No Quarter!

Four names, pronounced in joyous exclamation amid the din, and by four distinct voices; all with the epithet “dear” conjoined.

Not another word then, not another moment there; for the pursuit must be continued. The capture of Prince Rupert would be a thing of consequence, independent of all private feelings; and Sir Richard longed to settle scores with Lunsford. So on went he, and his, in chase of the now scattered escort.

But not again to come up with the pair of profligates. The stoppage, short as it was, had given them time to make Framilode Ferry; where, leaping from their horses, and into a light boat, they were out of sword’s reach, and range of bullet, before the pursuers could close upon them.

Still within earshot of angry speech, however, hurled after them by the triumphant Foresters, with many a taunt, many the vile epithet bestowed.

A degradation deserved; and other men than they would have felt its sting and shame. But not this scion of Royalty, toast, type, and model of Cavalierism. Happy at having escaped with a whole skin, he but laughed back, rejoicing in the life still left him for future crimes to be committed.

And many the one was he afterwards guilty of; though short from that time was his rule in the city of Bristol. Once again, and soon, was it enfiladed by an armed force, not for siege or leaguer, but instant assault. For the man who commanded was he who, later on, gave laws to all England, gave her the only glimpse of real liberty she has ever enjoyed – the only gleam of true glory. When Cromwell stood before Bristol’s gates, and said “Surrender!” it was in no tone of doubting requisition, but stern demand. The son of Elector Palatinate, hearing it hastened to comply, but too glad to get terms for his life.

Which he got, with his liberty, and more – far too much being conceded by his generous conqueror – permitted to march out, bag and baggage, with a long retinue of bullies, sycophants, and strumpets, leaving behind a longer list of victims, among them the ill-starred Clarisse Lalande. As he passed away from the place he had made a “place of bawdry,” it was amid jeers and bitter curses.

A scene pleasanter to describe – one more congenial to honest pen – occurred shortly after in the sister city of Gloucester, within its ancient Cathedral, at whose altar simultaneously stood four couples in the act of being made man and wife.

Wedded they were, and their names entered in the big book of marriage registry; from which the writer does not deem it necessary to copy them verbatim. Enough to give them as already known to the reader; the brides being Sabrina and Vaga Powell, Winifred, and Gwenthian; their respective bridegrooms Colonel Sir Richard Walwyn, Captain Eustace Trevor, Sergeant Wilde, and Trumpeter Hubert.

While being made happy, amid the many joyous faces around, one alone wore a cast of sadness, yet with resignation – that of Reginald Trevor, still living. For the shot which struck him out of his saddle on the flooded causeway of Framilode had but wounded him, and he was well again. In body, not spirit; for within his heart was a wound that might never be well. He had suffered bitterly, was still suffering; but with soul now purified and subdued was better able to bear it, and bore it manfully. Generously too; for just as, when meeting his cousin outside Hollymead gate he had offered him his sword to avenge defeat, now honoured he him by his presence at a ceremony which was as the sacrifice of himself.

Still another incident calls for record: of date some six years later, and some months preceding that event which again brought England’s liberty to its lowest ebb, her glory to greatest shame – the so-called Restoration. Before this curse of curses came, Ambrose Powell, predicting it – foreseeing evil to him and his – gathered up his household gods, and took ship with them to the colonies across the Atlantic, accompanied by all the personages who had appeared at that marriage ceremony in the cathedral of Gloucester, and by many more – Cadger Jack among them.

Reginald Trevor, too, was of the colonising band; long become accustomed to bearing the broken heart, which “brokenly lives on,” with but little pain, growing ever less. For he could now look upon Vaga Powell as his cousin’s wife; to himself as a kind sister – almost without thought of the unhappy past.

Well was it for all of them they went away, to become part of that people, the freest, most powerful, and most prosperous on earth. Had they stayed, it would have been to suffer persecution; the fate of all who then fought for England’s freedom, save the false ones and cravens, who cried “Quarter!” – on their knees, basely begged it from that loathsome monster of iniquity – the “Merry Monarch.”

And Rupert, Prince of Cavaliers, what became of him? He too returned with the Restoration – another of its curses – fresh from a long career of piracy in the West Indian seas, to be made Lord High Admiral of England, with no end of other honours and emoluments heaped upon him! To live for years after a life of luxurious ease, die “in the purple,” and be buried with all pomp and ceremony. For though a pirate, he was still a Prince of the Blood Royal!

The End