He was not without hope, that the cordial testimony of Governor Arundel in his favour at Pendennis-Castle might prove the means of restoring him to the presence of his friends; but a report at that time reaching him of the high estimation in which Monthault was held by the Beaumont family, added to an assurance that he was the accepted lover of Constantia, determined him against returning to Oxford, to witness the arts by which that now-detected traitor had confirmed his ruin. He had often heard the love of women was not of that ardent nature, which outlives disgrace and misfortune. Perhaps he secretly commended the noble principles which could prevail on a young woman to reject a dishonoured lover, and deem infamy a sufficient plea to rescind the bond of a plighted attachment. He only lamented, that in this instance Constantia had mistaken the dupe for the villain. Disdaining to dispute the point of character with Monthault, and bent on clearing his fidelity to his King, by some indisputable proofs before he claimed his love, he felt as exiles frequently feel, who, liking nothing but that home from which they are proscribed, suffer chance to decide their course. Jobson had attached himself to his fortunes, he had some relations in Wales, and he spoke much of the loyalty of the mountaineers.—Eustace crossed the British channel and took up his abode in the principality, continuing to distinguish himself as long as any resistance was made to the parliament.
During the cessation of hostilities, which resembled rather an armed truce than peace, his yearning heart returned to his beloved family, and his dearest Constantia, who, he now learned, had rejected Monthault. But they had left Oxford in the general dispersion of its sages and divines, and he knew not whither they had shaped their course, neither did he yet think he had fulfilled the injunction of redeeming his shames. Continual talk of risings for the King, made him hope he should again have an opportunity of using his sword, and while this suspence lasted, he accepted the hospitality of a worthy surgeon of the name of Lloyd, who resided in the town of Pembroke, and admired the virtues of this brave out-cast, as sincerely as he pitied his misfortunes.
Eustace left the arms of this foster-parent, at the breaking out of the second civil war, which took place during the King's confinement in Carisbroke-Castle. He was one of the first who appeared in arms, and after many bold, but unsuccessful efforts, he and Jobson were among the number who sustained that memorable siege in Pembroke-Castle, where, after holding out to the last extremity, a selected number of the brave defenders were sacrificed to republican revenge[[1]].
I have already stated that the command of the army, destined to subdue the Welsh Loyalists, had been given to Lord Bellingham as a test of his fidelity, or rather a snare to expedite his ruin, and that his Countess was privy to this design, being actually the person who had informed Cromwell of his secret disaffection. The Usurper had recently suffered a severe disappointment; his favourite General Mytton had thrown up his command in disgust, and refused again to subdue his countrymen, since he perceived his hopes of founding a republic, that was to combine every Utopian idea of purity, had issued in the establishment of military despotism. Cromwell resolved henceforth to employ a more subtle policy, and to place a spy on every one whom he entrusted with an important command, whose interest it should be to watch and report all their actions. He had formed a determination not only to annihilate the ancient nobility, but also to create a new house of peers, consisting of men raised by what he called personal merit, in reality a selection from his own creatures, which is often the true explanation of the word merit, when used for party-purposes. No expedient could better serve such a purpose, than that of exhibiting birth and rank, self-degraded in the person of one, who he knew would prove himself unworthy of the trust reposed in him.
When a system of espionage and secret influence becomes the ruling principle of government, it follows that the governed must counteract its designs by a similar process, and thus venality and treachery become legalized by the acknowledged laws of self-defence. Lord Bellingham had his agents in the army, as well as Cromwell, and soon discovered that the sword of Damocles was suspended over his head. Though disaffected to the cause he served, he had not courage to avow his sentiments, or even prudence enough to throw up the command, and embrace the only chance of safety, by choosing a life of retirement. Wedded to the possessions and rank he had so dearly purchased, and full of ill-founded confidence that he could play as successful a game with a close-penetrating tyrant, as he had done with a generous inexperienced King, he thought an air of inexorable cruelty to the royalists must remove, or at least lull the suspicions of the serpent, who lay wrapped round in observant coil, ready to spring upon him. As to the feelings of those whom he persecuted, for the sake of prolonging his own worthless life and preserving his ill-acquired fortunes, he either entirely forgot that they had any, or considered that self-preservation rendered every expedient lawful.
After enduring a siege equalled in horror only by that of Colchester, Pembroke-Castle surrendered on the same terms; namely, that the common soldiers might depart unmolested, and the inhabitants be safe in person and property, while the officers and gentlemen who had borne arms should surrender prisoners at mercy. The generous sentiments of these self-devoted patriots sustained them in the agonizing trial of parting with the bands they had led always to honour, sometimes to victory, by the consideration that, by placing themselves in jeopardy, they had purchased the safety of those whom they could no otherwise protect, and whose services were now useless as the cause was desperate. But far different were the feelings of the soldiers, who were compelled to leave their beloved commanders in this state of peril. The regret of Jobson was peculiarly lively, he wrung the hand of Eustace, implored him to assist him in passing for a subaltern, that he might share his perils, and insisted he was as good a gentleman as many of Bellingham's officers. Eustace attempted to laugh at his apprehensions, assured him that the rumour of the General's intention to decimate the prisoners was suggested by some malicious person, who sported with the feelings of unfortunate people. "The only difference in our fate," said he to Jobson, "is that you are at large with your unhealed wounds to beg or starve, whichever (being your own master) you shall think most eligible, while I shall be well taken care of as a prisoner, probably sent to London, and perhaps, by some fortunate occurrence, may be indulged with a sight of my honoured father. With what transport shall I throw myself into his arms, crave his blessing, tell him I have redeemed my shames, and proved by my sufferings and my blood that I am no traitor."
Jobson took a lingering leave; the commands of Bellingham were peremptory. Every soldier of the King's found in the castle, the evening after its surrender, was ordered to be thrown over the rock into the sea. Cowardice was his motive for this command. He dreaded the fury of even a disarmed and unofficered army, and he resolved to disperse them, previous to his bringing on the premeditated catastrophe of his bloody tragedy.
On the succeeding morning a ghastly-looking figure, whose face spoke some abhorred errand, ordered the captives to attend the council of officers. Bellingham, surrounded with those, who secretly panted for his destruction, acted as their organ, and assuming the consequence of a general, informed his prisoners[[2]], "That after so long and obstinate a defence, till they found it necessary to deliver up themselves to mercy, it was necessary that the peace of the kingdom might be no more disturbed in that manner, that some military justice should be executed, and therefore the council had determined that three should be presently shot." The tallies were immediately produced, the victims blindfolded, and Eustace drew one of those marked with the fatal sentence of death. His partners in affliction had nothing remarkable in their appearance to engage peculiar sympathy; but the beautiful countenance of Eustace, faded indeed by severe suffering, yet lighted by the splendor of eyes radiant with intelligence, while all his features spoke sense and feeling, had already drawn the attention of the butchers who sat to see him exposed to the chance of slaughter. With collected intrepidity he stretched his hand, and steadily drew the lot from the fatal urn. When the contents were announced, he tore the bandage from his eyes, and, rolling them in stern defiance of the rebel group, embraced his fellow-victims. A silent appeal to Heaven succeeded; and then, without one supplicatory address for mercy, in a manly tone, he inquired what time would be allowed them to prepare for death. His manner had so far softened their hearts, that a respite of three hours was granted; and Lord Bellingham offered them the assistance of one of his own chaplains to direct their devotions.
It would have been an inestimable consolation to Eustace had the worthy Barton officiated in that capacity; but he was now among the number of respectable characters who were thrown into prison for presuming to intercede in the King's behalf. The person who attended Eustace was an ignorant desperate fanatic, in reality a spy of Cromwell's, whom the arbitrary will of Lady Bellingham compelled her lord to retain about his person. Such an assistant could afford no comfort to a condemned man; in reality he only served to disturb the composure which a long series of sorrows and sufferings had enabled Eustace externally to assume—I say externally, for his soul secretly melted at the unusual misfortunes that had clouded his short existence. He recollected at this trying moment the precious delights and glorious visions of his boyhood. His mind dwelt on the delusive opinion of his own powers, which had endangered his high expectations of renown, the fatal intimacy, and the numerous errors that changed glory into disgrace; and now, when misfortune had taught him wisdom, by the cruel sentence of coward rebels he was doomed, in cold blood, not only to an early, but also to an ignominious grave. He should never more re-join his father! never behold his plighted Constantia! Death he would welcome almost with transport, could he but hear the former pronounce his forgiveness, or the latter vow that she would cherish his memory. To die unknown, distant from all he loved, be ignorant of their present state, and they of his miserable doom—such a combination of excruciating misfortunes required no common fortitude to support the trial, or to divest a soul (which clung to the future with greater eagerness in proportion to the fallacy of past expectations) of those strong attachments to this life which impeded his journey to another. The glow of heroism which animated his face, and warmed his bosom before the council, was succeeded by the chill of despair. The precious moments of preparation for eternity were consumed in a whirl of distracting thought. He stood caressing a favourite spaniel whom he had preserved alive during the severe privations of the siege, watching the swift movements of the clock which numbered the remaining pulses of his heart, wondering if it would thus throb at the moment when he plunged into an unknown existence, endeavouring to recollect a recommendatory prayer, but too amazed and petrified by the cruelty of man to meditate on the mercy of God.
Meanwhile, Henley the chaplain, with the stern austerity of unpitying fanaticism, asked Eustace if he was in a state of grace, or had witnessed the experience of a saving call. Receiving no answer to these inquiries, he began the usual routine of vituperative prayer, and affected to supplicate for mercy on what he styled a child of wrath doomed to perdition, and, by his own consent, in the bondage of Satan. Eustace was roused by this mockery from his apparent stupor. "Call you this," said he, "spiritual comfort for the afflicted, or a requiem for a departing soul? I was educated in the principles of true piety. I know myself to be a frail, responsible being, and that my spirit is composed of those imperishable materials which will enable me to exist in a state of retribution. I trust in the merits of Him who died to save me. I am severed from my dearest connections. My days are terminated in the morning of my life. I am denied the fruition of those glorious hopes which prompted me to distinguish myself by deeds deserving virtuous renown. So wills the Ruler of the universe. Blind and cruel instruments often accomplish the inscrutable designs of Providence; but I have been taught to consider all its purposes as issuing in mercy. I fought for a virtuous King; I die for his exiled son. My name shall live in honour when Bellingham and all the vile associates of Cromwell are consigned to infamy. I am the son of Colonel Evellin, the nephew of Dr. Eusebius Beaumont, both renowned Loyalists. You, Sir, cannot instruct me; for the principles I imbibed from them will support me in my last moments."