An Instance of the Fingerpost (31 page)

While I knew my family had been greatly reduced, I was not yet aware of how much we had suffered, for I understood that, on my twenty-first birthday, I would obtain full title to the estates which had been supposedly protected from the government by an assortment of legal devices. I knew of course that these lands would come burdened with so much debt that it would take me years to re-establish myself as a person of moment in the county, but this was a task I relished. I was even prepared to endure several years at the bar, if necessary,
to accumulate those riches which lawyers find so easy to come by. At least my father’s name would be perpetuated. The ending of a man’s life is but death, and that comes to us all in the fullness of time, and we know we have the blessing that our name and honour continue. But the demise of an estate is true extinction, for a family without land is nothing.

Youth is simple, and assumes that all will be well; part of the estate of manhood consists in learning that God’s Providence is not so easily understood. The consequences of my father’s fall did not appear to me until I left the seclusion of a home where, although I was not happy, I was at least protected from the buffeting of the outside world. Then I was sent to Trinity College, Oxford, for, although my father had been a man of Cambridge, my uncle (who had charge of me when I left Sir William’s house) decided I would not be welcome there. The decision spared me no grief, as I was as rejected and despised for my parentage in the one university as I would have been in the other. I had no friends as none could resist cruelty, and I could not tolerate insult. Nor was I able to mix with my own, for although enrolled as a gentleman-commoner, my snivelling, mean uncle allowed me scarce enough money to live as a servitor. Moreover, he allowed me no freedom; alone of my rank, my small money was given over entire to my tutor and I had to beg even for that; I was subjected to the discipline of a commoner and could not leave town without permission; I was even forced to attend lessons, although gentlemen are exempt from instruction.

I believe that many men see my manner now and consider me a rustic, yet I am far from such; those years taught me to hide my desires and my hatreds. I learnt swiftly that I would have to endure several years of humiliation and solitude, and that there was little I could do to alter that. It is not my way to rage uselessly against a situation I cannot change. But I noted those who were heartless, and promised myself that, in due course, they would regret their coarseness. Many of them have done so.

I do not even know that I greatly missed the temptations of society, in any case. My attentions have always been focused on my own people, and my childhood prepared me little for more promiscuous intercourse. Such reputation as I had was of a surly,
ill-tempered fellow, and the more this grew, the more I was left in a solitude which was broken only by my forays among the townsfolk. I became an adept at disguise, leaving my gown behind me and walking the streets like a citizen with such confidence that I was never once challenged by the proctors for improper dress.

But even these excursions were limited, for once I shrugged off my gown, I also shrugged off my credit and had to pay ready money for my pleasures. Fortunately, the urge for diversion came on me only infrequently. For the most part, I engaged my mind with my studies and consoled myself by conducting such investigations as I could into greater matters. I was gravely disappointed in my expectation that I would soon learn enough to proceed with the getting of money, however, for in all the time I was at the university I learnt nothing of the law whatsoever, and was somewhat derided by my fellows for having any such expectation. Jurisprudence there was aplenty; I was swamped in canon law and the principles of Aquinas and Aristotle; I came to have a nodding acquaintance with the Justinianic code, and acquired something of the art of disputation. But I looked in vain for instruction on how to launch a suit in Chancery, to contest a will or query the provisions of an executor.

And while my legal education proceeded, I also decided that I would take the more direct revenge that my father had not been able to exact, for not only did his soul demand it, I considered it by far the quickest way of solving my family’s material problems: once persuaded of the innocence of the father, I was certain His Majesty would recompense the son. Initially I thought the task would be easy: before he fled, my father’s judgement was that Cromwell’s Secretary of State, John Thurloe, had seeded the calumnies against him to spread dissent in the Royalist ranks, and I never doubted that he was correct. It had all the hallmarks of that dark and sinister man, who ever preferred a knife in the back to an upright, honourable combat. But I was too young to do much and, besides, I assumed that sooner or later Thurloe would be tried, and the truth known. Again, youth is naïve, and faith is blind.

For Thurloe was not brought to trial, did not have to flee the country, had not one penny of his ill-gotten gains taken from him. The comparison between the fruits of treachery and the reward for
loyalty was stark indeed. On the day near the end of 1662 that I heard it confirmed there would be no trial, I realised that any revenge would have to come from my own hands. Cromwell’s evil genius might escape the law, I thought, but he would not escape justice. I would show all the world that some people, in this debased and corrupted country, still knew the meaning of honour. With the purity of youth it is possible to think in such noble and simple terms. It is a clarity that experience strips from us, and we are all poorer for the loss.

FROM THAT DAY
I date the beginnings of the campaign that totally occupied me for the next nine months and which ended in the most complete vindication. I had virtually no assistance; instead I criss-crossed the country, seeking out the evidence I required until I finally understood what had happened and was in a position to act. I was abused and humiliated by those who did not believe me, or else had good reason to deflect me from my task. And yet I continued, buoyed by my duty and by the love of the best father a man could ever have. I witnessed the depths of turpitude in those who seek power and understood that, once the principle of birth is undermined, the disinterest that alone can assure good government is fatally compromised. If anyone can achieve power, then all will try and government becomes a mere battle in which principle is sacrificed for interest. The lowest will impose themselves, for the best will shun the gutter. All I managed was to achieve a small victory in a war which was already lost.

Such thoughts were far beyond me in those days, as I walked the streets, sat in lesson and prayer, and lay awake at night in bed, listening to the snoring and snuffling of the other three students who shared the same room with my tutor. One resolution alone stayed in my mind; that I would, in due course, take John Thurloe by the scruff of the neck and slit his throat. But I felt strongly that more than mere vengeance was needed; perhaps those lessons in the law had seeped into me, or perhaps I had imbibed my father’s high sense of principle without realising it. What would he have done? What would he have wanted? This was my ever-present concern. To strike without proof would be false revenge, for I was sure he would not have wanted his only son to be hanged like a common criminal, bringing further stain on to the family. Thurloe was too powerful still for a direct assault. I
would need to circle round him, like a huntsman stalking a wily deer, before I could inflict the fatal, final blow.

To set my thoughts in order, I regularly talked over my problems with Thomas Ken. He was one of my few – perhaps even my only – friend at the time, and I trusted him absolutely. He could be tedious company, but each of us needed the other and supplied a lack. We knew one another through family connection, before he was sent to Winchester and thence to New College for a career in the church. His father had been a lawyer consulted on many occasions by my own father when he set himself to oppose those rapacious interlopers who had swept down from London to drain the Fens before the war. My father wished both to protect his own interests and also the rights of those families who had grazed the land since time immemorial. But it was hard work, for the blood-sucking thieves who wished to steal other men’s land acted under the umbrella of the law. My father knew that the only thing that can oppose a lawyer was another lawyer and so this Henry Ken advised him on many occasions, always honestly and effectively. The diligence of one, and the skill of the other, combined with the unstinting resistance of the farmers and graziers whose livelihoods were threatened, meant that progress in the draining was slow, the expenses bigger, and the profits much smaller than expected.

And so Thomas and I had a natural amity, for it is known that the loyalty and gratitude of Lincolnshire men, once forged, can never be broken. It must be said, however, that we made an odd pair. He was of a severe and clerical disposition, rarely drinking, always praying and constantly looking out for souls to save. He made a religion of forgiveness and, though now a firm Anglican who maintains he was ever so, I know that in those days he inclined to dissent. Naturally, that made him suspect then, where hatred was mistaken for fortitude, and smallness of mind was a sign of loyalty. I confess with some shame now that I took great delight in causing him to become discountenanced, since the more he prayed, the more I laughed, and the more he studied, the more bottles I opened to make him blush. In truth, Thomas would have loved to wine and wench, just as I had to struggle hard to keep out feelings of pious dread which, in the dead of night, would creep upon me. And occasionally, in a sudden burst
of anger, or a flash of cruelty in his words, the careful observer could see that his kindness and gentle nature were not natural gifts from God, but were wrenched from a hard-fought battle with a darkness deep in his soul. As I say, it was Grove’s misfortune to torment him so much that, one night, the battle was temporarily lost.

For all that, I always found Thomas patient and understanding, and we were useful to one another in the way that people of opposite character can sometimes be. I would give advice about his theological ditherings – soundly, I may say, as he is now a bishop. And he would listen with enormous patience when I would describe, for the fiftieth time, how I would take John Thurloe and slit his throat.

I could hear him let out his breath as he prepared to argue with me again. ‘I must remind you that forgiveness is one of the gifts of God, and that charity is strength, not weakness,’ he said.

‘Piffle,’ I said. ‘I do not intend to forgive anybody, nor do I feel in the slightest bit charitable. The only reason he is still alive is because I do not have the proof I need to avoid a charge of murder.’ Then I went on to tell him the entire story again.

‘The trouble is’, I concluded, ‘I don’t know what to do. What do you think?’

‘You want my considered opinion?’

‘Of course.’

‘Accept the will of God, get on with your studies and become a lawyer.’

‘That’s not what I meant. I meant, how do I find this proof? If you are a friend, please put aside your nit-picking theology for a while and help.’

‘I know what you meant. You want me to give you bad advice, that can only imperil your soul.’

‘Exactly. That’s just what I want.’

Thomas sighed. ‘And supposing you find your evidence? What then? Will you go ahead and commit murder?’

‘That depends on the evidence. But, ideally, yes. I will kill Thurloe, as he killed my father.’

‘No one killed your father.’

‘You know what I mean.’

‘You maintain that your father was betrayed and falsely disgraced.
Justice was not done. Would it not be better to right that wrong by making sure it was, this time?’

‘You know as well as I do how much it costs to prosecute someone. How am I meant to pay for it?’

‘I merely mention it as a possibility. Will you give me your word that, if it is possible, then you will do it rather than taking matters into your own hands?’

‘If it is possible, which I doubt, then I will.’

‘Good,’ he said with relief. ‘In that case we can begin to plan your campaign. Unless, of course, you have one already. Tell me, Jack, I have never asked, since your countenance always discourages such questions. But in what was your father’s treachery supposed to consist?’

‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘It sounds foolish, but I have never been able to discover. My guardian, Sir William Compton, has not spoken to me since; my uncle refuses to mention my father’s name; my mother shakes her head in sorrow and will not answer even the most direct questions.’

Thomas’s eyes narrowed at my blunt statement. ‘You have your criminal, but do not yet know with any precision what the crime was? That is an unusual position for a man of law to find himself in, is it not?’

‘Perhaps. But these are unusual times. I assume my father was innocent. Do you deny that I must do so? And that, in religion as in law, I have no choice in this matter? Quite apart from the fact that I knew my father quite incapable of acting in so base a fashion.’

‘I grant it is a necessary starting point.’

‘And you grant also that John Thurloe, as Secretary of State, was responsible for all that pertained to the destruction of anyone who challenged Cromwell’s position?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then Thurloe must be guilty,’ I concluded simply.

‘So why do you need proof, if your legal logic is so fine?’

‘Because we live in distempered times, when the law has become the cat’s-paw of the powerful, who tangle it in rules so that they may escape punishment. That is why. And because my father’s character
has been so abused that it is impossible to make people see what is obvious.’

Thomas grunted at this, for he knew nothing of the law and believed it to have something to do with justice. As I had once done myself, until I studied it.

‘If I am to triumph at law,’ I continued, ‘I must establish that my father’s character was such that he could not have betrayed anyone. At present he is cast as the betrayer; I must discover who put this story about and for what purpose. Only then will a law court listen.’