A Lost Leader: A Tale of Restoration Days

One December evening, in the year 1648, the little town of Farnham showed unusual signs of life. Troopers were dismounting and leading their horses away to their stables, or were lounging at the doors of the houses where they were quartered, and a crowd of curious country folk and villagers gathered to stare at them, and even to put questions to the more affable-looking of the steel-coated soldiers.

The press was greatest round the entrance of a house of the better class that stood back from the street with all the dignity that a flagged forecourt and a couple of high brick gate-pillars could lend it.

There the sentries, who were stationed at the door, had some ado to keep back the curious throng, and many a sturdy country farmer shouldered his way into the house in the wake of his squire to catch a glimpse of his king, the ill-fated King Charles, who was to rest that night at Farnham on his last journey from the prison at Hurst Castle to the scaffold at Whitehall.

"Be there no chance of seeing his blessed Majesty this even, Master Clarke?" whispered an old woman, clutching the arm of a good-natured neighbour.

"No, dame, no, he be a-going to his supper, folks say, and they won't let none into his parlour but gentry, save these here lobsters as go where they please, and hold themselves as good as gentlefolk, rot 'em!"

These uncomplimentary remarks were not said in a loud enough tone for the sentry to overhear, but they gave great satisfaction to the old woman who nodded agreement, and wiped her eyes with her apron.

"Do'e think now they'll let us get a sight on him in the morning?" she quavered.

"Ay, ay, they can scarce stop it; he must needs pass out this way to come to his horse. But I reckon they must feel mighty vexed to see how the folk press to get a sight on him, God bless him."

"God bless him, and bring him safe out of their wicked hands," echoed the old woman, as she turned to hobble home.

Within the house, the hall and passages were thronged with servants and visitors, most of whom made no secret of their loyal sorrow at seeing their king brought among them as a prisoner. The officers who formed the escort appeared, however, to trouble very little about the sentiments of the crowd, and from good nature or contempt went about their own affairs, allowing the country squires and their wives to show their loyal devotion in any fashion they pleased.

In the panelled dining-parlour the supper-table stood ready, prepared for one guest only, but the room was as yet only lit by the fading gleams of the winter sunset and the dancing flames of the fire. The group of officers and visitors who were gathered round the hearth, spoke to each other in low tones as they glanced with looks of curiosity, and even covert amusement, at two gentlemen who stood in the recessed window, in earnest talk.

But a boy who stood near the door watched all with no amusement in his face. He stood erect, grave, watching with his serious untroubled childish eyes the great things that were passing before him. A bright, eager boy, whose brown hands one would think fitter to hold a top than to caress the hilt of his new sword; a boy young enough to be proud of his position, proud of his soldier's dress; to whom life was a very interesting but a very simple matter. He looked with a child's awe at the two men in the window, and they were worthy of his gaze. The slender, slightly bowed figure in the velvet coat and blue ribbon, with soft curls that flowed from beneath a plumed hat, the sad eyes, the regular features only marred by a look of weakness and almost peevishness about the mouth; the boy had seen them all often enough in pictures, but to-day he stood for the first time in the presence of a king, of King Charles the First of England.

Before the king stood an equally picturesque personage, although at first sight you hardly noticed the features or colouring that went to make up the gallant figure of the man. It was the erect, proud bearing, the vivid life, the eagerness of a high-strung nature, now controlled by the courtesy due to his companion. His buff coat and crimson sash were like those worn by the boy, and the velvet cap he carried in his hand left uncovered curls as brown; but instead of the childish calm of the boy's hazel eyes, the older man's glance now flashed with the fire of an eagle, now glowed with the exalted enthusiasm of a poet. It was no wonder that the boy watched him with a look of dog-like adoration that scarcely spared a glance for the king himself. Young Dick's king stood before him in truth, and his name was not Charles Stuart but Thomas Harrison.