Forged in the Fire (6 page)

For a moment, as he held my gaze, he seemed on the point of saying something more; then he opened the door and went out.

I
remembered Newgate well.

We were taken to the common side, below street level, where the poorer sort are housed. As soon as we entered, a great hubbub hit us: hundreds of voices, shouting, swearing, screaming, arguing. The smell of the place rose up and enveloped us: a sour, fetid smell that made me catch my breath with fear and loathing. An army of bedbugs and lice inhabit the place; they crunched underfoot as we walked through. In Newgate the very walls seem impregnated with the sweat and suffering of all those who have been incarcerated here. Always, when I enter this place, I fear I will never leave it alive. In our meetings I have sought to find courage in the contemplation of Christ's suffering, for I know I must return again and again; yet the terror remains; I know I am not made of the stuff of martyrs.

All three of us were shackled in leg irons and shut into the same huge room, where perhaps a hundred people were imprisoned. As we arrived, a prison officer went through our clothing and removed our money: garnish, they call it. Like the others, I lost little, since I had not brought much more than my boat fare; but that only served to annoy those who had us in their power. This time, I soon realized, would be worse than before. The officer I had provoked – his name was Sadler – intended to make me suffer for my insult. He was a dark, thickset, brutal man, clever enough to be cruel. He beat me about the head and body till my ears rang and I was forced to curl up to protect myself. Then two of them seized me, hauled my arms above my head and, before I knew what was happening, fastened manacles around my wrists, chained to rings high up on the wall. I was left standing with my arms at full stretch.

“Leave him a few hours like that,” Sadler said to the other. “Let him learn respect for the law.”

I felt shock and fear as well as pain. I had been in prison before, but never had I been singled out for punishment. In this position I felt exposed, vulnerable to attack, and the strain in my shoulders began to tell immediately.

A prisoner sat near by, watching me, and puffing on a clay pipe. He was a little, weasel-faced man of no particular age who looked as much at home as if he'd been born here. “You're lucky,” he said. “Tall. When I was in the irons I couldn't get my feet flat on the floor.”

My two friends, Francis Palmer and John Turner, pleaded with our jailer to let me down, but the man told them he had orders to leave me there. “I don't argue with Mr Sadler,” he said.

It was already late in the day; the time for supper was past, even had we money to pay for it, and we were hungry, having been on the river much of the day. Some prisoners were drinking beer; the sight of it made me thirsty. My arms ached; the manacles were beginning to cut into the base of each hand; it was difficult to breathe comfortably with my arms raised, and the room was thick with tobacco smoke. As the evening drew on, the prisoners began lighting candles. These were tallow, and smelled foul.

My two friends squatted on the floor close beside me and we fell silent and tried to shut out that vile place and turn our minds to Christ. I gazed at the light from one of the tallow candles, marvelling at how so crude a substance could produce such a pure flame; and I reflected that even the hardest of men, such as our jailers, must have somewhere within them a glimmer of the light. I held on to that thought.

While my mind was on the light I felt the manacles less, but after what seemed like several hours the pain increased. There was numbness in my wrists and hands, and my back and shoulders hurt; I tried to stretch and relieve the weight on my shoulders but could not. The thought that they might leave me like this all night threw me into a panic.

“Jailer!” I shouted. “Jailer, are you there? Let me down, I beg you!
Jailer!
”

John went to the door and called again on my behalf. No one came; but the other prisoners yelled abuse, much of it obscene.

Francis begged for some beer from another man, and brought it to me; and I sipped it gratefully but awkwardly, the liquid trickling down my chin.

And then at last came footsteps and jangling keys; the door opened, and there were Cecily Martell and Hannah Palmer, bringing bread, cheese and beer, blankets for us to lie on, and money to pay for food and candles.

“Oh, Will!” exclaimed Cecily. “How has thou come to this?” She rounded on the jailer. “You have him chained like a felon! He has done nothing to deserve this! Can he not be freed now it is night?”

Hannah, who is Francis's elder sister, added her entreaties. But the turnkey grumbled and muttered about orders, and they were obliged to leave us after bidding me hold fast and trust in the Lord.

John fed me by lifting food to my mouth.

“We must eat now, without delay,” he said quietly. “Otherwise the felons will steal the food from us.”

I knew he was right, but it was difficult, and I ate little.

Soon after, another visitor came: John's wife, Rebecca, whom he had married before he joined the Friends of Truth. The two of them spoke together in low voices, the woman tearful and accusing, John trying to calm her. And although I could see that they were at odds with each other, yet I envied them their intimacy and wished I could have been married by now, as I'd intended, with a wife who cared enough to be angry with me.

When his wife had gone, John wrapped a blanket awkwardly around me to stave off the night chill, and asked me if there was anything else he could do to ease my pain. But there was nothing. The ache spread to my lower back and hips and I longed to fall to the floor and lie among the lice and cockroaches. John and Francis wrapped themselves in their blankets and lay down near me, but they were restless and I knew they slept little. When it grew late most of the candles were extinguished, but a few remained, casting shadows onto the faces of those who played dice, or drank, or talked the night away. One man, who seemed to be an idiot, sang and raved continually. Several fights broke out over sleeping places, and in the dead of night someone attacked Francis and tried to steal his blanket from under him; only the peaceful intervention of John, who had a strong, quiet presence, prevented it.

It was then, when the noise of that scuffle had died down, that I first heard screams and howling from somewhere within the building. The sounds were scarcely human. They made me shiver with fear.

Slowly a grey morning light showed in the barred openings near the ceiling. My mind was now exhausted, my eyes constantly closing and then jerking open again as the drop into sleep caused even more pain in my arms and shoulders. It became so unbearable that I groaned aloud and begged for someone to help me.

At last came the sound of keys; the jailer entered, and unlocked my manacles. I fell to the floor and crouched there, curled like a child and rubbing my bruise-blackened wrists, while tears trickled from under my closed eyelids. The numbness cleared and my blood began to flow again, but I trembled for hours. My friends comforted me and we kneeled among the lice and bugs and prayed together.

“Holy Joes!” we heard; then jeering laughter and, “You won't find God down here!”

“We're all going to the Devil – try praying to
him
!”

I shut my eyes and ignored them.

A commotion and sudden outburst of shouting startled me. At first I thought it was more mockery; then I heard a scream: “Plague! Plague!”

My eyes flew open in terror. A man had collapsed. He was sweating and groaning. A clear circle grew around him as everyone drew back.

“He has the signs!” Someone pointed. “See! In his neck!”

I saw a purplish swelling there.

People began yelling for the jailers. Two turnkeys came in, looked at the prostrate man, then seized him by the arms and feet and began to carry him away.

“His blanket!” a prisoner shouted.

No one wanted to touch the thing. It was kicked into a corner.

The weasel-faced man told me, “They have a room they take them to – the ones that get the plague.”

I remembered the screaming I had heard in the night, and now realized, with horror, its significance.

“Does anyone attend to them?” I asked.

He shrugged. “No physician or apothecary would come in here.”

I thought of those cries. I knew the sickness caused headaches so severe and prolonged that people would beat their heads against the walls. The buboes – black swellings in the neck, armpit and groin – caused still more pain. Death, when it came, must be a mercy.

When Sadler appeared in the afternoon I tried to shrink back into the crowd; I feared I would be returned to the manacles. But instead we three and several other prisoners were taken out and marched to the courthouse next door, where the mayor was to hear our cases.

I was first. The charges against me were that I had congregated with others in the street in a riotous and unlawful manner, to the terror of the people, and in so doing had incited an affray.

I denied this, and said there was no unlawful congregation; that we were walking peacefully in the street.

“In a group of twenty or more?” the mayor said.

I knew it would not advance our cause to explain why so many of us had been there, so I merely repeated the truth, that we were walking to our homes.

I was found guilty of the offence and fined five pounds, which I refused to pay, and was therefore committed once again to Newgate for two months or until I should pay.

I thought of Susanna, of our plans to marry. Had I been alone I might have been tempted to pay, and go free. But Friends never paid such fines on principle, and I knew John and Francis would be steadfast in the truth. They followed, gave similar responses, and were committed with me.

Now that he had us back in his power, Sadler continued to single the three of us out for punishment. He beat and ridiculed us, and forced us to lie in a place that was always damp from water seepage. Francis, who had never had strong health, developed a cough that he could not shake off.

Sadler took against me in particular – I think because he believed I set myself above him. James Martell would bring me in news-books with essays on philosophy and religion. On one occasion Sadler tore up one of these, declaring it to be lies and filth. I guessed he could not read and so resented me.

I was thankful, next day, that Sadler was not about when Nat came with a letter from Susanna. There was nothing I longed for more, and I snatched it from Nat in my eagerness. Later, I sat a little apart from John and Francis, and broke the seal and unfolded it. Susanna did not know where I was, or even if I was alive or dead, but she had continued to write to me all summer. Her letter reminded me that there was a happy, everyday life I might one day return to. She'd often made me laugh with tales of small disasters in the print shop, or the sayings of her friend Em; today it was the long-winded ramblings of one of our earnest Hemsbury Friends. I smiled as I read it, knowing him well.

John watched me fold the letter and tuck it inside my shirt.

“Thy girl?” he asked.

“Yes.” I sighed. “We should have been married by now.”

“This will end,” he said. “Never fear.”

Throughout our imprisonment, the bond grew between Francis, John and me. We took good care of each other. Francis was eighteen years old, one of a family who were all Friends of Truth. John had come to Friends by reason of his own inner searching and prayer. He was a strong but gentle man, who could read little but was never seen without a Bible. He was the wisest of the three of us, and knew how to reason with guards and violent prisoners without either antagonizing them or giving ground.

He took especial care of Francis, whose health had deteriorated, making sure he ate enough and was protected as much as possible from the damp. But Francis grew weaker. One day he woke restless and shivering, complaining of a fearsome headache. By evening he burned with fever.

John took me aside. “I fear it may be the plague. We must do what we can for him – and pray.”

We stayed close to Francis, caring for him, and hoping against all reason that John was wrong, until the buboes – proof of plague – were found, and the guards came to take him away. By this time the cell was in uproar and Francis was crying out in agony.

“Let us go with him!” John pleaded.

“No one except the sick is allowed in there.” They shut the door on us.

“But he'll have no friend!” I shouted. “No one!” I beat on the door.

We never saw Francis again. Together we kneeled and prayed for him. His family came, his mother distraught and hardly able to stand, sobbing that she would go in and care for all those who were sick, his sister screaming as they refused her admission. But it was not allowed, and they left. I felt that Sadler took particular pleasure in thwarting Quakers.

Four days later we heard that Francis had died. I clung to John and sobbed. I knew Francis was now with Christ in Paradise, but that did not prevent me from being overcome with grief; the more so when his body was removed and buried in the prison pit even before his family had been informed.

The following night I noticed on John's forehead a film of sweat; and though it was a hot night I felt uneasy. I dared not speak to him or ask if he felt unwell, for fear of making it come true.

In the early morning I heard him shivering and groaning, and knew my fears were not unfounded.

“John,” I whispered, “art thou sick?”

He turned to look at me, and in the half-light I saw the terror in his eyes: John, who had never shown fear of any man or any punishment.

“Pray for me – and for my poor wife,” he said.

He asked me to read to him from Paul's letter to the Romans, and by flickering candlelight (for it was not yet full day) I read aloud: “‘Who shall separate us from the love of Christ? Shall tribulation, or distress, or persecution…'”