This Rough Ocean

by Ann Swinfen

  ‘Nay, sir, I think you will not. We are already fourteen inside and three outside. There’s never room for another.’

  ‘We shall see,’ said the clergyman. ‘I’m certain my business is more urgent than that of certain others.’ He looked with meaning at Anne and her forlorn party, standing shivering in the snow, before marching off to accost the driver.

  ‘I fear we must hasten on,’ said Anne. ‘I have friends in Oxford. If we can but reach there . . .’ She had told no one of the pains she had felt the night before, which had subsided this morning, but she was aware that they lay in wait, ready to jump out like a footpad when she least expected it. Should she go into labour in Oxford, she could send for help to the Harcourts.

  ‘Don’t worry, madam,’ said her fellow passenger. ‘I won’t allow them to turn you off the coach. I’m afraid we did not meet on the best of terms yesterday. Will you allow me to introduce myself?’ He gave a slight bow. ‘My name is Doctor Matthias Hadley, fellow of Christ Church College.’

  The circumstances were exceptional. Normally Anne would not have begun an acquaintance without a formal introduction by trusted friends, but these were difficult days. In time of war, the niceties of polite society can not always be maintained. The man seemed respectable. And if he would help her keep her place on the coach, his assistance was not to be scorned.

  ‘Mistress Anne Swynfen,’ she said. ‘Travelling home from London with my household.’

  ‘Swynfen?’ said Doctor Hadley. ‘I’ve heard that name before. Do you not have estates near Sutton Cheney, in Leicestershire?’

  ‘Those are cousins of my husband’s family.’

  ‘Ah, I have it now. Near Lichfield?’

  Anne nodded somewhat reluctantly. She had no wish to reveal too much.

  ‘Then you must be the lady of John Swynfen, the Parliamentman. I have heard him speak in the House, and a fine speaker he is, indeed.’

  Anne had nothing to say in reply to this, for John’s eloquence had been so often praised. She was, however, astonished that the fellow of an Oxford college should have heard him speak. Their conversation was interrupted by the return of the clergyman with the driver, whose attempts to persuade Anne to remain behind in Reading with her party were brushed aside by Doctor Hadley.

  ‘If it is absolutely essential for this gentleman,’ he bowed to the clergyman, ‘to reach Oxford quickly, then we shall have to make shift for him to be accommodated in the coach. I will take one of the older children on my lap, if necessary. Though I warn you,’ he frowned at the other man, ‘that you will have barely room to sit.’

  ‘I couldn’t ask such a thing,’ said Anne, embarrassed that she had thought Doctor Hadley so disagreeable on the previous day, but he ignored her objections.

  At last the coach was ready to depart. The passengers were far from comfortable, crowded together even more than on the first day of the journey, like salted herrings in a barrel, but their shared discomfort loosened tongues and even led to a certain sense of comradeship in adversity. They were not far outside the town of Reading, however, when the wind began to blow. Before long, the snow started to fall again, large flakes and palm-sized clusters, spinning through the air. The fingers of wind probed through every crack around the doors of the coach, and Anne, who was once again sitting beside the window, felt as though cold hands were slipping down the back of her neck. With difficulty, because of the confined space, she managed to pull a silk shawl out of her Turkey bag and wrap it round her shoulders, knotted it in front of Mary’s chest. The additional layer was thin, but provided a little extra warmth for both of them and helped to prevent Mary sliding off her lap.

  ‘I fear the outside passengers will be having a cold time of it,’ said Doctor Hadley, regarding her over Jack’s shoulder. Jack sat rigidly on the gentleman’s knee, indignant at being thus treated as a child.

  ‘Aye. Our man Peter is full old to be travelling outside in this weather.’

  There was nothing to be done, however. None of the other male passengers, neither the two gentlemen nor the two of the middling sort, could be expected to take a servant’s place. The merchant appeared to be dozing, while the clerk stared out of the window. The clergyman put down the book he was reading and took off his spectacles, the better to look at Anne. Now that he had won his point and found room in their carriage, he was all twinkling good will.

  ‘If these Ranters and Levellers and Diggers and Anabaptists had their way, madam, you would no doubt be obliged to ride outside, our friend here would be driving the coach, and the servants would loll at their ease inside.’

  Doctor Hadley frowned at him.

  ‘That is no way to speak to a lady, sir. You forget yourself.’

  ‘I do not say that I agree with them, Doctor Hadley. I merely state what such people believe. They would turn the world upside down.’

  ‘Apostles, xvii, 6,’ said Doctor Hadley. ‘Even to repeat such ideas seems to me a kind of treason.’

  ‘But perhaps . . .’ the young clerk said, and then blushed deeply. It was the first time he had been heard to speak. He was sitting crushed against the farthest corner of the carriage from Anne, elbowed there by the clergyman.

  ‘Aye, young man?’ said Doctor Hadley encouragingly.

  ‘Perhaps some of their ideas . . . Not all of them, of course, some of which are dangerous and sometimes blasphemous . . . But some of their ideas, about better provision for the poor, and protection for the weak against oppression, and . . . and perhaps a widening of the right to elect Members of Parliament . . .’

  He was cried down by the clergyman and Doctor Hadley and even the merchant, who woke up to join in the general condemnation of the sectaries. Anne turned and gazed out of the window. Unlike many, she was less willing to enter into an argument about the views of the sects without being better informed of the facts. When John’s youngest brother Richard, only two and a half years older than her own Dick, and now somewhere fighting in the ranks of the army, had talked with enthusiasm about Lilburne’s views during his last visit to them, John had pointed out to him that if these revolutionary views were to take hold, Richard himself would lose the privileges of his own birth and inheritance.

  Richard had replied scornfully. ‘It’s contrary to God’s will that some should be born rich and some poor! When Adam was created in Eden, none were needy, none wealthy.’

  ‘Come and tell me this again when you have lived on a labourer’s hire for a year,’ John had said mildly.

  Later, when she was abed, Anne had heard them still quarrelling below in the parlour, with raised and angry voices. Neither had referred to it the following morning, so she had held her peace.

  The two brothers had parted on somewhat strained terms.

  Where would Richard be now? If he had been in one of the regiments that had now occupied London, he would surely have come to see them in St Ann’s Lane. No, he must still be in the field, perhaps far in the north, ready to withstand any invasion by the Scots. He was the only member of the immediate family to have fought in the army. John’s other brother, William, was newly married, his father and uncles too old and too canny. Her own elder brother was busy running his estate, and her younger brothers disinclined to join the military. Instead, the whole family looked to John to work rationally in Parliament for a peaceful outcome of the conflict.

  And the reward for that was imprisonment.

  She closed her eyes against a swimming headache. The men’s arguing voices blurred into a distant rumble. She had slept little during the night, and felt sleep overcoming her now.

  Anne woke to a sudden jolt as the coach hit a stone or a frozen rut in the road, and half slid from the seat. Her hat was askew, her mouth dry, and her neck ached from being twisted sideways. She sat up and straightened her clothes. Mary was sprawled asleep, with her mouth open. The other passengers had fallen silent. It seemed unnaturally dark. Anne peered out of the window and realised that what had been a slight shower of snow when she fell asleep had
grown into a blizzard. Nothing could be seen through the window except a whirling mass of grey-white snow like porridge boiling in a pot. It pressed against the window so thickly that the coach almost seemed to be under water, and ridges of snow were building up against the coarse glass so that each window would soon wear a breastplate of snow, solid as ice.

  The horses were making slow progress against the storm. They had slowed from a canter to a walk, and trudged so slowly that the coach seemed hardly to move forward, as it jolted over the frozen ground and swayed from side to side, buffeted by the wind. Anne flexed her fingers, which were stiff with the cold. She could barely feel her feet. Looking around, she saw that most of the passengers were asleep. Like her, they were no doubt tired from a night with the bed bugs. And the darkness within the coach felt like dusk, although surely it must be no more than early afternoon.

  The inside of the window was misted over from the breath of those within. Anne rubbed a space clear with the side of her hand, but found she could see no better. Then suddenly the coach heaved like a ship hitting a rock, there was a shrill whinnying from the horses and a yell of fear from the driver or one of the outside passengers. The coach lurched, paused, and then crashed on to its side. All the passengers were thrown down. Anne tried to fight off the tumbled bodies piled on top of her, and at the same time to protect Mary from the crushing weight. People were screaming. A pain like a knife shot through her chest. The children sobbed and called ‘Mama!’

  ‘Don’t move!’ said a voice with authority. Doctor Hadley. ‘We must climb out carefully, one by one. You there, by the door on the top. Can you open it?’

  Anne could see nothing from where she lay, stifled and in pain, but she remembered that the plump merchant had been sitting nearest the door on her side, the clerk on the far side. She could hear someone wrestling with the door, and other voices shouting from the road. The outside passengers must have fallen further, but they probably landed softer, on the snow, and without this heap of heavy bodies pressing them down. Her chest felt so crushed, she could barely breathe.

  There was a blast of icy air as someone succeeded at last in opening the far door. The handle of the nearer door, which had now become the bottom of the coach, was jammed into her ribs. She tried to shift to ease the pain and found herself nose to nose with Nan.

  ‘Mama?’ Nan whispered. ‘Are we killed?’

  ‘Nay, my poppet.’ Anne tried to free an arm to reach out to her, but could not. One arm was wrapped around Mary, who was sobbing quietly, the other was trapped under Hester’s considerable weight.

  ‘Don’t be afraid,’ she said, trying to smile. ‘The coach has overturned because of the storm. We’ll have to climb out, and then the men will set all to rights. We’ll just have to wait our turn.’

  They had to wait a long time. The merchant climbed out quickly, but the merchant’s wife fell into hysterics and refused to budge. She was a large woman, and it took all those on the outside, and Patience and the clerk on the inside, neither of them very strong, to heave her bodily out of the opening. The children were then passed out one by one, all except Mary, who was too entangled with her mother. At last Anne, Mary and Doctor Hadley were left alone inside.

  ‘Can you move?’ he asked. ‘You bore most of the weight.’

  ‘And you,’ she said.

  She had seen how he had braced himself to hold back the passengers on the other seat from sliding down upon Nan. She was now so stiff and numb, she could barely move. Slowly she managed to ease Mary round into Doctor Hadley’s arms. The child, stunned, went without complaint, and was passed up and out through the open door. As Anne tried to scramble into an upright position, hampered by her tangled skirts and cloak, and by her ungainly body, she felt stabbing pains both in her chest and in her back.

  ‘I think,’ she gasped, ‘I think I may have broke some ribs.’

  The other pain was all too familiar. There was no doubting it this time. She realised that she had been aware of it ever since the coach had overturned, but had ignored it in the confusion of the accident. Wave upon wave, it was the pain of regular contractions.

  Doctor Hadley was struggling to gain a foothold on what had been the side of the coach. He put his arm firmly around her waist and helped her to climb up the floor, which lay at an angle like the slope of a roof. It was a contact of unseemly intimacy, but Anne was grateful for it.

  As she gripped the edge of the door frame, she suddenly remembered. ‘My Turkey bag! I mustn’t leave that.’

  ‘Don’t be afraid,’ he murmured. ‘I’ll bring it with me. I’ve seen that you value it.’

  The scramble out of the coach was difficult and painful, every movement, every breath shot through with pain. At last she was perched precariously on the top side of the coach, with Doctor Hadley supporting her from inside and the merchant and the clergyman reaching their arms up to her from below. With little care for her dignity, she let herself drop. The pain in her ribs as they caught her nearly made her faint away. Doctor Hadley, climbing out behind, helped her to a seat on some of the luggage which the driver and postilion had piled up in the snow, so the coach might more easily be righted. It was impossible to see where the road ended and the fields began, the drifting snow lay over all in a uniform white. Patience and the others had gathered the children together. They were all unhurt and, now that the initial fright was dispelled, were enjoying the excitement of the accident.

  Anne pulled her hood up over her hat and huddled in her cloak, clutching the Turkey bag on her lap. It was difficult for her to breathe. Each intake of air caused a sharp pain in her chest; almost certainly she had cracked her ribs. At the same time the labour pains swelled to a peak and broke and receded, like breakers rolling on to a shore. It might be no more than a reaction to the blows from the falling bodies. Or it might be the true onset of labour. If so, it would be a race between the baby and the journey to Oxford. She closed her eyes and tried to ignore the pain.

  ‘Mistress?’

  She looked up. It was Peter, hovering over her, his kind old face screwed up with concern.

  ‘Are you hurt?’

  ‘A little, I think, in my ribs, Peter.’ She studied him. There was a small cut on his chin. ‘And you? You must have fallen a great way.’

  ‘I didn’t fall hard, mistress. I was thrown into the snow at the side of the road. This,’ he touched his chin, ‘came from one of the chests falling from the roof of the coach, but I was main lucky. ’Tis no more than a graze.’

  Anne eased herself awkwardly round until she could see the men working on the coach. With the help of the passengers, the driver and postilion had unhitched the horses and were now struggling to heave the coach upright again. As she watched, it came up with a rattle and bounced on its leather straps. There was a faint tinkle as broken glass fell out of one of the windows.

  ‘Do you think we’ll be able to journey on?’ she said.

  ‘We must,’ said Peter. ‘Else how can we survive in this?’

  He was right. The blizzard had not abated. Snow was piling up already on the chests and bags, on the shoulders of the shivering passengers and on the backs of the horses, whose breath poured out like smoke amongst the falling snow. There was no sign anywhere of habitation: not a house, not a cottage, not even so much as a barn or a sheepfold.

  The men were now gathered around one of the coach wheels. It was still mounted on its hub, but looked somewhat misshapen. The driver had brought out a mallet and was banging on the iron wheel-rim. Then he shrugged and conferred with the postilion. Doctor Hadley came over to Anne.

  ‘We’ll be able to continue, but only slowly, because the wheel is damaged. And the road is so hidden, the postilion must walk in front to show the way. Once the luggage is reloaded and the broken window blocked up, we’ll be able to get inside again, out of this infernal storm. I fear it will be long past dark before we reach Oxford. How do you feel now? Are you still in pain?’

  ‘Nothing I can’t endure,’ said Anne, ‘
if I move with care. Tell me, are you a physician, Doctor Hadley?’

  ‘I fear not. No, my study is mathematics and astronomy. But we’ll fetch a physician to bind your ribs as soon as we reach Oxford.’

  It was not her ribs that gave her most concern. If she went into the final stages of labour before the journey was over, she would have to depend for help on the other women.

  At last the coach was ready, the horses backed into the traces, and the passengers, stiff with cold, climbed aboard. It was the window next to Anne which had been broken, and she realised that once again she had been fortunate not to have lacerated her face. Slowly, the coach moved off into the blizzard, at the walking pace of the man feeling his way along the road ahead, probing the snow with a long cane.

  Time dragged its heels for the passengers, huddled together now with little regard for privacy or dignity. Wind and snow found their way in through the broken window. The damaged wheel caused the coach to lurch even more than usual. They had shared out what little food they had, and the merchant had produced from somewhere about his person two squat green flasks of good French brandy which they passed from hand to hand, drinking from the bottle. Even the children were permitted a small sip.

  ‘It will help to keep out the cold,’ said the merchant, tilting a mouthful between Francis’s chattering teeth. Francis was now sitting on his lap, where he seemed surprisingly at home for a boy who was normally wary of strangers. Having done what she could to feed the children and keep them from the worst of the cold, Anne was now concentrating on her own body, willing the labour pains away. But they would not go. She closed her eyes and ground her teeth together to stop any cry from escaping.

  ‘My dear.’ A hand touched hers, and she opened her eyes to see the fat merchant’s wife leaning forward. She now occupied the seat where Nan had been earlier. Recovered from the ordeal of climbing out of the fallen coach, she radiated kindness from her ample form, squat and comfortable as a round loaf. Her bright blue eyes peeped out at Anne over cheeks like fresh pippins, and her hand was soft and powdery, the rings sunk into the plump fingers.