“Your information is not exactly correct, captain,” Clavering replied. “Our chaplain, Mr. Beard, the deprived pastor of Ovingdean, and his daughter, were taken in his stead, my father being nearly at death’s door when the Ironside leader, Stelfax, came to make him a prisoner. On his recovery, about a week ago, the colonel went to Lewes to surrender himself and obtain the release of his hostages, and met with better treatment than he anticipated: not only did he procure the liberation of Mr. Beard and his daughter, but he was allowed to remain a prisoner on parole at Ovingdean, where all three now are.”
“I am glad to hear it,” said Tattersall. “If all goes well, on the afternoon of the day after to-morrow—that is to say on Wednesday, it being now Monday—about five o’clock, I will be at Ovingdean Grange. If anything should prevent my coming, I will send. But your friends may hold themselves prepared to start. I will get all ready—if I can.”
“You clog your promises with so many doubts, captain,” observed Colonel Gunter, “that you also must make me fear their fulfilment. However, I will hope for the best. At five o’clock on Wednesday next I shall expect to see you at Ovingdean Grange, and my friends must then abide your scrutiny.”
“And if Captain Tattersall, when he does see them, be not delighted to lend them aid, he is not the man I take him for,” said Clavering.
“Well, we shall see,” replied the skipper, rising. “Since time presses, I will go and see about getting in my cargo at once.”
“Stay, Tattersall,” cried Clavering, filling the skipper’s glass. “One toast ere you go; I’m sure you won’t refuse it: May the king enjoy his own again!”
“May the king enjoy his own again!” cried the skipper, emptying the glass; “and,” he added, significantly, “if I can help him to it, I will. What was that noise? I thought I heard some one suddenly start up in the next room.”
“Very likely,” replied Clavering. “The room is occupied by an Independent minister, lately of Ovingdean. But he couldn’t overhear us.”
“I hope not,” replied Tattersall. “I hate the Independents. Adieu, gentlemen. On Wednesday, at five.”
“Till then adieu, captain,” said Gunter. “And harkye, don’t mention a word that has passed to your wife—if you happen to possess one.”
“No fear of my blabbing, colonel,” replied Tattersall. And he quitted the room.
Clavering went out immediately after him, and found that the door of the adjoining room was open, and the apartment vacant. Micklegift, if he had been there, was gone.
The two gentlemen did not remain much longer at the Dolphin but paid their reckoning and called for their horses, which were soon brought out by John Habergeon. They then rode through Old Shoreham, and kept along the Bramber road, on the banks of the Arun, until they reached the bridge.
Here they dismissed John Habergeon, who was directed by Clavering to pay a secret visit that night to Ovingdean Grange, and acquaint his father that all had been satisfactorily arranged, and that he and his friends might be expected on Wednesday afternoon. Charged with this message, of the importance of which, insignificant as it sounded, he was well aware, the old trooper rode up the acclivities on the right of the valley, and soon disappeared.
Having crossed the bridge, the two gentlemen pursued the high road to Chichester, and reached Racton late in the day, without misadventure.
Book VIII
Charles the Second at Ovingdean Grange
I
THE PAPER BULLET
ON their return to Racton that night, Colonel Gunter and his guest partook of supper, and were still seated over a flask of excellent Bordeaux, when a confidential servant entered, and informed his master that the messenger had just arrived, and craved admittance.
The colonel looked surprised, but bade the man show the messenger in without delay. Whereupon the servant withdrew, and presently afterwards reappeared with Ninian Saxby.
The young falconer had doffed the gay and becoming habiliments in which he appeared during the time of his service with Colonel Maunsel, and was now very soberly clad in a tight-fitting jerkin of black cloth, a long black cloak without plait or ornament, funnel-topped boots armed with large spurs, a small plain band, and a steeple-crowned hat. By his side he wore a long tuck—a weapon proper to the fanatical party to which he was now supposed to belong. His brown curling locks, once his ornament and pride, no longer offended the severe eye of the zealot. Shears, remorseless as those of Atropos, had cropped them off close to his head; rendering him, in Cavalier parlance, “a prick-eared cur.” But the merry eye, laughing features, and careless bearing of the young man somewhat belied his puritanical attire; though, no doubt, he could assume a more sedate look and deportment when occasion required.