by C. C. Finlay
“I can find Lydia,” Proctor said. “If she’s drawn in, as we were, but without the safety of a home—”
“And the protections that Gordon has up here. He’s been consulting with a Jewish rabbi, using the Kabbalah because he thinks the Covenant doesn’t know it.”
Proctor paused for a second. How could the leader of the Protestant Association work with Jews? But Gordon wasn’t pro-Protestant or anti-Catholic as much as he was anti-Covenant. In that regard, Proctor had chosen him correctly as an ally. “Lydia doesn’t have that refuge. I’m aware of the pull so I can fight it. If I go out and follow the mob, I’ll find her.”
“There are mobs all over London right now.” Digges found the corkscrew and fumbled it against the top of a new bottle of wine.
Proctor put his right hand over the bottle. “Just tell me where to start looking. That’s all I ask.”
Digges rubbed a shaky hand over his face. Sweat beaded on his forehead, but whether from the drink or something else, Proctor wasn’t sure. “There are thousands of free blacks and Lascars in London. A lot of freemen live in Paddington and Stepney. Paddington’s close, maybe a mile west. But the mob was headed east.”
“Then I’ll go east. What’s a landmark I can ask for if I get lost?”
“Ask for St. Giles Passage—ah, never mind.” He slammed the bottle down on the table. “I’ll come with you.” He looked over his shoulder. “What about Gordon’s man, Grueby?”
“I haven’t seen him since this afternoon,” Proctor said. “Not since the cook went home for the day. But he’s welcome to follow us if he wishes. It makes no difference to me.” He squeezed Digges’s shoulder. “Thank you.”
“I lived through Brazil, right?” he said, rubbing his eyes.
Proctor didn’t ask him about Brazil. He had to keep Digges on his feet and focused on their task. He itched with a strong sense of impending danger—things were going to get much worse. If Lydia needed help or wanted to be found, this was the time to do it.
They walked out the front door, leaving it unlocked behind them. The mood was more apprehensive as soon as they hit the street. The dark closed in around them, thickened with a haze of smoke; the only glow was from distant fires. Furtive shadows bolted across the road, singly and in small groups. The sound of guns firing echoed over the rooftops. Proctor had some experience with what seemed to him like big cities—Boston, New York, Philadelphia—but London was a different place altogether, especially at night with the screams and fires and tension. The buildings seemed taller, the streets narrower, and the city so much larger, going on block after block after block.
“I meant to take us that way, toward St. Giles,” Digges said at a corner, pointing down one street. “But I feel a strong pull this way instead, toward Leicester Square or the Strand. If the Covenant is drawing witches, we’ll find Lydia this way.”
“Unless she has more sense than us,” Proctor said. “But yes, I feel it too.”
London had a palpable sense of history that weighed on Proctor as they went through the streets. New buildings might sit next to bits of wall or building that felt a thousand years old. Or next to the still-smoking ruins of places burned to the ground in the past few days. He became numb to the great buildings they passed, the towers, temples, and courts. He could see, in a country like this, how witches might hatch a plan and spend two hundred years bringing it to fruition. After he saw a coffee house of brick and stone, five stories high, as big as any public building in the states, Proctor shut out the places and looked instead at the people.
The temples and courts had gathered smaller crowds like the one in Welbeck Street, but they seemed to melt away ahead of Proctor and Digges.
“They feel the pull too,” Digges said.
“Or see the fire,” Proctor said, pointing to the glow on the horizon and the great column of black smoke rising into the sky.
“I think that’s Newgate,” Digges said, half turning away.
Proctor saw his hesitation and stopped. “What’s Newgate?”
“Newgate’s the jail. If they’re burning Newgate, the army will be out for certain.”
“Then I better hurry,” Proctor said, and he started toward the fire.
Digges cursed under his breath and ran to catch up.
The road rose to Newgate, which was a formidable wall of huge stones stretching a block in length. Another wall of buildings rose on the other side of the narrow, cobbled street. Thousands had gathered outside the prison, armed with axes and ladders and pry bars, like an army assaulting a fortress. They wore blue cockades in their hats, like members of the same army, and waved the Union Jack and banners with NO POPERY painted on them. A ruffian on horse back waved a sword and tried to direct the mob. Spontaneous chants and unanswered orders and arguments filled the air like the haze of smoke. More people running up the streets behind Proctor and Digges shoved them into the mob, where they were elbowed and jostled. The mob was lit by the fire that glowed through the block’s few windows and by the flames that rose above the roofs, making their faces a distortion of constantly shifting light and shadow. The central block burned so hot that the stones themselves glowed red. On either wing, the crowds were pulling down the walls and passing the prisoners, still in shackles, from hand to hand to lower them down ladders to the ground.
Proctor winced as someone stepped on his ankle. “Who are the prisoners?”
Digges shouted over the tops of heads as the crowd shoved them apart. “Men awaiting trial or execution—debtors, rapists, killers.”
It didn’t make sense to Proctor, but it was hard to think as he was buffeted from side to side. The Covenant had stolen the Protestant Association from Gordon. What did they have to gain from the “No Popery” beliefs? Why would freeing killers and rapists serve their purpose?
“Over there,” Digges suggested, reaching through the crowd to clutch at Proctor’s shoulder.
Proctor saw what he meant. A group of black men was tearing down the far wing, brick by brick. Proctor weaved his way through the crowd to reach them. He felt as if his skin were sizzling—there were men and women with talent in this mob, whether they knew it or not. The power almost crackled. When he came close, he didn’t recognize any of the faces. At least, he didn’t see ugly John among them.
A young man, dressed like an apprentice, pale as a ghost, squeezed by Proctor in the crowd. He had a pronounced widow’s peak and a small cupid’s bow mouth, and his eyes were wide open, darting from side to side, taking everything in. He crackled with the talent, the same as Proctor or Digges.
“I’m looking for a woman,” Proctor said.
“Aren’t we all looking for a woman?” laughed the apprentice.
“This one’s a negress.”
“A slave?”
“No, a free woman—an American. She has a talent—”
“America!” exclaimed the young man. A coronet of light flared around his head. “The spirit of America. The image of God who dwells in Africa, carried to the American shore. We must tear down the walls of our prisons. We must cast off the king of our lesser conscience and break free of the mind-forged manacles that make all of us slaves. When we are all America, we shall all be free.”
The man sounded as mad as a prophet. “She’s like you and me, Mister—”
“Blake, William Blake.”
“Proctor Brown. She’s like you and me. She has a talent, bright as—”
The crowd surged, carrying them apart. Proctor held on as long as he could, until he was stretched out nearly horizontal to the ground. Blake’s jacket was about to rip in his hand, so he let go.
“Get rid of your shackles, Mister Brown,” Blake called. “Tear down your prisons!”
Digges was calling Lydia’s name, but none of the women in the mob who turned her head or responded was the Lydia they sought. Proctor turned and joined him, shouting her name. But their effort was in vain. All the prisoners had been freed, and men were looting the cells not already consumed by flame.
A bonfire of broken furniture filled the street, while rioters carried away smaller pieces and plate wrapped in sheets.
Gunfire sounded close by.
“Soldiers,” Digges said. “It’s time to leave.”
Many others had the same idea, and they were carried along with the tide of people fleeing the sound of guns. Proctor’s heart was pounding. His throat was raw, and his lungs hurt from all the smoke. He felt out of control and in constant danger. He squeezed out of the crowd into the harbor of a doorway, reaching out to grab Digges as he passed.
“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Digges said. “Not in all my life.”
“I’ve seen …” Proctor decided he couldn’t compare it to other things he’d seen, like the slaughter on Bunker Hill, or the first approach of the ghosts at Brooklyn Heights. “I have to find Lydia,” he said. “The Covenant is up to something here. She knows more about them, firsthand, than anyone else. More than you, more than Gordon. I have to figure out what they’re doing with these mobs, and how it connects to”—he didn’t want to mention the demon’s attack on Deborah, not when he was still uncertain of the outcome—“how it connects to America. So I can stop them.”
“You’re like a small dog chasing after a wagon,” Digges said. “Even if you catch it, you won’t be able to stop it.”
“I may be a small dog but I’ve got big teeth,” Proctor said. “You leave that to me.”
“But she could be anywhere,” Digges said. “There are mobs all over London.”
“Then I’ll look all over London.”
And while he was looking, he would try to figure out the Covenant’s plan, just in case he didn’t find her.
Chapter 18
Back at the house on Welbeck Street, Digges opened another bottle of port and drank himself to sleep. Proctor paced through the night and prepared to go out again at dawn.
Grueby stopped him at the front door. “I wouldn’t go out there today.”
“You don’t have to,” Proctor said, and pushed past.
He stepped into the street and looked at the sun, obscured by the pall of smoke that hung over the city. It might be easier to find Lydia in daylight than in darkness. He still felt the jitters, drawing him toward what ever the Covenant intended. He started walking the streets at random. He was confident enough now with just a few landmarks that he could find his way back. He could always find the river. If he found the river, he could find the Houses of Parliament. Once he found the Houses of Parliament, he could make his way to the shops on Bond Street, and from Bond Street he could find his way back to the house on Welbeck.
So he didn’t pay attention to where he was going, following instead the pull of magic wherever it took him. At first glance, the city had the dismal appearance of a drunk at dawn, slow to move, grimacing at the light, and holding its breath against any sudden noise. The mansions and public buildings were barricaded, protected by armed guards. The shops were closed and had NO POPERY signs hanging in the windows or from the doors. In the side streets, the smaller houses had chalk marks on the door: THIS IS THE HOUSE OF A TRUE PROTESTANT.
Proctor was reading those sounds when he heard a young boy’s voice behind him.
“Give us your money.”
He spun to see three lads of no more than ten or twelve carrying iron rods pulled from a rich man’s fence. The lead boy, the biggest, raised his menacingly.
“I don’t have any money,” Proctor said. He took a step toward them, just to show them he wasn’t afraid. He searched for a spell that would disarm all three at once.
But at his approach, the boys turned and ran away. Proctor shook his head, sure that their courage would grow with the next attempt.
As the sun rose higher, he saw other people in the street. Men picked through the wreckage of burned buildings, salvaging anything of value. Thousands of regular troops in their red coats marched toward Parliament to protect it from further assaults. More mobs gathered in the streets, men and women both.
“Where are we going?” Proctor asked a woman with the spark. Her face was caked with makeup to cover pox marks on her skin. Her blouse was low enough to show the curves of her breasts and her skirt high enough to show her stockings. As soon as he spoke to her, Proctor realized that she was probably a harlot.
She seemed oblivious to anything but their purpose. “We’re going to free the prisoners from the King’s Bench,” she said joyfully, and ran ahead with the mob.
So the Covenant wanted more prisoners free? As he moved through the streets that day, from mob to mob, Proctor found the prisons at the King’s Bench, Fleet, and Marshalsea all broken open. Doors were torn from their hinges, bars were ripped from their moorings, stones were pried from their walls, and the prisoners pulled in a human chain to freedom. Blacksmiths brought their hammers into the streets to break the shackles. A man wearing broken shackles rode a great brewer’s horse through the street, calling men to him for an assault on the bank of England, and the mob followed after him.
If the Covenant wanted chaos, they had it. But he was sure they wanted more. The surprising things Proctor saw—a great bridge spanning the Thames and covered entirely with shops and houses like any ordinary street—paled in comparison with the way that people were driven by their passions.
He could feel the fire in him, the desire to find Lydia and discover the secret purpose of the Covenant. It was the only way he could get home again to his family. God, he prayed that Deborah and Maggie were safe. He could feel the urges building in him beyond reason, pushing him to desperation, and he vowed to stay in control of himself. So he walked away from the city and made his way back to Welbeck Street.
“You just missed Gordon,” Digges said on his arrival.
“Where has he gone?”
“To see if anything can be salvaged from this disaster. He has sent private messages to the king, imploring him to have mercy on the rioters. Judge Fielding wants to set an example so there will never be riots again.”
“There’s no law out there at all.”
Digges’s eyes were bloodshot. He held another bottle in his hand. “I feel the pull constantly to go out into the streets.”
Proctor shook his head. “You can’t fight it if you’re drunk.”
“If I’m too drunk to walk, I can’t obey it,” Digges said. He put an arm familiarly around Proctor’s shoulders and hugged him. Then he lifted the bottle and took another swallow.
The Covenant’s spell inflamed passions that were already present in people. The voluntary aspect was important to them. But why?
As the sun set, fires sprouted up throughout the city, brightening the sky like a false dawn. Digges stood at the windows, watching the flames spread. He rubbed his throat like a thirsty man and opened another bottle of wine.
Proctor rose from Gordon’s overstuffed chair and took Digges by the elbow. “Come on,” he said. “We’re going to go see what’s drawing us.”
“It’s a lantern and we are but moths,” Digges said. “If we go, we are going to our own annihilation.”
“Not if I have anything to say about it,” Proctor said. He was filled with rage built on a foundation of fear mortared with uncertainty. For over five years now, the Covenant had dominated his life at every ill turn. They had tried to kill him, they had tried to destroy his country, they had tried to hurt his family. Maybe they had hurt his family. It was time to find them and stop them.
This time, he dragged Digges through the cobbled streets, leading the way.
“At least you’re taking me in the right direction,” Digges said.
“What do you mean by that?” Proctor asked.
“We’re headed toward Langdale’s distillery.” Digges stumbled to a halt. “My God, I think Langdale’s a Catholic. They’ll burn everything.”
So many people were running through the streets, answering the Covenant’s quiet siren, that Proctor could simply follow them. Groups of five and twenty hurried boldly down the middle of the streets, while solitar
y shadows jumped from doorway to doorway. A gangly boy in shabby clothes and brand-new boots burst out a side alley, tugging at Proctor and Digges as he ran past.
“The regulars are coming,” he cried. “The regulars are coming!”
The march of boots on cobblestones and the rat-tat-tat of the drum echoed between the buildings, and Proctor and Digges turned and ran after the boy. The army was driving them toward the fire. They rounded the corner onto a street and their feet splashed. The gutters and cobbles ran with water even though the skies were dry. The air smelled like spirits. Ahead of them a ware house burned. Thousands crowded the streets in front of the fire, cheering. Big men passed kegs around, drinking directly from the bungs. Other men smashed a tun with an ax, spilling hundreds of gallons of alcohol into the street. An old lady ran along the gutter, scooping it up with a tin cup and pouring it into a bucket. Another man crawled on his hands and knees, sucking it up from the street. He slipped and hit his head, and couldn’t rise again. A little girl of six staggered past Proctor, clearly drunk, while her mother trailed after her, laughing at the sight.
“I think I’m going to be sick,” Digges said.
Proctor felt a charge flowing through him, like the spark leaping from the flint in a musket. “We need to step away from this quickly,” Proctor whispered.
But it was too late. The army appeared at the head of the street, ordering the mob to disperse. The mob, drunk and full of rage, flung the barrel staves at the troops. Men began to pry up cobbles from the street and hurl those.
Proctor started to drag Digges away, around the corner of a house, but Digges said, “Isn’t that Lydia?”
A barrel stave flew end over end through the air, striking a soldier in the head and knocking him down. At the front of the crowd stood a group of black tradesmen. One of them looked like ugly John.
“I don’t see her,” he said. “Where is she?”
“I don’t see her now, either,” Digges said.