by Ian Mortimer
I cross this bridge and walk up Saint David’s Hill. I do not recognise the building where the old church used to stand. What is there now does not look like a church: it has a line of plain columns along its front. It seems to me that the citizens have become so beholden to straight lines that they have even started to worship them. They have started to worship words too. All around the church are many engraved stones. I stop and wonder whether people today worship God or the word of God. But then I ask myself: have they been worshipping words all these centuries, without truly knowing?
I walk down the hill to the river. Bless the river. It flows by, strong and silent, the one and only unchanging thing in this country. I can see why my namesake John the Baptist chose to baptise people in a river. It is a sort of embodiment of God: both life-giving and unstoppable. The weeds waft in its muscular flow. I run the baton through the water, creating ripples. Then I put my hand under the surface, feeling the icy purity of Creation. This is what I know and trust. Everything back there in the city – the tall, unfriendly people and the bridges of iron, the writing and the tyranny of straight lines – none of it is for me.
I step into the river, feeling the freezing cold around my lower legs, and let the baton gently slip out of my fingers. It drifts downstream.
‘Excuse me,’ says a voice behind me. ‘Can I help you?’
I turn quickly and, in doing so, lose my balance and tumble, and I am suddenly immersed in the cold water. I put my hands out to break my fall and the pain of the wound shoots through my right hand when it hits the stones of the riverbed.
As I get to my feet, dripping, I see a round-faced man with spectacles. He looks to be about the same age as me, and not as tall as most people in this new time. He has a high forehead and his thick hair is strangely pushed all over to one side of his face. His beard is bushy and a little grey on one side. His clothes are all black, including his coat, except for a little white collar and white gloves. He is holding a very tall black hat in one hand and a silver-headed stick in the other.
‘I’ve seen men with scars like those before.’
He has kind eyes. They give the impression that he is always smiling.
‘I mean to say,’ he continues, ‘that such is the chilliness of the season that I do not believe you are here for a pleasure-dip.’
I look down the river; the baton is disappearing from view. ‘I’ve lost everything. Everyone I ever knew is dead. My home is in ruins. Everything I ever owned has gone. I’ve lost my faith – for that was taken away from me by King Henry the Eighth. Most of all, I’ve lost my place in time. I know I will die tomorrow – and yet tomorrow cannot come soon enough.’ I look at the man. ‘Did the voice from the stones send you?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘You have no need of my pardon. It is rather that I have need of yours. I want to die, to slip under the water and join my kin, but . . . Ah, now I see – the voice has told you to rescue me.’
He looks at the water, composing his thoughts. ‘Do you remember the cholera outbreak of thirty-two?’
I shake my head. I do not know what cholera is.
‘One morning I came down here, as I often do on my morning walks, and I found a pretty woman. She had two young children with her. She had drowned both of them, in that very spot in the river where you are now, because her husband had left her and her mother had died. She explained to me, most matter-of-factly, that she did not want them to die of cholera too. She was laying them out on the bank as she spoke to me, and singing. I have no doubt she intended to drown herself as well.’
‘And you stopped her?’
‘I did. Later, when the story broke, the city authorities wanted to hang her for murder but I successfully persuaded them that the woman was out of her wits and was better off in the lunatic hospital at Exminster.’
‘If you would truly help me, you would hold my head under.’
‘Now, come, my friend. Things are never as bad as all that. Why, even in the darkest night, you can see something, if only a silhouette of a rooftop or a branch.’
‘Who told you that?’
‘It is just something my mother used to say to me when I was a boy.’
I look up at the trees. ‘When I was young, I understood it like that. In fact, I used to say that very thing to my sons – that it is never truly dark. But I was wrong. There is darkness: it exists, and sometimes it can be overwhelming, even when the daylight streams through the leaves.’
‘If there is light and you see only darkness, then either there is a deficiency in your sight. Or you need to open your eyes.’
He holds his right hand out to me. ‘I am Father Edward Harington, curate of the parish of Saint David’s.’
I do not take his hand.
He leans a little further forward. ‘Please? You do not look like a man who wants to drown himself.’
‘I’ve nowhere to go.’
‘Then why not spend some of your day with me.’ He still holds his hand out.
‘Every day now I find myself further and further from home, and lonelier, and lonelier – and there is no hope of me performing a good deed and saving my soul. Every day is composed of . . . of an unpredictable horror – no, of a horrific unpredictability. I know no one. No one knows me. No one needs me, and yet I need someone. Every day I wake and it’s the seventeenth of December yet again, and another ninety-nine years have passed and I feel in pain and lost. I know I’ve but two days to live – and, truthfully, I’d rather not live them.’
‘That is indeed lamentable. But I would point out that today is not the seventeenth of December. It is the twenty-ninth.’
‘You are kind to pretend. But I know.’
He withdraws his hand. ‘I do not believe it! There you are, half-naked, standing in the freezing river, telling me I do not know the date . . . Which of us is closer to his wits’ end, eh? My good fellow, four days ago I shared our Christmas feast with my mother and sister. They are at home now, in Southernhay: you can ask them the date, if you so wish. You can ask anyone. Why not ask those labourers working on the site of the railway station, or the men building the new inn at the foot of the hill? Oh, there is no doubt about it: today is Friday the twenty-ninth of December in the year of our Lord one thousand eight hundred and forty-three.’
I feel deceived, ignorant and ashamed. At least yesterday I was able to console myself that I knew what the date was, and would be ninety-nine years hence on the morrow.
Father Harington gestures at my back. ‘I can see that you have been beaten and that your mind is in despair. I discern both angels and devils dancing about your soul. But it is my belief that no one is beyond recovery on Earth, just as no one’s soul is beyond redemption in Heaven. So I have a proposition for you. Will you grant me this one day of your time, so I might try to convince you that life is worth living? If I fail, you can come back here and throw yourself in the water tomorrow, if you must.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I do not wish to see a soul in such distress.’
‘Where are you planning to take me?’
‘How does the idea of a nice warm bath appeal? A soothing medication for your back and a clean shirt? Maybe when we have seen to those injuries we can eat a hearty lunch. I believe cook is producing a hake and oyster pie for the three of us – that is, my mother, my sister and myself – but I am sure it will go round four. Do you know the engravings of Bartlett, the paintings of Northcote, or the music of Schubert? Have you ever drunk the juice of oranges? There are so many good things happening in the world that I am sure, were you to give me just one day of your time – one day that you say you do not want to live and so which, I assume, is free in your schedule – I could turn it into an excellent day, and one that you will be glad to have lived, even if you choose not to live another.’
I reflect on my duty to live all six days allotted to me – and my obligation to William to do what I can to save both our souls. I have no choice. I wade to the bank and climb o
ut of the water.
He holds his right hand out again, even though I am no longer in danger of drowning. I take it in my left, and we shake. The completion of this small act seems to make him happy, for he smiles. ‘I am glad. Now, I have told you my name, what is yours?’
‘They call me John of Wrayment.’
‘Ah,’ he says, ‘an ancient and noble name, “Offremont”. I seem to recall reading about a Gerard d’Offremont who witnessed charters in twelfth-century Normandy.’ He holds up a finger as if to stop himself talking. ‘Oh, but excuse me. I’m sure that medieval history is of no interest to you. I apologise. Let me show you the way up to my house; it’s near the theatre. The sooner we can get back there the sooner I can have Eliza prepare a hot bath.’
We set off in silence towards the city. As we pass a building site, he points to the rising walls. ‘The first train should arrive in four months’ time. Then we’ll be able to travel to London or Manchester in just a few hours. I was composing a sermon on that very theme for next Sunday. For it appears to me that the inventions of the modern world are connecting us and thereby binding us all together as one people, breaking down our regional boundaries. The whole world is becoming united through God’s great gift of steam power.’
‘A train?’ I ask. ‘A wagon train? Pulled by packhorses?’
He looks at me. ‘Where are you from?’
‘I told you. Wrayment, in the parish of Moreton. Or Moretonhampstead as it is now called.’
‘Well, Moretonhampstead’s not such an out-of-the-way place.’
‘But what is it, this train?’
‘You see those chimneys over there?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you understand what goes on inside them?’
As we walk along, I see people staring at the sight of this finely dressed man walking side by side with me, a half-naked, lacerated beggar.
‘The steam engines, John,’ he repeats. ‘Do you understand how they work?’
‘They carry smoke away.’
He stops and takes a silver round object with a glass front out of a pocket. He looks at it. ‘We have time. Can you bear a short detour? The water will be just as hot when we get home.’
I am cold and ashamed of my near-nakedness, but I have just one day left to live after today. A bath and cloak means less to me than whatever it is Father Harington wants to show me. I simply nod.
As we walk, he talks about his parish. The local people, he tells me, want this ‘railway station’ to be called ‘Red Cow Station’, as this is apparently the name of the area, but he is adamant that it should be named ‘Saint David’s Station’. ‘That,’ he says, ‘sounds like a place in which established and decent people might meet their fellows coming from afar. What will gentlemen and ladies from London think if they have to alight at a stop called “Red Cow”? They will assume they will step off the train to be met by fellows with straw in their hair and women exposing their breasts and bare arms, perhaps with milk pails swinging from their shoulders and an infant clinging to their skirts. It will not do. We must build for a better future, not the way things are today.’
I start to grasp that a ‘railway station’ is where people from London might come – like a quay. On carts called ‘trains’.
The new bridge into the city is much lighter and more graceful than the old one, and free from all the houses that used to line its way. Further on, the old quay is larger than ever, and busier too. Edward Harington tells me of an artificial channel for ships called a ‘ship canal’ that circumvents the weir downstream. He tells me too about the brick structure at the quay that caught my attention ninety-nine years ago. It is a customs house, for a Crown officer to charge duty on imported wares. Behind it there are several tall chimneys in which ‘steam engines’ are housed. He tries to tell me how they work. I do not follow the explanation but I do understand the principle of the expanding steam driving a piston. Nowadays, I gather, you do not have to build your mill near a river: you may build a steam-driven mill anywhere, and it will be just as powerful as a water mill, if not more so. ‘One day,’ he says, ‘water mills will no longer be required. Everything will be powered by steam.’
Shortly afterwards we see a wooden boat, with two masts, fore and aft, and a large waterwheel on each side. A tall metal chimney in the middle of the vessel rises almost as high as the masts.
‘There,’ he says, as proudly as if he had just built the ship himself. ‘What do you make of that?’
I struggle to see why this boat is such a thing of amazement. She is not much larger than the single-masted vessel in which I sailed to France with the king’s army, and a fraction of the size of the Victory, which sank ninety-nine years ago, with its nine hundred men and one hundred cannon. And I can’t see how the waterwheels will work, even if the boat is blown along. In fact, if she has to tack into the wind, they’ll be useless. I guess the smoking metal chimney is the key to the remarkable nature of this ship.
‘Is there a mill on the ship?’
‘John, my good man, no! That chimney, or funnel, as they call it, is attached to a steam engine in the hull of the boat, and that drives those two great wheels, forcing the ship through the water. This here is a boat that is driven by the power of coal! How about that – no more getting caught in a lull, when there is no breeze. No more having to tack this way and that as you sail into a contrary wind.’
I stare at the boat and then put the two together – the steam-driven mill, which needs no water power, and the boat. This vessel does have a steam mill inside it – one that drives the waterwheels that push the boat along. My mind tumbles at the very thought of using a waterwheel to drive water. This is like having a cart in which you drive horses around. It seems so wrong, so contrary to the way God intended things to be. And yet, if it works, why should it be anything other than a gift from God? Even so, I am suspicious. For if people still trust God, why do people no longer trust Him to direct the wind?
I turn and look downstream, at the placid water, and then back to the boat. ‘Folk will use it to no good purpose, I can tell you that for sure.’
‘Why on earth do you say such a thing? Is it not a marvel? Do you not see how it – and the many ships like it yet to be built – will change the world?’
‘Oh, I see that,’ I reply. ‘But I see also what changes will come of it. Men are starting to direct things that rightly only God should control. And when men break down the barriers that God has given us, there are no safe places.’
‘I do not follow you, John.’
‘Back in the day when the city gates were guarded, and the night watchmen were on the lookout, then a traveller was a man to be held in high esteem, and listened to earnestly. And the poor were such folk as one wanted to look after and nurture – for the good service they could render. Now all the walls of the world have been thrown down, and the world is a colder, harsher, more frightening place, in which only the rich thrive. Money has taken the place of our safe walls.’
‘Most curious. But who has been telling you these things? Can you read?’
‘Father Harington, I’ve seen it with my own eyes.’
‘What have you seen?’
‘I’ve seen all the past paraded before me, since the days of our good king, Edward the Third. One day from every ninety-nine years, one after the other. I’ve seen the gates of the city of Exeter standing ninety-nine years ago, albeit in dilapidation, and I’ve seen them at their great height, and I’ve seen them as they were before that. I’ve seen the folk of this city when they were stout enough to give their lives in fighting for King Edward and when they were so weak and poor in spirit they would charge a man tuppence just to enter the cathedral. I’ve seen the butchery of those that supported Colonel Fairfax, and the hypocrisy of a canon precentor, and the exploitation of tinners like the Periams. Father Harington, ask me not the whys and the wherefores, for I do not understand them, but I’ve seen all Christian life laid out, as on a table at a feast – and I’ve dipped my fi
ngers into the sauces and I’ve tasted the soul of mankind in its many forms, and at the end of the day, I’ve got to say, it has left a bitter taste in my mouth.’
Father Harington stares at me. He starts to speak but stops himself and looks away over the boats moored at the quay. Then he seems to make up his mind about something and turns back to face me. ‘You have had a vision, an extraordinary experience. No, no, that does not quite do it justice. God has given you a vision. That is what has happened.’
I shake my head. ‘I have had no vision. I only wanted to explain . . .’
‘But I have to correct you,’ he adds. ‘Edward the Third was not a good king. He started a war with France that lasted for more than a hundred years. He taxed his people mercilessly, hated peace, and was a vile seducer of women. He was not the sort of man who encouraged free trade or free thinking, or freedom of any sort, except freedom for himself. He was, in short, a dilettante, a frivolous thing and damned lucky not to die on the battlefield.’
‘No! What do you know of him? He was a man of the most noble disposition, an embodiment of kindness to his folk, and a fearsome enemy to the warriors of France. All kings have taxed their people but if a man could not afford to pay eightpence to King Edward, then he paid nothing. He loved his wife, Queen Philippa, her and no other – never another – at least, not while I lived. And it was through the love of God and his own genius, he won every battle. They say that Alexander the Great’s men followed him as far as India; well I can tell you that if Edward had set out to conquer India, we’d’ve been there right behind him, all the way. And nothing in all the years I’ve seen since has led me to believe we’ve yet seen his like in England. Would our present army follow our king to India?’
Father Harington replies, ‘Today we do not have a king. We have a queen. And she rules over India.’
This amazes me. Once we wondered about women reading and writing; it has never occurred to me that a woman might reign. ‘But if we now have a queen in England, and she is queen of India as good King Edward was rightly king of France, it is because long ago he showed us the true spirit of an Englishman. You’ve forgotten him, and now you besmirch his good name. Nowadays the truth is changed. Everyone here is a stranger. And your puffing boat – I’ll tell you why it’ll be used to no good purpose: it is because man is a devil to man, that’s why. Homo homini daemon. Ever since the great plague men’ve strived to compete and outdo one another, as if nothing is the will of God and everything is the will of man. And the cleverer that man has become – what with all his clocks and spinning machines, blowing houses and steaming ships – the more he’s used all such innovation against his fellow man. Click, click, click goes the clock, and ting, ting, ting rings the bell – and it’s “Do this now!” says the rich man. That boat will be used to fight and kill. It might not be this year or next, but one day, steam boats will be used to kill people. There’s a great girdle drawn tight around the world, and it’s being drawn tighter and tighter, and while it’s bringing our bodies closer together, it’s driving our souls further apart.’