Micah Clarke by Arthur Conan Doyle (adventure books to read TXT) 📖

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Title: Micah Clarke His Statement as made to his three grandchildren Joseph, Gervas and Reuben During the Hard Winter of 1734

Author: Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

Release Date: December, 2005 [EBook #9504] [Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] [This file was first posted on October 6, 2003]

Edition: 10

Language: English

Character set encoding: ASCII

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MICAH CLARKE ***

Produced by Lionel G. Sear of Truro, Cornwall, England

MICAH CLARKE

HIS STATEMENT AS MADE TO HIS THREE GRANDCHILDREN JOSEPH, GERVAS, AND REUBEN DURING THE HARD WINTER OF 1734

CONTENTS

CHAPTER. I. OF CORNET JOSEPH CLARKE OF THE IRONSIDES.

II. OF MY GOING TO SCHOOL AND OF MY COMING THENCE.

III. OF TWO FRIENDS OF MY YOUTH.

IV. OF THE STRANGE FISH THAT WE CAUGHT AT SPITHEAD.

V. OF THE MAN WITH THE DROOPING LIDS.

VI. OF THE LETTER THAT CAME FROM THE LOWLANDS.

VII. OF THE HORSEMAN WHO RODE FROM THE WEST.

VIII. OF OUR START FOR THE WARS.

IX. OF A PASSAGE OF ARMS AT THE BLUE BOAR.

X. OF OUR PERILOUS ADVENTURE ON THE PLAIN.

XI. OF THE LONELY MAN AND THE GOLD CHEST.

XII. OF CERTAIN PASSAGES UPON THE MOOR.

XIII. OF SIR GERVAS JEROME, KNIGHT BANNERET OF THE COUNTY OF SURREY.

XIV. OF THE STIFF-LEGGED PARSON AND HIS FLOCK.

XV. OF OUR BRUSH WITH THE KING’S DRAGOONS.

XVI. OF OUR COMING TO TAUNTON.

XVII. OF THE GATHERING IN THE MARKET-SQUARE.

XVIII. OF MASTER STEPHEN TIMEWELL, MAYOR OF TAUNTON.

XIX. OF A BRAWL IN THE NIGHT.

XX. OF THE MUSTER OF THE MEN OF THE WEST.

XXI. OF MY HAND-GRIPS WITH THE BRANDENBURGER.

XXII. OF THE NEWS FROM HAVANT.

XXIII. OF THE SNARE ON THE WESTON ROAD.

XXIV. OF THE WELCOME THAT MET ME AT BADMINTON.

XXV. OF STRANGE DOINGS IN THE BOTELER DUNGEON.

XXVI. OF THE STRIFE IN THE COUNCIL.

XXVII OF THE AFFAIR NEAR KEYNSHAM BRIDGE.

XXVIII OF THE FIGHT IN WELLS CATHEDRAL.

XXIX. OF THE GREAT CRY FROM THE LONELY HOUSE.

XXX OF THE SWORDSMAN WITH THE BROWN JACKET.

XXXI. OF THE MAID OF THE MARSH AND THE BUBBLE WHICH ROSE FROM THE BOG.

XXXII. OF THE ONFALL AT SEDGEMOOR.

XXXIII. OF MY PERILOUS ADVENTURE AT THE MILL.

XXXIV. OF THE COMING OF SOLOMON SPRENT.

XXXV. OF THE DEVIL IN WIG AND GOWN.

XXXVI. OF THE END OF IT ALL.

APPENDIX

Chapter I.

Of Cornet Joseph Clarke of the Ironsides

It may be, my dear grandchildren, that at one time or another I have told you nearly all the incidents which have occurred during my adventurous life. To your father and to your mother, at least, I know that none of them are unfamiliar. Yet when I consider that time wears on, and that a grey head is apt to contain a failing memory, I am prompted to use these long winter evenings in putting it all before you from the beginning, that you may have it as one clear story in your minds, and pass it on as such to those who come after you. For now that the house of Brunswick is firmly established upon the throne and that peace prevails in the land, it will become less easy for you every year to understand how men felt when Englishmen were in arms against Englishmen, and when he who should have been the shield and the protector of his subjects had no thought but to force upon them what they most abhorred and detested.

My story is one which you may well treasure up in your memories, and tell again to others, for it is not likely that in this whole county of Hampshire, or even perhaps in all England, there is another left alive who is so well able to speak from his own knowledge of these events, or who has played a more forward part in them. All that I know I shall endeavour soberly and in due order to put before you. I shall try to make these dead men quicken into life for your behoof, and to call back out of the mists of the past those scenes which were brisk enough in the acting, though they read so dully and so heavily in the pages of the worthy men who have set themselves to record them. Perchance my words, too, might, in the ears of strangers, seem to be but an old man’s gossip. To you, however, who know that these eyes which are looking at you looked also at the things which I describe, and that this hand has struck in for a good cause, it will, I know, be different. Bear in mind as you listen that it was your quarrel as well as our own in which we fought, and that if now you grow up to be free men in a free land, privileged to think or to pray as your consciences shall direct, you may thank God that you are reaping the harvest which your fathers sowed in blood and suffering when the Stuarts were on the throne.

I was born then in the year 1664, at Havant, which is a flourishing village a few miles from Portsmouth off the main London road, and there it was that I spent the greater part of my youth. It is now as it was then, a pleasant, healthy spot, with a hundred or more brick cottages scattered along in a single irregular street, each with its little garden in front, and maybe a fruit tree or two at the back. In the middle of the village stood the old church with the square tower, and the great sun-dial like a wrinkle upon its grey weather-blotched face. On the outskirts the Presbyterians had their chapel; but when the Act of Uniformity was passed, their good minister, Master Breckinridge, whose discourses had often crowded his rude benches while the comfortable pews of the church were empty, was cast into gaol, and his flock dispersed. As to the Independents, of whom my father was one, they also were under the ban of the law, but they attended conventicle at Emsworth, whither we would trudge, rain or shine, on every Sabbath morning. These meetings were broken up more than once, but the congregation was composed of such harmless folk, so well beloved and respected by their neighbours, that the peace officers came after a time to ignore them, and to let them worship in their own fashion. There were Papists, too, amongst us, who were compelled to go as far as Portsmouth for their Mass. Thus, you see, small as was our village, we were a fair miniature of the whole country, for we had our sects and our factions, which were all the more bitter for being confined in so narrow a compass.

My father, Joseph Clarke, was better known over the countryside by the name of Ironside Joe, for he had served in his youth in the Yaxley troop of Oliver Cromwell’s famous regiment of horse, and had preached so lustily and fought so stoutly that old Noll himself called him out of the ranks after the fight at Dunbar, and raised him to a cornetcy. It chanced, however, that having some little time later fallen into an argument with one of his troopers concerning the mystery of the Trinity, the man, who was a half-crazy zealot, smote my father across the face, a favour which he returned by a thrust from his broadsword, which sent his adversary to test in person the truth of his beliefs. In most armies it would have been conceded that my father was within his rights in punishing promptly so rank an act of mutiny, but the soldiers of Cromwell had so high a notion of their own importance and privileges, that they resented this summary justice upon their companion. A court-martial sat upon my father, and it is likely that he would have been offered up as a sacrifice to appease the angry soldiery, had not the Lord Protector interfered, and limited the punishment to dismissal from the army. Cornet Clarke was accordingly stripped of his buff coat and steel cap, and wandered down to Havant, where he settled into business as a leather merchant and tanner, thereby depriving Parliament of as trusty a soldier as ever drew blade in its service. Finding that he prospered in trade, he took as wife Mary Shepstone, a young Churchwoman, and I, Micah Clarke, was the first pledge of their union.

My father, as I remember him first, was tall and straight, with a great spread of shoulder and a mighty chest. His face was craggy and stern, with large harsh features, shaggy overhanging brows, high-bridged fleshy nose, and a full-lipped mouth which tightened and set when he was angry. His grey eyes were piercing and soldier-like, yet I have seen them lighten up into a kindly and merry twinkle. His voice was the most tremendous and awe-inspiring that I have ever listened to. I can well believe what I have heard, that when he chanted the Hundredth Psalm as he rode down among the blue bonnets at Dunbar, the sound of him rose above the blare of trumpets and the crash of guns, like the deep roll of a breaking wave. Yet though he possessed every quality which was needed to raise him to distinction as an officer, he had thrown off his military habits when he returned to civil life. As he prospered and grew rich he might well have worn a sword, but instead he would ever bear a small copy of the Scriptures bound to his girdle, where other men hung their weapons. He was sober and measured in his speech, and it was seldom, even in the bosom of his own family, that he would speak of the scenes which he had taken part in, or of the great men, Fleetwood and Harrison, Blake and Ireton, Desborough and Lambert, some of whom had been simple troopers like himself when the troubles broke out. He was frugal in his eating, backward in drinking, and allowed himself no pleasures save three pipes a day of Oronooko tobacco, which he kept ever in a brown jar by the great wooden chair on the left-hand side of the mantelshelf.

Yet for all his self-restraint the old leaven would at times begin to work in him, and bring on fits of what his enemies would call fanaticism and his friends piety, though it must be confessed that this piety was prone to take a