Jack, however, very soon got tired of leading an idle life. Routs and card-parties were not at all to his taste, and although Nottingham was not destitute of damsels possessed of a fair amount of beauty, he did not find himself attracted by any of them. He had speedily taught himself to think no more of Alethea, but in her stead another young and pretty form often rose up before him. He met with no one indeed, in his opinion, to be compared with sweet little Elizabeth Pearson, or rather, as he believed she should be called, Elise de Mertens. He made up his mind, therefore, to leave home at a short notice and hasten down to Portsmouth, where he saw in the columns of the Post-boy that a fleet was fitting out, under the brave Admiral Benbow, for the West Indies.
Chapter Twenty Eight.
Serves under Benbow in the West Indies.
It was early in March in the year 1702. As Jack Deane was approaching London, he heard a postman shouting, “Sad news! sad news!”
“What is it?” asked Jack.
“The king is dead!” was the answer. “Our good King William is no more!”
Jack, on making further inquiry, learned that the king had, on Saturday, 21st, gone out to hunt, as was his custom, near Hampton Court, when his horse fell, and he fractured his collar-bone. The injury was not considered serious, and he was conveyed to his palace at Kensington. Having been, however, in a very weak state, he did not rally, and it was evident to those around him that he was near his end. On the 8th of March one of the best and most sagacious of English monarchs breathed his last, holding the hand of the faithful Duke of Portland. His voice had gone ere that; but his reason and all his senses were entire to the last. He died with a clear and full presence of mind, and with a wonderful tranquillity.
On the accession of Queen Anne, the Jacobites remained quiet, under the belief that she would leave the crown to the son of James the Second, now known as the Chevalier Saint George. They were not aware of the sound Protestant principles of the great mass of Englishmen, and that any attempt to bring back a Romanist member of the hated House of Stuart, so often tried and found utterly unfit for ruling, would have produced another civil war. Those infatuated men, the Jacobites, did not conceal their joy at the death of the Protestant monarch. Banquets were held among them to celebrate the event, and some had the audacity and wickedness, it may be said, to toast the health of the horse which had thrown William. Another toast they drank was to the health of the little gentleman dressed in velvet, in other words, the mole that raised the hill over which Sorel (the king’s favourite horse) stumbled.