by Ann Turnbull
“And thou hast offended thy father, and turned down an apprenticeship, and must find work?”
“Yes.”
“In Hemsbury?”
“I think best to leave Hemsbury.” I glanced sidelong at Susanna. We had not talked about this.
“Because of the quarrel. Yes, I see that. So thou’ll leave Hemsbury. And go where? And do what?”
“I – don’t know. Perhaps London. Perhaps bookselling. Or printing. London is where most chances are, I believe.”
“And while thou travel and seek work, and probably do not find it since thou hast had no apprenticeship, and must take to the road again; while thou hast no home and no money, thou’ll take with thee a young wife, who will soon be swelling with thy child – no, don’t blush, these matters must be faced. Would thou have thy wife give birth in a barn? Or a ditch?”
I felt humiliated, and tears stung my eyes. I could not look at Susanna. I said in a low, choked voice, “So thou’rt against me, like my father? I thought to have help from thee.” And I knew I sounded childish, and gave fuel to her argument.
Mary said, more gently, “It’s a fine thing for young men to be on the road, making their way. Not so easy for a woman.”
Susanna gripped my hand. “I’m not afraid,” she said. “I love Will, and if he goes to London I’ll go with him.”
“Thou’rt not free to go. I forbid it.”
“Then we’ll stay here,” I said, “for a year. I’d work for thee, Mary, willingly – learn the printing trade.” Even as I said it, I knew it was not what I wanted. I felt my life narrowing.
Mary looked at me, and it was as if she saw my thoughts. “Under thy father’s eye? No, Will. Thou hast given up much for thy faith. Don’t give up freedom. Marriage is for settled men who can offer a home and a steady income. Perhaps one day thou and Susanna will be wed. But not now.”
“If we could ask the meeting—” Susanna began.
“The meeting is largely in prison.”
“But we may have enough present for witnesses…”
“Witnesses must be of full age, and willing. I for one am not willing.”
Mary put a hand on Susanna’s shoulder. “Hast thou spoken to thy parents of this?”
“No. It came about” – she looked up at me – “only this week. But I fear they will think like thee.” Her fingers curled tight around mine.
Everyone is against us, I thought. But there must be a way.
Susanna
Mary hired a man from Bridewell. A strong man, he was, a labourer with a thirst to match his strength. He’d been locked up for brawling in the street. He called us “you quaking folk” and was glad of the work.
We printed a hundred sheets quarto, and priced them at a penny each. I helped fold and cut. All the time I was thinking, not of our meeting and its troubles, but of Will, and whether he would go to London, and how I might manage to go with him, and whether we’d find Friends in London to be witnesses to our marriage. I could not bear the thought of him going without me.
On seventh-day we were out with our pamphlets. It was market day, the streets full of traders’ booths, and to swell the crowds further there was a sheep fair in the Abbey Fields and a hanging on the edge of town. We stayed away from the hanging – of a woman who had beaten her servant girl to death – but we heard the roar of the crowd as the ladder was kicked away; and then saw, some ten minutes later, the movement of people returning from the spectacle, lit up and talking of it.
Mary and I stood on a mounting block in the marketplace and cried our wares, and a little way off were Will and Tom, also selling pamphlets. Nat, who was still frail, minded the shop. The children were about town. I suspected they had sneaked to the hanging; such things fascinate Isaac, and no doubt Joe is the same.
My brother and sister had stayed on at the Mintons’. Hester loved having Deb there, and I knew Mary did not like small children overmuch, so it suited us all.
I was surprised how many people stopped and bought pamphlets from us.
“Those pamphlets will be kept,” said Mary, “and read and reread; and read aloud to those who cannot read; and so the truth is spread.”
But we were not long allowed to spread the truth. A group of men began shouting at us. One snatched up a pamphlet, tore it and threw it in my face. We heard a man shouting at Tom and Will, wagging his finger at them, threatening the stocks first, then purgatory. A crowd gathered, and soon constables appeared, armed with clubs. Their leader demanded a copy of the pamphlet and declared it unlicensed and illegal. They hauled us down, and I saw Will and Tom manhandled and their pamphlets taken. The crowd grew excited. The hanging had inflamed them, I think, and they craved more. A cry went up: “The stocks! The stocks!”
I panicked at that: pictured the stocks; imagined being forced to sit there in the filth of the marketplace with my legs through the holes, my skirts bunched up above the knee, and folk gawping. The thought terrified me.
The constables rounded us up, the two of us and Will and Tom.
We were lucky. It seemed the stocks were full. Some pickpockets had not long been penned there, and an idiot boy who raved and cursed, spittle running down his chin. So we were warned and sent on our way and our pamphlets confiscated.
“We’ll go back to the shop,” Mary said.
But it was my free time now, after noon.
“I must find Deb,” I said.
And I wanted to stay out with Will. Mary knew that.
She gave me a sharp look. “Mind thou’rt back in good time. And take care that thy conduct is seemly.”
I felt hurt. She was unfair. I was never late back, and my conduct was always – nearly always – seemly. It’s because of Will, I thought; she wants to keep us apart.
Mary went off, and I joined Will and Tom. They both looked pleased with themselves; the scuffle seemed to have enlivened them.
“We had some interesting talk,” Will said, “with a Baptist; and then others who go to church but favour freedom of worship…”
“And others who just wanted a fight!” said Tom, and they laughed.
We were free now to move among the stalls. No one recognized us.
“Does thy father know thou’rt here?” I asked Will.
“I told him I was going to the market.”
“He won’t come for thee?” I was afraid of Will’s father, especially now that he knew I meant to marry his son.
“No. He has customers.”
We found Deb with Abigail at a stall that sold sweetmeats.
“We went to the hanging,” said Abigail. Her eyes were big. “The woman kicked and choked for a long time. The boys have gone off somewhere. Can I buy Deb a candied apple?”
“Yes. I’ll pay. For thee too.” I reached through the slit in my skirt for my pocket. “What’s the reckoning?”
The stallholder, a mean-faced woman with dirty fingernails, picked up the sweetmeats that Abigail and Deb chose and wrapped them in a twist of paper. “A penny each,” she said.
It was too much.
“I’ll give thee a penny for the two,” I said.
“Quaker, aren’t you? I thought you people never haggled.”
“We won’t be cheated either. A halfpenny each?”
She scowled and took the money.
The girls wandered off.
“Take care!” I called after them.
I felt the market was an evil place, full of cheating and false dealing. Mary sold always at a fixed price, as did Sam Minton, and folk came to trust them, and their trade was steady. Here, we must be ever watchful.
“Shall we eat?” said Will. “I’m hungry.”
From another stall we bought beef pies cooked with nutmeg, cinnamon and herbs. We walked about eating and looking at the stalls, and I felt happy just to be outside with Will, to be near him and yet part of a group, so that no one could call my behaviour unseemly.
We had wandered to the edge of the market area and were heading down towards the river, when we
heard a surge of loud voices. It came from a makeshift arena a little way off, on some rough ground near the river.
“Looks like a cockfight,” said Will, and began to turn away.
But then Tom said, “There’s Joe! And Isaac!”
The two boys were at the back of the crowd, trying to see. Their heads bobbed up and down – one brown, one fair.
Tom said, “Joe knows not to gamble or go to such places! Our father would be angry!” He ran, and Will and I followed.
“Joe!” shouted Tom.
His brother looked round, saw him, and squirmed further into the crowd. Tom tried to push in after him, but was forced back with punches and foul language from those who had placed bets and were trying to watch.
From between the heads of the bidders I saw the small stage below, where cocks were being fitted with spurs and tossed into the ring. Several fled and had to be caught and thrust in again before they would fight. I felt pity for them, even though they were only fowls. Feathers and blood began to fly, spattering the nearest spectators. Combs were torn, crops slit. The damage caused by the spurs was quick and terrible.
“Isaac,” I said, catching my brother by the arm. “Thou should not have brought Joe here.”
“We didn’t bet – only watched.”
Isaac is always like this, seeking and questioning. It makes my mother angry, but my father says the light in Isaac is strong and we need not fear for him.
Tom had hauled Joe out and was scolding him. A roar from the crowd signalled the end of the cockfight. People began moving, and flowed past and around us, talking, arguing about the merits of one cock over another.
I don’t know why they noticed us, why the mood changed. Perhaps Tom had jostled someone. Perhaps we were recognized from earlier, when we’d been selling pamphlets. Perhaps they just heard our Quaker speech and thought we’d be an easy target. Whatever the cause, we found ourselves surrounded by a group of four or five jeering, drunken youths.
“Quakers! Holy Joes! Come to preach damnation, have you?”
They shoved Tom and grabbed his hat and trampled it underfoot, and when Will went to help him they set about the two of them, pushing and threatening, then moving in fast with fists and boots. Isaac and Joe rushed to help; I ran and tried to hold them back, and screamed as I saw Will knocked down and kicked. He curled up to protect himself, and I thought: They will kill him, and terror seized me. I turned to passers-by, clutching at them. “Help us! Please!”
And then, all at once, it was over. Others – perhaps the cockfight organizers, not wanting trouble – dragged the attackers away. Will got to his knees. There was blood all over his face, and as he dabbed at it his shirtsleeves and coat were stained red. I dropped down beside him and we put our arms around each other, there in the street, not caring who saw. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Isaac watching this, too, with his usual intent interest.
I knew Will must be hurt, his ribs and shoulders bruised, if nothing more. I could feel him trembling. I drew back and saw that he had a split lip; it was swelling fast, but most of the blood on his face came from a cut above the right eye. I took off my wide linen collar and used it to staunch the flow. The others clustered around. Tom’s nose was bleeding, and he was shaken but seemed otherwise unhurt.
Will looked at me and tried to smile. “I’m no street fighter.”
“Nor would I have thee be one,” I said.
We stood up together.
Joe had found the hats. Will’s had a footprint on the brim, and the grey plume was broken and dangling; Tom’s was crushed beyond repair.
We were shaken, all five of us. Joe was struggling not to cry, and Isaac came and leaned against me and I put my arm around him.
The area of the cockfight was deserted now except for a few men dismantling the arena. I saw the bodies of dead cocks tossed aside: a little heap of blood-stained remains.
We stayed close together as we walked back into town. People stared, and I was conscious of my bare neck and Will’s blood on my bodice.
We went to the print works. It was not until I saw Mary and told her what had happened that I began to cry. But Mary took it all in her stride: fetched water and a wash-ball and cloths; sent the boys to fetch beer and food; found a clean shirt of Nat’s for Will and a collar for me.
“You were lucky they did not draw their knives,” she said.
I shivered, feeling the hostility of the town. And I thought: Tomorrow is first-day. They know where we meet. They will attack us again.
William
I managed to avoid my father that night. I ate with the servants and went straight to bed, and it was not until the morning that he caught me on my way out to Meeting and saw the injuries to my face. I told him it was nothing but a marketplace brawl, but still he was shocked. My coat was bloodstained and my hat damaged, and for once I sensed some relief in him when I refused to accompany him to church.
So I went to Meeting. It was held in the yard of the Seven Stars because the room was locked. I met Mary and Susanna there, but not Nat, who had been persuaded to rest at home. The Mintons came, and Isaac Thorn, and perhaps six or seven other children. The numbers had dwindled with the fever and the sheer hardship of enduring so much for so long.
As we had feared, a mob gathered, and I recognized among the ringleaders the faces of yesterday’s gang. With God’s help and Mary’s guidance we remained still and silent, standing in the cobbled yard while they pelted us with dung and other filth. When Sheriff Danson arrived with soldiers the crowd dispersed, and it was we who were rounded up, accused of causing a breach of the peace, and driven off with threats and blows.
In the afternoon we returned, to find the yard gate closed and a bar nailed across it. We tried to meet in the street outside, but the mob came again, followed by Danson and his men. I began to suspect collusion between them; certainly it would suit the authorities to have a breach of the peace occur, for then an innocent meeting could be declared illegal. This time they arrested Mary and sent her to Bridewell overnight. And they warned the rest of us to stay away.
“This group of Dissenters is to be broken up,” said Danson. “The town does not want it. The authorities do not want it.” And he ignored me but singled out Susanna in a way that made me fearful for her and suspicious that my father was involved. “You, girl: have a care. I warn you: if you bring these children here again you will regret it. I will make an example of you.”
Afterwards, Susanna and I went back to join Nat at the printer’s. We took Isaac and Deb with us; they were to stay the night with Susanna, since Mary was in Bridewell. Isaac, mighty pleased with himself, told us he had found work: George Woodall, the tailor next door to the Mintons’, had taken him on as a servant and errand boy. “Now I can pay Tom for our keep – mine and Deb’s,” he said.
We gathered on benches in Mary’s kitchen and sat in silence; and with a pot simmering on the fire and Deb whispering to her doll, we held the meeting we had not been able to hold at the Seven Stars. The silence grew, and with it my courage. I knew that whatever the authorities planned they would not overcome us; that the way of compromise and comfort was not the true life, the life of the spirit in which we must be answerable for all our actions. And I resolved to be faithful to that life.
Afterwards, Nat allowed Isaac into the shop to browse among the books, while Deb played with the cats and her doll and chattered to Susanna.
Nat asked me how things stood now between my father and me.
“Difficult,” I said. “I need to leave home, to find work. We can never agree, and it puts me in the wrong to be living in his house.”
“But thou’rt not idle. He has thy labour.”
“But does not need it. And … it hurts me to see him so disappointed in me – because there is nothing I can do.”
The little striped cat sprang onto Nat’s knee. He teased it, trapping its front paws in his hands, letting it struggle free before he caught it again.
“Thou could come with me,
” he said.
“To London?”
I saw Susanna tense and look up.
“Mary has given me names of Friends in London,” said Nat. “Printers and others. There’s plenty of work there in the book trade.”
I had a sense of a way opening, my life expanding. And yet… “I might be a burden to thee,” I said, “being younger, and unskilled.”
“Thou’rt a burden I could carry.” Nat smiled. “I’d not ask thee, else. London’s far off. Truth is, I’d like a friend and fellow countryman with me.”
I did not look at Susanna, but I knew her eyes were on me. I heard Deb trying to regain her sister’s attention. “Su, look at Sibley. She can ride on puss. Look, Su.”
Nat stood up. “Come into the bookshop. I’ll show thee.”
I followed him out.
Isaac was there, sitting cross-legged on the floor. He had a book of anatomy open on his knees at an alarming picture of a child in the womb.
Nat went straight to the shelf he wanted and took down a book he’d obviously often looked at. In it was a map of London. There was the river, the Thames, snaking between a mass of buildings: blocks and blocks of densely packed narrow houses, and scattered among them steeples and towers, parks, palaces, windmills, taverns.
Isaac put down the anatomy book and came to join us.
“See, here is Paul’s steeple-house,” said Nat, pointing to the cathedral. “And all around are printers’ and stationers’ and bookshops…”
I saw a web of narrow streets, and not far away the river with ships clustered on it. “Dost thou have a place to go?”
“No. But I have contacts. There are many of our people in London, many more than here. We would have help and places to stay while we looked for work.” He smiled. “What say thou?”
“I’d like to travel with thee. And the book trade: yes, that too; it would interest me. When will thou go?”
“Not till summer’s end. No hurry yet. Thou’ll need to resolve matters with thy father, I know.”
And with Susanna, I thought. But I did not mention her, being unsure what to say, or even what I wanted. Nat had offered me friendship, help, company on the road; but could that include Susanna?