by Paul Butler
“Hey! Hey!” comes the cry of the captain from the boat. But George and Jemma push through the gathering crowd which, dazed by the spectacle of the flaming barge, parts like a sea, letting them through. The captain shouts again, but George cannot make out the words. The crowd begins to shriek and gasp.
George and Jemma duck into an alley, still running. But George slows down and pulls Jemma back by the sleeve.
“Now walk,” he whispers to her, “just walk.”
Curious gazes are already greeting them from behind the dark stalls. A shopkeeper shouts at them as much from sport, George thinks, as from any wish to sell his wares. He doesn’t catch the words and the man goes back to work almost straightaway. Here they are too busy even to worry about the fire, although the blue flames show above the rooftops.
As they continue to dodge through the crowds, George, though still out of breath, wears a face of stone. He fixes his gaze directly ahead as though intent upon an errand. A group of barefoot boys run past, splashing in the horses’ urine which runs in streams between the cobbles. George turns a corner, heading east and glancing back to make sure Jemma follows. She does so, clutching the baby, keeping far enough behind to seem unconnected as has always been their habit in London. She has her hood pulled low over her head now, another shield against curious glances, although it pricks the interest of some.
A commotion—the barking of a dog and some raised voices—causes George to turn. He sees the wiry animal pulling with its bared teeth upon Jemma’s robe. Jemma tries to pull away and the baby starts crying in terror as the animal growls. Damn curs that can so easily sense fear! George thinks. He runs back and goes to kick the animal, which immediately slinks away.
They continue without further delay along the street, going back to single file. But a barrel-chested man behind a stall, the dog owner, it seems, raises his hand and clicks his fingers at George.
“Sir, sir!” he shouts, then vaults over his table and runs after them, clicking his fingers all the way. George speeds up and signals Jemma to do the same. But the shopkeeper follows.
“I’ll give you three sovereigns for her,” he calls through the crowd. George tries to wave him away, but he follows.
“Four. Four for her and the child.”
George increases his pace again and checks to make sure Jemma is keeping up.
“Are you the owner, sir? Yes, you!”
Now people begin to stare at the strange procession. Man, followed by black woman and child, followed by shopkeeper with arm held high and fingers clicking.
George turns right, heading down the main thoroughfare toward London Bridge and back to the river again. He makes sure Jemma is following. She is, but the shopkeeper is gaining upon her, still shouting, still clicking his fingers. George slows a little and waits for Jemma. A bear’s watery black eye fixes upon George with curiosity as its owner tugs its reins and muzzle. As soon as Jemma catches up, George reaches backward and yanks the hem of her robe, guiding her as he scoots through a large group of street minstrels, jugglers and clowns. He weaves in and out, trying to lose their pursuer. A skittle hits George on the side of the head and clatters to the cobbles. The performer curses him. But he pays no notice and meanders through the crowds at an ever increasing pace, reaching behind occasionally and tugging Jemma’s robe to make sure she is following.
“Where are we going?” Jemma whispers.
“We have to get to the river,” he says. He knows this is still the most likely way to escape London. Also, they might lose themselves among the huddled masses which congregate there.
Soon London Bridge comes into view.
“Won’t they be looking for us there?” asks Jemma, catching up and walking alongside for a moment.
George stares at the ramshackle dwellings on the bridge, with yellow lights showing in the narrow turret windows. A dozen long poles over the archway entrance stick up like the spokes of a broken wheel; the heads of a dozen miscreants show like dark cannon balls against the moonlight.
“It’s the last place they’ll look,” George tells her. “They won’t be expecting us to return this close to where we were living before.”
As they come closer to the water, George sees a group of boys under the archway, playing some game, kicking a heavy rock about. They seem excited and some of them keep looking to the west and pointing. When George reaches the dockside, he scans upriver to see the attraction. There the barge still burns like an eternal blue torch. It has been pushed off from the wharf— a precaution perhaps against setting the city on fire. The brandy-fueled flames seem to ignite the black river with their reflection. All along the dockside for half a mile, crowds stand and stare.
“The devil,” he hears an old man murmur. Others around him grumble in agreement, adding something to the tale which George cannot catch. George checks to his left and finds Jemma still huddled in her robe. He wants to reach out and touch her but dares not in the crowds.
A boy kicks the heavy rock, which scuds along the ground and strikes with some force against George’s shin. It comes to rest between his feet. George looks down and sees two hollow orbs staring up at him from a face of scorched, peeling flesh. George gazes up toward the bridge’s tower and sees that one of the poles has lost a head. Then he looks down at the boy, a fresh-faced youth, fair and—he can make out in the darkness—with freckles. The boy’s friends stand in a circle behind him, waiting.
“Sorry, sir,” he says. “Can we have it back, please?”
George sighs. He feels the oddest sensation that the soles of his feet are burning. It is as though he is sinking into the hot clay, as if red tongues of fire will rise to greet him any moment and swallow all of the people around him, women, children and men, so they may descend together into the flesh-shrivelling flames of the nightmare city.
George kicks the head back. It rolls to the boy, who picks it up and throws it into the waiting scrum of his friends. They start kicking it about afresh, laughing and barging each other to gain possession.
George takes Jemma’s hand. It’s so dark and Jemma is so well huddled within her robe that he feels no one will pay them any attention, particularly when most are quite taken up with the spectacle of the burning barge. George leads Jemma down a few steps to the water’s edge and eyes the bank to the left. It seems wide and dark enough to provide shelter for the night as long as it doesn’t rain. He is about to suggest this when there is a tug at his sleeve and he hears his name.
“Captain Dawson,” says the small voice.
George turns and looks down. It is Tom Spurrell, the messenger boy from St. John’s.
A fierce look must have come into George’s face because the boy backs off a little and raises his hands.
“Don’t, don’t, I’m on your side,” he says.
George quickly surveys all the people around him, expecting to see the men from the gangplank. It is surely a trap, he thinks. But he sees only children playing and figures by the water wrapped against the cold, watching the blue flames rise in the distance.
“What are you doing here?” George demands.
“I’ve been following you,” the boy replies with surprising frankness. His countenance is open and he is anything but furtive.
“Who for? Whitbourne?”
“No,” he says, wide-eyed. His feigned innocence annoys George.
“I know you must have come from New-found-land on Whitbourne’s ship. Don’t lie to me.”
“Yes, but it was Sir Killigrew who took me on as a servant when I arrived,” the boy replies.
George looks at the boy’s dull appearance, his plain and worn tunic, his tattered shoes, one toe poking out. He looks just like he used to in St. John’s, just a couple of inches taller.
“You don’t dress like Killigrew’s servant,” he says, eyes narrowing.
“That’s the way he wants things,” the boy argues. “Sir Killigrew needs eyes all around London, but he wants us to blend in.”
George takes a half-step f
orward, trying to scare him off, then pauses, realizing it will do him no good if the boy then runs to let Killigrew know of his whereabouts.
“What do you want to keep silent? Money?”
“No. I don’t work for him now.”
“Since when?”
“Since tonight.”
George looks around again, making sure no one is watching. Some of the crowds at the dockside are dispersing. The violet flame is dying and the barge’s bow sinks slowly beneath the black waters, its mast collapsing.
“Why tonight?”
“I heard what they were going to do to you and the lady,” he says nodding toward Jemma.
Jemma cradles the baby’s head. “The men. I wished I hadn’t led them to you. And now that you’re free, I want to help you escape.”
“Escape to where?” George says rather bitterly; it’s dawning on him now that the child really is as innocent as he seems.
“Back to New-found-land.”
George groans and then laughs. “Back to New-found-land. New-found-land,” he grumbles. “The coast there is controlled by Easton now. Easton, with the full aid and co-operation of the English navy.”
“But don’t you see, sir” the boy says, looking from him to Jemma. “There are more places to hide there. Much more than here. And no one will be expecting you.”
George looks across at Jemma, whose eyes seem alive with thought. She strokes the baby’s head again.
“Easton never stays for more than a few months, anyway,” the boy continues. “He may be gone in search of treasure already.”
“Why are we even talking about it?” George replies, shaking his head. “We can’t get to New-found-land.”
“I can get you there safely,” the boy says, taking a step forward, eyes filling with a strange kind of hope.
“How?” asks Jemma.
George groans again, knowing such an idea to be ludicrous.
“One of Whitbourne’s ships is docked down river. It starts its return journey to St. John’s tomorrow morning with supplies.”
“Whitbourne’s ship!”
“I’ll get you on, don’t worry. And the admiral has been detained by the King. He won’t be following for a few weeks.”
Jemma turns. “We must do it,” she whispers to George.
“You’ll be safe,” the boy insists, “I know every bit of her, and Easton’s men will leave her alone.”
George sighs. He can smell the charcoal from the fire now, and black curling ashes waft around them. “Listen, boy. Why would you do this for us?”
The boy’s eyes take on a wounded look. “Because I don’t like spying!” he says almost angrily. “And because I’m coming with you.”
“To St. John’s?”
“No,” he replies quickly. “I know another place, an island some way beyond. Easton has set up his base near there—in Havre de Grace.”
“All the more reason to keep away from it,” George says.
“But, no. He never looks on this island because he thinks people will be far too afraid to be so close to him. There are already people hiding there and Admiral Whitbourne helps them. The ship that leaves tomorrow is to drop supplies there. The admiral wants to protect the people there, even though he obeys Easton.”
“What’s your name?” asks Jemma.
“Tom,” he replies softly, looking suddenly like the child he is.
“Tom,” she says in a gentle voice, “why would you not want to stay here, where there is food and work for you?”
“I don’t belong here,” he says. “I want to go home.”
Chapter Eighteen
The snow is hard and dry and makes no noise under George’s footfalls as he hurtles along, snapping dead twigs and scaring crows from their frozen boughs. His eyes burn so cold he sees double; everything—trees, rocks, snowbanks—has a blurry, blue shadow.
“Sheila!” he yells. But his mouth is so numb that he hardly recognizes the word, even in his own ears. It sounds more like a wolf’s baying.
But an answer comes.
“Here!”
From behind a clump of shiny bare trees she emerges, like a spirit of the rocks, grey-clothed and white-faced, a bucket in her hand.
George stops and holds onto a branch, his shoulders heaving. A lone seabird dips, swoops and circles over their heads. Words are somehow lost in the vast coldness that surrounds him. Sheila smiles slightly, crow’s feet furrowing her otherwise youthful face.
“It’s time then?” she asks softly, approaching with the bucket and handing it to him.
He gasps and tries to speak, but ice seizes up his throat.
“Yes,” he manages to blurt at last.
The fire in the cabin blazes hard enough to scorch George’s face and make his eyes water. Sparks float and land in his hair. But George and Gilbert continue breaking up the wood, stripping the bark and fueling the flames.
Jemma’s cries and the roar of the fire compete with each other. As her pain rises, George becomes frantic, stripping the bark faster. Now and again the men catch each other’s eye and Gilbert gives George a reassuring smile.
George can just hear Sheila’s soft tones as she whispers into Jemma’s ear. For decorum’s sake neither Gilbert nor George ever turn around or take their eyes from the fire for more than a second. If keeping the room warm were not so vital, they would be outside the cabin, pacing in the snow or keeping the children amused. As it is, the young ones belonging to Sheila and Gilbert—Katherine, John, Mark and Mary—are in the other cabin with Tom Spurrell and “Young George.” Young George is Jemma’s nephew. They got around to naming him, at last, around Christmastime. Year-and-a-half-old Young George is learning to talk in single words. George and Jemma think of him as their first-born.
Jemma gives a great shriek, which makes George and Gilbert stop. George almost turns around, but stops when he hears Sheila’s voice.
“Yes! Good Jemma. It’s coming. Coming!”
Gilbert nods at George. He keeps on stripping bark. George, his heart pounding, does the same, though his fingers shake a little as he handles the wood. The thought of losing Jemma has just swept through his mind and is too frightening to contemplate.
It seems to him now that he and Jemma have escaped a cauldron of horror, corruption and hypocrisy and have found their way at last into real life. Even though that real life is on a wind-blown, desolate island off another larger island which is darkened by pirates and politics and even though his small island is still encased in snow in the last week of April, they are nevertheless surrounded by the warmth and light of acceptance. George has sat hour after hour in Gilbert’s little boat with the cold stabbing the roots of his fingernails and the fish refusing to come, and yet even here he has felt some consolation, some nameless hope that better times are waiting.
And there is something more. In the crisp and frozen stillness of this new world, everything is unformed. Even while the cold, damp and hail threatens wife and child, George feels a newness about it all that exhilarates him. In the last few weeks spring has made its first timorous signs of emerging—a pond thawing here, buds appearing there—before being overtaken by the jealous, returning frost. George listens and sometimes laughs as Sheila and Gilbert reassure him that real spring is ready to pounce on them all, flooding warmth, sunlight and flowers all over their little island. George doesn’t quite believe them, yet still finds something extraordinary in their belief. When next he feels the sun struggling to be felt through the piercing wind, he begins to have faith that they are all part of a new creation, that their little group has been mysteriously returned to The Garden. In such moments George feels as if the degradation of politics, greed and compromise are as yet unborn here. He feels that, if they are all careful and if they teach their children well, these things can remain unborn—a dormant, unneeded warning. This little community can be the second chance for the world.
So when Jemma cries with pain he feels it is the whole world he may be about to lose. She is the one
who has brought him out of the cauldron, leading him into this place of eternal promise. Sheila still talks, urging Jemma to push, soothing her when she whimpers and rests. And suddenly a new sound cuts through Jemma’s gasps and the roar of the fire. It sounds alien at first, like the gasp of a strange animal. But then he recognizes it—the crying of a newborn baby.
George watches while the ship from St. John’s dips toward the horizon beyond the ice pans.
“It’s safe now,” he says to Tom.
They both emerge from behind the cover of some low saplings and join Gilbert and his children, who run in circles among the barrels and sacks. Tom immediately lifts a sack onto his shoulder. The boy is thinner than he was in London last fall, but he is developing a wiry brawn. He also has a dogged, workmanlike way about him. Everyone, especially Sheila, teases him about this.
“Let’s see what it is first, Tom, before we carry it back,” Gilbert says to him with a smile. Tom relents and lets the sack drop again to the huddled mass of supplies.
Whitbourne has continued his practice of sending food regularly to Sheila and Gilbert. George is impressed by this, although it might seem like a trifling inconsistency in Whitbourne’s otherwise perfect record of loyalty to Easton. George is not foolish enough to assume this generosity might extend to himself, Tom or Jemma. So the three of them keep well clear of the coast when there is any sign of a ship.
Gilbert continues to rummage through the sacks and barrels. “Flour, sugar, wool blankets,” he announces rhythmically. “This time there’s news,” he adds in exactly the same tone, not lifting his head. George comes closer to hear.
“Easton has left again. They think it may be for good.”
“What makes them think that?”
“Word is,” he says untying a sack and looking inside, “that the kingdoms of the world are vying for his patronage, begging him to take a title and some land. Even the Spanish.”