Fire

by C. C. Humphreys

  He got no further before hoots drowned him out. ‘Oh, I am sure that Delilah plotted your fall,’ the petty officer said, then looked around. ‘Yes, “Delilah”. I am a Bible-read man. And I also remember this.’ He cleared his throat, spat on the cobbles, stood straight. ‘ “Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord.” Well, I am his weapon. His will be done,’ he bent his face closer. Coke smelled rum, tobacco, foul teeth, ‘and you are coming with us.’ He looked at the constable. ‘Subject to suitable recompense, of course.’

  Coke thought of his father, dead these several decades. The last of a long speech of advice the old man had given him when he set out for war was this: ‘Be wary of drinking with strangers – and always keep a dagger in your boot.’

  If I failed to heed you in the first, Father, he thought, I did not in the second. He bent, gripped and as he pulled the dagger clear gave the same whistle Dickon had given him: Be ready. Then he straightened and placed the blade against the nearest constable’s throat. ‘You will all –’

  It was as far as he got. The swarthy man hit him across the face with his whip, the coiled and tarred cords as solid as any wood. White exploded in Coke’s eyes and he fell sideways, dropping the dagger, plunging back into the darkness he’d only just risen from. Words faded to mumbles above him. He was lifted and shackles were placed on his wrists. Then he was shoved into a stumbling walk. He was aware that they were moving back the way they had come. Aware of the river drawing nearer. Aware of a bird’s whistle nearby that a bird did not make.

  When he was thrown into a wherry, his face landed in a pool of stagnant water. He turned his head and gasped a breath; struggled to open his eyes, managed it only for a brief moment. But long enough to see a face he knew, wild-eyed beneath a thatch of corn-coloured hair. A cheer came, as someone slipped onto the bench above him and laid a hand upon his shoulder.

  ‘ ’S’aright, Cap’n,’ Dickon whispered, as the boat moved out onto the choppy waters of the Thames, ‘I’m ’ere.’

  12

  DEBTS

  Three weeks later

  They came for her at dawn. She was already awake. The life inside her had made sure of that, shifting around, pressing her belly out with what she thought could be an elbow or a heel. She was always grateful for the touch. He – she sensed it was a ‘he’ – had gone quiet for a couple of days and she had scarcely slept at all, sure that she had lost him, as she had lost the other. Then the pushing out, the shifting, came again. A sunbeam in her darkness.

  Her babe woke her; her thoughts kept her so. What am I to do? she wondered. What in Christ’s holy name am I to do?

  Thomas Betterton had made it clear two nights before. If he occasionally admired her talent, he never really liked her, she knew. Only a few days after the murder of her husband John Chalker the previous year, he had renewed his attentions. Seeking to console, he’d said, pressing her into corners. You needs must forget, he’d said, bending to kiss her. A sharp knee to his heated groin had put him off – and then it was back to resenting her, the laughs or tears she could conjure from an audience. Davenant, the manager of the company, had always sheltered her for her talents. But he was abroad, leaving Thomas in charge.

  ‘It is with deepest regret,’ he’d said, the glitter in his eyes showing the opposite, ‘but you know your condition is affecting your playing. Affecting your looks too.’ He’d smirked. ‘We cannot pay you to play maids and fishwives, Mrs Chalker – ah, apologies, Mrs Coke.’ There was relish in the way he said that too, naming her missing husband. ‘Return when you have spawned. No guarantees, but there may be opportunities – maids and fishwives.’

  Did the men now hammering on her front door know that she was without employment, she wondered as she raised herself off the bed, pausing to sit on its edge to let the dizziness, and the nausea it brought, settle. Probably. Betterton had no doubt told them – with the deepest regret, of course. And now her income had been taken away, the last barrier she’d had between herself and her debt was gone too. With employment she’d been able to offer gradual repayment. Without it…

  She heard the landlady descending the stairs, then heard her loudly command the men to cease their kicking. Her own door was bolted, but only to give a little more time if she’d happened to find the balm of sleep. Awake, she only had to dress to be as ready as she would ever be.

  She rose, removed her night shift, put on a freshly laundered one and a clean smock over that. She doubted there would be much opportunity to keep her clothes clean where she was bound. She could at least begin well.

  Bolts were drawn below. The volume of argument rose. She moved across to the large bag she had kept packed these several days, folded her still warm night clothes, cramming them atop the other items she would take, most of which she hoped to sell. She heard the clink of glass, two bottles of ‘Mrs Pitman’s Famous Elixir’ rubbing together.

  ‘Ask three shillings for one, and drink the other yesself. You’ll need to keep up your strength,’ Bettina had said when she’d called round the day before. She’d cried as she said it, trying to keep her tears hidden by bustling about and adding items she thought might help. She’d even tried to slip in a gold crown, but Sarah had refused it. The Pitmans, the breadwinner still laid up in bed, fevered and with his leg in splints, needed all their little money for themselves, what with four hungry children and Bettina also expecting. ‘Praise God that the parish is letting us stay in the house while Pitman recovers. They may yet change their minds and then,’ she’d wiped her eyes, ‘well, then we may be joining you. The whole bloody lot of us!’

  They were coming up the stairs now. Sarah reached and wrapped her shawl around herself though she did not need its warmth. London was as hot as she could ever remember it in May, with no rain for a month, and none on the horizon. But weather changed and she did not know what the rooms would be like. Nor how many seasons she must go through in them.

  She ran her hand over the rich, patterned material. Yak’s wool, whatever a yak was. An early present from the captain, purchased from the Jewish merchants he’d befriended, who’d brought it from afar along their trade routes to the east. He’d got a bargain, he said, laughing away the expense, its price discounted for certain kindnesses of his.

  What other kindnesses had he given and received of Jews? She shivered, but not from cold. From the memory of two days before, when she’d gone to Isaac the goldsmith to beg him to wait for the money Coke had borrowed from them, a debt too great for her to repay now, when other debts pressed. But the man she’d seen had had no kindness in his eyes. He was Isaac’s cousin, he’d told her, deputed to take care of his relative’s affairs while God decided if the goldsmith would live or die following his operation. The prospects were not good, though; an inflammation had set in and fever followed, as oft occurred after cutting for the stone. In which case, the man had said, it is the daughter’s affairs I must attend to. And the mention of Rebekah had made Sarah look away, though not before she’d seen the cold fury in the man’s eyes.

  She shivered again. She did not know what to believe. She’d married a man she thought she loved. No – did love, she was sure. But she also recognised that she barely knew him. There was so much of his history that he had never revealed in confidences that she had seen only in fleeting shadows within his eyes. He’d suffered in the wars, she knew. He had seen friends die. And he had killed. He had lost everything – home, every member of his family. A woman he’d loved, whose name he never spoke awake but cried out sometimes in his sleep – Evangeline. He never talked about her – or about any of it, though some nights she held him when he cried in his dreams. What must a man like that have seen? What could a man like that do, when the darkness came?

  The men were at the door of her room now. There was muttering beyond it, and then loud knocking. She had a moment left in the place they had shared together. And this she knew: only if she could look him in his grey eyes and ask him, would she discover the truth of that room, that girl. But she could n
ot. For where was he now, her captain, her husband, her stranger? Where was William Coke?

  There was no one to tell her for Dickon had not returned either, another ache in her heart. She had found the strength, gone to Newgate prison to enquire – only to discover that he had never reached it. It took three more days to track down the constables who’d arrested him and learn the truth, though the man could not meet her eyes when he’d told her.

  ‘The press took him. Maybe he’ll atone for his sins by serving his country against the Dutch.’

  Maybe, she thought, as the hammering increased. Or maybe he’ll die. And I will never get to ask him.

  It suddenly became the worst thought of all. Worse even than what awaited her beyond the door. Sarah crossed to it now, shooting the bolts and stepping back.

  The door swung in. Three men were there, different from those who had dogged her at the theatre. The one at the front with one hand still raised to knock held a rolled paper in the other. ‘Mrs Sarah Coke?’ he asked, though it was clear he knew.

  The title still sounded strange to her. But she could not deny it, nor him. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Wife and sole heir of William Coke, Esquire, of this parish?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The man unfolded the paper. ‘I have a warrant here for your arrest for failure to pay your family obligations of forty guineas, entered into with one,’ he squinted down at the paper, ‘Samuel Tremlett, master mason, for the construction of a house on West Harding Street. Also, the sum of forty guineas to one Isaac ben Judah, goldsmith.’ He looked up. ‘Do you have the money to pay this debt now?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then you are obliged to accompany me to debtors’ prison, there to remain until you are able to discharge your obligations.’ He rolled up the paper again. ‘Come.’

  Sarah picked up her valise. ‘Are you taking me to the Fleet prison?’

  ‘No. The debtee is resident in the City of London and you will bide near him.’ He gestured to his two men to step aside and allow Sarah out. ‘So you will be lodged at the Poultry Compter.’

  She’d heard of it. The name still struck her as absurd even though she knew it was just the name of the street the debtors’ prison was on. Though jokes and puns were her strength as an actress, she now found that she could not come up with a single one. Could only pick up her bag, walk out of the room, not look back.

  —

  He knew it was wrong. He was weak still, but his senses had returned. Bettina, who had nursed him so carefully with her herbs and potions, did not want to believe it. ‘ ’Tis your fever fancy, Pitman. And look at you, you’ve lost so many pounds from a fortnight’s lack of food, all your bones feel funny. Especially that one.’ She’d pointed to his leg. ‘Now you just drink some of this while it’s hot.’

  He had; but he knew even his wife’s mutton soup would not cure what ailed him. It was her fear of what he’d recognised that blinded her to it. For the consequences were dire. If he could not be up and about his parish duties soon, not to mention his other activities as a taker of thieves, they would not be able to pay for this house, the ingredients for her elixirs, the food for their table. She needed him whole and mended – which he would never be with a broken leg that had been wrongly set.

  He had seen too often, in the late king’s wars, the consequences of that. Comrades hastily splinted in retreat, the breaks neglected later. Limping forever after, discharged back to lives they could no longer take full part in. He needed to be able to run, to chase down villains; to stand tall and impose himself on rogues who would face him down. He could do neither leaning on a crutch.

  He pulled himself onto his elbows and listened to Bettina below, bustling about, tidying their brood. It was the Sabbath, so she was bound for the meeting house and then to the Strangers’ Market, where those who worshipped a different God were happy to sell on the Lord’s day. There she would spend some of their diminishing stock of coin wisely: to buy meat just on the turn, vegetables only a little bruised. ‘Off out, my love?’ he called down the stairs.

  ‘Off out, Pitman. All of us. Do you want anything?’

  ‘Leave me Josiah. I have an errand for him to run.’

  ‘But the Sabbath?’

  ‘I know. But this is urgent parish business and cannot wait.’

  ‘Very well.’

  The girls were gathered – Grace and Faith carrying the infant Benjamin. All came to kiss their father goodbye, to have him admire their Sunday best, the ribbons in their hair. The front door cut off their pretty chirping and in a few moments, his son was there. ‘What errand, Father?’ he asked. Pitman could see Josiah was not unhappy about missing chapel.

  He studied his son. The boy was twelve now, and tall with it. There was a stillness to him, quite unlike either parent. A haunted look, not uncommon in London that year. Pitman knew the boy had seen too much, things he wished he had not. A slaughtered body on a road in Finchley. Too many other bodies on the plague-ridden streets, including a sister and baby brother carried away on a death cart. Josiah had had the plague himself, but lived. It would scar anyone, and he spent much of his days just staring out of the window. An occupation had to be found for him, an apprenticeship. It was time he began to make his way in the world. But that was not why Pitman needed him now.

  ‘Do you recall the stables where we hire horses some time?’

  ‘Cripplegate Without?’

  ‘Aye. There’s a smithy beside it. The smith’s name is Aaron Bastable. Tell him that Pitman needs to see him urgent, and bring him straight back.’

  ‘Aye, Father.’ Josiah turned to leave, then turned back again. ‘But ’tis the Sabbath. Will he not be in church or chapel?’

  ‘He will not. He may be in the tavern next door, the Woodcock.’ He raised a hand, forestalling his son’s protest. ‘I know, taverns should be closed this day. Some are not, for those who do need a drink on the Lord’s day.’

  His son gave one of his rare smiles. ‘And how would you know that, Da?’

  ‘Never you mind. Tell him to come quick.’

  ‘And if he won’t?’

  ‘He will.’

  Josiah nodded and left. Pitman lay back down, staring at the ceiling. He hoped Bastable was still there. It had been a year since last he’d seen him and the plague had taken so many. If he was, he would come. For friendship, sealed in those years after the war when they’d all – he, Aaron and Bettina – been part of the mad crew, the Ranters, praising God in the open field, with drink, with dance, with…love – but for comradeship too. He’d saved the man’s life on the ramparts at Turnham Green – twice, and on the same day.

  ‘I will ever be in your debt, Pitman. You have but to call,’ he’d said.

  Now the debt would be repaid. For Aaron Bastable, blacksmith, was the best breaker and resetter of bones he’d ever known.

  He dozed, his dreams a haze of tobacco smoke, fiddle music and naked flesh under a full moon. Stairs creaking woke him. Voices on the landing.

  ‘Goliath laid low, eh? I told you no good would come of forsaking sin for righteousness.’

  The man grinning in the doorway didn’t look much different than when Pitman had last seen him. Still the insolence in the close-set eyes, one straight on, one askance, as if always both questioning and mocking the world. Both under a thatched roof of thick black hair, eaves silvered, above a face that was all folds and creases, every one lined in the residue of smoke that was the smith’s trade.

  Peering in at his elbow, eyes bright, was Josiah. ‘Off to chapel, boy,’ Pitman said, raising himself up.

  ‘But, Father, I’d rather stay and hear you tell your old war tales. Master Bastable told me a few coming over and –’

  ‘Did he, by God? Then you already know more than you need. Off with you now.’

  ‘Father.’

  Reluctantly, Josiah turned about. The front door closed. ‘Have no fear,’ Aaron said as he came into the room, ‘I told him naught of consequence. Didn’t even mention th
at time when you and I was so drunk we dressed up as Catholic priests and went and took confession up at his Lordship’s manor house.’ His offset eyes filled with light. ‘By God, those Papists had stored up some sins, hadn’t they? We had to set unusual penances, did we not? For the maids anyhow.’ His voice went high. ‘ “Oh no, Father Evelyn, I shouldn’t touch that. But I will, if you’ll only forgive me. Ooh, Father Evelyn!” ’ He tipped back his head and guffawed. ‘By God, you had four and I had five before his Lordship cottoned on. I think it was her Ladyship’s cry of “Father Evelyn, what’s that under your cassock?” that tipped him off.’ He feigned a limp around the room, rubbing his backside. ‘We was lucky his blunderbuss was only loaded for starlings, I tell ye. Though Bettina was picking shot from our arses for weeks.’

  Pitman laughed with his friend. His memory of the night, indeed of most of the three years he’d spent as a Ranter, was hazy, lost in smoke and debauchery. ‘I’ve a feeling you are overestimating our conquests – and our capacity, man. And only you took the shot, if you recall. You were never the fastest over a wall. You’d proved that at Turnham Green ramparts.’

  Aaron pulled a stool to the bedside and sat, running his hand through his thick hair. Coke dust rose and fell in sunbeams from the window. ‘You’re right there, Evelyn, and I still thank –’

  ‘Sht!’ The thief-taker’s hand shot up. ‘You know I never use my given name. Few remember it now. It’s Pitman to you, Pitman to all.’

  Mischief returned to the eyes. ‘But it’s so pretty a name. Why, any maid would be glad to own…erk!’

  Pitman had extended his raised hand, grabbed Aaron’s throat and squeezed. His friend slipped free, fell back, choking and laughing. ‘Very well, very well, Corporal Pitman. Tell me what means this summons.’ He glanced down the bed to the bandaged leg, an eyebrow raised.