Fallam's Secret

by Denise Giardina

  “Good Lord,” Robert murmured, and Elizabeth looked faint.

  “Indeed,” William assented, pleased to see he had roused his eldest son’s interest. “And”—he leaned forward to spear a roast pigeon from a plate proffered by a servant—“it proclaims universal salvation.”

  They sat in silence for a time, considering the enormity of such an idea, the very threat to the security of this world in the notion that all would gain entrance to the next.

  Then Noah looked up. “I wrote the pamphlet,” he said.

  None at the table could trust their ears. Had he indeed spoken? They stared at him. He laid down his knife.

  “I wrote the pamphlet,” he repeated. “I used my own funds for the initial printing and it is indeed gone out across the land, for other printers have reproduced it.”

  William Fallam stood, and Noah, frightened at his father’s expression, stood as well.

  “Get out,” said his father. “Get out of this house. You are no son of mine, nor shall you see a penny of my money.”

  The women all cried out at this, except for Elizabeth, who had turned toward her husband Robert as though for protection from Noah.

  “William, please,” Catherine begged her husband. “Where shall he go?”

  “You are right, my dear,” William Fallam replied. “Freedom to roam is not a proper punishment for this…this despicable reprobate who I will not lower myself to call son.”

  Margaret clutched Noah’s hand and began to sob.

  “Higgins!” William Fallam called his butler. “Fetch two of the footmen and bind this man so he cannot escape.”

  “Bind Master Noah?” asked an astonished Higgins.

  “That won’t be necessary,” Noah said. “I don’t intend to flee.”

  “As you will,” said William Fallam. “Then, Higgins, send to Norchester for a constable. Tell them we have here a fresh inmate for Norchester jail.”

  “William.” Catherine Fallam clutched her husband’s sleeve. “Must you be so hasty?”

  “I condemned this villain out of my own mouth before I knew his identity,” William Fallam answered her. “Would you have me now show undeserved mercy and bring more shame on this family?”

  Then he left the dining room. Noah still stood, so stricken he could not move. Robert rose and said, “Good God, Brother, whatever possessed you?”

  “And what have you done to my daughter?” demanded an angry Henry Exton.

  Margaret then fled the room, sobbing, to be followed by the other women.

  Noah faced his brother and father-in-law. “I cannot renounce what I have written,” he said. “I believe it. I did publish anonymously for my protection. But I could not bear to hear my ideas so scorned by my own father without defending them. I did think I might convince him to at least listen.”

  “Your ideas!” cried Henry Exton. “You call such rantings ideas? You are ruined. I shall counsel my daughter to return to her home despite her marriage to you.”

  “If I am lodged in jail,” Noah said miserably, “that would be best.”

  It was the last time Noah Fallam, then eighteen years old, set eyes on his father. He was held in Norchester jail for a year. He might have suffered longer, but war had broken out and he was helped to escape by young Constable Baxter, who was sympathetic to the cause of rebellion. Noah tried to return to Coombe Manor to speak to his mother and father. His father was away and his mother agreed to see him. When Catherine entered the anteroom where he waited, she did not go to him and kiss him, but stood at a distance in front of him, back straight.

  “Your brother has taken up arms with the King,” she said in a cold voice. “You will only please me if you say you are joining him.”

  “Though my father no longer considers me his son,” Noah replied, “I still do bear my parents and brother love and affection. But though it must grieve you, I am going to join the rebellion.”

  His mother regarded him an unblinking moment. Then she said, “I pray to God above, if only one of my sons survives this war, it is not you.”

  NOAH led Lydde through the empty corridors of Coombe Manor. Now and then he stopped—here was the dining room where the disastrous meal had taken place and he had last seen his father. There was his father’s study, rich with paintings of hunting scenes but woefully bereft of books, which Noah had only had access to in great numbers when he reached Cambridge. Upstairs was the nursery where a wet nurse had held the infant Noah to her breast, the schoolroom where he had learned his letters from a bored tutor.

  Noah’s bedchamber.

  Like all the other rooms the bedchamber was closed, but unlike the others, which held furnishings covered by sheets, Noah’s room was bare.

  “My father had every trace of me removed,” Noah said. “Bed, chairs, the rug I had trod upon, clothes, books, my boy’s collection of rocks and insects. All burnt upon a bonfire.”

  He lingered a moment staring across to the dusty window. Then he closed the door. They stood alone in the long hall.

  “But Margaret supported you?” Lydde asked.

  “She did. I went to see her before I joined Cromwell. She was distraught, to say the least. Her entire family was Royalist and threatened her with the same isolation I faced. Though her mother later relented, and I thank her for it. But they would not turn her out while I was off fighting, for then she seemed to belong to them and not to me. She stayed with her family and we wrote to one another. She didn’t receive many of my letters; her father intercepted most of them. But we eventually managed to keep in touch through a servant.”

  “So you fought on the parliamentary side in the Civil War?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was it horrible?”

  He hesitated, then said, “Yes. And nothing I want to talk about.”

  She did learn that he had distinguished himself at the decisive battle of Naseby when, as a captain serving under Lord Thomas Fairfax he had rallied his men to stand firm against the main Royalist charge which threatened to end all, a stand which allowed Cromwell to gather his storied cavalry and countercharge, thus breaking the back of the Royalist army. Noah would only add, “Fairfax noticed. And Cromwell noticed.”

  IN 1648 the King’s army was at last defeated and in the new year King Charles himself was executed. Noah Fallam became a penniless ex-soldier like many another. The difference was he had impressed men who now found themselves in high places. At first he ignored this, uncomfortable with the idea of trading military glory for advancement. Too many people had suffered and died for what they considered other, more important reasons.

  He tried to return to Coombe Manor to effect a reconciliation, though he vowed to accept none of his father’s fortune even if he were to be taken back into the family fold. But he found both his mother and father a year dead and buried from an attack of contagious fever, and Robert, under interdiction for his close dealings with the King, fled to France and then Virginia with Elizabeth.

  Noah could have taken over the estate and its income. Instead he closed the house, paid the servants a generous severance save for Symms, who was retained to keep an eye on the house, forgave the rents, and went to London. He took with him the boy Simon Cleyes, whose father had been hanged for poaching during the war. Noah found places for them both in a print shop, to learn the trade. His dream was to own a shop with Simon as his assistant, to write and publish broadly about politics and theology, perhaps to found a weekly newspaper or journal. Now was the time, with a new republican government, unprecedented freedom of the press and ideas never before allowed openly to be written about, and scientific exploration on the rise. It was clear there would be a struggle for the heart and mind of the revolution, with men of property ready to carry on as usual, only without the meddling of a king, while men of intellect craved exploration and the mass of people still struggled, were turned off the land, and were denied their voice. Noah Fallam would throw his weight on the side of the latter. But first he must learn the printer’s trade and estab
lish himself.

  When they were settled in a position and rough lodgings near Lincoln’s Inn Fields, he sent for Margaret, not knowing if she would come to him. She did, bearing with her a small purse provided by her grieving mother, who feared her daughter might starve to death due to the neglect of her derelict husband.

  The purse did keep hunger away, since Noah and Simon were paid but a pittance. Margaret was soon pregnant. She longed for a child, in part because of a general desire for children, but also because she believed a grandchild would restore her, along with her husband, to her family’s favor. Vain hope, for the baby, a girl, was stillborn. Again she became pregnant, and this time miscarried in the fourth month. Her health failed. Noah decided not to make love to her again until time had allowed her recovery. And, he determined, she must be made more comfortable.

  He was older than the other apprentices, but his keen mind allowed him to learn the trade quickly and he chafed at long hours setting type with no say in what was printed. It was time to strike out on his own, for Margaret’s sake as well as his. Margaret begged him to restore himself to Coombe Manor, but he could not bear the thought of it. Instead he would set out on the only other course he knew. He needed a loan. He swallowed his pride and went to Oliver Cromwell.

  AFTER leading Lydde through the house, Noah took her outside, locking the door behind him. He stood a moment looking up at the brick and glass facade, then turned to her.

  “It is likely,” he said, “I shall never set foot inside again.”

  She held out a hand and he took it. He nodded at a track that cut through the nearby woods. “The family church is half a mile yonder. Margaret is buried there among the Fallams. I would like to visit her grave.”

  “I would as well,” Lydde said.

  They retrieved the horses and led them by their bridles as they walked. Noah continued his story.

  CROMWELL, he said, had not only noticed Noah Fallam’s service, he had remembered. He knew men who, at a word from the Lord Protector, would back Noah’s printing venture someday. But first there was a more pressing matter to tend to. In Ireland, Royalists escaped from England had banded with Irish Catholics to foment rebellion, and Cromwell would lead an army to put them down. He wanted Noah Fallam near his right hand.

  At first Noah refused. He was sick of war and unwilling to leave Margaret, who remained in frail health. But he was desperate for money. On a day when he and Simon returned home at night to find the cupboard held only a handful of flour, a single wedge of cheese, and three carrots, Noah made up his mind to go. He would be paid well, enough to keep Margaret comfortably and still set money aside for his printing press.

  The cause might be just, Noah convinced himself. He had no love for Catholicism. In 1641 when he was at Cambridge he had been sickened to hear of the massacre of thousands of Protestant men, women, and children by Irish Catholics. The Catholic Church was the worst enemy of dissent, he thought, with its inquisitions and burning of heretics, its murderous treatment of Protestants in France and the Low Countries, and its elevation of papal authority above conscience and intellectual pursuit. Cromwell wrote Noah would be appointed a major and placed in charge of troops under the command of Colonel Elisha Sitwell, who was charged with clearing towns in the east of Ireland of their Catholic and Royalist garrisons. Noah accepted the commission.

  By the time he arrived in Ireland, Cromwell’s campaign was well under way and the enemy divided, for the Irish Catholics were as distrustful of their English Royalist allies as they were of Cromwell. Soon the Protestant army had taken the town of Drogheda. What Noah found there sickened him. Upon storming the town, Cromwell’s army had slaughtered the entire garrison, some four thousand Irish Catholics and English Royalists. (Noah was thankful Robert had gone to Virginia instead of making a last stand in Ireland.) This was horrific enough, though still within the accepted bounds of warfare. But every priest taken in the town was also killed, along with hundreds of women and children. A Catholic church was burned to the ground along with all those who had taken sanctuary in it. When Noah arrived, Drogheda still stank of smoke and blood. He was glad to leave it and join the siege already laid outside the coastal town of Wexford.

  At Wexford a spy within the town had arranged to open the gates to the Protestants. On the night before the attack Noah met his troops and spoke to them of his expectations. He was appalled, he told them, by the massacre in Drogheda and the general lack of discipline displayed by the Protestant army. In Major Noah Fallam’s command, discipline would be maintained, and any soldier caught mistreating a noncombatant would be severely punished. Any man who killed a noncombatant would be hanged. His soldiers received these orders silently, but spoke sullenly among themselves after they had been dismissed.

  Noah could not sleep, and so he was already awake when summoned to Colonel Sitwell’s quarters at four in the morning. Sitwell, a stocky man with dark gray hair, was seated behind a camp table reading last-minute instructions from Cromwell, whose aide-de-camp stood nearby. He laid down his papers to look Noah up and down.

  “Major Fallam. I’ve received some complaints from your men.”

  “Sir?” Noah said, startled.

  “You were not at Drogheda,” Sitwell said, “I realize that. Still I do not appreciate your condemnation of what took place there. Nor did the men, nor would General Cromwell.”

  “Sir, it is clear that at Drogheda discipline broke down. When soldiers run rampant through a town—”

  “Silence!” Sitwell said sharply. “I did not ask for your opinion. As with any assault, there were moments of chaos. But overall discipline was maintained and orders were followed.”

  “Orders, sir? To kill noncombatants?”

  “Orders to kill Catholics. They are all combatants.”

  Noah took a step forward. “Orders from whom?”

  “My orders, Major. Approved by General Cromwell.”

  Noah stared at Cromwell’s aide, who stood silent and refused to meet his eye. “I do not believe it,” Noah said.

  “Ask him yourself,” said Sitwell. “Except there is no time now, for we are set to attack upon the opening of the gates at six, and the general is preoccupied.”

  Noah drew himself up straight. “With respect, sir, I cannot issue such an order to my men, nor can I rescind my previous one. I will not command my men to kill women and children and old men, however wrong-headed their religious views.”

  “Fallam!” Sitwell stood, came around the table and stood in front of Noah, his face red with rage. “You will give that order to your men and you will lead them in their duty. Or if you do not I will relieve you of your command now and hang you from the nearest tree. Is that clear?”

  Noah fought back a wave of nausea. “It is,” he said.

  “Then get out of my sight and get you to your duty.”

  Again he stood before his troops at the birth of an October morning while a flight of wild geese passed overhead and urged his men to fight bravely, to stay together as much as possible, and when all was done to regroup at the market cross in the center of Wexford.

  “You are further ordered,” he said, his own words threatening to gag him, “to kill any soldier of the garrison you encounter, whether or not he seeks to surrender, and to likewise k—” he faltered momentarily. “To kill any inhabitant of the town you deem to be a threat.”

  The gates of Wexford swung open in the gray dawn and Noah led his men through. He fought bravely, slashing with his sword in close quarters as the town garrison counterattacked. He was cut on the arm, then suffered a deep slash across his thigh. Another sword swipe knocked off his helmet and split open his scalp just above his ear. He fought on, the superior numbers of the army with him gradually overwhelming the defenders, who died or fell back. His memories from then on were tinged in a bright red that made them burn as though he were looking straight into a blinding sunlight. Women spread-eagled in alleys or dragged screaming from their houses by the hair and spitted with swords. Noah see
med to be constantly running now, first away from the madness, but there was no escape, so back into the heart of it. Soldiers rushed past him, throwing open the doors of houses and rushing in. Noah went ahead to a corner house and looked inside. A terrified woman with three children cowered before the hearth, all of them shrieking at the sight of him. He slammed the door shut and stood outside. Three soldiers rushed up.

  “There is no one there,” Noah said.

  They pushed past him toward the house.

  “I tell you, there is no one there!” He was screaming so loudly his throat seemed to catch fire. He struggled with the closest Englishman, dragged him to the ground. The man pulled a knife and Noah hit him hard in the face, twice, breaking his nose and knocking him senseless. He staggered up in time to see the other two soldiers inside the house cutting the woman and her children to pieces.

  He could not say how he got there, but he found himself back at the market cross, unconsciously following his own orders to reconnoiter. The market was a mass of screaming women and children, pressed together seeking sanctuary, many of them kneeling, praying loudly in Latin, crossing themselves, holding out hands clutching rosaries in entreaty. The worst things they could do. The slaughter had already begun. Noah rushed forward. Somewhere he had lost his sword. He slipped and sprawled headlong in a pool of blood, got up, and nearly fell again, for the cobblestones were slick in all directions. Blood drenched his clothes and covered his hands and face and filled his mouth. He retched and threw himself at the back of a knot of men who were methodically chopping at the writhing mass of women like gardeners clearing weeds. Then he felt a blow to the head and he lost consciousness.