The Puritans (American Family Portrait #1)

by Jack Cavanaugh

  “No,” Marshall shouted back. “Just work on those stacks.”

  “S” ran to the stacks of pamphlets and furiously began stuffing them into a large canvas sack that was used to sneak the illegal pamphlets off the university campus. Marshall grabbed the bar on the old press and pulled it toward him until it stopped. Removing the bar from its hole at the top of the worm screw and placing it in another hole, he pulled again. The new presses lifted the platen from the paper with a single stroke of the bar. But universities seldom have new equipment. Unless Marshall could move faster, that simple fact of university economics would result in his capture and imprisonment.

  There wouldn’t be time to take the printing plate apart and redistribute the type to the type case. Marshall would have to get the plate off the press and hide it. He glanced up. No sign of Mary.

  “S” was shoving pamphlets into the bag as fast as he could.

  Marshall worked the worm screw and prayed it would be fast enough. Two more turns should do it. Midstroke, the screw jammed. He heard movement outside the shop. He reached for the ligatures on the edges of the plate and unscrewed them.

  The door slammed open for the second time that morning just as Essex was throwing the canvas bag into a lower cabinet. This time, however, the door didn’t close; it hung open like a gaping mouth. Out of the mouth jumped two soldiers followed by a finely dressed nobleman. The soldiers leveled their weapons, one on each student.

  Marshall recognized the nobleman as George Macaulay, the official who licensed all presses and publications in Cambridge. Marshall had obtained printing licenses from him before. The nobleman was abnormally tall and thin to the point of sickly. His mouth formed a perpetual frown, a completely inverted U, which made him look like a puppet.

  “Good morning, gentlemen,” the puppet mouth greeted them. His deliberately long strut portrayed a confidence that this morning’s events would earn him well deserved praise.

  “Top of the morning to you, sir!” Marshall replied brightly.

  Macaulay stopped and glared. He didn’t appreciate criminals with a sense of humor. Essex didn’t have Marshall’s nerves. The younger student leaned against the cabinet door, the one in which he’d just deposited the bag of pamphlets. His legs were crossed at the ankles as were his arms across his chest. The boy’s fingers fidgeted nervously in his armpits.

  “It’s a mite early to be working on anything legal,” Macaulay said, as he walked toward Marshall and the press. “You do have a license for this print job, don’t you?”

  “Well, to be honest, sir, no, I don’t. Frankly, I didn’t bother because I knew you wouldn’t grant it.”

  Macaulay was angered that his prey wasn’t afraid of him. “Let’s take a look at that plate,” he growled.

  “I’d like to oblige,” Marshall said with a grimace, “but it’s stuck in the press. I can’t budge it.”

  Macaulay motioned to the soldier covering Marshall and said, “Help him get the plate out.”

  The soldier set his weapon against the side of the press.

  “You grab that side and I’ll grab this one,” Marshall instructed. “It’s really stuck tight, but I think one good pull should get it. Ready? On the count of three. One. Two. Three!”

  The two men yanked with all their might. The plate came flying out of the press. Loose type flew everywhere. The scarecrow nobleman had to cover his face with his hands as the lead alphabet showered down upon him. Some of the letters found their mark on his skin and clothes, printing imperfect d’s and k’s and w’s.

  “Well! I guess it wasn’t stuck after all!” Marshall grinned.

  The guard who had been Marshall’s unwitting accomplice was not amused. Still holding the empty platen in his hands, he swung it at the laughing printer, hitting him with the flat surface and sending him sprawling on the floor. He stood over the fallen printer with his foot on Marshall’s chest.

  “We’ll see who is laughing when you come to trial in the Star Chamber,” Macaulay shouted, dabbing at the spatters of ink on his clothes with a handkerchief. “Search that cabinet!” he shouted to the second guard standing next to Essex. “Your friend wasn’t quite fast enough,” Macaulay said with a snort.

  The guard shoved the lightweight Essex aside. Then, he had to get down on all fours to reach the canvas bag in the back of the cabinet.

  Essex stood nearby, waiting for the guard to climb back out. When the emerging guard reached the moment of imbalance between bending and standing, Essex grabbed the bag, pushed the guard to the ground, and bolted toward the back door. Marshall tripped the guard standing over him as he attempted to intercept the fleeing Essex.

  The back door flew open and Essex was gone. In two blinks the first year student came flying back into the room. A huge oafish guard appeared in the doorway.

  “Do you think I’d be stupid enough to leave the back door unguarded?” Macaulay jeered.

  “If you’re asking, yes, I think you would be stupid enough,” Marshall replied. The guard he’d tripped up silenced Marshall with a kick to the ribs.

  To the oversized guard in the doorway Macaulay shouted, “Take out one of the pamphlets and read it aloud. Let’s see if it’s as humorous as the funny printer on the floor.”

  “I don’t read so good, Master Macaulay,” the guard protested.

  “All the better,” Macaulay replied. “You’ll be reading these boys’ prison sentences. I’m sure the funny printer will be happy to help you with any hard words.”

  The guard shrugged. He wasn’t sure, but he took Macaulay’s response to mean he should read a pamphlet anyway. He lowered his huge paw into the sack and pulled one out. With clumsy fingers he worked the pages open and stared at the words. A grin spread across his face. Looking up he said, “Hey, this is good!”

  “Read it aloud!” Macaulay shouted.

  The guard began reading:

  DELILAH AND THE DEAN’S DOWNFALL

  Having heard that Dean Winters was crude,

  She decided to see for herself.

  When he entered the class she was …

  “Ahhhh!” Macaulay screamed, grabbing the pamphlet from the guard. He flipped through the pages randomly reading it for himself.

  Still on the floor Marshall smiled. “It’s not as good as Shakespeare, but I kinda like it.”

  “Me too,” said the guard.

  “Dunce!” Macaulay shouted, turning to the guard closest to the cabinet. “You grabbed the wrong bag!”

  “There was only one bag in there!” the man protested.

  “Look again!”

  Macaulay stood over him, hands on hips, supervising the search of the cabinet. The guard got down on all fours and crawled halfway into the cabinet.

  With his rear end protruding, he shouted, “Just like I said,” his voice echoing from inside, “there’s nothing else in here!”

  Marshall stood up under the careful watch of his guard. “Look, I don’t know what you expected to find here. But lads around here go wild for this Delilah series. They can’t get enough of her. They’re willing to pay half a crown easily!”

  “Enough!” Macaulay shouted. “Search the rest of the shop!”

  The guards opened every drawer and cabinet. Every printed piece of paper was scanned. They found half-finished textbooks, play scripts, and bills of advertisement, but no Puritan propaganda pamphlets.

  “Get them out of here!” Macaulay huffed, after the last drawer had been searched.

  Marshall and Essex were marched out of the shop. Macaulay was the last one out. He took another look around, cursed, and closed the door. He held the bag containing the lewd literature; at least he wasn’t coming away empty handed.

  The first rays of morning pierced the shop windows, highlighting the ceiling rafters. The scene below looked like the eerie aftermath of student vandalism. Printer’s type and leading littered the floor. The flatbed press platen was half-up and half-down on the worm screw. The press itself was dirtied with ink. Drawers and cabinet d
oors hung half-open. Random shapes and sizes of papers were scattered everywhere. All was still.

  Then, as the sunshine reached the top of the wall and began its daily descent from ceiling to floor, a small creak disturbed the silence. It was the sound of wood against wood, the kind of noise the top of a wooden barrel makes when it’s pried open. From inside the cabinet that had earlier displayed the back half of a British guard, a tiny, feminine hand reached out and shoved the cabinet door open wider. Out crawled Mary Sedgewick from her cramped hiding place behind the interior wall of the cabinet. Behind her, she dragged a canvas bag, identical to the one Macaulay took from the shop. This bag, however, contained the Puritan pamphlets written by the infamous Justin and printed by her beloved Marshall.

  Mary wasted no time. She made her exit through the back door. She threw an oversized cloak over her shoulders to protect herself from the morning chill and also to conceal the bag she carried in her arms. Her gait was brisk, like that of any young woman out for a morning walk.

  She made her way to Bridge Street and turned north. A few minutes later she crossed the Cambridge River that gave the university town its name. Proceeding past Magdalene College between St. Peter’s and St. Giles, and past an old medieval castle, she headed for the countryside. She turned down the road leading to the Platt farm.

  As she walked, she congratulated herself for holding up so well. It was a short-lived confidence. A moment later, trembling hands and unsteady legs betrayed her.

  “Mr. Platt!” she cried, barely able to control herself.

  A kindly, elderly man emerged from the barn, dressed for another day of battle with the soil, animals, and elements. When he heard Mary’s voice and saw her disheveled appearance, he held out his arms and let her run into them. Between sobs she told him of the events in the print shop.

  “They arrested Marshall for the obscene pamphlets?” Platt asked.

  She nodded.

  “Good,” he said. “Damage was minimal. We may have lost a printer, but not the press.”

  “But Marshall and Essex will be dismissed from the university!” she wailed.

  “Yes,” he agreed, “but they will escape the Star Chamber.”

  Mary wiped her nose. “I’m just glad Marshall’s father isn’t alive to see this. He’d be so disappointed that Marshall won’t graduate from Cambridge.”

  “Don’t sell our brother short, missy. From what Marshall has told me about his father, he was a man of God. He’d be proud his son has the courage to stand up for his faith.”

  “It just makes me angry,” Mary said, straightening up. “Why does there have to be any punishment at all? Why couldn’t we put some harmless pamphlets or blank pieces of paper in the sack when we make the switch?”

  Farmer Platt inhaled deeply. He had attended the meetings of the Puritan resistance committee when the plan was discussed. Several ideas were presented, including the ones just mentioned by Mary, but the plan that had been worked to perfection in the print shop this morning was the one that was adopted.

  “You have to understand human nature, missy,” the farmer explained. “Macaulay knew something illegal was being printed. And he wouldn’t rest until he found it, even if that meant tearing apart the walls of the shop. So, we give him something illegal to find. Granted, it’s not what he was looking for, but it is a crime. His sense of duty is fulfilled, and he gives up after a cursory search.”

  Mary lay her head against Platt’s chest. The reasoning was sound, but it didn’t stop her heart from aching. “Are these pamphlets really worth that kind of danger?” she asked. Platt responded by reaching into the canvas bag and pulling one out. He began to read:

  There comes a time in every man’s life when he must make a decision. I’m not talking about the kind of decision that determines the outcome of his day, or his year, or even his life. I’m talking about the kind of decision that goes far beyond his personal interests, far beyond his own life—a decision that will set in motion the destiny of the world for generations to come.

  The time has come for us to make such a decision.

  The choice that confronts us is not complicated. Simply put, it is this: Will we observe the laws of God, or will we conform to the desires of men? Shall we obey the Bible, or shall we obey the dictates of a London bishop?

  The question before us is simple; so must our answer be simple.

  Borrowing Peter’s words our response should be: “We ought rather to obey God than men,” Acts chapter 5, verse 29.

  As Christians of conscience, how can we decide otherwise without denying our faith? The Bible alone is God’s perfect statement of how we are to live. The Lord God, determining to set before our eyes a perfect plan, is both able to do it and hath done it.

  It is natural that God should be so explicit in the instructions

  regarding His people, since it is the virtue of a good law to leave as little undetermined as possible. The explicitness of God’s moral and judicial law is a clear indication of God’s mind. And His law is permanent. It cannot be repealed by any earthly king, any earthly council, or any earthly bishop.

  Either the Bible is God’s perfect Word, or it is not. Either we will choose to obey Him, or we will not. The choice before us is a simple one. Making our decision is not difficult; living according to our decision will require great courage and faith.

  These are perilous times. Who knows the full measure of the price we will yet pay? However, the choices we make, we make not only for ourselves, but for our children and our children’s children. Whatever the price, it will be worth it.

  This is not the time for the weak of heart. Nor is it the time to turn the other cheek, for we have not been insulted. We have been deceived. It is time for godly men and women of England to choose their future.

  I, for one, choose God. I would rather fail attempting to obey God, than to succeed in any attempt to please men.

  Platt rested the pamphlet on his lap. “Marshall will be proud that he had a part in getting this message out,” he said.

  Mary wiped her eyes and nodded.

  “You’d better get home, missy,” Platt said. “I’ll take the pamphlets from here.”

  Later that day, Justin’s pamphlets left the Platt farm hidden in the false bottoms of milk containers on a dairyman’s cart. The dairyman passed them to other contacts—who took them east to Newmarket and Thetford and into the city of Norwich, where one of the pamphlets was delivered to Reverend Thomas Calmers, the parish priest of Spixworth.

  Reverend Calmers shut the door to his study as he read Justin’s challenge. On the desk before him lay a circular from Bishop Laud addressed to the churches of Norwich. In the circular, the bishop instructed the priests always to wear the proper surplice attire when preaching. Instructions were also given regarding the placement of the altar at the east end of the church. A rail was to be built around the altar, setting it apart from the congregation. Failure to follow the circular’s instructions would bring immediate disciplinary action, including, but not limited to, the suspension of the pastor’s living.

  Tears stained Justin’s pamphlet as Reverend Calmers finished reading it. In all his thirty-two years of ministry, he never thought it would come to this. Yet he could not ignore the two opposing forces inside him. Like an unhappy couple, his faith and his church were claiming irreconcilable differences. Once inseparable, they now hated each other. How could he choose between them?

  For most of the afternoon, Calmers wept and prayed over the pamphlet and circular as they lay side by side before him on the desk. As the sun set and the room darkened, Reverend Calmers rose slowly, as if he were lifting a great weight. Picking up the two printed items on his desk, he placed the pamphlet in his pocket and the bishop’s circular in the fire.

  A country gentlemen from Corby delivered Justin’s latest pamphlet to points north—Peterborough, Leicester, and Nottingham. In Derby, just west of Nottingham, a father of nine read the pamphlet to his family at the supper table. He prayed
that God would keep his children strong in the faith. Then he offered a prayer of thanks for Justin’s parents and the influence they undoubtedly had on the writer’s spiritual upbringing.

  To the south the pamphlets made their way to London and Canterbury. From there, they were carried to the southwest— Bristol, Exeter, and Plymouth. In Edenford, a little village situated on the River Exe, Ambrose Dudley, the town’s scrivener, studied the pamphlet word for word. He circled several phrases in the pamphlet that were distinctive of the author’s style, folded the pamphlet, and placed it in the back of his Bible.

  It would be difficult for an Englishman to travel to any part of England and not find someone reading Justin’s pamphlets— sailors at Portsmouth, candle makers at Swindon, lawyers at Ipswich, and a schoolmaster at Coventry.

  It was one of Laud’s boys in Northampton who first lay his hands on Justin’s latest pamphlet. As instructed, he delivered it immediately to Bishop Laud at London House.

  It took no small amount of courage to hand over the pamphlet. He had heard stories from the other boys about Laud’s violent reactions to seditious literature. But what he had heard had not prepared him for what he saw that day.

  The bishop received the pamphlet and rewarded the boy with a shilling, commending him for his diligent work. Then he dismissed the boy so he could read the pamphlet in private. Feeling somewhat cheated that he didn’t get to see the bishop throw a tantrum, the boy sneaked back down the hallway and cracked the door just wide enough to watch. The bishop was slumped in a chair before a fireplace, reading intently. There was no yelling; he didn’t throw things; he didn’t stomp about. Nothing. Just the rhythmic rising of his chest as he read.