by Jean Plaidy
Such was the lying tale which had been put about, and that had restored the merchant’s honour.
Richard had already warned Mistress Alton that she would be turned out immediately if she told anyone of Jane’s presence in the house. It was thus possible to keep the whole neighbourhood – with the exception of the girl’s parents – ignorant of where she was.
After a few weeks of Tamar’s nursing, young Jane had recovered from the terrible shock sufficiently to tell the full story of that night of brutality.
Her enemies had watched her leave the house, had stunned her and taken her to a cottage in the town. Here she was made to sit before a fire; her bodice was torn from her back and a red-hot poker applied while she was ordered to confess the story which had been prepared for her.
She was, in spite of the awful agony, able to withstand the torture; it was only when they forced her face downwards on to the fire that she had shrieked for mercy and had given way.
There had been a man present who had taken down her confession in writing, which she had had to repeat at the dictation of her tormentors.
She had become unconscious when they had left her lying on the floor. They intended, she had gathered, to take her in the morning to the Hoe, to proclaim her wickedness to the world and hang her. Believing her to be half dead already, they had taken no precaution against an escape; but after an hour or so, Jane’s young body had somewhat recovered. She prayed for strength, and, feeling that anything was preferable to the ordeal she would have to face on the morrow if she stayed there, had managed to stumble to the door. She was surprised to find that she only had to unlatch this and walk out. And this she did, for the man who had been set to guard her had drunk heavily and was snoring loudly.
It had taken her many hours to crawl towards Pennicomquick, tortured as she was by the cold air making her wounds smart; and it was only her belief in the divine assistance for which she had prayed that enabled her to cling to consciousness as long as she did.
Tamar’s one thought was of revenge. She longed to confront that evil man with his sins. But Richard argued with her until he made her see that her interference could only make matters worse for Jane. To let it be known that Jane was safe was to condemn her to the gibbet.
‘Oh, Tamar,’ he said, ‘the times in which we live are dangerous ones . . . violent and dangerous. Think of the injustice of this! A poor Puritan maiden, wandering in the woods . . . and that to happen to her!’ He was silent suddenly, staring before him. ‘Your mother . . .’ he went on quietly, ‘she . . . wandered in the woods one night; she was seduced by one no better than this merchant . . . and that night her feet were set on a path that led her to the gallows. Who am I to condemn others!’
Tamar went to him and laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘You were not as this man,’ she said. ‘You were thoughtless, careless . . . He is wicked. I will not have you compare yourself with him. Oh, Richard, when I think of what has happened to Jane . . . I want . . . I want to go away. I think of those men and women who sailed from here on that ship. The Mayflower, was it not? Think of the dangers they must have faced. Spaniards . . . pirates . . . violence . . . But Richard, if they reached a new country – a country where this which has happened to Jane could not happen . . . then was it worth while.’
‘Yes,’ he agreed, ‘that would be worth while.’
‘Richard, you too are beginning to think of escape. Yes, I see you are. To a land where meeting houses are not burned down, where innocent girls are not treated brutally.’
They said no more at the time; but that tragic affair was the beginning of Richard’s change of mind.
There was continual talk of witches now. Someone saw old Sally Martin at her cottage door talking earnestly to her cat; another saw Maddy Barlow suckling a rabbit. Smoke was seen coming from chimneys, forming itself into shapes of devils. No one dared pick any wild grasses and plants which were well-known remedies for certain ailments. If they were seen picking these things it was very likely that they would be accused of witchcraft. There were furtive glances everywhere. No one was safe from suspicion – neither men, women nor children. Tom Lee, the blacksmith’s boy, said, after he had recovered from a fit, that he had been walking in the copse near the Hurly farm when he met an old woman who cursed him before she turned into a dog and ran away. He had clearly been overlooked, said his parents. By whom?
‘There is a big witch community among us,’ it was whispered. ‘Who knows who these witches are? Children are not safe from their parents, parents from their children; husbands and wives may have the Devil between them.’
One day Betsy Hurly, coming to see her daughter, with whom – now that Annis was a wife and mother – she had become reconciled, saw Jane Swann at the window of Tamar’s room. Betsy slyly said nothing of what she had seen, but went out of the house and spread the story all round the place.
The news spread like fire in the wind. Jane Swann was at the house of Richard Merriman. She was in that room which was occupied by Tamar Brown.
Betsy could not stop talking. ‘My dear, she couldn’t hide that she was a witch. Awful she looked. I see her yellow hair showing from under a bandage. Nobody ain’t got hair quite Jane Swann’s colour. There she was at the window. And what’s more . . . I did see her . . . Tamar herself . . . gathering herbs . . . her hair wild like as she do love to show it. Muttering she were as she picked the devil’s plants.’
It was felt that something had to be done and, once more, as had happened years ago when Tamar was fourteen years old, a group of people marched on to the house of Richard Merriman to take a witch. And once more Richard spoke to them; but on this occasion Humility Brown stood beside him.
‘Good people,’ said Richard, ‘it is true that Jane Swann is here. We have nursed her back to health. You know she was forced in the copse, and you know by whom. She was then taken and most cruelly tortured. We are trying to nurse this poor sick girl back to health. I beg of you to go away and leave us in peace.’
They murmured together.
‘How do we know he ain’t a witch? There be witches among gentry . . .’
‘Where be the other one, the black-haired witch? She be the one we ought to be bothering ourselves with.’
Then Humility spoke: ‘Friends, I see among you some who have prayed with me. I have prayed with this poor girl and I believe her story to be true. You know, my friends, that if there were a witch in this house, I should know it, and know also my duty, which would be to hand this witch over to you. And do you doubt that, however painful my duty, it would be done?’
There was a short silence. Then a voice said: ‘You be bewitched, minister. You married a witch.’
Humility’s eyes flashed wrath. ‘Purge yourself of your desire to see violence!’ he cried, pointing to the man who had spoken. ‘Ask yourselves this: “Does the sight of blood please us?” If you look into your hearts and answer that question truthfully, then, friends, you will know that your chances of salvation are slight indeed. I would beg of you to pray with me . . . to ask that your sins may be forgiven. This girl, Jane Swann, was cruelly handled by her ravisher. I saw her with my own eyes when she was brought in by the boys. Peter! George! Stand forth and bear witness. You saw the girl bruised and stunned. Did you not?’
The boys came forward. They said: ‘Yes, Mr Brown, we saw her.’
‘Thank you, George. Thank you, Peter. And these good people think you were deceived, boys. But I saw also. That is what they forget. The Devil might deceive you into thinking you saw bruises, but would God allow His servant to be so deceived? Nay, the Devil has power, but he is like a man in chains before the strength of Almighty God. If any of you think aught evil goes on in this house, then take me, for I have deceived you, friends. Take me and crucify me on the nearest tree. Drive the nails into my flesh . . . into my hands, through my feet. Cry, “Crucify him!” And give me vinegar and gall to drink. Ah, my friends, would that I were worthy of such a death!’
He went on weaving
spells through his words, at which the crowd grew quiet, and some wept, while others fell on their knees. And what had begun by being a demand for a girl’s life had by his magic oratory been turned into a prayer meeting.
But that was not an end to the matter. On that occasion after prayer with Humility the people had gone quietly away, but they continued to speak together of the witchcraft they feared was in their midst.
It was remembered that Tamar had saved her baby when the child was all but in the grave; it was even said that Lorea had already been dead, and that, by pledging the little girl to the Devil, her mother had brought it to life. They remembered how Simon, the pricker, had wanted to search Tamar and how she had prevailed on Richard Merriman to call her ‘daughter’, and how she had put a spell on him as she did on all men . . . even Humility Brown.
She was more clever than a witch; she was the Devil himself, for the Devil was doubtless like God – three in one, an unholy trinity.
She had turned many people to witchcraft. Look at Annis – getting a cottage, and John Tyler to marry her, even though it was a bit late. Richard Merriman had always been a strange man, and he grew stranger. They had even made Mistress Alton one of them. For did she say anything about that witch, Jane Swann, being in the house? She would have been the first to see justice done before they had made a witch of her.
One night there was an attempt to burn down the house, but the fire was noticed almost at once and put out.
Richard was very thoughtful after that. He made inquiries about chartering ships, and he discussed with Humility what would be needed to fit out an expedition and sail away in the wake of the Mayflower.
John Tyler was arrested for questioning, and all those Puritans who had been attending Humility’s meetings were thrown into a panic. They had heard of the way confessions were extracted, and they were afraid that, meek and gentle as John Tyler was, he was hardly the sort to stand up to such questionings. Humility, as the leader, suggested giving himself up; but Richard pointed out the folly of that. If Humility admitted to holding meetings in the place, there would be countless arrests.
Richard himself went to the magistrate in Plymouth, a man whom he had known as a friend. Richard was frank; he knew that the Government was eager to send men out to the New World to colonize under the English flag. On the Continent, recusants were punished with great severity; but all the English Government wanted to do was to get rid of them. It was ready even to assist those Dissenters who wished to leave the country. So Richard was able to secure John’s release by explaining that he was making arrangements to charter a ship in which the Puritan community planned to leave the country for ever.
After that, Richard knew he was committed to proceed with this scheme which he had at first been inclined to treat as a fancy. He went into serious negotiations for a vessel of some one hundred tons, and was arranging with a certain Captain Flame to take her across the ocean.
More people were flocking to the meetings, excited by the rumours of emigration. Life was hard, and wonderful stories were circulated concerning the New World.
And then, as though momentous events could never come singly, a strange ship was one day sighted on the horizon. It was not an English ship – that much was apparent to eyes trained to look on English ships. It was a long, lean galley that cut through the water at astonishing speed and made straight for the Sound.
Bustle and excitement filled the town. Men got out their old guns, and sailors sharpened their cutlasses. But what was there to fear from one ship? Unless, of course, there were others following. The fleet was not in home waters and the sudden violent attack by the corsairs of Brittany was remembered.
Some of the old sailors declared the swiftly moving galley to be a Turk.
Tamar was on the Causeway when the galley came in. A sudden intuition had come to her; and her eyes sought one man among those lean and emaciated figures, but she could not find the one she sought.
But now the men had shipped their oars and were leaping out, embracing those about them. One of them stooped and touched the cobbles with his hands; then knelt and kissed them. In their rags of all shapes and colours, these men were scarcely recognizable as Englishmen; their skins had been burned to a dark brown; their beards were unkempt; and their bare backs showed the marks of the lash and other tortures.
And last to come ashore was the man for whom Tamar had looked. He could not remain unrecognized, this lean, emaciated giant, for his startlingly blue eyes betrayed his identity. He was laughing now; his teeth gleaming white in his lean, brown face, in which the bones seemed ready to pierce the skin. He was looking about him, and Tamar knew he was looking for her.
She ran to him. He caught her and held her; and she felt once more that excitement which she had not known since he went away.
The most bewildering and exhilarating moment of an eventful year was upon her. Bartle had come home.
He was back in his house at Stoke. Already he had lost that unkempt look. It was said that he and the men who had escaped with him were holding a prolonged feast at his house; he was going to keep them with him, for the ordeals through which they had passed together had made them his friends for ever. His cousin, who had inherited his title and estates when his father had died and he was believed lost, was still at the house, but he was preparing to leave.
Sir Bartle was the hero of the day and the toast of the county. Few men could have lived through what he had lived through; fewer still could have successfully escaped and brought his men home to safety.
It was a stirring story which Bartle and his crew had to tell. A few days out of Plymouth they had found themselves surrounded by Turkish galleys. Some of their crew were drowned, while others were taken prisoner and made to row in the galleys – a hardship such as only the strongest could endure. They were chained to the ship – six at one oar – and given only just enough food and drink to keep them alive. Any faintness or lack of energy was severely punished by the boatswain, who walked the gangway brandishing his lash, bringing it down when the mood took him, lacerating the flesh of his slaves. To this life had proud Bartle been condemned. The galleys only put to sea during the spring and summer, and in winter were laid up, when the galley slaves were confined in a foul prison until they should be needed again.
This life had Bartle and his men somehow miraculously endured for sixteen years; and during the last four Bartle had conceived and prepared the plan of escape, which, with the help of his fellow slaves, he had put into effect.
Discipline in the prison was lax; there were few gaolers to be spared – and, seizing an opportunity when a galley lay provisioned for the sea just beyond the walls of their prison, the men had broken out and, experienced as they were in handling this type of craft, were able to make good their escape.
It was a story of adventure, suffering and courage, which was typical of the seamen of the time. They accepted hardship and death as natural; for, as Bartle said, there was not a man of them who did riot know before he set sail that he must face them.
Tamar felt that her outlook on life had changed with the coming of the galley. She had been prepared to accept life with Humility; she had been excited by the proposed emigration. But now . . . Bartle had come home.
It was late the very same day of his return that Bartle rode over to Pennicomquick. There had been just that one embrace down on the Causeway; then the crowd had surged round Bartle and she had taken the opportunity to escape, for her one wish at that moment had been to get away, to be alone, to think of the great upheaval which had so suddenly threatened to take place in her life.
She saw him arrive and went down to meet him.
He sat his horse, looking down at her. He had trimmed his beard and was wearing some of the elegant garments which he had worn before he went away. They hung loosely on his thin frame, but they gave him great dignity.
‘So,’ he said, his blue eyes blazing, ‘you married the Puritan!’
‘Yes.’
Then Ba
rtle laughed and his laughter was loud and mocking.
‘Why should it amuse you so?’ she asked.
‘Why indeed! The witch . . . and the Puritan!’
‘I have three children,’ she said.
‘I congratulate you. How many sons?’
‘One son; two daughters.’
‘A matron now,’ he said.
She thought: He has not changed at all. I hate him now, just as I always did.
At that moment Ned Swann came from the stables and Bartle dismounted.
‘’Tis good to see you home, Sir Bartle,’ said Ned.
‘Thank you, Swann,’ said Bartle with one of his charming smiles.
‘Come into the house,’ said Tamar. ‘Richard is eager to see you and hear of your adventures.’
He did not take his eyes from her as they went into the house, where Richard received him warmly.
‘Bartle . . . I never thought to have this pleasure . . .’
‘Nor I, sir.’
‘Bartle, my dear boy, come here. Let me look at you. The strength of you! To endure that for sixteen years!’
‘I’m made of sturdy stuff. I said: “By God and His Mother, I’ll break out of this prison if I kill twenty guards to do it.”’