Le Petit Grignotage
Christine
And call my wits to counsel what to say?
Such memories were made for mortal men;
I speak of Saints whose names cannot decay.
An Angel's trump were fitter for to sound
Their glorious death if such on earth were found.
St. Henry Walpole
“Lord P tells me you once met Father Walpole. Is it true?” Christine, arm linked in Fr. M’s, was taking a post-prandial stroll along the deck, Lord and Lady P trailing behind, and Sir Basil, who had disappeared after the repast, nowhere in sight. “Indeed it is. In fact, I credit him with my conversion.”
“Oh, do tell me about it!” she brightened.
“I was a young man in the employ of my uncle, a wealthy merchant. I was given charge of overseeing his merchandise delivered to and from London , and spent much time in the city. He generally remained at his manse in Hastings . A recusant, he had secretly sheltered priests there, and even once had Mass said by the great Campion himself.
“He was on good terms with the Queen; he paid his recusancy fines faithfully and without complaint, and one of his nieces was a member of the Queen’s court. Of course, his secret Masses had never been discovered. Thus, when he arranged to have victuals brought now and again to Fr. Walpole in the Tower, no suspicions were raised, and the guards—sweetened with bisket cakes, comfits, or a flask of apple wine—were tolerant enough."
"Apple wine!" Christine interjected. "Oh I do miss the taste of it. Can't get it anywhere amongst these puritans."
“A most drinkable tonic," Fr. M agreed. "Although my uncle normally brought the food himself, on one occasion, when he was ordered to rest for an imbalance of humours, he had asked if I wouldn’t take the parcel to Fr. Walpole. I obliged him. It was a Sunday that I went, in the fourth year of the priest’s imprisonment.
“The guard had searched the basket before letting me pass, taking for himself the gooseberry fool and mead. On entering the cell, I saw a gaunt man lying on a mat in the far corner, who stood with the greatest difficulty to welcome me. I learned he’d been racked three days previous (they bore him no mercy there, and subjected him to such tortures throughout his stay). I explained the reason for my visit. Though his face was terribly wan and his frame trembled as he moved, he still managed a weak smile, voicing his gratitude and inviting me to sit.
“There was a lone chair beside a table, with a few books and a candle. I saw rosary beads there, and on the wall, a meager crucifix made of crossed sticks, and nothing more. The cell was cold, damp, and it stank—but it seemed to me then the very den of Heaven! Truly, it was suffused with the sacred; it seemed a holy place. I sat and, the guard full of mead and generous, was allowed to remain a full hour. I shall never forget that hour as long as I live.”
Fr. M’s eyes scanned the sea, calm and grey beneath a lucid sky, and leaned gently against the rail. Christine remained silent, listening. “He told me himself of Fr. Campion’s death, how bravely he had borne himself in his final moments, and how that martyr’s blood, splattering his white doublet, had done its work to convert his soul. He recounted his studies in France and Rome , his imprisonment in the Netherlands , and his travels through Brussels , Tournai, Bruges , and Spain . It was immediately on landing at Flamborough that he was taken by the English and, ever since that day, kept in the Tower awaiting the day of his execution. They haven’t pronounced the sentence, but I know well my fate, he had said to me. I shall die the same death as my father Campion and, God willing, with the same meekness and equanimity. As he spoke, he took gentle sips from the mead I offered him. His hands were unsteady from trembling, so I had to feed him morsels of pasty myself.
On the darkest nights, and at my weakest, I have often wondered why it is God would convert me, call me to the priesthood, and fill me with missionary zeal for my country, only to have me taken upon landing and imprisoned, without having ministered to a single English soul. I, of course, could respond with nothing, suppressing my keenly felt pity for the man. But, he had continued, then I recall Our Lord’s words: ‘Unless a grain of wheat fall to the ground and die, it remains just a grain of wheat. But if it dies, it produces much fruit.’
Our Lord toiled His whole life long, and saw but little fruit. He spent His last hours in desolation, and died a criminal’s death, alone. But what fruit that sacred death bore for the world! How many peoples, nations, continents have been converted because of His holy agony! And so it was with so many saints, who laboured years and years, often only to see their work undone and come to nothing, and they at last meeting cruel ends. It was only once in Heaven they witnessed the results of their travails. They were, in short, called to walk the same blessed path as our Master.
And so it shall be with me, he had continued with resignation. That is the fate our Lord has marked out for me, foreordained from all eternity, the purpose for which I was born. I shall die. I shall die a cruel death, but for a great end: to bring truth back to these beloved shores, where the faith will once again flourish, and our Lord will once more be adored and consumed at altars all over the isle. My blood will mingle with those of my Jesuit fathers and brothers, and together, by the grace of God, we shall bring the faith back to England. Though his face was and worn, his eyes shone luminously.
I was left speechless. I had come expecting to find a man broken, fearful, on the verge of recanting his faith. Instead, I met a soldier, nay, a prince. Nay, it was Christ Himself I encountered, appearing in the form of this humble priest. I left there a changed man. When, some months later, I heard he had been hanged, drawn, and quartered at York , I began seriously to contemplate a vocation to the priesthood.”
“And here you stand, a priest of God!” Christine exclaimed.
“By the grace of God, yes.”
Just then, we heard Lord P's raised voice. “We shall walk where we please, Miss Quackenboss. We’ve paid the fare just as you have.” The spinster, dressed in black and bible in hand, looked at the lot of them and, brows furrowed, scolded, “You papists will bring a curse upon this ship! Back in England you wouldn’t have dared stroll about in broad daylight, and especially with that, that, that priest!” She spat out the last word. “No, madame,” Lord P replied, “but we shall soon be touching upon the ground of the New World, where we shall drink our wine freely, attend our dramas often, and have our Masses said openly.” With that, Lord P gave a curt bow and walked on, Lady P suppressing a giggle.
To be continued....
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