventry, and carry off the Princess Elizabeth?” asked Percy.
“She were indeed a glorious prize,” replied Catesby; “but I have no doubt, on the first alarm of our rising, she has been conveyed to a place of safety. And even if she were there, we should have the whole armed force of Coventry to contend with. No — no, it will not do to attempt that.”
“Nothing venture, nothing have!” cried Sir Everard Digby. “We ought, in my opinion, to run any risk to secure her.”
“You know me too well, Digby,” rejoined Catesby, “to doubt my readiness to undertake any project, however hazardous, which would offer the remotest chance of success. But in this I see none, unless, indeed, it could be accomplished by stratagem. Let us first ascertain what support we can obtain, and then decide upon the measures to be adopted.”
“I am content,” returned Digby.
“Old Mr. Talbot of Grafton is a friend of yours, is he not?” continued Catesby, addressing Thomas Winter. “Can you induce him to join us?”
“I will try,” replied Thomas Winter; “but I have some misgivings.”
“Be not faint-hearted,” rejoined Catesby. “You and Stephen Littleton shall go to him at once, and join us at your own mansion of Huddington, whither we will proceed as soon as our men are thoroughly recruited. Use every argument you can devise with Talbot, — tell him that the welfare of the Catholic cause depends on our success, — and that neither his years nor infirmities can excuse his absence at this juncture. If he will not, or cannot come himself, cause him to write letters to all his Catholic neighbours, urging them to join us, and bid him send all his retainers and servants to us.”
“I will not neglect a single plea,” replied Thomas Winter, “and I will further urge compliance by his long friendship towards myself. But, as I have just said, I despair of success.”
Soon after this, he and Stephen Littleton, with two of the troopers well-mounted and well-armed, rode across the country through lanes and by-roads, with which they were well acquainted, to Grafton. At the same time, Catesby repaired to the court-yard, and assembling his men, found there were twenty-five missing. More than half of these it was known had been killed or wounded at Warwick; but the rest, it was suspected, had deserted.
Whatever effect this scrutiny might secretly have upon Catesby, he maintained a cheerful and confident demeanour, and mounting a flight of steps, harangued the band in energetic and exciting terms. Displaying a small image of the virgin to them, he assured them they were under the special protection of heaven, whose cause they were fighting — and concluded by reciting a prayer, in which the whole assemblage heartily joined. This done, they filled the baggage-cart with provisions and further ammunition, and forming themselves into good order, took the road to Alcester.
They had not gone far, when torrents of rain fell, and the roads being in a shocking condition, and ploughed up with ruts, they turned into the fields wherever it was practicable, and continued their march very slowly, and under excessively disheartening circumstances. On arriving at the ford across the Avon, near Bishopston, they found the stream so swollen that it was impossible to get across it. Sir Everard Digby, who made the attempt, was nearly carried off by the current. They were therefore compelled to proceed to Stratford, and cross the bridge.
“My friends,” said Catesby, commanding a halt at a short distance of the town, “I know not what reception we may meet with here. Probably much the same as at Warwick. But I command you not to strike a blow, except in self-defence.”
Those injunctions given, attended by the other conspirators, except Percy and Rookwood, who brought up the rear, he rode slowly into Stratford, and proceeding to the market-place, ordered a trumpet to be sounded. On the first appearance of the troop, most of the inhabitants fled to their houses, and fastened the doors, but some few courageous persons followed them at a wary distance. These were harangued at some length by Catesby, who called upon them to join the expedition, and held out promises, which only excited the derision of the hearers.
Indeed, the dejected looks of most of the band, and the drenched and muddy state of their apparel, made them objects of pity and contempt, rather than of serious apprehension: and nothing but their numbers prevented an attack being made upon them. Catesby’s address concluded amid groans of dissatisfaction; and finding he was wasting time, and injuring his own cause, he gave the word to march, and moved slowly through the main street, but not a single recruit joined him.
Another unpropitious circumstance occurred just as they were leaving Stratford. Two or three of his followers tried to slink away, when Catesby, riding after them, called to them to return, and no attention being paid to his orders, he shot the man nearest him, and compelled the others, by threats of the same punishment, to return to their ranks. This occurrence, while it occasioned much discontent and ill-will among the band, gave great uneasiness to their leaders. Catesby and Percy now brought up the rear, and kept a sharp look-out to check any further attempt at desertion.
Digby and Winter, being well acquainted with all the Catholic gentry in the neighbourhood, they proceeded to their different residences, and were uniformly coldly received, and in some cases dismissed with reproaches and menaces. In spite of all their efforts, too, repeated desertions took place; and long before they reached Alcester, their force was diminished by a dozen men. Not thinking it prudent to pass through the town, they struck into a lane on the right, and fording the Arrow near Ragley, skirted that extensive park, and crossing the hills near Weethly and Stoney Moreton, arrived in about an hour and a half, in a very jaded condition, at Huddington, the seat of Robert Winter. Affairs seemed to wear so unpromising an aspect, that Catesby, on entering the house, immediately called a council of his friends, and asked them what they proposed to do.
“For my own part,” he said, “I am resolved to fight it out. I will continue my march as long as I can get a man to follow me, and when they are all gone, will proceed alone. But I will never yield.”
“We will all die together, if need be,” said Sir Everard Digby. “Let us rest here to-night, and in the morning proceed to Lord Windsor’s mansion, Hewel Grange, which I know to be well stocked with arms, and, after carrying off all we can, we will fortify Stephen Littleton’s house at Holbeach, and maintain it for a few days against our enemies.”
This proposal agreed to, they repaired to the court-yard, and busied themselves in seeing the wants of their followers attended to; and such a change was effected by good fare and a few hours’ repose, that the spirits of the whole party revived, and confidence was once more restored. A slight damp, however, was again thrown upon the satisfaction of the leaders, by the return of Thomas Winter and Stephen Littleton from Grafton. Their mission had proved wholly unsuccessful. Mr. Talbot had not merely refused to join them, but had threatened to detain them.
“He says we deserve the worst of deaths,” observed Thomas Winter, in conclusion, “and that we have irretrievably injured the Catholic cause.”
“And I begin to fear he speaks the truth,” rejoined Christopher Wright. “However, for us there is no retreat.”
“None whatever,” rejoined Catesby, in a sombre tone. “We must choose between death upon the battle-field or on the scaffold.”
“The former be my fate,” cried Percy.
“And mine,” added Catesby.
An anxious and perturbed night was passed by the conspirators, and many a plan was proposed and abandoned. It had been arranged among them that they should
each in succession make the rounds of the place, to see that the sentinels were at their posts — strict orders having been given to the latter to fire upon whomsoever might attempt to fly — but, as Catesby, despite his great previous fatigue, was unable to rest, he took this duty chiefly upon himself.
Returning at midnight from an examination of the court-yard, he was about to enter the house, when he perceived before him a tall figure, with a cloak muffled about its face, standing in his path. It was perfectly motionless, and Catesby, who carried a lantern in his hand, threw the light upon it, but it neither moved forward, nor altered its position. Catesby would have challenged it, but an undefinable terror seized him, and his tongue clove to the roof of his mouth. An idea rose to his mind that it was the spirit of Guy Fawkes, and, by a powerful effort, he compelled himself to address it.
“Are you come to warn me?” he demanded.
The figure moved in acquiescence, and withdrawing the cloak, revealed features of ghastly paleness, but resembling those of Fawkes.
“Have I long to live?” demanded Catesby.
The figure shook its head.
“Shall I fall to-morrow?” pursued Catesby.
The figure again made a gesture in the negative.
“The next day?”
Solemnly inclining its head, the figure once more muffled its ghastly visage in its cloak, and melted from his view.
For some time Catesby remained in a state almost of stupefaction. He then summoned up all the resolution of his nature, and instead of returning to the house, continued to pace to and fro in the court, and at last walked forth into the garden. It was profoundly dark; and he had not advanced many steps when he suddenly encountered a man. Repressing the exclamation that rose to his lips, he drew a petronel from his belt, and waited till the person addressed him.
“Is it you, Sir John Foliot?” asked a voice, which he instantly recognised as that of Topcliffe.
“Ay,” replied Catesby, in a low tone.
“Did you manage to get into the house?” pursued Topcliffe.
“I did,” returned Catesby; “but speak lower. There is a sentinel within a few paces of us. Come this way.”
And grasping the other’s arm he drew him further down the walk.
“Do you think we may venture to surprise them?” demanded Topcliffe.
“Hum!” exclaimed Catesby, hesitating, in the hope of inducing the other to betray his design.
“Or shall we wait the arrival of Sir Richard Walsh, the Sheriff of Worcestershire, and the posse comitatûs?” pursued Topcliffe.
“How soon do you think the Sheriff will arrive?” asked Catesby, scarcely able to disguise his anxiety.
“He cannot be here before daybreak — if so soon,” returned Topcliffe, “and then we shall have to besiege the house; and though I have no fear of the result, yet some of the conspirators may fall in the skirmish; and my orders from the Earl of Salisbury, as I have already apprised you, are, to take them alive.”
“True,” replied Catesby.
“I would not, for twice the reward I shall receive for the capture of the whole party, that that desperate traitor, Catesby, should be slain,” continued Topcliffe. “The plot was contrived by him, and the extent of its ramifications can alone be ascertained through him.”
“I think I can contrive their capture,” observed Catesby; “but the utmost caution must be used. I will return to the house, and find out where the chief conspirators are lodged. I will then throw open the door, and will return to this place, where you can have our men assembled. If we can seize and secure the leaders, the rest will be easy.”
“You will run great risk, Sir John,” said Topcliffe, with affected concern.
“Heed not that,” replied Catesby. “You may expect me in a few minutes. Get together your men as noiselessly as you can.”
With this he hastily withdrew.
On returning to the house, he instantly roused his companions, and acquainted them with what had occurred.
“My object,” he said, “is to make Topcliffe a prisoner. We may obtain much useful information from him. As to the others, if they offer resistance, we will put them to death.”
“What force have they?” asked Sir Everard Digby, with some uneasiness.
“It is impossible to say precisely,” replied Catesby; “but not more than a handful of men, I should imagine, as they are waiting for Sir Richard Walsh.”
“I know not what may be the issue of this matter,” observed Robert Winter, whose looks were unusually haggard; “but I have had a strange and ominous dream, which fills me with apprehension.”
“Indeed!” exclaimed Catesby, upon whose mind the recollection of the apparition he had beheld rushed.
“Catesby,” pursued Robert Winter, taking him aside, “if you have any sin unrepented of, I counsel you to make your peace with Heaven, for I fear you are not long for this world.”
“It may be so,” rejoined Catesby, firmly; “and I have many dark and damning sins upon my soul, but I will die as I have lived, firm and unshaken to the last. And now, let us prepare for our foes.”
So saying, he proceeded to call up the trustiest of his men, and enjoining profound silence upon them, disposed them in various places, that they might instantly appear at his signal. After giving them other directions, he returned to the garden, and coughed slightly. He was answered by a quickly-approaching footstep, and a voice demanded,
“Are you there, Sir John?”
Catesby answered in a low tone in the affirmative.
“Come forward, then,” rejoined Topcliffe.
As he spoke there was a rush of persons towards the spot, and seizing Catesby, he cried, in a triumphant tone, while he unmasked a lantern, and threw its light full upon his face,
“You are caught in your own trap, Mr. Catesby. You are my prisoner.”
“Not so, villain,” cried Catesby, disengaging himself by a powerful effort.
Springing backwards, he drew his sword, and making the blade describe a circle round his body, effected his retreat in safety, though a dozen shots were fired at him. Leaping the garden wall, he was instantly surrounded by the other conspirators, and the greater part of the band, who, hearing the reports of the fire-arms, had hurried to the spot. Instantly putting himself at their head, Catesby returned to the garden; but Topcliffe and his party had taken the alarm and fled. Torches were brought, and, by Catesby’s directions, a large heap of dry stubble was set on fire. But, though the flames revealed every object for a considerable distance around them, no traces of the hostile party could be discerned.
After continuing their ineffectual search for some time, the conspirators returned to the house, and abandoning all idea of retiring to rest, kept strict watch during the remainder of the night. Little conversation took place. All were deeply depressed; and Catesby paced backwards and forwards within a passage leading from the hall to the dining-chamber. His thoughts were gloomy enough, and he retraced the whole of his wild and turbulent career, pondering upon its close, which he could not disguise from himself was at hand.
“It matters not,” he mentally ejaculated; “I shall not die ignominiously, and I would rather perish in the vigour of manhood than linger out a miserable old age. I have striven hard to achieve a great enterprise, and having failed, have little else to live for. This band cannot hold together two days longer. Our men will desert us, or turn upon us to obtain the price set upon our heads. And, were they true, I have little reliance upon my companions. They have no longer the confidence that can alone insure success, and I expect each moment some one will propose a surrender. Surrender! I will never do so with life. Something must be done — something worthy of me — and then let me perish. I have ever prayed to die a soldier’s death.”
As he uttered these words unconsciously aloud, he became aware of the presence of Robert Winter, who stood at the end of the passage, watching him.
“Your prayer will not be granted, Catesby,” said the latter. “Some drea
dful doom, I fear, is reserved for you and all of us.”
“What mean you?” demanded the other, uneasily.
“Listen to me,” replied Robert Winter. “I told you I had a strange and appalling dream to-night, and I will now relate it. I thought I was in a boat upon the river Thames, when all at once the day, which had been bright and smiling, became dark and overcast, — not dark like the shades of night, but gloomy and ominous, as when the sun is shrouded by an eclipse. I looked around, and every object was altered. The tower of Saint Paul’s stood awry, and seemed ready to topple down, — so did the spires and towers of all the surrounding fanes. The houses on London Bridge leaned frightfully over the river, and the habitations lining its banks on either side, seemed shaken to their foundations. I fancied some terrible earthquake must have occurred, or that the end of the world was at hand.”
“Go on,” said Catesby, who had listened with profound attention to the relation.
“The stream, too, changed its colour,” continued Robert Winter, “and became red as blood, and the man who rowed my boat was gone, and his place occupied by a figure masked and habited like an executioner. I commanded him to row me ashore, and in an instant the bark shot to land, and I sprang out, glad to be liberated from my mysterious conductor. My steps involuntarily led me toward the cathedral, and on entering it, I found its pillars, shrines, monuments, and roof hung with black. The throng that ever haunt Paul’s Walk had disappeared, and a few dismal figures alone traversed the aisles. On approaching them, I recognised in their swollen, death-like, and blackened lineaments, some resemblance to you and our friends. I was about to interrogate them, when I was awakened by yourself.”
“A strange dream, truly,” observed Catesby, musingly, “and coupled with what I myself have seen to-night, would seem to bode evil.”
And he then proceeded to describe the supernatural appearance he had beheld to his companion.
The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth Page 214
