Forged in the Fire (7 page)

There were rustlings and sighs around us. Someone snarled, “Let a man sleep, for Christ's sake!” But I was aware that others were listening, and I continued, more strongly than before. “‘For I am persuaded, that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor powers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature, shall be able to separate us from the love of God, which is in Christ Jesus our Lord.'”

John nodded, and licked his dry lips. “It is the truth,” he said.

Next morning he found the swellings in his armpit and groin, and the guards took him away from me. Later I heard, outside our door, the screams and raving of his wife when she was told, and the curses she threw upon jailers and Quakers alike.

“Fetch an apothecary!” she cried. “Mr Baynard in Coleman Street. He treated my cousin for the plague, and she lives! Fetch him!”

The sound of her cries retreated as she was hustled away. I felt shaken, and wretched. I knew she was right. At home, with her, and with the care of an apothecary, John might have a chance of recovery. Here he had none.

He died three days later. His wife shrieked as they took his body away, and I curled myself into a ball, with my hands over my ears, unable to bear it. Now I was alone, without friends in this place, overcome with grief and guilt. I blamed myself for the deaths of my two friends, believing they might never have been in Newgate if I had not spoken out that day at Blackfriars. I waited now for the sickness to claim me too, and felt sure it must.

The day John died all the bells in the city were silent. I had been scarcely aware of them, for their ringing had been an almost continuous sound with so many dying every day. It struck me strangely because of my distress, but later someone told me that an order had gone out that passing bells should no longer be tolled.

It was a week later, when my spirits were still low, that I began to feel ill. My head ached; I felt cold and shivery, then burning hot. Both Francis and John had sickened in the same way. When I saw the fear in the eyes of those around me I knew I was not imagining my illness.

I clenched my teeth against the shivering that wracked me. I knew it must be the plague. I would die, as my friends had died. I prayed to God that I would leave this earth with Christian courage and acceptance, but feared I would not; and I felt bitter self-pity that I must die without ever seeing Susanna again.

The other prisoners demanded of the jailer that I be removed. “Search him! Search for the tokens!”

An old woman was sent to look me over – a dirty hag whose breath smelled of spirits. She found no swelling in my armpits or groin, and no sign of the rash they call the tokens.

“It is a fever or ague,” she said. “Not plague.”

The other prisoners still wanted me removed, especially when I began to vomit. I was so dizzy that I was forced to crawl on hands and knees to reach the communal pisspot and puke into it. Weasel-face shoved it closer to me. My tongue felt dry, and I craved sips of beer continually, but had hardly enough strength to hold the tankard.

After a few hours the fever cooled, and sweat broke out all over my body. I felt well again, and next day was much recovered. I felt in my armpits and found no swelling; and there was no rash on my body. Perhaps the old woman was right, and it was not the plague. In my weakness and relief I wept.

The next day the sickness and fever returned, more violent than before. I guessed then that my illness was indeed an ague; I had seen boys at school suffer with it and knew that it would come and go every other day until it had run its course – or the victim died.

When Cecily Martell saw me she went home and returned soon after with a pad of linen which she laid on my burning forehead.

“It contains a spider, bruised in a cloth,” she said. “It is recommended for the ague. I have a little book of remedies I often use for the children.”

I found her attention soothing, but the spider did nothing to prevent the next onslaught of fever. Neither did the pipe of tobacco that Weasel-face gave me and which he assured me was a protection against all ills. I grew weaker with exhaustion as the days went by.

“We must get thee out of here,” said James Martell.

“No! I will not pay – nor have others pay.”

But the next day the fever returned again. I was wretched, sick, and could not stand without fainting. James and Nat came – and dimly, through my dizziness and nausea, I was aware of them talking about me.

That evening, the jailer told me I was to be released. Nat came in and helped me to my feet, and I clung to my friend and felt tears running down my cheeks. But still I protested: “I won't have anyone pay.”

“It's that or the burial pit in the yard, I reckon,” Nat said brutally. “Thou won't last much longer here.”

We passed outside the gates, if not into fresh air, at least into freedom. I should have been glad, but all I could think was that Francis and John had died in that place; and guilt for their deaths weighed upon me.

In the street a carriage waited. I was astonished when my friends led me to the door.

“Who…?”

“Edmund Ramsey,” said James. “He has paid thy fine, and insists that thou go to his home where thou can be properly cared for.”

“I scarcely know him…”

I brought Edmund Ramsey to mind. He had come to the Bull and Mouth meeting occasionally, and also to James's shop: a man about my father's age, a merchant, well-to-do and a collector of books – noticeable at our meetings where most people are craftsmen or shopkeepers.

“He is concerned for thy plight,” said Nat.

I allowed the two of them to help me into the carriage. Nat got in with me. He'd deliver me, he said, then walk home.

I fell back against the padded seat, exhausted. I was aware of my filthy condition, but I did not ask where Edmund Ramsey lived, or who would care for me; the weakness was sweeping over me again, and by the time we arrived I was half fainting.

I remember little of my arrival, except an awareness of calm, comfortable surroundings; Nat and someone else helping me to bed; some soothing drink; clean sheets that smelled of lavender. After the endless racket of Newgate, Edmund Ramsey's house was a well of silence, and I slipped gratefully into its depths, and slept.

When I woke the fever had broken again; I was in a sweat, and felt refreshed. I lay with my eyes closed, and heard something I had not heard since I left my father's house: the sound of someone playing a virginal.

I
had been at Edmund Ramsey's house for nearly three weeks or so when Susanna's letter arrived: a short, sad letter that made me feel desperate to get up at once and set off to comfort her and reassure her that I was alive and well. But in truth I was still far from well – unable to travel. And I dared not write; a letter must pass through many hands, and Edmund Ramsey had told me that more than eight thousand Londoners had died of the pestilence in the last week.

My recovery from the ague was slow. It seemed the fever was reluctant to loosen its grip on me and would ease for a while, only to return again as bad as ever, leaving me exhausted and in poor spirits. I remained for several weeks in my room, away from the main areas of Edmund Ramsey's house, cared for by him and his servants. Because I had been in contact with the plague in Newgate, I was kept as secluded as possible, and my only visitor was Nat. Edmund paid Nat my share of the rent at the Corders' so that I would be able to go back there when I was well. I was grateful that he had taken me in, and not left Nat with the burden and risk of attending to me in our lodgings; and glad to be spared Meg Corder with her well-meant but insanitary ways. Here, the Ramseys' physician visited and prescribed soothing herbs, which the servants prepared. It was easier, in such a large house as this seemed to be, to keep the sick clean and apart. The kitchen was well stocked and the servants did not go out more than was necessary into the infected air of the streets.

When I first arrived I'd had no idea of where the house was. My host told me later that we were in Throgmorton Street, not far from the Exchange, and that he lived, at present, alone except for the servants, his wife and children having gone, for their safety, to relations in Essex. I had never met his family. When I saw him at the Bull and Mouth meeting he had always been alone.

“I dare not bring them into danger from the authorities,” he admitted. “I am newly come to Friends, only this past two years. I have attended several different meetings – most often the one in Gracechurch Street, which is nearest. But my wife and daughters worship at home. I have such fear for them. It is hard, when there is a family to consider.”

I told him about my own family, which it seemed I had lost for good. “That first evening,” I said, “when I came from Newgate, I thought I heard someone playing a virginal.”

“Ah.” He gave a wry smile. “I have not yet severed myself entirely from my former life.”

“It made me think of home,” I said. “I miss music.”

“Thou used to play?”

“Yes. We had a virginal.”

“Then thou must try our instrument – when Dr Waterford releases thee from this room! I used to play often, but now I try to use that time in prayer and silence. I have talked to Friends – it's what most of them advise. But I cannot deny music to my girls. My eldest, Catherine, is especially accomplished and would be loath to give it up. Thou'll find sheet music of hers, if thou wish to play.”

“Thou'rt kind,” I said, wondering if he would prefer me to resist the temptation. I sank back on the pillows.

I loved the peace of Edmund Ramsey's house, his quiet but stimulating company, and the books he brought me from his library. We talked about religion, the laws against Dissenters, about London, trade, and travel. He had been to Venice in his youth, and worked in Antwerp and Brussels – as I might have done had I not rejected my father's plans for me. When I told him about Nicholas Barron, the silk merchant I should have been apprenticed to, he exclaimed, “But I know him well! He lives a few streets away. He's been hard hit by the effects of the pestilence. Foreign ports won't allow our ships to unload. We can only hope the sickness soon abates.”

Although we talked frequently, I spent much of my time alone, reading, or sleeping. Edmund was often out of the house, or busy about his work. Sometimes, when I was free of the fever, I walked in the garden. An almond tree grew there, and there were beds of salad herbs, and rosemary and lavender. But I was not well enough to go out, even if it had been safe to do so. Few people went out, unless they must. I heard that there was grass growing in the street in Cheapside – a thing I found difficult to imagine. I felt anxious, adrift, cut off from my work and plans, and from Susanna.

In the distant reaches of the house I would hear voices, footsteps, the clatter of pots and pans. Nat came to see me every few days, though I sensed he did not come eagerly. He always looked a little ill at ease, as if he found the surroundings too grand for his comfort. He brought me letters, and news of the meeting. I had been there about a month when he told me that the
Black Spread-Eagle
had still not left London, and that plague had broken out on the ship.

“It's nearly eleven weeks since the prisoners went aboard,” he said. “The women are allowed some freedom, but the men are kept below decks all the time. They can never stand upright. Friends are petitioning continually for their release.”

“And Rachel?”

“She has the love of the meeting. As thou dost. We all pray for thy recovery.”

I had a sense that he was holding something back.

“I must get strong again,” I said. “Edmund tells me the plague has begun to retreat this last fortnight. People will return to the city and I'll be needed at the shop.”