Now the reason why the Doones did not attack us was that they were preparing to meet another and more powerful assault upon their fortress; being assured that their repulse of King’s troops could not be looked over when brought before the authorities. And no doubt they were right; for although the conflicts in the Government during that summer and autumn had delayed the matter yet positive orders had been issued that these outlaws and malefactors should at any price be brought to justice; when the sudden death of King Charles the Second threw all things into confusion, and all minds into a panic.
We heard of it first in church, on Sunday, the eighth day of February, 1684–5, from a cousin of John Fry, who had ridden over on purpose from Porlock. He came in just before the anthem, splashed and heated from his ride, so that everyone turned and looked at him. He wanted to create a stir (knowing how much would be made of him), and he took the best way to do it. For he let the anthem go by very quietly—or rather I should say very pleasingly, for our choir was exceeding proud of itself, and I sang bass twice as loud as a bull, to beat the clerk with the clarinet—and then just as Parson Bowden, with a look of pride at his minstrels, was kneeling down to begin the prayer for the King’s Most Excellent Majesty (for he never read the litany, except upon Easter Sunday), up jumps young Sam Fry, and shouts—
“I forbid that there prai-er.”
“What!” cried the parson, rising slowly, and looking for someone to shut the door: “have we a rebel in the congregation?” For the parson was growing shortsighted now, and knew not Sam Fry at that distance.
“No,” replied Sam, not a whit abashed by the staring of all the parish; “no rebel, parson; but a man who mislaiketh popery and murder. That there prai-er be a prai-er for the dead.”
“Nay,” cried the parson, now recognising and knowing him to be our John’s first cousin, “you do not mean to say, Sam, that His Gracious Majesty is dead!”
“Dead as a sto-un: poisoned by they Papishers.” And Sam rubbed his hands with enjoyment, at the effect he had produced.
“Remember where you are, Sam,” said Parson Bowden solemnly; “when did this most sad thing happen? The King is the head of the Church, Sam Fry; when did he leave her?”
“Day afore yesterday. Twelve o’clock. Warn’t us quick to hear of ’un?”
“Can’t be,” said the minister: “the tidings can never have come so soon. Anyhow, he will want it all the more. Let us pray for His Gracious Majesty.”
And with that he proceeded as usual; but nobody cried “Amen,” for fear of being entangled with Popery. But after giving forth his text, our parson said a few words out of book, about the many virtues of His Majesty, and self-denial, and devotion, comparing his pious mirth to the dancing of the patriarch David before the ark of the covenant; and he added, with some severity, that if his flock would not join their pastor (who was much more likely to judge aright) in praying for the King, the least they could do on returning home was to pray that the King might not be dead, as his enemies had asserted.
Now when the service was over, we killed the King, and we brought him to life, at least fifty times in the churchyard: and Sam Fry was mounted on a high gravestone, to tell everyone all he knew of it. But he knew no more than he had told us in the church, as before repeated: upon which we were much disappointed with him, and inclined to disbelieve him; until he happily remembered that His Majesty had died in great pain, with blue spots on his breast and black spots all across his back, and these in the form of a cross, by reason of Papists having poisoned him. When Sam called this to his remembrance (or to his imagination) he was overwhelmed, at once, with so many invitations to dinner, that he scarce knew which of them to accept; but decided in our favour.
Grieving much for the loss of the King, however greatly it might be (as the parson had declared it was, while telling us to pray against it) for the royal benefit, I resolved to ride to Porlock myself, directly after dinner, and make sure whether he were dead, or not. For it was not by any means hard to suppose that Sam Fry, being John’s first cousin, might have inherited either from grandfather or grandmother some of those gifts which had made our John so famous for mendacity. At Porlock I found that it was too true; and the women of the town were in great distress, for the King had always been popular with them: the men, on the other hand, were forecasting what would be likely to ensue.
And I myself was of this number, riding sadly home again; although bound to the
