‘Up you get if you want food tonight, soldier!’ said the sergeant, a man chosen to stick with the stragglers for his stern but indulgent temperament, uncommon for a man of his station. A seasoned soldier, Sergeant Tatlock had seen many a comrade fall in the line of duty, and he knew most of this untidy lot would probably not live to tell their tales. Even so, his mission was to shepherd them into camp.
Damon now preferred to keep his own company, especially since the recent talk of Roman Catholics needing to be purged from the Williamite rank and file. It had filtered down to him that Schomberg had become increasingly wary of Jacobite sympathizers. Faced with a growing lack of resources, recruiters had not been overly cautious as to their recruits’ religious backgrounds. Catholic soldiers had been told to show themselves. Those who had done so had not been ill-treated, for they were still soldiers of the English army. Many had been wrongly sent to Ireland and so were shipped off to fight against the French in northern Europe. Damon would have stood up likewise, but what if he was sent packing back to his garrison instead? He would dance at the end of a noose just like those Protestant deserters. Besides, he did not want to fight the French on the flats of Flanders. So he had curled up and kept himself to himself.
‘Ow!’ he croaked, on feeling a sharp dig in his butt.
‘You’re taking the piss, soldier! ON. YOUR. BLOODY. FEET! NOW!’ roared Tatlock, which sent shock waves through the lad’s skull. Not wanting another boot in his crack, Damon climbed slowly to his feet. He gathered his overclothes, hung out near the fire. He put on his breeches, jacket, and boots. Then he followed the line of fatigued and ailing men down the ladder to the chilly ground floor.
Twenty minutes later, they were assembled in the grey light of the afternoon in the cattle enclosure that surrounded the stone keep. From here, the feeblest were given transport, while the walking sick were met by their mounted escort, waiting to lead them to Dundalk.
It was a two-hour march to camp that would take three. Because of the deep, slippery mud left in the wake of the main army, the caravan took a different route where the ground would be firmer. But they came upon a swollen stream where the ford required a quick fix for the marchers to pass over.
Damon hardly had the force to stand in the chain, let alone pass on the broken stones for the next soldier to place. At one point, he lost his footing and found himself thigh-deep in cold, rushing water. The sergeant boomed his discontent. Then he said: ‘Now you’re in the bloody drink, soldier, you might as well wade to the other side and wait under the trees!’
Half an hour later, the men were marching over the stepping stones. Damon got up to join the line, staggering onwards in the muddy path in his sodden boots and breeches as if he were dragging nine-pound cannonballs attached to his ankles.
‘Close up the rear, soldier!’ roared the sergeant. But, unable to carry himself any faster, Damon lagged behind. Then he saw one of the horses up ahead swing round. The next moment, a hand was thrust before him.
‘Give me your hand!’ said the horseman to the foot soldier.
Damon recognised the French lieutenant.
‘Yes, Sir, thank you, Sir,’ said Damon, his foot in the vacated stirrup, quite chuffed that his salute back at Newry camp had borne its fruit. The saddle was warm, and the horse’s hide made excellent leg warmers.
‘Your name?’ said Jacob.
‘Private Laverty, Sir.’
‘Well, Laverty, do not drop off, do not fall off, and we will be in camp an hour before sundown. A bowl of mutton stew will be waiting for you.’
‘Thank you, Sir,’ said Damon, heartened by the prospect of meat.
They spoke briefly about the terrain, the uncommonly wet season, and what the Irish soldier’s father did for a living.
‘How old are you, Laverty?’
‘Eighteen and a half, Sir.’
‘Oh,’ said Jacob, taken aback at such a young age.
‘Aye, same age as the Duke of Berwick, I am told, Sir,’ added Damon in as virile a voice as he could muster, which was not difficult given its croakiness.
‘What would your mother say about you being in the English army?’
‘That I’m a heathen, Sir,’ said the lad spontaneously; he regretted it the moment it came out. So he hastened to add: ‘But I’m not, Sir. I believe in God as much as the next man.’
‘That is good,’ said Jacob. He did not ask if the lad was of Protestant or Catholic ancestry.
On they rode, falling silent the rest of the way, Damon fighting against the desire to sleep. He was a stocky lad, and normally resistant to the elements, having spent many a rough day on the water fishing with his da. But it was different out at sea. For a start, there was always something to do to keep your mind alert. And his da never went out twice, only once every day, except in stormy weather and on the day of the Lord. ‘Otherwise, you’ll not give your body time to flush out all the chill,’ his da would say to his mates, who were sometimes tempted to go out on a second tide.
And then there was always the reward of the catch, and the thought of his ma’s stew and a blazing fire to chase away the damp inside. Damon could hear her nightly refrain: ‘Remember to thank the Lord and his Mother for your safe return!’
‘Here we are,’ said the French lieutenant, pulling on the reins of his mount. Jacob was glad they had arrived, what with the lad’s coughing in his back.
Evening was encroaching. Fires were lit amid the clusters of men, bivouacked in a field dotted with trees that looked over Dundalk Bay. It lay before Kilcurry River and was strewn with soldiers’ clothes hung out to dry on trees and on lines. Not all the tents had been erected, which Jacob took to mean that they would not be staying long.
‘Grab yourself some stew,’ said Delpech, pointing towards the camp mess, where camp followers were dishing out food to a swarm of men.
Damon roused himself from thoughts of his soft feather bed as he let go of the rosary buried in his pocket. Groggy-headed, he thanked the Frenchman and climbed down. He had forgotten his body was stiff, his ankles still weak, as he swung his right leg back over the horse’s rump. On hitting the ground, he stumbled backwards and fell on his butt.
‘You all right?’ said the French lieutenant.
‘Aye,’ said the lad, ‘I’ll not fall any further!’
Getting to his feet, he instinctively felt his jacket pocket. A look of alarm spread across his face.
Jacob saw, in the half light, at the same time as the soldier, a wooden rosary lying in the mud where the lad had fallen.
‘I’m not a spy, Sir,’ said Damon.
‘I don’t doubt you,’ said Jacob, who thought the lad to be sincere. He had spoken of his home like any homesick soldier. Not an ounce of disdain against Protestants came out of his mouth, even though Jacob had laid a few rhetorical traps. ‘But keep it inside your pocket, eh?’
Jacob was not against Catholics, and he appreciated that some people needed material rituals to connect with the Lord. He rode off to put his horse to pasture, and to let the lad recover his rosary. He thought nothing more of it.
SIXTEEN
Jeanne was drained after trudging with Paul from the spinning wheel maker’s shop in the late summer sunshine.
They had hiked through the interminable streets of Whitechapel and up Brick Lane. In her life, she had never seen so many people in one day. It made her wonder where they all lived. It was also both surprising and reassuring to hear French so often spoken as they had approached the weaver district where she had her digs.
Back in her rooms, the excitement of her purchase was such that she found the strength to laugh and dance around it with her son, and at the risk of making the floorboards creak. The spinning wheel would bring in enough revenue to sustain them, even if it meant long hours of repetitive wrist-aching activity. But it was a price she was willing to pay if it rendered her free from the alms. And through the church, she had already met tailors and dressmakers who would be willing to take her yarn.
&n
bsp; She poured two glasses of lemon water from an earthenware jug while Paul eagerly put the spinning wheel together. But then, as she contemplated how the light fell in the room, a cloud darkened her brow at the recollection of the landlady’s glare on the first-floor landing. Mrs Smythe had opened her door as they had passed. Standing with her back arched on her threshold, arms cradling her large bosom, she had looked frowningly upon them as they carried a stool and spinning wheel parts.
‘Bonjour, Madame,’ Jeanne had said, holding the stool and the spoked wheel. She could have kicked herself for not remembering how to address a person in English. The landlady had knitted her eyebrows, tutted, then stepped back into her rooms and closed her door.
Jeanne had only spoken to her once before, just over a week earlier, through the old pastor who had translated the rules of the house upon her arrival. Those rules made no mention of a spinning wheel, though perhaps she ought to have at least informed the landlady first. Jeanne remembered the look of disapproval when she had expressed that she did not know English yet. She did not see herself now fumbling like a child for words she could not translate and trying to mime out an explanation. So she had not said anything. She realised, however, she would have to learn the fundamentals of the language quickly if she was to get by.
It wasn’t as if she had purchased a cumbersome loom that might require a licence, though. And besides, she had learnt her lesson in Geneva, and could not afford to pay for a loom only for it to be smashed. But a spinning wheel: every home had a spinning wheel . . .
*
Next morning, Jeanne rose with the lark and went to fetch water from the well.
She went early, while Paul was still sleeping, so she would not have to queue. Not because she was pressed for time or did not want to see people. No, by going early, at least she would not have to foolishly avert eye contact. For she felt embarrassed at not being able to even fumble for a greeting in the vernacular. Of course, she had spoken with people at the church a number of times, but everyone there spoke to her in French. Moreover, having lost all her capacity to communicate in her usual simple elegance, she was now totally bereft of her standing and dignity. Snobbishly, perhaps, she did not want people to think she was inferior, and she could hardly wear a sign on her back telling people she was born a countess.
The night had been stifling, and now the wind had picked up, blowing thick, dingy clouds from the east. It felt like it was going to rain. She passed by a square where linen was blowing in the wind on the tenterhooks. The way was familiar to her now, and she had previously seen that this was where cloth was stretched and hung out to dry. As she approached the well, her heart sank on seeing two ladies, one short and pudgy in middle age, the other a young maiden, slim and lithe. The young maiden gave the older lady good day as Jeanne arrived. Jeanne smiled and nodded.
Marie-Anne Chaumet was a spirited maiden, born in Lyons with a natural smile. She had arrived in London with her aunt and uncle and was apprenticed to a French weaving house whose owner also originated from Lyons. Her youth allowed her to take life one day at a time and worry neither about the past nor the future.
‘I hope it’s not the end of summer already,’ she said to the lady in her naturally perky voice as she looked up at the heavens.
‘Oh, you are French!’ responded Jeanne, in her normal, restrained bourgeois voice, though not without a note of cheeriness. She was nonetheless glad to set the tone.
‘Marie-Anne,’ said the younger woman, neither impressed nor put out by the bourgeois accent. She knew that most Huguenots were no better off than she was, and this lady was no exception. Otherwise, why would she be fetching water herself? She went on. ‘But they call me Mary around here, though,’ she said.
Jeanne presented herself with her nobiliary particle, something she usually dropped, it being overly long. But here, alone as she was, she might only get one chance to make known her identity and true station. Then, fearing class isolation, with a smile she said: ‘But Jeanne Delpech will do.’
Marie-Anne spoke of her learning to become a weaver at the house of Dublanc, once a fine house with a solid reputation for quality work in Lyons.
‘I have just purchased a spinning wheel myself,’ said Jeanne, before realising how lowly it must appear she had fallen.
‘You, Madame?’ said Marie-Anne.
‘My . . . my husband is at war,’ said Jeanne, which was explanation enough.
‘It has taken the best of them,’ said Marie-Anne, with a momentary droop in the mouth as she recalled the young man who used to give her the eye. But it soon passed, and, smiling, she said: ‘Anyway, there’s always a demand for cloth, but weaving is where the money is, Madame, and that’s what I want to be. Then I shall marry a weaver. Can you weave?’
‘I can, actually. My speciality is thick cloth.’
‘That’s good; it’ll soon be the season for it. I’m sure you could get employment.’
That was precisely what Jeanne wanted to hear, and it confirmed her decision to purchase a small loom. She would put it by the south-facing window that overlooked the back yards. But would she be within legality if she got one? She would ask at the church. If the maiden’s employer was allowed to ply his trade, then why couldn’t she? She would specialise in the cloth of Montauban and perhaps a few fineries. She would be no match for the master silk weavers, but at least she could earn a better living than from spinning.
‘I was actually thinking of getting my own loom.’ Jeanne wondered if she had said too much to this infectious young maid. But she was relieved to find someone to converse with in her native tongue. ‘However, I must learn English first. Do you speak any English, Mademoiselle?’
‘I should hope so. I’ve been here for two years, Madame,’ said Marie-Anne; then she added: ‘You need not worry. Just get mingling with the ladies here. It’ll soon rub off on you. Some of them prattle on whether you understand them or not. You’ll soon pick up the lingo.’
‘You must be very clever,’ said Jeanne. Marie-Anne had never thought of herself as clever before; she grinned. Jeanne went on. ‘If only I could get the first words to help me enter into conversation, it would help. But I still don’t know how to give someone good day, let alone say métier à tisser. And how do they distinguish between the formal and the informal you?’
‘Oh, they don’t. They just say you as in Good day to you, Madam. So, no complications there. And the word for métier à tisser is loom. Loo-oo-oom.’
‘Loo-oo-oome,’ said Jeanne, finding the word funny, and was unable to resist a spurt of laughter.
‘There, easy!’ said Marie-Anne, laughing with her. As they walked together back towards the tenterground, Marie-Anne told her the English terms for such words as yarn and cloth and bucket of water, the last of which Jeanne already knew from her son, who had picked it up. If she could pick up patois while living in hiding in France, and some German when in Schaffhausen, then there was no reason why she could not learn the language here, especially if this was to be her son’s new home and her place of work.
‘Good day to you, Madam,’ said Marie-Anne in English as they parted company at the tenterground.
‘Good day too yoo, Mademoiselle,’ said Jeanne.
The town was beginning to wake, and so would Paul. Loom, yarn, water, said Jeanne to herself, in cadence with her march past dogs barking at a cat, vendors pushing handcarts, and masons carting bricks and mortar into the city. She felt lighter despite the gathering clouds overhead and the extra weight of the water pail, and she was resolute to learn the vernacular. She would write to Jacob to bid him to return, and she would find out the law regarding weavers. She did not want to pay for a loom for it only to be smashed. But perhaps the guilds were not as stringent here as in Geneva. Perhaps the demand, given the size of the population, was much greater.
*
She tried to step lightly as she climbed the rickety staircase of the tenement house. Not that it would have made any difference. For the landlady had been kee
ping an ear out for her and opened her door as Jeanne set foot on the landing.
Mrs Smythe had been thinking. In fact, all night she had been tossing and turning, as much because of the new lodger as because of the prickly heat. She had a profound sense of duty, did Mrs Smythe, drilled into her from an early age by her father, a corporal who had served under Cromwell. She was now faced with the duty to report potentially unlawful activity under her roof. Spinning for home use was one thing, but what if the lady was planning on spinning as a business? There again, the French lady seemed well-to-do, her French husband had gone off to fight in William’s war in Ireland (she had checked the uniform), and she did not offer superfluous smiles like some of the desperate wretches just over from France, who then stole her clientele. But a French woman potentially spinning for money in her rooms—whatever next? A loom, perhaps?
But Mrs Smythe also had a head for business. So she had thought up a line of attack that would satisfy her sense of duty and perhaps revive her enterprise. The question was, did the woman even know how to weave? She had decided to find out.
The French lady returned her nod as she stood on her threshold, trying to crack a smile, which she knew did not become her, so she did not try to push it too far. ‘Madame,’ she said. ‘I see you have purchased a spinning wheel.’
‘Madame?’ said Jeanne with a guarded smile at the landlady, who looked perfectly insincere. ‘Sorry?’ she added. It was one of a dozen words she had picked up since her arrival.
‘A spinning wheel! You are a spinner!’ said Mrs Smythe, trying her best to get through to her. But visibly, the woman couldn’t understand her arse from her elbow. ‘A spin-ner. You
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