No Shame, No Fear (16 page)

Now the justices had had enough.

“
We
will direct the jury’s attention,” said Cheevers. “Take the prisoner away.”

I saw that some of the Quakers in the courtroom were taking notes.

The next prisoner was the tanner I had sat next to at my first meeting. He did not attempt to argue, but cried out, “You are like the scribes and Pharisees! They said they had a law, and by that law they crucified the Lord of Life!”

A roar went up from the room. I saw Cheevers’ face harden. He spoke harshly. “Send him down.”

They called Mary Faulkner next. She knew the law.

“I am here indicted for being at an unlawful meeting,” she said, “but it is not yet proved that the meeting
was
unlawful.”

She stood challenging the judges, her stance aggressive, like a man’s, her voice and mind keen; and I saw how threatening and unwomanly they must find her.

Stourton snapped, “It was held under a pretence of worshipping God and contrary to the Liturgy of the Church of England.”

“But if there is no pretence? If we truly meet to worship God, must we suffer for that?”

Stourton, red-faced, cried, “Yes, you must!” and people in the room drew breath in shock and dismay. The Quaker note-takers scribbled.

I saw that Justice Cheevers was annoyed at Stourton’s rash remark. He intervened. “You are not indicted for worshipping God, but for being at an unlawful assembly.”

“Where no unlawful thing was done or said?”

“We don’t care what you did there. We have proved that you did meet.”

Mary gave him a look almost of pity. “You are executing a law which is contrary to the Law of God.”

“Take her away.”

Someone behind me murmured, “It’s a farce. A show. Why do they try them?”

As the morning wore on I felt the mood in the courtroom vary as different people testified. The townsfolk had not liked Mary. For all her common sense, it was her unwomanly manner that repelled them. I heard snatches of talk around me: “They deny the Church … lead young people away from authority…” “We’ll have riots…” I felt frustrated by their lack of understanding. Couldn’t they see the honesty of the prisoners? Couldn’t they feel the spirit at work in the courtroom? A group near the back began to cheer every time a prisoner was sent down, but gradually, as one testimony after another was made, there was some sympathy too, and admiration. As for me, I felt myself strengthened and uplifted. If others could be steadfast, so could I. I saw Nicholas Barron’s offer for the temptation it was. I’d have fine clothes, prestige, the prospect of a good career, a comfortable life – but the life of the spirit was here, in this courtroom.

Fewer than half the prisoners were seen that day. The rest would come tomorrow.

The last to be called was Alice Betts, a shoemaker’s wife and a simple woman with no skill in argument. But her testimony reached me like no other. She said, “I know nothing of your law, but I have often met among the dear children of the Lord. And if God grant me life and strength to do so, I shall meet with them again and again.”

She was sent away, and the jury went out, Stourton calling after them, “You’ll get no dinner till we have a right verdict!”

Despite this, they took half an hour, and I wondered whether any had been wrestling with their consciences in that time. They pronounced all the prisoners guilty. The judges sighed in satisfaction, stood up, and thanked the jury for their good service. Then Cheevers delivered the sentence: all were to be fined five pounds, and must remain in prison for three months with hard labour or until their fines be paid. And he warned them that if they offended again they would be fined ten pounds with six months’ hard labour, and that for a third offence they would face transportation to the colonies of the New World for seven years.

And then the court adjourned for the day.

I left with my father. He signalled to me to come with him as the aldermen began moving out of the courtroom. They were going to share a meal at the Bull.

In the tavern all kept their hats on and I was not conspicuous, though I knew there had been plenty of talk about me and I caught some councillors looking me over for signs of dissent.

They were talking, not of the sentences, which I suppose were as expected, but of that interruption I had noticed at the beginning of the proceedings, when the coroner was mentioned.

“There has been an outbreak of jail fever,” my father explained to me. “Two of the prisoners died early this morning—”

“Died! Who?”

I thought of Nat and Judith. I had not seen them.

He shrugged. “I forget…”

“Judith Minton? Nathaniel Lacon?”

“Neither of those.” I gave thanks in silence as he continued. “Several more are too sick to come to court. No one wants them there for fear of contagion. And now the coroner’s involved. He’s sure to complain about the overcrowding. But where else can they be put?”

He spoke as if the dying people were nothing but an administrative nuisance. And yet I knew he was not a heartless man. I remembered when a young servant we once had was ill, how he paid for the apothecary, took all care; and was brought to tears when, despite everything, the lad died.

“Perhaps they should go home,” I said.

He looked at me sharply. “If they want to go home there are several of them who could afford to pay their fines. But you may be sure they’ll choose to make martyrs of themselves.”

Alderman Green leaned across. “We’ll have to move some of them to the Stonegate, or the Bridewell.”

“The Bridewell’s not suitable,” my father said.

“But if we fill up the Stonegate, where will we put the felons?”

I said, without thinking, “You admit the Quakers are not felons, then?”

Both men glared at me for my impertinence. At once I felt admonished, and rightly so. It was bred into me not to speak disrespectfully to an older person. But even as I apologized and sat with head bowed, I reflected that Daniel Kite would not have been quelled so easily. Somehow, I felt, there must be a way of combining respect for elders with my own integrity.

As expected, the coroner pronounced himself shocked by conditions at the Castlegate prison and warned of the spread of disease. Half the prisoners were to be moved immediately to the Stonegate.

To my surprise, I saw them that afternoon as I looked out of my bedroom window. They were walking along High Street in a group – about twenty of them – but with no guards visible. People were staring. I heard George Woodall, the tailor, call out, “Make a run for it! Now! You have your chance!”

The Quakers acknowledged him but shook their heads.

I saw Daniel Kite, and Judith beside him, and ran downstairs and out into the street to speak to them. Both looked thin, but in good spirits. Susanna had told me that they loved each other, and I guessed that suffering together had helped to strengthen the bond between them.

“We are all going to the Stonegate,” Daniel said, “across town. The constables said we might take ourselves there, since they know we won’t try to escape.”

I wished them courage, and left them.

It was late that evening, after supper, that I slipped out again and hurried to the Mintons’ house, intent on seeing Susanna.

Tom answered the door, with Abigail hovering behind him, but when I asked for Susanna they told me she was not there.

Susanna

I
n the early evening of the day our friends appeared in court, there came a knocking at the Mintons’ shop door.

Hester and I were preparing supper. She stopped work and went downstairs. I heard a boy’s voice, urgent, then Hester’s panting breath as she hurried back up.

At once I was alarmed. I ran to the top of the stairs, where the children were already gathering.

“A message from the prison,” Hester said. “Nat Lacon is ill with jail fever, and cannot stand. He’s to be released, and Mary Faulkner with him. Thou’ll be needed, Susanna.”

“I’ll go at once.”

“And I’ll come with thee; help prepare the sickroom.”

Quickly we made arrangements.

I told Isaac to take care of Deb and on no account to come to Mary’s house, for fear of contagion. “And tell Will.” I turned to Tom and Abigail. “If Will comes here, don’t let him follow me. He must stay away. You’ll tell him?”

They promised. “And I’ll look after Deb,” said Abigail.

As we hurried downstairs Hester said, “Mary fears for the lad’s life. She’s sent for Simon Race to bring the money for their release and says she will nurse Nat herself. The fever has taken hold at the Castlegate. Two more died this afternoon, but the boy could not give me names… Hast thou herbs back there? Feverfew? And rosemary? There’s plenty in our garden…”

Her voice ran on, but all I could think was that Nat was ill and might die. The horror of it was like a cold pit opening at my feet.

When we reached the shop in Broad Street we found it closed. Simon must already have gone to the prison. Hester set about laying a fire in the kitchen while I took a broom and a dust-cloth and went up to Nat’s room.

The cleaning had been neglected of late, with so much happening and Mary not around to remind me of my duties. I knocked down cobwebs, dusted the bed hangings and the chair and washstand, and swept the floor.

All the time I was thinking, selfishly, not of Nat, but of Will. I had not seen him since we were separated on first-day. And now it would be a week or more before we could meet, and who knew but that Mary might also be carrying the sickness. Common sense told me that
I
was in danger, that I could sicken and die within days. I’d seen it happen to a young girl at the farm where I’d worked last year; a strong young lass, fit and cheerful at evening milking, sickened the next day, and dead before the week was out. But I did not believe I could die; I felt so much alive. All my fear was for Will, who had been in court, close to prisoners who might at any time collapse with the fever. If Will fell sick and died, I thought,
then
I should die.

Hester came puffing upstairs. “Water’s heating,” she said.

A large wooden chest on the landing held all the sheets and pillow covers and towels, stored between layers of lavender. Together we made up the bed with clean sheets, then closed the windows and drew the curtains. Hester brought towels and a wash-ball scented with sage and laid them ready.

When the kitchen fire was well alight I put some red-hot embers in a metal dish and took it upstairs and burned rosemary in the room to clean the air. The smoky scent was strong and comforting.

Soon we heard them coming.

They brought Nat home on a pallet, Simon and a neighbour holding either end and trying not to jolt him as they hurried over the cobbles. Mary walked alongside, and as they came in through the side door I thought she looked weak and pale. But the sight of Nat shocked me. He was burning hot, tossing from side to side, and crying out words that made no sense. He seemed not to know any of us. I looked at him with pity and terror, and silently begged his forgiveness, and God’s, for having thought more of Will’s safety when it was Nat who needed my care.

Mary led the way upstairs and I followed with a bowl of warm water, which I placed on the wash-stand.

“Leave me with him,” Mary said. She was panting and grasped the rail as she reached the top of the stairs.

“Thou’rt sick too,” I said.

“No. It’s jail weakness only – we all had it – and lack of sleep.”

“I’ll help thee. Hester is making a draught of feverfew.”

I laid a spare sheet over the bed and the men gently lifted Nat and placed him on it and then withdrew downstairs. Nat was dirty from lying on the prison floor. Bits of mucky straw clung to his hair and clothes, and his face had a shining film of grime. Mary dampened a cloth and wiped his face and began picking out dirt and lice from his hair. Nat moaned and flung himself from side to side. Suddenly he reared up, shouting, “They’re here! They’re here!” and tried to stand. It took the two of us to hold him down, and I felt a terrifying strength in him. His eyes glittered and he stared at an empty corner of the room. “Here! All! They’re here – see!”

He stared so fixedly at the empty space that I felt the hairs rise on the back of my neck. When his gaze switched to me I could endure no more and cried out in terror, “He’s possessed!”

But Mary pushed him gently down, soothed him, and said, “Never fear. Never fear.” I was not sure if she was talking to him or to both of us. But then she looked at me and said, “God is over all. No demons can hurt thee.”

“But he – something is here … in the room,” I whimpered.

“It can’t hurt thee,” Mary repeated. She turned practical, nodded towards Nat’s clothes chest. “Fetch a clean nightshirt. If we can get him out of these foul clothes it will be better for him.”

It took all my courage to cross the room. With the curtains drawn it was shadowy, and I sensed the presence of unholy things in every darkened space, every fold of cloth. Nat continued to moan and jabber. But Mary was waiting. I opened the lid – thanked God a nightshirt lay on top and I need not rummage – and closed the chest quickly.

By this time Mary had got Nat’s shirt off. “Help me with these breeches and stockings,” she said.

His skin was hot like fire to the touch, and I saw a faint red rash rising all over his body. I had never been close to a naked man before, except my brother when he was little, and despite my fear I looked with interest, and thought of Will and imagined him naked, and then felt ashamed for having done so; I was relieved when we had Nat covered to the knees in the nightshirt. Mary helped me pull out the soiled sheet, and I busied myself making a bundle of it with Nat’s dirty clothes and took it out to the landing to await fumigation and washing.

Hester came up at that moment with a drink of tea made with feverfew.

“I doubt he’ll take it,” I said, and heard the tremor still in my voice. “He fights us.”

“Try him,” she said.

Mary had by now got Nat covered up in the bed. I gave her the cup, and she lifted his head and shoulders and tried to persuade him to sip. He took a little.