No Shame, No Fear (15 page)

I felt shock, as if he had punched me, and took a step back. At the same moment Will sprang forward, and Tom jumped up to try to make peace. Deb, seeing me distressed, began to wail. Then I heard men’s voices outside, and in through the open doorway came Robert Danson, followed by several constables.

Danson was stopped in his tracks at sight of Will’s father. “Mr Heywood…” he said, uncertainly.

Henry Heywood was breathing fast. “I am here to retrieve my son from this gathering,” he said.

Danson recovered himself, took charge, and declared the meeting illegal. Will at once spoke up and said that he was the only person over sixteen years old and so it was lawful. But Danson retorted, “This is clearly a riotous and tumultuous meeting, a danger to the public peace. It is therefore an unlawful assembly.” He turned to Henry Heywood. “Take your son home, sir.” And to the constables: “Drive them out. If they will not move, beat them.”

The children were courageous. None of them moved. Will’s father tried to wrestle him towards the door. At a signal from Danson, the constables set about the rest of us with rods, striking out even at the youngest children, so that all were forced to get up.

I crouched to protect Deb, angry with myself for having brought her into danger. A blow from a rod caught me on the shoulder. I cried out, and saw Will struggling in vain to reach us, held back by his father and Danson. All around me children were scrambling to get out, arms raised to ward off the blows.

I am the eldest, I thought; I brought this meeting about; I must take charge, as Mary would. I turned to the constables, my arms shielding Deb, and said, “You need not beat us! We are leaving.”

Once outside, they herded us together. I guessed we appeared a sorry little group, and I drew myself up and held Robert Danson’s gaze. Will and his father were arguing, both red in the face. Will moved forward to join us, but the constables barred his way.

“Go home with your father, Master Heywood,” said Danson. “I shall not arrest you.”

And Will had no choice but to go. I saw the shame in his eyes as he looked back at me.

Now Danson demanded the key to the meeting room. I gave it to him, and he locked the door and kept the key.

“You will not meet here again,” he said. He turned to the constables. “Take them to Bridewell. A night there will teach them obedience.”

I felt a moment of panic. I had not expected this. The Bridewell is a workhouse for the rough sort. There they lock up vagabonds and vagrants, brawling apprentices, those the worse for drink, and loose women.

Abigail looked at me, wide-eyed and scared.

“Don’t be afraid,” I said. “We shall all be together. And it’s only for one night.”

But I did not feel brave.

The constables rounded us up quickly and marched us there. Deb came too because they could not prise her from my side.

When we arrived, the older boys, including Isaac, were taken away to join a gang of men breaking stones. The rest of us were set to picking oakum: old frayed rope that had to be unravelled to make fibrous stuff for packaging. After a few hours my back ached and my fingers were bleeding. There was a vagrant woman there with matted hair, skin like old creased leather, and a ripe stink about her. She seemed a little mad, but was kind; showed us how to do the work and defended Abigail from the overseer when the fellow accused her of slacking. I saw the light burning strong within her and told her so.

She cackled. “I live on the road. Only light I know is sun or moon.”

“The light of Christ is within you,” I said.

She looked me over. “I seen those Quaker women,” she said, “after the war. Tramping the roads, preaching. Saw one whipped and the branks put over her head to quiet her. Broke her jaw. You should stay home, wench, and spin. Earn yourself a husband – eh?”

At the end of the day the boys were released from the stone-breaking and came stiffly indoors. We lay on filthy straw and heard rats squeaking. Deb whimpered with fear. I held her close and soothed her till she fell asleep.

For myself, my thoughts kept me awake. I saw again, over and over, Henry Heywood’s look of hatred at me, and heard his words. Every time I remembered it I found myself trembling and tearful with shock; I had never been so much hated before.

I tried to still my thoughts and wait on the Lord, but the stillness would not come. I thought about Will, imagined how he must be feeling now, after being shamed in front of me, taken home like a child. I wanted to put my arms around him, reassure him, tell him I did not think any the less of him, that I loved him. Henry Heywood believed it was because of me that Will was here, but I knew it was not; I knew he had found his own way to the light.

And yet I
did
feel guilt. I’d been glad when Will told me he would turn down Nicholas Barron’s offer. This offer, if he took it up, and went to London, could make him one day a rich man, perhaps influential in society. Here, with me, there could be nothing but persecution and trouble. And love, my heart insisted: and love. If he married me, if we were together, and lived in the truth and loved each other well, no trouble would be beyond bearing.

“You bold-faced little whore,” his father had called me. Henry Heywood would exert all his power to keep us apart. But I had power too, and would use it.

William

A
ll the way home, my father blustered and shouted at me, so angry that he seemed not to notice the stares of passers-by.

“I forbade you to go to that place!”

“And I said I would!”

“You won’t go again. I’ll lock you up.”

“You can’t keep me in.”

“It’s that girl, isn’t it? That bold wench? She’s the cause of this. They set these girls on to entice men.”

“She did not entice me!” I was still furious at the way he had insulted Susanna. “I pursued
her
! She is a maid of fifteen and knows nothing of enticement.”

“Huh! They know, these country girls.”

We had reached the house, and the servants must have heard us as we quarrelled our way across the yard.

My stepmother and sister were waiting – dressed in their finery, I noted angrily, as if the church was a place to parade wealth.

“We are too late for church now,” said my stepmother, with a reproachful look at me.

“But I have hauled him out, as I said I would.” My father pushed me in ahead of him and snatched the hat from my head. “He has a girl – that’s the cause of it all. Some little drab of a maidservant, by the look of her.”

“I know the one,” said my stepmother. “She lodges with the glover’s family.”

“Find out her name. I’ll bring a complaint against her; get her sent back to her village.”

They were talking about me as if I were not there. I could not tolerate any more.

“Her name is Susanna Thorn,” I said. “She’s a weaver’s daughter, from Long Aston. And I love her and intend to marry her.”

There was a moment’s silence. Then my father gave a snort of laughter. “
Marry?
You are my only son, the heir to my business, and you intend to marry that girl? You must have lost your wits entirely.”

We spoke no more about the matter that day. Indeed, we spoke little at all. I ate in the kitchen, where Joan was kind and asked no questions. Anne, I guessed, had been instructed by our stepmother not to talk to me about Susanna, but whenever we met she showed me her allegiance with looks of sympathy.

I had not meant to tell my father I would marry Susanna. I had thought about marriage, felt it might happen, but had not spoken of it to anyone, not even to her. Now that the words were spoken it became a thing of substance, a commitment. There was a sense of rightness about it, and I became desperate to see Susanna, to ask her, to be sure she would have me.

I planned to slip out after supper, but before I could do so Ned came to me with a message from the Mintons’ servant, Hester, saying that Susanna and all the children had been sent to Bridewell and would be kept in overnight.

“Bridewell!” I stared at Ned. I could not bear to think of Susanna in that place while I slept comfortably at home.

Ned tried to cheer me. “It’s not so bad, sir, the Bridewell. I’ve been in there myself, time past. And they’ll be out in the morning.”

“I should have been there with them,” I said.

I took the stairs at a run, intending to confront my father and demand that he get them all released. But by the time I reached the drawing-room door I had thought better of it. He would not help; nothing could be done tonight; and to insist on it would only turn his anger even more against Susanna. I went to my room and lay awake much of the night, knowing that she too must be awake and thinking of me.

The next day the Quakers who were held in prison were brought to trial.

My father made no objection when I said I would go to the courthouse – indeed he thought it would be a lesson for me – but he insisted that I sit with him at the front, among the town councillors.

We arrived early, but already the building was packed. It was clear that most of the spectators were townsfolk, but many others looked like Quakers, and I realized that they must have come from miles around to support their friends. The benches were full; people were standing and many wore hats which blocked the view. The weather was still hot and the doors and windows had been thrown open, but still the smell and press of people were overwhelming.

I felt a rush of relief when I saw Susanna there, already freed from the Bridewell. She was at the far side, near the front, with Tom Minton. They were standing. She looked around once, and saw me, but with my father beside me I could only acknowledge her with a discreet nod.

There was a stir as the jury began taking their places. I saw Susanna and the families of those accused scanning the faces of these men. Would they make up their own minds, I wondered, or would they be intimidated by the justices? I knew there could sometimes be trouble for juries if they came up with a verdict the judges did not like. They were all citizens of the town: merchants, shopkeepers and the like. Some I knew by sight.

A hush fell as the justices came in. One was Sir William Cheevers, known for his rigour against Dissenters. He was an old man, tall and upright, with a long, lean, supercilious face, full of the confidence that comes with power. The other was Richard Stourton, a heavy, red-faced, choleric-looking fellow. Neither of them, I imagined, would have any sympathy for Quakers.

As the first prisoner was about to be called I saw a clerk approach the mayor, and some consultation between him and two of the aldermen; and then a message was passed to the justices, who conferred briefly. Justice Cheevers’ face clouded and I thought I caught the word “coroner”.

“What is it?” I whispered to my father. But he did not know.

Before we could learn more the first prisoner was called.

“Daniel Kite!”

He appeared wild as ever, auburn curls springing from beneath his tall black hat. But when I looked closer I saw that he had lost weight and there were dark circles under his eyes. I knew he had been confined in the Pit for so-called troublemaking, and his suffering showed, but the spirit was still strong in him.

“Take off your hat, sirrah!” demanded Justice Cheevers.

Daniel turned to him. “By what law dost thou command me to do so?”

A buzz of pleasure and expectation went around the court and people settled to enjoy the exchange.

“You do not prosper your case by this behaviour,” began Cheevers.

“I only ask by what law—”

“We are ministers of justice. We represent the King’s person. Therefore you should pay due reverence to our authority.”

Daniel seemed to consider this. “I don’t keep my hat on in contempt of the King,” he said, “or in contempt of any authority. But why choose my hat? Why not some other garment?”

And he glanced down at his body as if considering what else he might remove. This caused an outbreak of laughter – the more so, perhaps, because he was comely and people remembered that he was the man who had walked almost naked through the marketplace two months before. I saw some of the Quakers shaking their heads as if to say “he goes too far”, but others were smiling; and the townsfolk loved it.

The justices, however, did not.

“Take his hat from him!” commanded Cheevers. “And make sure the other prisoners are hatless before they appear.”

An usher seized the hat – nervously, for Daniel was a well-muscled man, a blacksmith by trade. As Daniel moved, one of his sleeves slipped back and I saw red scabs and bruising on his wrist. I remembered then that they had kept him manacled in prison. He did not resist the usher, only remarking loudly as the hat was taken, “Reverence and respect are not shown by removing the hat, or any other part of the clothing.”

For this he was fined five pounds, to be added to any other fine he might incur – for the proceedings against him had not yet begun.

A witness – one of the soldiers – was brought in to testify that he had seen the accused at an unlawful meeting held under the pretence of a religious exercise; that this religious exercise was conducted in a manner other than that allowed by the Liturgy of the Church of England; and that he was seen there with other malefactors to the terror of the people and disturbance of the peace.

At this last, sighs of exasperation and even laughter went around the room. Yet underlying them I heard a murmur; there was genuine fear in the town of unruly Dissenters.

Justice Cheevers called for silence.

“Daniel Kite, what do you say to these charges?”

“I say the evidence does not prove me guilty of being at an unlawful meeting.”

I saw that the judge was growing impatient. “Were you
there
?” he demanded. “At that time and at that place? If you were, the law judges the meeting to have been unlawful.”

“The meeting was simply a meeting,” said Daniel. “The unlawfulness of it must be proved by something done or said.” And he turned to the jury. “Take notice, jurymen, that the witness has not proved that anything occurred at this meeting to make it unlawful.”