Quintspinner

by Dianne Greenlay

  “Tess!” The woman hissed, the contraction slowly ebbing away. Her eyes clenched shut in fear and pain.

  “I’m here,” Tess responded and shifted her weight forward on the stool, gently wiping the woman’s brow. In spite of the fire burning in the hearth, cold rivulets of her own sweat trickled down between Tess’s shoulder blades.

  Being the daughter of the much sought after London physician, Dr. Charles Thomas Willoughby, Tess had heard similar cries of distress coming from the many pregnant patients her father attended to. She had, on several occasions, accompanied him into the bed chambers of these laboring women for their deliveries, handing him whatever linens, medical potions, and tools that he required. However, this time, the screams burst forth from her mother, and it was horrifyingly different.

  Elizabeth Willoughby lay on the cot, her nightshift pasted with sweat to her chest. A thin sheet draped her lower body. As her eyes slowly opened, she fixed Tess in a glassy stare. She breathed a series of shallow gasps behind chattering teeth.

  “C’mon, Mum,” Tess encouraged, in a voice that she hoped did not relay her own fear. “Squeeze my hand and bite down on this linen when the next pain comes–”

  Another wrenching scream cut Tess off as her mother’s body tensed then arched with the fury of the contraction.

  Something is very wrong!

  Tess again mopped the sweat from her mother’s forehead, and wiped a sliver of drool which slid down from the corner of her mother’s mouth. She tried to keep her voice low and soothing.

  “Cassie’s gone to find Father! Father went to tend to a mishap down on the docks but they’ll be back any minute.”

  Cassie would be able to find Dr Willoughby as quickly as anyone, but being labeled a “nigger servant”, she might have been subject to interference by any number of London’s citizens. Tess fervently hoped that Cassie had been able to make her way to the waterfront unimpeded.

  “Any minute now, they’ll be here–do you hear me? Elizabeth Willoughby, answer me!” she scolded, but her mother did not respond. Not even to the use of her formal name.

  “Packing, Tess.” Her mother’s cracked whisper was barely audible.

  What did she say?

  “Packing? But you’ve not had the child yet, Mum–” Tess stopped short as her mother weakly pulled back the sheet covering her abdomen. Tess’s eyes widened in fright. A dark spreading stain was seeping along the bedding between her mother’s legs.

  “Oh my God, Mum!” Tess shrieked and sprang to her feet. She raced across the room to the barrel that held the cleaned battings of raw cotton. Jamming an armful of the yellow fluff between her mother’s thighs she pressed with both hands.

  “Father says steady pressure is the key to stopping any bleeding,” she gasped. “You’ll be alright, you’ll see, Mum!’

  What is keeping Father? He should have been back by now! How long can bleeding like this continue? Tess sent up a silent prayer. Please, God, don’t let her die! Don’t let them die!

  She felt stiff with building panic. She wasn’t sure if it was being fuelled by her mother’s impending doom or the thought of bearing the brunt of her father’s quick temper. She adjusted her pressure on the cotton wad and felt a small hard knob push back into the palm of her hand.

  What is that?

  Sweat dripped freely from the tip of Tess’s nose and chin now; droplets slid from her forehead and burned her eyes as she blinked fiercely to clear the sting.

  It feels like a –it can’t be! Please, Dear God, don’t let it be!

  Tess pulled the edge of the sodden cotton bundle back and quickly felt for the knob again.

  There it is! A heel! Slippery with warm blood and birth fluids, it was definitely a tiny foot.

  Dear Mary in Heaven, the baby is coming the wrong way!

  A sanguineous effluence announced another contraction’s arrival, but this time her mother was silent.

  “Mum?” Tess anxiously scanned her mother’s face. No reply.

  “Mum!” It was Tess’s turn to scream. “Don’t you leave me! Father’s coming! This baby needs you! Stay with me!”

  What to do? What to do? Her thoughts crashed and collided with each other. Get the baby out! a voice inside her instructed. It sounded vaguely detached yet familiar and comforting.

  Tess positioned herself with one hand on her mother’s swollen belly and began pushing towards her mother’s feet. With her other hand, she grabbed the baby’s foot and gently pulled. Another nub protruded from the birth canal, announcing the arrival of the second foot. Her mother’s swollen torso hardened again and again. Tess lost count of the contractions before the baby’s tiny body finally emerged with one horrible bloody gush.

  A boy! I have a brother! Tess had not thought of the child in terms of a sibling until this moment.

  “God, spare him!” she pleaded in audible prayer. As if in answer, the baby’s head emerged with the next contraction. The tiny boy laid ominously still in Tess’s hands, his face and body quickly deepening to a dusky purple.

  Too long! It took too long!

  Frantically Tess swiped the mucous from her new brother’s face then grasped and squeezed his rib cage with her hands.

  “Breathe!” she screamed into the still blue face. The shock of her scream had its desired effect. At once, the curled up arms and legs flew open and the baby sucked in a gurgling breath, then emitted a high pitched squeal of indignant newborn rage. Tess had never heard a more beautiful sound. A sob of relief escaped from her chest. He’s alive!

  “Tess!” a voice roared. “What in God’s name have you done?”

  The angry words thundered from the doorway. Tess gasped, nearly dropping the infant in her panic. Reflexively clutching the screaming bundle to her chest, she whirled around to meet her accuser. Her father’s imposing frame charged into the room.

  A foul musky rot.

  William’s semiconscious brain attempted to sort the two scents out. A soft sniffing sound and a quick brush of fur against his chin startled William into full wakefulness. Darkness engulfed him, his surroundings unfamiliar and threatening. He tried to remember where he was. Not on his own sleeping mat, tucked under his warm woolen bedding, that was for sure. How did I get here? He lay still for a few seconds, the sour taste of vomit still strong in his mouth. For a moment, his own blue eyes fluttered open but he could see only dim outlines in the lantern lit darkness.

  Lanterns! At once all of his senses screamed high alert.

  Many more strong odors filled his nostrils. Pitch. Rot. Animal dung. Shit and sweat. He closed his eyes to mere slits and took stock of his predicament. He was lying on his side, rough plank flooring beneath him, his wrists and ankles bound. My knee is aching like a sonofabitch. What–

  A low rumble of voices cut his thought off short. The odor of unwashed flesh grew stronger with the approach of another lantern. He mentally separated it out from another, less prevalent stench, but one which seemed to lie in an invisible ribbon at floor level. Old rotted meat. Kerosene. Something fermenting.

  He could hear the soft swoosh of his own blood in his ears again and nausea returned. His shoulders had begun to ache fiercely as well, though he could not feel his wrists or his hands.

  How long have I been lying here, and where is here?

  He could feel in his cheek, really, more than he could hear the vibration of the creaking floor planks that he was lying upon. Was that the faint calling of gulls? He couldn’t be sure. Am I near the shoreline then? Am I in a waterfront shop somewhere? He thought of the smell of rotting meat. A butcher shop? Or is it rotting fish? Definitely near the wharf then. As he slowly recalled his thoughts, panic and confusion rose again.

  Johnny! Is Da’ dead too? They would have fought to the death to save one another. He struggled to hold back tears. And Mum –she’ll be worried out of her mind! All three of us gone; Da’ and Johnny aren’t ever comin’ back!

  William had to get home, back to her. What will happen to her and Abbey? And Luc
as. William couldn’t remember a single day in his life without his beloved dog.

  The lantern light was moving closer. William fought to keep his breathing slow and even. The lantern hovered close, just above his face. A booted foot thudded him forcefully in his mid thigh. William did not move.

  “Get this one loose and movin’ about, ‘afore he shits himself, too,” a gravelly voice commanded.

  “Yessir!”

  More voices. Younger than the gravelly one, William guessed. He strained his memory to recognize any of them as belonging to any of the merchants that his father had done business with. He could not place a single one.

  William felt hands grab him and haul him to his feet. At least he thought he was standing on them. His feet were really too numb to tell. With eyes wide open now, he saw the glint of metal in the lantern light, as a dagger blade flashed in front of his face. With one quick slash from his captor, his wrists were cut free, and with a second, his feet.

  “What’s yer name, lad?” the gravelly voice asked. William tried to speak but his tongue felt furry and thick.

  “Answer me now, piss-pants,” Gravelly Voice commanded, “or I’ll flog it outta’ ya’!”

  William was suddenly aware of a cool wetness in the crotch of his trousers. The pungent smell of urine rose above the cornucopia of so many other strange smells. For a moment his fear was squelched by a stab of hot shame in the realization that he had indeed pissed himself.

  He licked his dry lips and croaked, “William.”

  “William, eh? That’s a fine name fer a tar. Welcome aboard the HMS Argus, Piss-Pants William. Follow Mr. Smith, here. “He’ll get you something to eat and show you to yer work station and yer hammock, in that order. Yer duties start this evenin’ before tomorrow’s first light. Mr. Smith, Piss-Pants William is yer charge fer today. We’re doin’ one on one fer all the new recruits in case they get any frisky ideas.

  “Wait! Duties? I don’t understand–” William began to protest, but Gravelly Voice had moved on, kicking at the next unfortunate body lying in bondage a few feet away.

  Smith tugged at William’s sleeve. “C’mon,” he said quietly, “Ya’ wanna’ eat or not?” William stared at the one called Mr. Smith. Brown eyes stared back at him from a face that was laced with a network of fine scars over high cheekbones and forehead. The boy’s hair appeared to be a coppery brown in the dim light of the lanterns; it was tied back in a braided plait that reached just past his thin shoulders. Smith was a head taller and appeared to be somewhat older. William guessed Smith was probably around John’s age–Johnny! His mind filled with an unspeakable sorrow. He pushed the ache aside, trying to make sense of this living nightmare.

  “Wha–what is this place? I don’t understand what’s happened–”

  Smith turned and looked at him. “How old are ya’ anyway?” He peered closer. William could see a faint scar running across Smith’s cheek from his ear to the corner of his mouth. “You’ve not even many whiskers, do ya’?”

  Pride forced the truth from William. “I’m sixteen. Nearly seventeen.”

  “Sixteen? Hah!” Smith snorted, “Not a boy anymore, but a helluva’ long ways out from being the eighteen that the friggin’ Navy Proclamation states we must be before volunteerin’….”

  The Navy? What the hell? “But I didn’t volunteer!” William protested, “I–”

  “Ya’ did as far as the Navy’s concerned.”

  “But I didn’t! I’m not doing this!” William hissed, “I’ll leave–”

  The sting of Smith’s sharp slap across William’s mouth caught him in mid sentence. “See here, now,” Smith whispered menacingly, “there is no leavin’ this hell hole, ‘cept overboard in a tarp with a stitch through yer nose. Ya’ hear? Leaving alive is not a choice ya’ have. We’re already near a day out to sea.”

  William took in this new information in stunned silence. Feeling was beginning to return to his feet and he stumbled painfully along as though walking in oversize wooden clogs.

  So I’m on a ship! And in its belly at that. He followed behind Smith, as they made their way through a narrow pathway lined on each side with boxes and barrels of all sizes piled to shoulder height. By now William’s eyes had adjusted to the low light and he caught a brief glance of a small flash of movement at the base of a barrel. Rat! And judging from the smell, more than one. He shuddered to think that the sniff and brush of something soft against his face that had awoken him a few minutes earlier had likely been one of its cousins.

  Filthy damn creatures.

  A rat bite almost always brought on the fevers, William knew. Problem was, most rats snuck up on a lad when he was lying down, asleep. He had not suffered a bite from one himself, but had heard of the livery owner and all who worked there routinely getting bitten. One of the livery boys had even died of the fevers last winter. William had not known the boy personally, but he had seen him once, when William had accompanied his Da’ into town for supplies. He remembered the lad, a scrawny, shy boy, small even for his age of ten, forking old bedding out of the stalls into a wagon. Talk had been last winter that he had died a fitful death, his vision clouded with demons, such as the fevers often brought on, and him yelling out till his last hours.

  Would the demons have followed the boy into the afterlife? William hoped that when it was his time, his death would be quick, and not drawn out in the unseen horrors that seemed to afflict all who died a feverish end.

  Smith stopped at a long narrow wooden table. “Sit. Cook’ll get us some chowder.” He planted himself on a low wooden bench and motioned for William to do the same. “So, you’ll work as yer told, ya’ see,” he continued, “or you’ll die.” It was a simple statement. Smith shrugged as though to emphasize such inevitability.

  William stared at Smith in frank astonishment. Has he been reading my thoughts?

  William’s eyes, wide in surprise, did not escape Smith’s notice, and the corner of his scar-licked mouth pulled into a thin, sad smile. “Ya’ survived the pressin’, didn’cha? Many don’t.”

  Pressing? Christ! So that’s what happened! William had heard that press gangs roamed the countryside near every port in Great Britain, physically abducting nearly all men and older boys that they came across, to be recruits for His Majesty’s Royal Navy. Physical force was almost always used by the “gangers”, as no man who neither had a family nor made his living on land went voluntarily. Being “pressed” into service meant suddenly disappearing, leaving family behind with a good chance of never returning to see them again.

  William thought again of John. Of his father’s cap ground into the bloodied grass. Of his mother and Abbey begging at the neighbors’ door–Stop it! You can’t help them now!

  “So, who are ya’?” Smith peered at William, holding him in his gaze.

  “William.”

  Smith continued to stare, waiting for William to go on.

  “William Taylor,” William added. “Me Da’s a farmer ….” William’s voice trailed away. Da’s dead. John’s dead. And somebody’s gonna’ pay …. William could feel his chest tighten and his cheeks grew hot. He clenched his teeth and pinched his thigh, focusing on the pain. Don’t cry! Don’t you dare cry, you milksop! Stay hard. Keep your wits about you, he scolded himself.

  Smith leaned in on his elbows and announced, “Well, Mr. Taylor, glad to have ya’ on board.” He extended his hand and shook William’s. “Samuel Smith, makin’ yer acquaintance.” Glancing over his shoulder, he squinted into the ship’s murky semi-darkness and cocking a thumb back towards the other sailors, he continued in a low whisper. “And I’ll tell ya’ now, they don’t see no point in feedin’ a body what won’t haul and scrub, ya’ see,” he explained quietly.

  “Work, or die, Mr. Taylor,” he sat back and nodded. “That’s yer only choice now.”

  The child would live. At least for now. The fate of his newly postpartum wife was not so certain, but in his experience, the doctor knew that she stood a chance if the bleeding co
uld be controlled.

  In tending to his wife’s hemorrhage, Dr. Willoughby immediately demanded that Tess and Cassie chew copious amounts of tobacco leaves, spitting the soggy cuds out into a bowl, while the bulk of the noxious stuff simmered in a cauldron over the room’s fire. Mixing the tobacco with fresh cotton, he packed the bundle into his wife’s birth canal, and added more steeped tobacco juice and leaves as they cooled, to the vaginal poultice.

  “Broken tobacco slows the bleed and the cotton clots any blood that does escape,” he explained. Both girls felt nauseous and in an effort to ward off the impending headache that would surely follow their own absorption of the tobacco juices, they sipped a warm cup of tea laced with laudanum. Light headed then, and full of silliness, they took to their beds early, each giggling at the other’s brown stained teeth and lips.

  “We look like the old corner Crone!” Cassie exclaimed, smirking at her reflection in a silver-backed looking glass. Tess smiled too, although the mention of the old woman gave her the shivers.

  The corner Crone was a beggar woman renowned for her eerily accurate prophesies and gift of second sight. It was said that she had not been burned as a witch because her advice was frequently but confidentially sought by high ranking city officials and men of power. Dr. Willoughby, however, had only open contempt for the woman and her herbal potions.

  “Have you actually seen her, Cassie?” Tess asked.

  “Oh yes, I was on an errand and had to go almost down to the waterfront, when I turned a corner and there she was, all dressed in a shabby brown robe, her hood all up and around her head and face,” Cassie recalled and pulled her nightshirt up over her head, clasping it under her chin, to simulate just such a hood. “Her hand was all knarled and fingers all curled, but there was a ring on one of her fingers. It caught my eye because it sparkled as though it had some gems or the like in it catching the sun.”

  Cassie’s eyes widened as she recalled the details, then her eyebrows knitted together in a frown. “Come to think of it, that ring actually didn’t sparkle so much as it glowed, just like the glow of a fire’s ember, only it was as pure a blue as I’ve ever seen. I remember wondering how a beggar would come to have such a thing, let alone keep it from being stolen off her ….”