CHAPTER I

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*Concerning "A Certain Person"*

It was on the tenth day of June, in the year sixteen hundred and eighty-five (and three days after my first meeting with Tubal Ammon), when, as you know, King James the Second had scarce been three months on his quaking throne, that I, Michael Fane, of Lyme Regis, in the county of Dorset, fell headlong, as it were, and quite unwittingly, into such a pother of adventure, mystery, and trouble, as few men--let alone a youth, as I then was--may hope to come through with their lives. That, however, by a rare good fortune, having been my lot, I am minded, now in these peaceful days, when good King William rules us with a firm, wise hand, to set down, for all of you who care to read it, a full and true account of what befell me in those throbbing months of blood and warfare.

To begin, then (as my old preceptor, Master Pencraft, used to put it), at the right end of the rope, I was summoned before breakfast on that bright June morning to my father's study, in our old house, The Havering, just outside the town, where we two lived together, my mother having died three years before.

Now, although we were ever early risers at The Havering, I had never known my father require me to attend on him at such an hour (it being scarcely half-past six); but recollecting that I was eighteen that very day, the thought of some present being at the bottom of the matter added speed to the steps of filial duty as I hurried to the study.

I found my father seated, quill in hand, very stiff and upright at his table, on which some papers were spread out before him; while at his elbow stood the hour-glass to which he still clung, because, as he said, the ticking of a clock disturbed his thoughts. The sunlight falling on his whitened hair and beard made them shine like silver; and I remember, too, that through the open window came the gladsome morning song of birds. In truth, there could scarce have been a sight which promised more of peace and less of violence.

As I entered, my father looked up at me with those keen, deep-set eyes which could still flash fire for all their nearly seventy years of use.

"Good morning to you, Michael!" said he.

"Good morning to you, sir!" I answered, feeling some uneasiness, for the flickering smile with which he greeted me had scarcely touched his face before it vanished, leaving him grave and solemn as a judge; so that I stood there with my hand upon the door-latch, wondering swiftly which of my many sins had found me out.

"Be seated, Michael," said my father, pointing with his pen-point to a chair in front of him; and down I sat, with some such qualms as I was used to have when paying those private visits to my schoolmaster which were wont to end in certain flagellation.

For what seemed quite an age, my father sat there looking at me in a fixed, abstracted way which made me feel still more uncomfortable; then, having laid down his pen and turned the hour-glass, he leaned back in his chair with folded hands and said:

"Michael, my son, you have passed another milestone on life's road; you are eighteen to-day--a man, in fact."

Here he paused, as though expecting me to speak: but although his words had mightily relieved me, and made me feel a good inch taller, too, I could think of no answer for them; and so I only nodded--sat a little straighter in my chair, and wondered what was coming next. Perceiving this, he thus continued:

"Yes, Michael, you are now old enough to play the man in right good earnest. 'Tis high time that you were up and doing in the world. For, mark you, I would not have a son of mine an idle, useless popinjay."

"Nor would I choose the part," I put in bluntly.

"Nay, I am sure you would not," rejoined my father proudly. "You come of a wrong stock for that. But, look you, you spoke of choosing parts; what part, what calling, would you choose if you were able?"

"Fighting--soldiering, that is," I answered readily.

A blazing, warlike gleam leapt suddenly into the old man's eyes, and as he sat bolt upright in his chair, and glanced with glowing pride at that well-tried sword of his which hung upon the wall, I thought I never saw so fine a man.

"'Tis well and bravely said," he murmured. "Fighting--soldiering! A young man could not make a better choice than that. And, as you know, Michael, I speak from great experience. In the days of good King Charles the Martyr--God rest his soul!--I fought in nigh a dozen battles, counting skirmishes. And gladly would I fight again if I were able. Ah, yes! there is no finer work for any man than fighting for his king."

"His king!" I echoed. "Must I then fight for James?"

"Certes," replied my father with an astonished look. "For whom else would you fight, my son?"

"I know not, but I hate King James," I blurted out. "He is a cruel man, a poltroon, and a----"

"Hush!" broke in my father, raising a warning hand; and even as he spoke there came a sound like that of someone stirring stealthily among the shrubs outside the window.

We both rose and looked out searchingly, but as there was nothing to be seen, sat down again.

"What was it, think you?" I asked.

"A cat, perhaps; or maybe the dog," replied my father.

But I was far from satisfied; for I had distinctly heard that which, his hearing being somewhat hard, had escaped the old man's notice--to wit, what sounded like cautious, slinking footsteps. However, as the thing could not be proved, I let it pass.

"You spake without due thought, son Michael," said my father gravely. "Such words as you just now used are as dangerous as wild. Kings must vary, even as mankind itself doth vary. There must be good and bad in everything; and sometimes 'tis the kingship that we fight for, not the man. And mark you, Michael, even a bad king were far better than no king at all--aye, a thousand times!"

I felt far from sure of that, but my father was no man to argue with, especially upon one's birthday, so I did not press the matter.

"But is there no other king that I can fight for?" I asked. "John Cornish went from Lyme here, as you know, into the Netherlands, fought for the Prince of Orange, and became a captain. Can I not do the same, sir?"

My father frowned and stroked his beard, as was his wont when not well pleased.

"That is fortune-soldiering," he answered gravely; "a thing I do not favour. For although it certainly hath bred good fighters, 'tis apt to lead to looseness--selling the sword, that is, for money to the highest bidder. Nay, Michael, I would not have my son do that. Fight for your king and country when the time comes, and let that suffice."

"But how and where, then, shall I fight?" I asked. "Since Monmouth cut the Covenanters up at Bothwell Brig there hath been naught worth the name of fighting; and although 'tis said the Duke of Argyle is in Scotland with some followers, that will not touch us: he will soon be done for. Nay, sir, I see no chance of fighting here in England. All is peace."

"Yes, but methinks it will not be so long, Michael," rejoined my father with a knowing look.

"What mean you, sir?" I asked.

"I mean," he answered, leaning forward with his arms upon the table and speaking in a whisper, "I mean that I have certain knowledge that at any moment bloody civil war may again break out among us."

"How, sir, and what proof?" I cried, springing to my feet.

"Sit down," replied my father quietly. Then, opening a drawer, he drew therefrom a letter. "Here is my proof," he said, unfolding it, "though certes it was not for me; I found it wedged inside a larger document which came by post last night. Thus it had been overlooked. I opened it unthinkingly, and, when I saw the nature of its contents, kept it; and that rightly, as it seems to me. Read it," he added, holding the paper out across the table.

'Twas addressed to a man well known to us; one who had fought with Blake when he held Lyme so stoutly against Prince Maurice in the Civil Wars.

The writing was a poor scrawl enough, and hard to read in parts, but this is how it ran:--

"Dated from London, 8th June, 1685.

"FRIEND,

"These are to advise thee that honest Protestants forthwith prepare and make themselves very ready, for they have notice here at Court that a Certain Person will forthwith appear in the West, which puts them here at Court into a most dreadful fear and confusion; 'tis hoped, therefore, that all honest men who are true Protestants will stick together and make ready for the trumpet call of Freedom. Argyle have had great success in Scotland, and have already destroyed great part of the King's forces there; and we hear from good hands that he hath sure an army that doth increase so mightily daily that nothing can oppose them; and if they be once up in the West they would suddenly be up in all parts of England, all Protestants being certainly prepared and resolved rather to die than to live Slaves and Papists. Therefore make good use hereof, and impart it to such as you can trust, that you may all be prepared and ready against the appearance of a Certain Person, which will be forthwith if not already.

"From your friend, "F.R."

"This is a pretty riddle, sir," said I, laying down the letter.

"Nay," quoth the old man, smiling at my puzzled look; "'tis plain as any horn-book. Who, think you, is the Certain Person named herein?" He touched the letter.

"Nay, sir, I cannot tell," I answered.

"Guess! The name begins with M."

But as I knew several names beginning with that letter this information did not greatly help me; and though I was soon astonished that it had not done so, I could only shake my head and say:

"I cannot guess."

"Well, then, I will tell thee," said my father. "The Certain Person is none other than James, Duke of Monmouth."

This time I sprang up so vehemently that over went my chair and I came near to following it.

"What!" I cried. "Monmouth! That pretty fellow whom I saw five years ago at Colyton when he rode through the West so proudly, with thousands of fine gentlemen behind him?"

"The very same," replied my father gravely.

"But is he not an exile in the Netherlands?" I asked, amazed.

"That is his portion," said my father, looking mighty stern. "Or, rather, was."

"Then, what comes he here for?"

"To stir up rank rebellion; to play the fine Pretender; in a word, to try and wrest the crown from him who rightly wears it, to wit, his uncle, our King James."

"That being so," said I, drawing myself up very straight and feeling mightily important, "I fight for Monmouth."

'Twas now my father's turn to show amazement, the which he did by springing to his feet with such suddenness and anger that I fell back a step or two.

"Stop!" he hissed across the table. "You know not what you say. Such words as those would hang a man if they were overheard. Wouldst fight for a usurper?"

"They say he is the rightful heir," said I.

"'They say'! Who say?" returned my father hotly.

"Why, those who have a right to know," I answered glumly, for my pride was hurt.

"Then know that 'they' say wrong," he scornfully rejoined. "This Monmouth hath no more title to the crown than you or I have."

"But, sir, is he not the eldest son of Charles the Second?"

"They have no proof who say so. Therefore I say again, he hath no claim, no title to the throne of England."

This seemed a crushing answer right enough, and so for a moment I was silent. But I had read and heard--as no doubt you have also--of some mysterious written proof of Charles's marriage to one Lucy Walters, Monmouth's mother. 'Twas said to have been hidden in a black box somewhere, which, when the needful time arrived, was nowhere to be found; and even they who had professed to having seen the very document in question, roundly denied all knowledge of it when brought before the Council. To be quite honest, I had but small belief in it myself, but now, in my fallen pride, it served my purpose; so----

"What of the Black Box?" I said, looking as wise as any parrot.

I had expected that my father's answer to this question would be short and sharp--indeed, perhaps nothing save a scornful laugh; but, to my great astonishment, he dropped back straight into his chair and stared at me like one possessed, while his breath came thick and fast, as though he had suffered some great shock.

"What do you know of that?" he gasped at last.

"Nothing, father," I answered carelessly by way of calming him, for knowing that he suffered from a weakness of the heart I was afraid lest harm should come to him. "Nothing, that is, beyond what others know. Indeed, I thought 'twas common knowledge."

"Common knowledge!" echoed my father with a fearful start. "What do you mean?"

"Why, the report that there is somewhere written proof of Charles's marriage. Is it not common knowledge? I remember hearing of it when I was a boy at school."

"Yes, yes; but the box in which 'twas said to have been hidden! What do you know of that?"

He put this question with a feverish eagerness and then gazed at me searchingly, if indeed not suspiciously.

"Nothing," I answered firmly; "absolutely nothing."

On hearing this my father heaved a sigh of deep relief, and for a space stared at me in a far-off, wondering manner, as though he were scarce certain of my presence; then, leaning slowly forward on the table, he said:

"Michael, 'tis passing strange that you should be the first to mention that which I have brought you here to speak of, but, having done so, the need for a preamble is at least removed. Know, then, that the tale of the Black Box, albeit so bedecked and garnished with absurdities by the tongue of busy gossip, is not entirely fabulous. For, verily, that box exists. I have it here."

When I heard this I was as one struck dumb. To think that in that quiet, book-lined chamber there lay a hidden secret which, as it seemed to me, might have the power to turn a kingdom upside down! I was aghast, and as I gazed in blank bewilderment about the room it was as though black boxes had usurped the very shelves and lurked in every corner. Thus for a moment I was speechless, then my eyes went slowly back to him from whom this most astounding news had come, and who now sat watching me intently.

"You have it, sir!" I said in a voice that sounded strange and distant to my ears. "Where? How?"

"That you shall know presently. All in good time," replied my father with a curious little smile, which I can see again distinctly as I write these words. "But, first of all, I ask your promise as a man and son that not a word of what I show and tell you shall pass your lips so long as I am living. When I am gone you may do as you choose, but until then this matter must be treated as a bounden secret sacred to us two, and to us alone. Have I your oath that this shall be so, Michael?"

"You have," I answered. "Here is my hand upon it."

Our hands met firm and solemnly across the table. Then my father rose, and taking down a picture of my mother which hung upon the wall, pressed with his fingers on the wainscoting beneath. Instantly a panelled door flew open, revealing a secret cupboard big enough to hold two men.

After some groping in a bottom corner of this chamber, he discovered what he sought, and, returning to the table, laid thereon a little box of ebony, about eight inches square.

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