University of Virginia Library

11. XI.
ON THE HIGHWAY.

I look back on that journey with Frances Villiers and
the little princess to the sea-coast as the most remarkable
passage in a life filled with singular adventures.

Trudging along on foot, or securing places in some
chance conveyance,—the cart of a countryman going
to market, or other humble vehicle,—we went upon
our way, the young lady, the princess, and myself,
and thus passed safely through the torn and distracted
realm until we were in the southern shires and neared
the Channel. The land was all laid waste, and an inexpressible
disquiet and unrest filled the face of every
one. War had come to overthrow the old peace and
happiness of merry England. On all sides dismantled
houses, torn-down fences, and deserted villages marked
the presence of that cruelest of all demons, the demon
of Civil War.

The war was virtually over; but the land had not
settled to rest again, for the triumphant side had
divided into two factions, the Presbyterians and the
stern Independents, the latter led by Cromwell now;
and 'twas a question whether a new struggle, more
violent than the first, would not ensue. From this
general sketch, however, which might lead me into
political and historical disquisitions, for which I have
no fancy, I pass to my personal adventures.

I have said 'twas a strange passage in my life, that
journey; and my relations with Frances Villiers made
it stranger still. A lover who had sworn to utter no
word of love, but whose passion was no secret from its
object, was journeying with the one dearest to him;
and the singular character of that journey threw him
incessantly with his companion. Over long miles of
heath, through great woods, across desolate moors, by
day and by night, we traveled in company; and all
this time it was only as friend to friend that we addressed
each other. The child walked sometimes, but
was generally carried upon my back or in my arms.
This I insisted upon; though more than once Frances
Villiers compelled me to yield her charge to her, and
the delicate and aristocratic girl would, for hours,
against my protest, bear the child in a bundle upon
her own shoulders.

More than once we were suspiciously gazed at by
chance wayfarers wearing the colors of the parliament;
and twice roving parties peered into wagons wherein
we rode, but without finding good reason to stop us.
'Twas in this latter manner that much of the way was
traversed. The poor and humble proved themselves
our best friends; and often, as we went on slowly, we
heard, from some yeoman in a smock-frock, earnest
wishes expressed for the happiness of the king, now
routed and a fugitive. The only danger was from
the princess, who had been dressed as a boy and in
rags,—to her huge disgust,—and called Pierre. When
asked her name by these poor people, she babbled the
word princess, however, and we were often in great
trepidation.

“That is the manner in which he pronounces his
name,—Pierre,” the young lady would say; and an opportune
diversion of the conversation would do away
with further danger.

At last we reached the sea-coast, and, leaving the
young lady and child in a fisherman's hut, I went to
reconnoitre, and discover, if possible, the means of
crossing the Channel. The result was extremely discouraging.
The coast was thoroughly guarded, and
no vessel of any description could pass to France without
being stopped. I returned with this discouraging
information to Miss Villiers: we took counsel together,
and finally came to the resolution of boldly proceeding
to Dover and taking the packet which ran at stated
periods across the Channel.

We proceeded, therefore, along the coast, reached
Dover, and luckily found the packet just about to set
sail.

“Come,” I said, in a low tone, as we mingled in the
crowd, “we will go boldly on board, and I will undertake
to answer all questions.”

We had just reached the deck, when the commander
gave the order to take in the plank leading to the jetty.

“Have all the passports been examined?”

I shrank back with the young lady and child into a
corner.

“Ay, ay, sir,” was the reply of the person addressed,
a rough-looking personage in a broad hat.

The next moment the plank was drawn on board,
the cable was unslung from the wharf, and the packet
moved under full sail out into the Channel, heading
towards France.

I was still shrinking low, with my companion, in my
corner, when the man in the broad hat passed near me,
and said, without turning his head,—

“I was groom in the Guards once, sir. I know
you, but am not the man to betray you. Many a
friend of the good cause is leaving the country. Go
down in the aft cabin, and mix with the crowd.”

I hastened to follow this friendly advice, and we
were soon lost in the mass. On the same evening we
were on French soil, and set forward, without stopping,
for Paris.

Three days afterwards, Queen Henrietta Maria, in
an apartment of the Louvre, was holding in her arms
the poor child whom she had last seen at Exeter, sobbing,
and covering her with kisses.

Such was that singular adventure. I look back to it
now, when my hair grows gray, with more pleasure
and satisfaction than to all else I had part in during
the great English civil war.