The place was guarded by a small band of soldiers, fully accoutred in corslets and morions, and armed with swords, half-pikes, and calivers. Upon the steps of the scaffold stood the executioner,—a square-built, ill-favoured personage, busied in arranging a bundle of straw upon the boards. He was dressed in a buff jerkin, and had a long-bladed, two-edged knife thrust into his girdle. Besides these persons, there was a pursuivant,—an officer appointed by the Privy Council to make search throughout the provinces for recusants, Popish priests, and other religious offenders. He was occupied at this moment in reading over a list of suspected persons.
Neither the executioner nor his companions appeared in the slightest degree impressed by the butcherly business about to be enacted; for the former whistled carelessly as he pursued his task, while the latter laughed and chatted with the crowd, or jestingly pointed their matchlocks at the jackdaws wheeling above them in the sunny air, or perching upon the pinnacles and tower of the neighbouring fane. Not so the majority of the assemblage. Most of the older and wealthier families in Lancashire still continuing to adhere to the ancient faith of their fathers, it will not be wondered that many of their dependents should follow their example. And, even of those who were adverse to the creed of Rome, there were few who did not murmur at the rigorous system of persecution adopted towards its professors.
At nine o’clock, the hollow rolling of a muffled drum was heard at a distance. The deep bell of the church began to toll, and presently afterwards the mournful procession was seen advancing from the market-place. It consisted of a troop of mounted soldiers, equipped in all respects like those stationed at the scaffold, with their captain at their head, and followed by two of their number with hurdles attached to their steeds, on which were tied the unfortunate victims. Both were young men—both apparently prepared to meet their fate with firmness and resignation. They had been brought from Radcliffe Hall—an old moated and fortified mansion belonging to a wealthy family of that name, situated where the close, called Pool Fold, now stands, and then recently converted into a place of security for recusants; the two other prisons in Manchester—namely, the New Fleet on Hunt’s Bank, and the gaol on Salford Bridge,—not being found adequate to the accommodation of the numerous religious offenders.
By this time, the cavalcade had reached the place of execution. The soldiers drove back the throng with their pikes, and cleared a space in front of the scaffold; when, just as the cords that bound the limbs of the priests were unfastened, a woman in a tattered woollen robe, with a hood partially drawn over her face,—the features of which, so far as they could be discerned, were sharp and attenuated,—a rope girded round her waist, bare feet, and having altogether the appearance of a sister of Charity, sprang forward, and flung herself on her knees beside them.
Clasping the hem of the garment of the nearest priest, she pressed it to her lips, and gazed earnestly at him, as if imploring a blessing.
“You have your wish, daughter,” said the priest, extending his arms over her.”Heaven and our lady bless you!”
The woman then turned towards the other victim, who was audibly reciting the Miserere.
“Back, spawn of Antichrist!” interposed a soldier, rudely thrusting her aside.”Don’t you see you disturb the father’s devotions? He has enough to do to take care of his own soul, without minding yours.”
“Take this, daughter,” cried the priest who had been first addressed, offering her a small volume, which he took from his vest,”and fail not to remember in your prayers the sinful soul of Robert Woodroofe, a brother of the order of Jesus.”
The woman put out her hand to take the book; but before it could be delivered to her, it was seized by the soldier.
“Your priests have seldom anything to leave behind them,” he shouted, with a brutal laugh,”except some worthless and superstitious relic of a saint or martyr. What’s this? Ah! a breviary—a mass-book. I’ve too much regard for your spiritual welfare to allow you to receive it,” he added, about to place it in his doublet.
“Give it her,” exclaimed a young man, snatching it from him, and handing it to the woman, who disappeared as soon as she had obtained possession of it.
The soldier eyed the new-comer as if disposed to resent the interference, but a glance at his apparel, which, though plain, and of a sober hue, was rather above the middle class, as well as a murmur from the crowd, who were evidently disposed to take part with the young man, induced him to stay his hand. He, therefore, contented himself with crying,”A recusant! a Papist!”
“I am neither recusant nor Papist, knave!” replied the other, sternly; “and I counsel you to mend your manners, and show more humanity, or you shall find I have interest enough to procure your dismissal from a service which you disgrace.”
This reply elicited a shout of applause from the mob.
“Who is that bold speaker?” demanded the pursuivant from one of his attendants.
“Humphrey Chetham of Crumpsall,” answered the man:”son to one of the wealthiest merchants of the town, and a zealous upholder of the true faith.”
“He has a strange way of showing his zeal,” rejoined the pursuivant, entering the answer in his note-book. “And who is the woman he befriended?”
“A half-crazed being called Elizabeth Orton,” replied the attendant. “She was scourged and tortured during Queen Elizabeth’s reign for pretending to the gift of prophecy, and was compelled to utter her recantation within yonder church. Since then she has never opened her lips.”
“Indeed,” exclaimed the pursuivant: “I will engage to make her speak, and to some purpose. Where does she live?”
“In a cave on the banks of the Irwell, near Ordsall Hall,” replied the attendant. “She subsists on the chance contributions of the charitable; but she solicits nothing,—and, indeed, is seldom seen.”
“Her cave must be searched,” observed the pursuivant; “it may be the hiding-place of a priest. Father Campion was concealed in such another spot at Stonor Park, near Henley-on-Thames, where he composed his ‘Decem Rationes;’ and, for a long time, eluded the vigilance of the commissioners. We shall pass it in our way to Ordsall Hall to-night, shall we not?”
The attendant nodded in the affirmative.
“If we surprise Father Oldcorne,” continued the pursuivant, “and can prove that Sir William Radcliffe and his daughter, both of whom are denounced in my list, are harbourers and shelterers of recusants, we shall have done a good night’s work.”
At this moment, an officer advanced, and commanded the priests to ascend the scaffold.
As Father Woodroofe, who was the last to mount, reached the uppermost step, he turned round and cried in a loud voice, “Good people, I take you all to witness that I die in the true Catholic religion, and that I rejoice and thank God with all my soul, that he hath made me worthy to testify my faith therein by shedding my blood in this manner.” He then advanced towards the executioner, who was busied in adjusting the cord round his companion’s throat, and said, “God forgive thee—do thine office quickly;” adding in a lower tone, “Asperge me, Domine; Domine, miserere mei!”
And, amid the deep silence that ensued, the executioner performed his horrible task.
The execution over, the crowd began to separate slowly, and various opinions were expressed respecting the revolting and sanguinary spectacle just witnessed. Many, who condemned—and the majority did so—the extreme severity of the laws by which the unfortunate priests had just suffered, uttered their sentiments with extreme caution;