No Shame, No Fear (10 page)

“I would never want to endanger Susanna,” I said.

“Then wait. Be clear in thy own mind first. Such clearness will come if thou wait on the Lord and attend to the inward light. Now, don’t look so downcast. I have a duty to keep thee from committing thyself too soon. When the time seems right to speak to thy father, that will be
thy
time to bear witness.”

That evening friends of my father’s came for supper; we played music and sang, and afterwards, my father being sleepy with wine and everyone happy, I felt it was not the time to speak out. On Saturday he went to Brentbridge on business and was not home till late.

That night I lay awake, wondering if it was fear that prevented me from speaking to my father: either fear of him or a larger fear, of the great commitment I was about to make. I was afraid of pain, of imprisonment, of the loss of that protection my father’s wealth and status gave me; and yet the sense of joy and certainty in the path I had been shown was stronger, and I knew it could overcome all fear. But then I began thinking about Susanna: what to do; whether to tell my father about her before someone else did; what he would say if he understood how I felt about her. I lay sleepless for hours.

On Sunday morning we went to church as usual. I sat between Anne and our stepmother, both dressed in rustling silk and smelling of rose-water, and all I could think about was Susanna and what might be happening to her at the Seven Stars.

Susanna

W
e were an hour into the meeting when we heard them coming.

It had been a tense but powerful gathering. Everyone there knew what might happen, and was prepared for it. Some had stayed away: Grace Heron, who was with child and near her time; a few (John Pardoe among them) who had young families, or whose children were sick. And Will: I looked for him, even though I knew Mary had advised him not to come; and when I didn’t see him there I could not help feeling deserted. But the meeting was bigger than usual. I saw many children and several old men and women: one, Elizabeth Sawyer, tiny and bent over like a hoop; and Edward Beale, who often rose and spoke at length but today said only, “The power of the Lord is over all,” and let the words fall into the silence.

We girls sat together as usual on our bench near the back. Abigail bit her nails. She whispered to Judith, “Why don’t we lock the door?”

“We cannot.”

“Why?”

“Ssh.”

Because, I thought, someone may wish to join us. A soldier, even. All contain a measure of the light. And I tried to hold on to that thought.

When the moment came it was almost a relief. We heard tramping feet, voices, then a great bang on the door. Judith, who sat next to me, took hold of my hand, and I took hold of Martha’s on my other side, and so we linked up all along the bench, and gave each other courage.

The door flew open, and they burst in – a dozen or so, armed with swords and cudgels. Their leader was a fair, stocky man with a bully’s face who announced himself Robert Danson, sheriff, and told us we were all under arrest.

Edward Beale stood and asked, “By what authority?”

“This is an illegal meeting under the act newly passed by Parliament.”

“We are a peaceable people,” said Edward. “We have come here to wait upon God in the silence—”

Danson seized Edward and threw him to the floor. The old man fell hard. I gasped, and heard the intake of breath throughout the meeting. I was shocked that they would treat an old man so; and frightened, too, as I realized what was to come.

“Seize them all!” cried Danson.

The soldiers began to strike left and right, hitting anyone within reach. They struck people with fists and clubs. I saw Samuel Minton fall, and his wife on top of him. Judith’s brother Tom was struck across the face. Hannah Davies, with her child in her arms, was flung towards the door.

We girls were at the far side from the entrance and were trapped there by the crush of people. I felt my breath coming fast, and gripped the other girls’ hands. All around I heard screams and protests. Edward Beale kneeled and began to pray aloud. Elinor Minton called out, “Stay thy hand, Robert Danson, and let us leave peaceably.” The soldiers pushed her aside, reached us, separated us. I felt Judith’s hand slip from my grasp, then Martha’s. They struck out with their cudgels; called us whores and Devil’s spawn. A soldier seized me by the shoulders and pushed me towards the door with a knee in the small of my back. I fell hard against a bench and felt the wind go out of me. I heard children screaming; a boy Deb’s age was in a tantrum of fear, beating a tattoo with his feet, his arms straining up towards his mother, who was dragged away. Near me I saw Nat trying to shield old Elizabeth Sawyer as she kneeled and prayed.

“Out! Out!” The soldiers seized Nat, then Elizabeth, and me, and pushed and beat us towards the door. As we emerged into the yard I began to shake and cry. I had not often been beaten. My parents were sparing with the rod, and while I was still young they came to deny all outward weapons; so if they were angry with me I would be punished with their disapproval. Never had I been used as cruelly as this.

I saw Judith crying, too, but others – the old people, mostly – were calmer. They prayed and called on the Lord and asked the soldiers to listen. This seemed to infuriate Danson; he struck at them and ordered his men to round them up. They began herding a group together in the centre of the yard. Edward Beale was there, and Elizabeth Sawyer, Samuel and Elinor Minton, William Jevons, John Callicott. And Mary. My mistress’s collar had been pulled awry and she had a graze on her cheekbone. I ran and tried to reach her, but the soldiers forced me back.

People had come out of the houses around to stare and protest.

“Leave them in peace!” a woman shouted. “They do no harm! Look at this, neighbours: little children crying, their mothers beaten…” She lifted up the little screaming boy, took the mother by the arm and said, “Come away. You shall come to my house.”

The soldiers tried to push her back, but she would not be stopped, and then other neighbours joined in to defend her.

Danson shouted, “Take these to the jail!” and began driving the group of about fifteen people he had gathered out of the yard and down the street. I turned towards the meeting room, but soldiers barred the door; and when those of us who remained tried to gather and talk they set upon us and forced us out into the street.

Parents and children, husbands and wives, found each other, clung together, and began moving away. Abigail sobbed, “Mam! They’ve taken my mam!” Her face was all slobbered with tears, and Judith could not comfort her.

Daniel Kite began to call us together. He’s a strong young man, a blacksmith, all afire with the spirit; bright blue eyes and a head of springing red-brown curls; a man folk will always take notice of. He took charge easily, now the elders were gone; brought us into a group, where we joined hands and waited a few minutes in silence before beginning to talk about what to do next.

“We should meet again this afternoon,” Daniel said, “at our usual time, and visibly.”

“We might be wiser to meet somewhere else,” one of the women suggested.

“Friend, they
want
us to hide away. We must meet at our usual place and time, and trust in the Lord.”

“And put a notice on the door,” Nat agreed, “saying that we will keep the meetings faithfully and regularly.”

It was agreed, and the word went around that we would gather again in the afternoon.

“Will thou go?” Judith asked me.

“For sure,” I said. But I was afraid, and she must have known it.

“Come home with us,” she suggested.

“No – not yet. I have my duties at the shop, and they have taken Mary.”

Nat and I went back alone to the print room, which was shut for first-day. It came to me then that perhaps I should have to stay overnight with the Mintons – that if Mary was not released today it would not be thought seemly for me to stay in the house with Nat. And I thought of Will; at the Mintons’ I’d be near his home.

“What will happen to Mary? To the others?” I asked Nat, as I began cutting up a rabbit pie for dinner. “When will they let them go?”

“They have been taken without a warrant,” he said. “They know their rights and will demand to be set free, or to know what the charge is. Of course, Mary can be bailed if she pays a fine…”

“But she won’t pay?”

“No. None of them will pay.” Nat, usually so light-hearted, looked anxious. “And we could all be in prison soon. But Dan’s right: we must not give up our meetings.”

When we met in the afternoon the sheriff’s men left us no time to reach the silence but broke in and at once began beating people and hauling them out. Daniel Kite stood up and began to speak in that great voice of his, declaring the fear of the Lord. They seized him and dragged him out with kicks and blows. Judith, beside me, gasped in distress as he was led away. Then Luke Evans rose up in Daniel’s place and he too was arrested, and then Hannah Davies.

They drove us out into the yard and rounded up about twenty people of all ages and sent them under armed guard to the jail. The rest of us were ordered to go home.

I walked back with Judith and her family to their shop, and Nat came too. As we rounded the corner into High Street, Will came hurrying towards us. He greeted us all, but I knew it was me he was most relieved to see safe. He fell into step beside me.

“I feared you’d be taken.”

“They’ve taken Mary.”

“I saw her. They went by in a big group with soldiers around, herded like beasts. But you – did they hurt you?”

“No. Don’t fear.”

His eyes searched mine, full of anxiety, and I felt a rush of tears spring up. I said, “I’ll lie at the Mintons’ tonight, now Mary’s gone.”

“Come with us, Will,” said Judith. “We’ll eat, and talk.”

The Mintons’ shop, under the sign of the gloved hand, is only a few doors from Will’s home. Here, in the centre of town, houses and shops are packed close, grand and small together. Next door to the glove-maker’s is a tailor’s and on the other side a shoemaker’s. The tailor’s wife came out when we appeared and asked if we had come to any harm.

“None, I thank thee,” said Judith. “But our parents are taken to prison without a warrant.”

The woman saw Abigail’s tear-stained face and said, “This is a bad business. Your parents are godly folks and good neighbours. They should not be treated so.” She reached out to Abigail. “Never fear, pet, we’ll get them out. My husband will stand bail for them.”

“Thou’rt good to us,” said Judith. “But my parents will not agree to it.”

“But the children…” The woman looked pityingly at Abigail and Joseph. “There is a time to give over stubbornness. We’ll go with you tomorrow, and see what can be done.”

After we had gone in and were upstairs in the rooms above the shop there came a knock at the door; it was the woman’s servant with a dish of meat for us to share and some pottage for the children.

Judith put the food on the table and we gathered around. All the time I was aware of Will, conscious that we had never been together in a group like this before, and that all except perhaps young Joseph must know of our feelings for each other.

There were only two chairs, and Judith offered these to Nat and Will. The rest of us sat on benches. We ate and talked, our discussion full of what might be to come. From time to time I glanced at Will, wondering what he thought of this craftsman’s home with its simple furniture and pewter tableware. Even now, dressed in his plainest clothes, he did not look like one of us.

“There are thirty people or more in prison now,” said Judith. “They cannot keep them long. The overcrowding will be too much.”

“They care nothing for that,” Nat said. “They’ll push us in till there be no more room to stand. It’s happening in London, they say. And Bristol. All around.”

I thought then of my parents in Long Aston. Would the country meetings be raided too?

After we had finished eating, Judith cleared the dishes and sent Abigail and Joseph to bed. The men brought the benches closer to the fire, and Will moved swiftly to sit beside me. My heartbeat quickened, and I knew I was blushing. But no one had noticed. Nat was asking Tom about his plans for an apprenticeship. Tom was fourteen, fair and tall like Judith, and more than ready to leave home. His sights were set on Bristol. He spoke eagerly of going there, of how big the Bristol meetings had grown, of the Quaker merchants who were beginning to flourish because they dealt fairly and their word was their bond. “And the docks!” he said. “I’d see the ships that sail to Africa and the New World!”

“Dan Kite has thoughts of sailing to America, to spread the truth there,” said Nat.

“He told me,” said Judith, and I saw at that moment that she loved Daniel and feared for him and did not want him to go. “But there’s more danger in Massachusetts than here, surely?”

I knew she was thinking of the news I’d read about, of Friends hanged in Boston because they defied the law against Quakers entering the colony.

“If so, there is the Lord’s work to be done there,” said Tom; and Judith said, “Oh, Tom,” and sat biting her thumbnail.

“There are other places,” Nat said. “They say America is vast beyond imagining; land to be had for the taking.”

“The Garden of Eden?” I said, and yawned. I was growing sleepy. The light had gone and Judith had not yet lit candles. We had only the embers of the fire to see by. I was lost in the pleasure of being so close to Will; not touching, but near enough to feel each slight movement as he leaned forward or shifted his weight on the bench. He was quiet, no doubt feeling somewhat of an outsider, but he listened intently. I snatched sidelong glances at him: at his face, the line of cheekbone and jaw lit by the fire’s glow, at his hands resting on his thighs. I longed to reach out and take his hand in mine, but a girl could not be so bold.

“Eden had a serpent,” said Judith. She shivered. “I should not like to go so far … so many months at sea… Would thou go, Nat?”

He laughed. “I’d need earn my passage before even thinking of it. I’m bound for London, as a journeyman printer.”