by Michael Ward
He became aware of movement and voices above the roar of the river. Peeping over the edge of the platform he saw a man cautiously appear from behind the arch. The Papist hunters. They had finally broken through the door and found the vault and entrance to the river. He ducked his head and remained as low in the water as possible before looking again. Three more men were on the platform but their earlier bravado had disappeared. They stood nervously next to the torrent and, after a cursory glance around the empty platform, disappeared behind the wall, back towards the stairs. Tom thanked God he had been pursued by a gang of landlubbers.
Now he faced a desperate struggle to hang on. Slowly he felt the pain receding and, ridiculously, sleep approaching. He looked again over the edge of the platform but there was no sign of the men. He made one last effort to haul himself out of the water with the rope. The pain returned and, with it, his roaring courage. He strained and felt his shoulders emerge from the water. The weight of his soaking clothes pulled him back but, shouting and screaming, he inched forward and stretched his left arm to grab the rope further up, but his grip had finally gone. His fingers would not move and he could no longer feel the rough twist of the rope’s hemp. With a sigh his body slithered back into the cold water and the pain finally left him. Hanging on with his right hand, he felt warmth return and Elizabeth’s face next to him… her soft lips… her milky white breast... So this is what it is like. The end. How absurd to sail the seven seas only to drown within sight of his own warehouse. He smiled and felt the Thames water fill his mouth… the old river reclaiming her own…
A rough hand grabbed Tom by the shoulder and his body left the water. The face of Elizabeth faded, replaced by a man with a thick dark beard. Tom tried to shout ‘No!’ but only coughed up river water. He feebly pushed his rescuer away as he landed in the bottom of a boat. The man looked at him closely and smiled.
‘Goed, hij leeft.’ (Good, he is alive).
Tom heard a familiar voice.
‘Don’t know what you are saying, matey, but if we don’t move smartish, we’ll be shooting the bridge. Keep still now.’
Old Jonah’s deep breathing and the creaking of oars faded as Tom drifted into unconsciousness.
Chapter 27
13th November 1640
Bolton Hall
Someone was gently shaking his shoulder, dragging Tom from the edge of sleep. He opened his eyes. His father’s face appeared and Tom smiled weakly. Sir Ralph sat next to his son. The wood crackled in the grate, sparks flying up the blackened chimney. The room was warm and Tom felt tired.
‘Still sleeping a great deal?’ Sir Ralph asked. Tom nodded. ‘Your mother says it is your body drawing strength again. But you are over the worst, thank God. How are you feeling? Are you well enough to talk?’
Tom nodded again.
His father looked at him closely. ‘Tom, we came very close to losing you. When Adriaan brought you home, you were not conscious. Your body was as cold as winter and your breathing very shallow. Your mother got to work, removing your soaking clothes and rubbing your body by the fire. But when she cut free the cloth on your left hand, she broke down. It had swollen to twice its size. Your fingers were purple and the wound in your palm had turned green. The smell was putrid.’
Sir Ralph frowned at the memory.
‘Your fever grew each day. The servants removed your bed covers every three hours, each time soaked in sweat. Elizabeth, Ellen or your mother stayed by your bedside day and night for two weeks, Elizabeth dressing your wound every morning and evening with a fresh posset of herbs she prepared herself. Your mother is convinced that is what saved you. Seven days ago, the fever broke and you slept until yesterday morning when, praise be, you finally woke and took some broth.’
Tom felt too weak to move and his mind drifted… he recalled the voices of Elizabeth and his mother… other shadowy figures. Isaac? Yes, he was sure. Isaac had been there, by his bed. And the man with the beard. Definitely the man with the beard.
‘Adriaan… the man with the beard?’
Sir Ralph smiled. ‘Yes. He’s one of Uncle Jonas’s best men. I’ve had him keeping an eye on you for weeks to make sure you did not get into too much trouble.’
Tom laughed softly at the idea of not being in too much trouble and started coughing. His body lurched forward, shaken by racking convulsions. His father held Tom gently until the coughing subsided, then lowered him slowly back onto his pillows. Uncle Jonas. So he was indebted to Uncle Jonas again, lending father his best agent, Adriaan. Dutch, yes, that was what he had spoken in the boat. A memory fragment resurfaced in Tom’s tired mind. It was Adriaan again, sitting by his bed. What was he asking? About a cart? Why was he asking about a cart?
‘Adriaan is upset he could not keep hold of your reins that morning outside the house. I had put him on lookout in case you came home. But he made amends, pulling you out of the river, although he gives the credit to Old Jonah. They had seen you enter Edmund’s house and were skirting back and forth along the tidal edge on the east side, looking for you on the bridge, when Jonah spotted you in the water.
Adriaan says he has never seen such skill, the way Jonah dashed across the water and backed his wherry towards the arch’s platform, somehow rowing against that tide. Dibdin later told Adriaan he could not afford to lose such a good tipper as Master Thomas Tallant!’
‘Did he find his cart?’
‘Who, Jonah?’
‘No, Adriaan. He came to my bed and asked me about his cart. Did he find it?’
Sir Ralph's frowned in puzzlement.
‘Adriaan does not have a cart, Tom. You must have been dreaming in your fever. You were raving at times. Anyway, he was never by your bedside. Only family and Elizabeth were allowed, although we made an exception for Isaac, he was so worried about you.’
Tom smiled weakly and raised his hand in apology at his confusion. Another memory landed, with a shock. Petty. His witness.
‘Father… Robert Petty?’
‘Petty survived the attack. The musket ball pierced his left shoulder but his leather jerkin took some of the impact. He is recovering and no infection, thank God. He has told the authorities all about Edmund. I had the difficult task of breaking the news to Alfred Dalloway. He is devastated and I do not think he believes his son’s guilt yet. However, he was civil enough to apologise for any harm done to you and to wish you well. Tom, did you see Edmund fall into the river under the bridge?’
Tom nodded. His father looked relieved.
‘His boat was found tipped over, floating upriver on the tide. There was no sign of him. I did wonder whether, if he managed to shoot the bridge, he might have abandoned the boat and gone into hiding. But no one could have survived falling into that torrent.’
Tom nodded again and closed his eyes. A picture of Edmund flopping around like a doll in the wherry returned.
‘Tom, forgive me. Here I am prattling on, tiring you out. Your mother will have my neck. It’s just good to have you back.’
He smiled and kissed his son on the forehead. Tom opened his eyes to see his father walk away wiping his eyes with a handkerchief.
Sleep overcame Tom again. He was woken a short time later by his mother with a bowl of broth. She fed him by hand before announcing that he needed fresh air. Ten minutes later, he was propped up in a chair, sitting in the garden, cocooned in bed covers. It was a clear autumn day. The lawn was carpeted with bronze, gold and copper as the final leaves of the season fell from the trees. The caw-caw of a solitary rook drifted from the field opposite.
The air was clearing his head. He studied a group of men in the distance repairing his mother’s glass house. A world away. Was it really him who had jumped through the glass? He looked down at his bandaged hands and realised he would bear the scars as a memory for ever. He saw a movement in the corner of his eye and turned to see a figure walking with a familiar bustling gait across the lawn towards him. Barty Hopkins.
‘My dear Thomas, it is so good to see you. I
have had heard such dreadful stories.’
Barty looked around and pulled up a garden bench.
‘I am under strict instructions from your mother to spend no more than two minutes with you, and I would not wish to cross such a formidable woman!’
Barty’s small eyes twinkled with merriment.
‘However, I wanted to inform you of developments in Parliament. Do not worry, the Sergeant at Arms knows you are indisposed and all is prepared for your return, when you have recovered. However, you have already missed the most extraordinary scenes. It is still hard to believe but, yesterday, the Earl of Strafford was impeached for treason! Pym and his cronies made their move and the King did not lift a finger to stop them. I tell you, Tom, we are descending into the dark pit of chaos. The Puritans feel they have the wind behind them and the devil take the hindmost!’
Tom collapsed back into his chair and considered Peter and the ‘war’ he was fighting. How much had his brother known about the move against Strafford? Had it already been planned when Tom went to see him? He lifted his hand and placed it on his friend’s arm.
‘Barty, thank you for your news and I hope to join you in Parliament in due course, when my strength returns.’
Tom’s voice was no more than a whisper and he tried to pull Barty closer.
‘But there is one thing I must ask you, for it has been bothering me. Robert Petty—’
‘Oh, I understand he is mending nicely, Tom. Not nearly as bad as you. I would not worry about Mr Petty.’
‘Yes, I know… but I what I mean is you and Robert Petty. What is your connection? I saw you together.’
Barty studied Tom closely and moved in still closer.
‘So, you did see us at Lambeth Palace. I had spotted you in the crowd and wondered if you had also noticed us. I doubted it but Robert said he would wager half a crown that you did. He said you do not miss much.’
Barty stared at the lawn, playing with a ring on his finger, then looked back at Tom.
‘He also said you were a man to be trusted, so I will tell you why we were there together. However, I will deny all knowledge if you mention this to anyone else.
‘Robert and I are… of the old faith, the true faith.’
‘What… you are both Catholics?’
Barty looked over to the workmen with alarm, and spoke in a hoarse, urgent whisper.
‘Tom, I beg of you, lower your voice. You’ll put a rope around my neck! We had been attending mass in secret at a friend’s house in Lambeth when we heard the commotion and went to investigate. It is the most damnable luck you were there also.’
Tom leaned back and laughed weakly. Everyone in London had secrets, even Petty and Barty Hopkins. He put his finger to his lips and winked at his friend.
‘Your secret is safe with me, Barty. It shall never be mentioned again.’
Barty looked relieved and nodded. He glanced at Tom’s bandaged hands.
‘Well, Thomas, I cannot shake you by the hand, but I thank you from my heart and wish you joy, and a speedy recovery.’
Barty embraced Tom warmly before leaving.
Tom's thoughts meandered over the events of the past months. Strafford charged with treason. What now for the King? He was too exhausted to think about it, and too confused. He returned to his lost fortnight of fever, when he drifted in and out of consciousness.
Wilde hij de kaart?... Wilde hij de kaart? The phrase surfaced in his mind. It was Adriaan, sitting by his bed, Tom’s father next to him. He was sure.
Wilde hij de kaart?… ‘Did he want the kaart?’
The cart? No. Of course. In Dutch kaart means map.
‘Did he want the map?’
Did who want the map? Which map? Tom's head was fogged by weakness. But of one thing he was certain. He had not imagined Adriaan’s question. Tom was fluent in Dutch. But it was not the language of his dreams. The question from the bearded man had been real. He had wanted to know about a map, not a cart. But why had his father deceived him? The question stayed with him until sleep returned.
He woke to see his mother walking across the garden carrying a box. How long had he slept?
‘Time for you to come in, Thomas, and warm yourself by the fire, and we will try some solid food, a little game pie perhaps? But first, I think you will want to look at this.’
She smiled, handed the container to Tom and returned to the house.
It was the tulip box, the one he had given to Elizabeth. He saw a letter pinned to its top in her familiar neat handwriting. He placed the box in his lap. It was not heavy. With trembling fingers, he pulled the letter open.
My dearest Tom – I owe you a great debt.
I have never been sure about God. What he, or she, is. But I have prayed to God every day and night for the past fortnight to save you, and my prayers have been answered, so someone must be listening, don’t you think?
I have also been given something else in this terrible ordeal. A blessed friendship with a wonderful person, your mother Beatrix. I will never forget our conversations by your bedside late into the night.
So I am richer by far, but the greatest gift of all is to know you are getting better. It seems our world is descending into chaos but it is still a thing of great beauty and wonder. Shall we explore it together?
You once gave me a precious gift in this box which I now return with a gift of my own. Inside you will find another splendid invention from your clever Dutch cousins. It is called a microscope. It can show you the wonders of nature, right here in your wonderful garden. So I can explore the heavens and you the Earth! What discoveries await us.
Soon it will be time to rise Tom. I need you by my side.
Yours, in truth, light and love
Elizabeth S.
Tom folded the paper and carefully opened the lid of the box. Inside he found a brass device on a stand, mounted on a wooden plinth. A plate was fixed to the front of the plinth, and another at the back. He lifted the microscope out of the tulip box and saw the plates were inscribed. He read both.
Vita est Inventio – Life is Discovery
Inventum est invita – Discovery is Life
Tom grinned, returned the microscope and hugged the box. He was alive. Elizabeth was alive. Their future was alive. He felt strength welling in his chest. He looked across the garden to the fields beyond. A solitary figure was walking towards a thicket of trees, which disturbed a chattering of starlings that took off and rose into the pale blue sky. Another group joined them, followed by more. Their numbers increased as they gathered to roost.
Tom watched in fascination as, soon, many hundreds swooped and turned together, forming a liquid shape in the sky. He had seen this behaviour before, but not with so many. They acted as if by common will, changing direction again and again, one moment a cloud, the next a spiraling smoke trail.
Tom was experiencing a familiar sensation. He could not say how, but he knew both Mattys were near. His heart filled as the birds came closer but then, in an instant, the starlings swooped as one, away towards the horizon.
They were gone. The sky was empty. The sun almost set.
He held the tulip box close and waited for his mother, as the call of the solitary rook echoed across the fields.
The End