Gideon woke up, pleased to find himself able to think disparaging thoughts. He heard Mr Nichols inform admiring bystanders that the patient's wakening was a blessing, because those who went into deep comas from their wounds, or the medical procedures that resulted, rarely woke up again. Gideon Jukes eyed the man balefully. He could see. He could scowl. It was a start. But he was a soldier and he knew when death was continuing to eye him up.
Gideon's mentality remained tough enough. He wanted to live. His body fought for it automatically, however weak he felt and however terrible the pain. When he first came round, the pain was worse than he thought anyone could stand. He imagined this would not soon improve.
Once Gideon Jukes caught the surgeon's eye, he warranted a lot of attention. He had so many wounds that were interesting — which he realised meant dangerous. He lay listening to a lecture on which of these wounds must be dealt with most urgently. Removal of the bullet in his body took priority, for leaving it in was likely to kill him. Removing it was just as likely to do that.
The surgeon enjoyed probing. He tried to find the bullet by asking where the pain felt worst and then fiddling just there; he was adept at causing more agony as a way to test if he was getting warm. When initial searches failed, he instructed that Gideon must be levered up into the exact position he had been in when he was shot — or as close as could be managed, given his frailty. Impressed onlookers murmured, while medical assistants sat Gideon up like a rider on a horse, for more probe-work.
Mr Nichols decided an incision would be made to his back — as if he was not already punctured enough. 'If the slug has pierced his lung, there is nothing to be done; such patients die…'
Gideon did not feel the cut too much. The bullet popped out rapidly and neatly, he gathered. There was mild applause. Too soon to relax — there had to be a further search down the track of the bullet to find all rags, dirt or bone splinters, otherwise infection would set in.
Four days. Gideon knew the situation: if you were going to die of infected wounds, it took four days. You just had to hope all bits and splinters would be found and taken out of you, all dirt cleansed. You prayed for a good bullet that had stayed intact. You hoped none of your own bones had shattered or, if so, that all fragments would be noticed and meticulously scraped away.
At Colchester, when ammunition ran low, bullets had been moulded from old waterpipes. They were full of impurities, which may have caused the story that the enemy had used poisoned bullets, deliberately rolled in sand. At Dunbar, Gideon was offered his bullet as a memento. It looked smooth and whole. It was lead. That was good. Lead did not rust in the body, unlike iron and brass.
The sword-cut in his thigh was examined, cleaned with cloths that had been moistened with oil of turpentine; to remove suppurating matter, the surgeon inserted a drain, or tent, made of absorbent white cloth — clean, if Gideon was lucky — to which a silk thread was attached, to prevent its being lost inside the body. Part of the wound was immediately sutured, using glover's stitch, a firm, even stitch that would not stretch out of shape in either direction. All Gideon's penetrating wounds were dressed with pads of medicated lint, then bandaged; Mr Nichols was proud of his bandage-rolling technique. He did it with panache.
Skeletal damage was dismissed as deep bruising. Surgeons were only interested in ribs if they stuck out through flesh or if there was evidence that they had punctured an organ. Gideon's coughing-up of blood caused mild concern, but apparently only time — or death — would cure that.
His head wound was reckoned more painful than dangerous. The blow had scraped along the scalp, without fracturing the skull or opening it up. Nichols was disappointed. He wanted the challenge of skinflaps, fractures, shattered bone and sight of brains. He liked to drill extra holes with his trepanning equipment. Just to make sure the patient fails to thrive, thought Gideon glumly.
Gideon had lost a lot of blood. He had lost so much, there was no question he could be further bled by the surgeon. Nichols was disappointed again.
The dislocated shoulder was to cause most trouble.
'It is a luxation, to be sure; I can feel the round bone lying out. His elbow hangs away from his side, and compared with the other, it is backwards…' It would not move forwards either. The man tried that. Gideon reacted badly. 'Bear up, Captain Jukes! Let us have no girlishness. Can you bring your hand to your mouth — no, see there is great pain! — or reach out to the wall beside you? No. A luxation — this is easy to cure in children, not so easy with grown men whose bodies have become muscular…'
Mr Nichols first tried manual replacement, pulling the bone forwards and upwards, while pressing Gideon's elbow to his side with one thigh. It failed. He tried again, using an assistant to press the elbow against Gideon's ribs, so the surgeon himself could apply full leverage higher up. It failed. A strongman was sent for. Gideon was suspended on this hunk's shoulder, so his own weight might correct the fault. It failed. Physical assistance was applied. A halter was made from bandage, incorporating a bolster which was fixed under Gideon's armpit while he sat on a low seat and the surgeon hauled on the bandage with all his might. No luck. Then the surgeon tried again, with Gideon lying on the ground; the surgeon sat behind him, the assistant lay alongside… Gideon was tiring badly, but they assured him this had been successful. 'It is knapt in, but must now be managed, to retain it.'
All this exertion had damaged his other wounds, which would have to be re-dressed. A cataplasm was prescribed; that sounded dismal, but turned out only to be a poultice based on breadcrumbs and herbs. Gideon coughed up more blood. No one took any notice. He was covered with good blankets and allowed to sleep.
Gideon remained ill for many weeks. The congestion in his lungs only very slowly reduced. His strength took even longer to recover and the penetrating wounds needed more weeks to heal. When Mr Nichols took out the drain, that left an ulcerated hole. Gideon became depressed. His shoulder still hurt, his arm was awkward and painful; he was convinced that the bone was imperfectly set. It was his right arm; he was right-handed.
He watched comrades die of wounds and disease. A clerk came around from time to time, to write letters home and take down wills. Gideon had a will written; at the time, he thought it wise. He left everything jointly to his brother Lambert and Robert Allibone. He declined to write home, however; why worry them? He had nobody else he could write to. It struck him that he had been fighting for years for the right to live as he wanted, yet had no household of his own, and might lose even his work if his arm never mended. He wanted a home and family, to work for them and to spend leisure time in their company. He would have to marry. A woman who could make his pulse rush with desire, while the thought of her made him laugh out loud, then quieten into deepest melancholy as he missed her… There were women like that. He had learned it. He could go back to London and look for one. Perhaps at least his broken heart was mending.
At the turn of the year, which was a bad time for sailing, he was given a choice of being taken to Edinburgh or risking the long sea-voyage to London. He chose to go home. If he drowned on the way, it would solve everything.
He arrived safely, though he had been seasick and half starved because the food was dreadful; he had deteriorated while kept down in the half-flooded, rat-infested, permanently dark bilges. It was too cold and rough to lie on deck. Gideon was in a sorry state when he was carried to the soldiers' hospital at the Savoy. He was taken there after claiming he had nowhere to go and no one to look after him. He did not want to impose the burden of nursing him on Lambert's wife. Besides, the house in Bread Street would always be his parents' house; now they were gone, Gideon had stopped feeling it was home.
The Savoy had been a royal establishment for poor relief. Indigent locals who were neither too drunk nor too filthy to tolerate would be admitted by the master in the evening, set to pray for their royal founder, then offered a bed in a dormitory. Taken over for the Parliamentary sick and wounded, some of the rickety beds still had old blue coun
terpanes with red Tudor roses and gold portcullises. The governor and staff no longer wore red rose uniforms, but continued the old spirit of benevolent care, with a doctor and surgeon available but strict rules of behaviour: fines for missing church; pillory or cashiering for drunkenness and swearing; expulsion for marrying a nurse.
The nurses were mainly soldiers' widows. They were reputed all to be looking very keenly for new husbands. Some achieved it. The one Gideon liked best was already spoken for. He could have persuaded her to ditch her betrothed, but he never thought to try.
The punishing journey from Scotland had aggravated his shoulder pain and Gideon saw his muscles were wasting too. The last thing he wanted was a withered arm. The Savoy surgeon admitted to insufficient expertise but sent him around London bone-setters one by one. All agreed that the dislocation looked cured, but was not; the stubborn round bone had remained out of place. New measures were attempted. A padded wooden staff was tried, to extend his arm and force back the joint. A rope suspended from a pulley was used to hang him up. Gideon was made to climb three steps of an upright ladder, during which ordeal, being too tall for the room, he banged his head badly. Finally, he went to a surgeon called Mr Elishak, who charged astronomical fees and who told him that since all else had failed, he must submit to the glossocomium. "We call it the Commander. It is of some use where the luxation has existed for long periods, in a strong man whose limbs are resistant to manual manipulation.'
'Why has nobody suggested this before?' asked Gideon.
'It must be used with great care. Accidents can happen.'
'Oh excellent news!'
'Face it, Captain Jukes: at this moment you cannot work, you cannot write or cut your meat, you cannot lie easy in your bed, you cannot hold your sweetheart on your knee. The pain has etched years upon you, and though you may have been once an even-tempered man, you have become fractious.'
'Damnation, not I!' raved the patient, irritably.
'Oh, Captain, I was warned that you are choleric. The Savoy matron, a woman of sense and experience, considers I should examine your skull, lest you have suffered untreated cranial damage..'
'There is nothing wrong with my head,' growled Gideon. 'Do your worst with the device!'
The Commander was a long wooden box, lined with padding, but fitted with a frightening array of pulleys. With this instrument of torture, the new surgeon applied swift traction of extreme severity. At least it was soon over.
Gideon thought he could feel a difference straightaway. Mr Elishak knew his stuff. He spent longer writing up Gideon's case-notes for his memoirs than he had spent fixing the joint. His enormous fee was enhanced by plagiarising patients' misery for his own glory: 'One GJ, a soldier wounded at the battle of Dunbar, I cured of a most stubborn luxation with apt practice of the glossocomium, where many others had had unsuccess even though the patient was co-operative..'
Gideon lay speechless, listening to the scrawl of the quill pen. Afterwards, he was fastened in a plaster bandage made with oil, a variety of white lead, and what Mr Elishak called 'argillaceous earth', his own mixture of pungent wet clay. Gideon promised to be diligent in allowing the posture of the joint to be retrained. Anything to be rid of surgeons.
He was returned to the Savoy, where shortly afterwards Robert Allibone discovered his whereabouts and came to collect him. Now Gideon allowed himself to be carried to Bread Street. Anne Jukes hired a nurse for his intimate care. He saw little of Anne, and less of Lambert. He sensed trouble in the house. Unwilling to face whatever new crisis had befallen them, Gideon ignored the signs until he was able to emerge from his bedchamber to resume normal life.
One day soon afterwards when he entered the kitchen, he found a cold hearth beside which sat Anne, weeping. Gideon could not remember his mother ever letting her fire go out. He could no longer avoid the question: 'What has Lambert done?'
Whatever it was, Anne could not even bear to name the crime. She shook her head, sobbing louder; then she jumped up and turned to Gideon for comfort. She flung herself upon him, to his great embarrassment. He was an unmarried man, with normal masculine reactions; had this happened before he met Juliana Lovell, he would have been entirely vulnerable. Anne Jukes was more than ten years older than he but she had always been good-looking and Gideon had a soft heart.
Somehow, however, he recoiled from danger. Anne's old regard for him had increased, apparently, into a conviction that she had married the wrong brother. For a moment she clung to him but there were advantages in being tall; simply by standing straight, Gideon could choose who kissed him.
Anne sprang back before she made herself ridiculous by jumping up and down to get at him. She would not repeat her mistake. They passed it off as a moment of misery only.
When Gideon insisted on learning more about whatever turmoil his brother was in, Anne went to their chamber and returned with a piece of paper. Lambert had devoted himself to spiritual exploration of the most tortuous kind. He had written down a memo to himself:
1 That you shall not acknowledge nor yield obedience to any other gods but me
2 That it is lawful to drink, swear and revel, and to lie with any woman whatsoever
3 That there is no Sabbath, no Heaven, no Hell, no Resurrection, and that both soul and body die together.
'Well, now you see!' cried Anne bitterly.
Indeed, Gideon did. Number 3 was a dangerous dictum. Number 2 was a complete shocker. He groaned, while Anne told him the worst in a taut voice: 'These people whom your brother favours affirm that — in their words as said to me by your brother — "the man who tipples deepest, swears the frequentest, commits adultery, incest or buggers the oftenest" — '
'Buggers?'
'Do you know what it means?'
'Oh, I have an idea…'
Not Lambert. Definitely not Lambert. But to lie with any woman whatsoever would appeal to him.
Anne continued bitterly: 'They say, "Who blasphemes the impudentest, and perpetrates the most notorious crimes, with the highest hand and rigidest resolution, is the dearest darling to be placed in the tribunal Throne of Heaven. Each Brother of their fellowship ought to take his Fellow-Female on his knee, saying, Let us lie down and multiply…" He wanted me to join with him, but I would not do it, Gideon. He boasts to me of wicked women in the sect who have let him have his way. He claims that these sinful brethren should not only make use of a man's wife, but of his estate, goods and chattels also, for all things are common… He asks what difference is there between this and what the Diggers believe — while in truth, there is a very great difference!'
'Oh indeed.' Gideon felt very ill now. 'Where is he?'
'Your brother is at a Christmas revel in the Horn Tavern in Fleet Street.'
'Christmas?'
'Free will is lawful. There is no sin. There are no laws.' Sadly for Lambert that was untrue; there were laws directly forbidding this curious phase of his development. The sect he had joined was singled out for government disapproval.
'Do you know what takes place in this congregation?'
Anne railed bitterly, 'The men will make free with the women. They will be gambolling, dancing and revelling — I suppose, you and he being so close-knit, you are going there to join him?'
'No,' replied Gideon with a gloomy sigh. 'I am going there to try to fetch him back.'
Small chance, he thought. What grocer was going to turn up a chance to eat Christmas plum pudding and then to lie with everybody else's wife?
Whatever the Bible said, in respectable City of London society a man was his brother's keeper.
Although wobbly on his legs after so long as an invalid, Gideon walked to Fleet Street. The Horn Tavern was easy to find, due to a large crowd of fascinated onlookers who had congregated outside. Sounds of uninhibited celebration filled the street. Through a window Gideon saw wild dancing, with some participants dressed all in white and some of them only half dressed. One woman was walking on her hands upside down, with a man holding her legs like a wh
eelbarrow. Her skirts had fallen and she was bare from the waist down. Men had women sitting on their laps, whose bodies they were enthusiastically exploring while the women rejoiced and welcomed it.
As Gideon approached unsteadily, the tavern door was flung open. A man rushed out, stark naked. A beer-belly and the effects of the chilly December weather reduced any glimpse of his privates to the minimum, which was his only recourse to modesty — though Gideon saw he had sensibly retained his shoes.
The crowd shrieked with glee. 'Our Adam wants no fig-leaf — only a three-leaf clover!' When the hideously familiar apparition gesticulated, they pulled back nervously.
The capering figure had spotted Gideon. 'Brother! I cannot stop — I have the call!'
Gideon made a grab, but with his right arm still in plaster it was difficult. The wild nude shrugged him off and careered onwards, galloping away down Fleet Street. A cat-calling crowd ran in hot pursuit. Gideon leaned against the tavern wall, feeling weak and in despair.
Lambert Jukes had found a fine old way to punish his wife for her foray into Digging. He had become a Ranter.
Chapter Seventy — London: 1651-53
Lambert Jukes might have been discreetly plucked from Ranting, had he not thrown off his clothes before his dash through the streets. A stark naked, portly man in his forties, all flabby white flesh and ecstatic vision, made an easy target for parish constables. He attracted attention, as screaming women fled, mongrels barked, boys pointed and men gaped — men who were perhaps lost in the wish (Lambert suggested later, rather hopefully), that they too would have cut such an impressive figure.
'Or perhaps not,' muttered his baleful brother Gideon.
Lambert was cornered at the Fleet Conduit. Although he managed to floor three law officers in the process, they wrapped the flailing culprit in a blanket to avert public outrage and carried him to nearby Bridewell. His relatives could only hope that he would be diagnosed as crazy. Treatment of the insane was dire, but if Lambert was deemed accountable for his beliefs and actions, criminal law kicked in. He would be tried on a capital charge. Ranting was seen as so dangerous politically, there was no chance of bail.
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