Immediately below the gentle declivity where Charles was stationed, and almost on the spot now occupied by Royal Crescent, stood three windmills, not very far apart from each other. These windmills, with a solitary farm-house and barn, together with a few scattered cottages, were the only buildings discernible on the eastern cliff. The village of Brightelmstone actually stood on the western side of the Steyne, where the older part of the town is still to be found. Here, on a gentle declivity of the hill, on the summit of which stood the ancient church of Saint Nicholas, then far removed from every other habitation, and serving as a landmark to the mariner, was collected together a considerable number of houses, few of them of any size or pretension, and for the most part constructed of glazed bricks mingled with flints, in order to resist the weather, and having shingle roofs.
Like most old Sussex towns — as, for example, Chichester and Lewes — Brightelmstone was so closely and compactly built that it might be described as a great block of houses, intersected by alleys or lanes so extremely narrow as scarcely to allow two persons meeting in them to pass each other, and known in the dialect of the place as “twittens.” But perhaps the most curious feature of the old town, all traces of which have long since been swept away by the encroachments of the sea, was then to be found below the cliff. Here was built a long street of little tenements, stretching from the Steyne for more than a quarter of a mile along the shore in the direction of Hove. These tenements were exclusively inhabited by fishermen and boatmen, a bold and hardy, though somewhat troublesome, race, who claimed to themselves certain privileges and immunities, and were uncommonly tenacious, and, indeed, pugnacious, in the maintenance of their supposed rights. The Brightelmstone fishermen formed a distinct class from the rest of the townsfolk, and were constantly at loggerheads with the latter. On the edge of the cliff, and towering above these humble dwellings, which it threatened to crush by its fall (and such an accident did eventually occur), stood, at the date of our story, an ancient castle, or block-house of stone, constructed by Henry VIII about the year 1539, for the defence of the coast. The town of Brightelmstone, as we have stated, was chiefly concentrated on the side of the hill, and did not extend beyond West Street, whither we shall presently repair. From this point to the neighbouring village of Hove there only intervened a few cottages and a single farm-house, and these at wide intervals.
Noting much that we have described — namely, the old church, the cluster of houses on the hill-side, and the block-house — Charles suffered his gaze to stray towards Shoreham, where he could just descry the masts of the vessels within the harbour, and wondered whether any that he saw belonged to the Swiftsure.
Satisfied with his survey, Charles put his horse in motion, and the whole party rode on, taking their way down the declivity, which is now occupied by a dense mass of habitations, but which was then merely the green slope of a down — its smoothness being here and there broken by a patch of gorse or a venerable hawthorn. Sheep were fed, and the shepherd trod on the thymy turf then covering the descent where now runs the crowded thoroughfare of Saint James’-street. At the foot of the hill grew a small straggling holt, and the stunted trees composing it looked like well-worn brooms, so distorted were they by the strong south-westerly gales blowing along the valley.
On the verge of this thicket a halt was made, and it was then arranged that the king should proceed, under the guidance of Colonel Gunter only, to the George Inn, in West street. Lord Wilmot was to join them there after a while; but it was not deemed prudent that the others should appear at the inn — at all events, not until a much later hour. Meanwhile, they undertook to act as scouts about the town, under the direction of Clavering Maunsell.
These arrangements made, the king and Colonel Gunter dismounted, and leaving their steeds with the others, crossed a bridge over the little brook running through the valley, and immediately afterwards entered the town. Their object being to elude observation, they walked quickly, Colonel Gunter, as acquainted with the place, keeping slightly ahead of the monarch. After proceeding to a short distance up North street, they plunged into a narrow alley on the left, and having tracked a series of “twittens,” without encountering any material check in their progress, except such as was offered by a fat fishwoman, who compelled them both to seek temporary refuge in an open doorway while she passed by, they issued forth in West street — if street a few scattered houses ought to be called — at the lower end of which, within a hundred yards of the sea, stood the hostel of which they were in search.
CHAPTER II.
The “George” At Brightelmstone
THE George Inn, which still exists, though, since the event we are about to relate it has very properly altered its designation, and is now known as the King’s Head, was a comfortable house, noted for good liquor and for the civility of the host, whose name was of good augury to the guest, being no other than Bonfellow Smith.
The hostel, which stood on the west side of the straggling street, was detached from the adjacent habitations, and was further separated from the dwelling on its northerly side by a large yard. It was a commodious, well built structure, with bay-windows, projecting porch with carved posts and lintel, gable roof covered with shingle, and large chimneys of the true Sussex build, and wore altogether a not uninviting aspect. Such, at least, was the impression produced upon Charles as he followed his conductor into the house.
Master Bonfellow Smith, host of the George, had nothing of the Puritan in his appearance or deportment. He was all smiles and civility — indeed, his manner might almost be termed obsequious — while it was abundantly manifest from his rotund person, rosy gills, and double chin, that he was by no means accustomed to mortify the flesh. Originally, he had filled the office of groom of the chamber in the royal establishment at Whitehall, and was then a great man — a very great man. But times had changed. Rebellion and revolution were in the ascendant; the royal household was broken up and dispersed; and our groom of the chamber retired in disgust to his native village of Brightelmstone, and eventually became landlord of the comfortable hostel where we find him. Master Bonfellow Smith was lucky enough to possess a wife who proved of infinite use to him in his business. Like her husband, she had filled a subordinate situation in the royal household at Whitehall, having been tire-maiden to one of the queen’s gentlewomen, and, like him, she could not forget her former importance; but being a person of great prudence, she accommodated herself to existing circumstances, and did not allow her recollections of bygone grandeur to interfere with the discharge of her duties as a landlady. Mrs. Smith was some years younger than her spouse; and had been accounted very pretty by pages and other gallants at Whitehall. She was still a comely woman, though on rather a large scale. It was by this worthy couple that Charles was welcomed on entering the inn.
Bowing obsequiously to his guests, on hearing that they meant to take supper, and expected two or three friends to join them at it, the host directed his wife to bring lights — it was now growing rapidly dusk — and ushered the gentlemen into a roomy chamber on the right, which looked very snug and comfortable, inasmuch as a cheerful fire was burning on the hearth. The apartment was wainscoted with black oak, and well provided with elbow chairs of the same material. A solid oak table stood in the centre of the floor, and a bow-window at the side looked into the inn yard.
Buxom Mrs. Smith followed close upon the king’s heels with the lights, and was about to set them down upon the table, when Charles turned and looked her full in the face. Her features seemed familiar to him, though he could not call to mind under what circumstances he had previously beheld them. But if the king’s memory was at fault, Mrs. Smith’s was not. She instantly recognized the young monarch in his disguise, uttered a faint scream, and began to gasp and shake so violently that the candles threatened to fall from her hold.
“‘Oons! Joan — what the plague ails the woman?” exclaimed Bonfellow Smith, staring at her in surprise. “What’s the matter, I say?”
“I d
o — o — on’t know — I ca — a — n’t speak,” she stammered, as Charles signed to her to keep silence.
“Don’t know — and can’t speak!” echoed Smith. “‘Sbud! this is something new. You can use your tongue pretty freely in an ordinary way. Set down the candles and leave the room.”
“Allow me to help you, my good mistress,” said the king, taking the candles from her, and placing them on the table.
“I beg your honour’s pardon,” exclaimed Smith, in an apologetic tone. “I can’t think what has come to my wife. I never saw her in such a way before. Don’t stand staring there, Joan, I tell ‘ee.”
“Never mind your wife, my good man,” said Charles. “She’ll be all right presently. Draw the window-curtain, for we don’t care to be overlooked — and then we’ll talk about supper. Compose yourself, if possible, my good Joan,” he added, in a whisper, “or you will rouse your husband’s suspicions.”
“Oh! your Majesty needn’t fear him,” she rejoined, in the same tone. “You haven’t a more loyal subject than Smith. He would lay down his life for you. Here, hubby! hubby!” she cried aloud, “come this way! Look at this gentleman, and you’ll no longer wonder at my excitement. Don’t you know him?” she added, seizing his hand.
“Know him! Gadzooks! I should think I did!” exclaimed Smith, now almost as much excited as his wife. “I should know that face amid a thousand. Oh dear! oh dear! that the like of this should ever have come to pass!”
“Down on your knees, hubby — down on your knees!” cried Mrs. Smith. “Render your homage to his Majesty — swear fidelity to him!”
“I swear to be faithful, my gracious liege,” cried Bonfellow Smith, as he and his wife prostrated themselves before Charles. “Command me as you please! — take all I possess — my house, my goods, my chattels, my wife — everything.”
“Nay, I won’t rob you of your wife, my good fellow,” replied Charles, laughing. “I accept your assurances of fidelity, satisfied that I may rely upon them, and hoping most sincerely that they may not be put to the test during my brief stay under your roof. Accident, or rather, I ought to say, a kind Providence, has again thrown me amongst friends, who will, I am firmly persuaded, watch over my security. To show the entire confidence I repose in you both, I will unhesitatingly inform you that, early to-morrow morning, I am about to embark at Shoreham for France, and I will tarry with you till the latest moment. The captain of the vessel will be here presently, and I expect some other friends. You must give us a good supper — look well after me — take care there are no unlicensed intruders — you understand? — and some day I will requite your devotion.”
“All shall be done as your Majesty desires,” said Smith.
“And I’ll see to the supper, your Majesty,” added Mrs. Smith.
“Enough, my good friends,” rejoined Charles. “Rise both of you. As to you, Joan,” he continued, drawing her towards him, “your husband will not be jealous, I am sure, if I venture to press those tempting lips.”
“Oh! take as many kisses as you please, sire! Your Majesty is heartily welcome!” cried Smith.
“It is not the first time I have kissed your dame, my good host,” said Charles, laughing.
“Not the first time by a score, an please your Majesty!” replied the hostess, dropping a grateful curtsey. “I have often told Smith how the merry young prince used to chase me along the corridor. Ah! those were happy times!”
“Nouns! wife, the good times will come back, thou mayst rest assured,” cried Smith. “The king will enjoy his own again, and then, ‘sbodikins! I shall be a lord, and thou wilt be a lady, Joan! thou wilt be a lady! Which nobody can deny! which nobody can deny!” And he sang and capered about the room in so droll a manner, that both Charles and Colonel Gunter were ready to die with laughing.
“It’s now my turn to call you to your senses, hubby,” cried Mrs. Smith, forcibly restraining him. “Don’t you hear some one calling you outside?”
“Gadzooks! so I do,” rejoined Smith, pausing. “Coming, sir — coming! You’ll be a lady, my duck. Which nobody can deny!”
“It is the voice of a friend,” replied Charles. “You may admit him.”
“Will it please you to step in here, sir?” cried Smith. “Nouns! wife, if it isn’t Lord Wilmot!” he added, as his lordship entered the room. “Only to think that the George should be thus honoured! Henceforth the house shall be called the King’s Head.”
“Better wait till the king is safe upon the throne,” replied his prudent spouse, in a whisper. “It won’t do to offend the roundhead Commonwealth knaves.”
“You are right, my dear — you are always right. Which nobody can deny!” he replied, in the same tone.
“You will rejoice to find, my lord, that I have again fallen amongst friends,” said Charles to Lord Wilmot. “These good folks are old acquaintances, and belonged to the king my father’s household at Whitehall.”
“I congratulate you on your good fortune, my liege,” replied his lordship. “Nay, I think I remember them. That should be Bonfellow Smith, and, unless I am greatly mistaken, this must be pretty Joan Awbray, my lady’s own tirewoman.”
“Your lordship is right in both instances,” said the host. “But the somewhile Joan Awbray is now Mrs. Bonfellow Smith, at your lordship’s service.”
After his lordship had passed a few compliments upon Mrs. Smith’s improved appearance, and expressed his satisfaction at seeing her husband again, Charles gave the worthy couple a good-natured hint to withdraw, and they both left the room, renewing their protestations of devotion, and promising that all needful precautions should be taken for his Majesty’s security.
They had not been gone more than five minutes when heavy footsteps were heard outside, and a hoarse voice was heard inquiring if Master William Jackson was in the house.
“There he is! that’s Captain Tattersall,” cried Colonel Gunter, flying to the door. “This way, captain,” he added. “Here we are! here’s Mr. Jackson.”
On this summons Tattersall entered the room. His apparel was pretty nearly the same as that in which he appeared on a former occasion, except that he now wore a pair of heavy boots. He brought with him a great bundle of seamen’s attire, of which the host, who had followed him into the room, hastened to relieve him.
“Ay, ay, put those traps down, mine host,” cried the skipper; “or, harkye, you had best convey them to some chamber above stairs. Mayhap they’ll be wanted by- and-by. Good e’en to you, gentlemen — good e’en to you,” he added, bowing to the company. While doing so, he fixed a scrutinizing look upon the two strangers, and appeared particularly struck by the king’s appearance.
“Glad to see you, Captain Tattersall,” cried Colonel Gunter, clapping him on the shoulder. “You are as punctual as the clock. This is my friend, Mr. Barlow, captain,” indicating Lord Wilmot, “and this is Mr. William Jackson,” he added, pointing to the king.
“Barlow and Jackson, eh!” exclaimed the skipper, placing his finger on the side of his nose. “Two very good travelling names though Smith might be better.”
“My name is Smith, I beg to observe, Captain Tattersall,” remarked the host— “Bonfellow Smith. Which nobody can deny!”
“True, I had forgotten that,” replied Tattersall, laughing.
“Bring pipes, Spanish tobacco, ale and brandy — Nantz, d’ye mark, host,” cried Colonel Gunter.
“Your honour shall be served in a trice,” replied Smith, disappearing.
“Pray be seated, Captain Tattersall — pray be seated,” said Charles. “There will be no difficulty about our passage, I suppose, captain? You are very particular, I hear. But I hope our looks satisfy you.”
“Your looks are very much in your favour with me, Mr. Jackson,” the skipper replied, significantly, “though they mightn’t please every other shipmaster equally well. But I think I have seen you before, sir.”
“Indeed!” exclaimed the king. “Where, and when, captain? I don’t recollect the occasion.”<
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“Possibly not, sir,” returned the skipper. “But I have good reason to remember it. It was in the year 1648 — three years ago, Heaven save the mark — that the royal fleet, under the command of his Royal Highness Prince Charles, suddenly appeared off this coast, and captured several sloops, fishing-vessels, and other craft — my brig, the Swiftsure, being amongst the number.”
“And you were made prisoner?” cried the king.
“I was made prisoner,” replied the skipper, “and with several of my fellow shipmasters was brought before the young prince. And what do you think his Royal Highness did?”
“Nay, I can’t tell,” replied the king. “Treated you like rebels, it may be? — ordered you all to be handcuffed and placed below the hatches?”
“Nothing of the sort,” rejoined Tattersall. “The only punishment he inflicted upon us was to make each of us toss off a glass of brandy to his royal father’s health, and then — bless his noble heart! — he set us all free.”
“Oddsfish! that’s rather like him, I must say,” observed Charles. “He has been doing foolish things all his life — eh, Barlow?”
“Perfectly true, Mr. Jackson,” replied the other.
“But I don’t look upon this as a foolish thing,” said Tattersall. “Leastways, his clemency wasn’t thrown away upon me, for I vowed then, that if ever opportunity offered, I’d show my gratitude, and I’ll be as good as my word.”
“Delighted to hear you say so, Captain Tattersall,” observed the king. “The feeling is very creditable to you. But I don’t see how I am connected with the circumstance you have related.”
“We are friends of Cæsar, I believe?” said Tattersall.
The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth Page 586
