Women of Courage

by Tim Vicary

  Adam pushed back his chair and strode to the door. It was not bolted. He paused with his hand on the latch.

  “Who is it?”

  “Roger Satchell! Open up, Adam, I’ve got great news!”

  A sigh went round the room, followed by frowns, especially among the women. Surely the man must know this was a family celebration - could not the news wait?

  Adam opened the door and Roger Satchell strode in. He surveyed the company, breathing heavily. His face was flushed, and his clothes dusty, as though he had been riding hard.

  “The Duke of Monmouth has landed in Lyme!”

  There was a moment’s utter silence - perhaps half a minute, perhaps less - when every face was still, as the message curved towards their minds like a stone thrown at a pool. Then it hit the surface, and the ripples spread across their faces in a stir of amazement. John Spragg leapt to his feet.

  “What, man? Has he come alone?”

  Roger Satchell strode to the end of the table, by the fireplace, where everyone could see him.

  “Alone? No, John, he has come with three ships and three hundred men, and has called all honest Protestants to rally to him and form an army!”

  For a moment there was uproar, everyone speaking at once. At last Adam Carter’s voice came through.

  “Where did you hear all this, Roger? Have you been in Lyme?”

  Satchell laughed. “No, Adam. I was out on the road over toward Axminster when I met that fool Alford, the mayor of Lyme, riding out of the place as though all the devils of Hell were after him. He was out to spread the alarm and raise the militia, and sent me down to Colyton to do likewise. I would to God I had thought quick enough to stop him - he’ll be nearly clear to Honiton by now!”

  “Aye, and then they’ll call the militia out to put a guard on the roads, to stop folk going to join him. God was with thee, Roger — we must act fast!”

  All eyes turned to the stocky, determined figure of John Spragg, his genial face no longer smiling but grim and decided, a strange light of conviction in his eyes.

  “John! What do ‘ee mean? You bain’t going off to fight?” Ruth Spragg looked up at her husband, amazed, her hand clutching his arm.

  He bent down to look at her. “I must, my dear. You know that. We’ve spoken of it before. A man must follow the Lord before all else, to save his religion.”

  “But ‘tis treason! ‘Tis to fight the King!” Ruth’s cry was desperate, terrified, voicing the innermost fear of them all. Her husband hesitated, shocked at the fear in the eyes he loved.

  “Your John is right, Ruth.” Roger Satchell’s voice broke the silence, understanding but firm. “The King is a Papist who has turned against his own people, and is like to destroy their true religion.” His eyes took in the men around the table. “All of us here have discussed this before, and decided what to do if ever the time should come, as we hoped. And now is the time. Shall we let the Protestant Duke land seven miles away in Lyme, and not go to his aid?”

  John Spragg shook his head slowly, as much in answer to his wife’s pleading as Roger Satchell’s question. There was a sharp, determined “Never!” from William Clegg, and Ann saw Simon’s eager, fanatical eyes searching their father’s face. Adam shut his eyes for a moment, his face creased as though he were in pain; then he gave a deep sigh and opened his eyes, glancing first at his wife and then at Roger Satchell.

  “No, Roger, that shall not be said. But what ill luck that should send him to us tonight, to disturb the peace of my daughter’s betrothal!”

  “Don’t think of it as ill luck, Adam. ‘Tis rather a sign that your daughter will bring forth children into a better world, without the fear of a Papist King. And a good happy chance that I found you all together, that the news may now spread more quickly, and we may gather to join the Duke before any muster to prevent us.”

  “You will not go tonight?” It was as though Ann’s mother had only just grasped the import of what they were saying.

  “That we must, Mary, or tomorrow morning early. John, Adam, Will, you know I have some arms stored at my house. If I go now to spread the news, will you meet me there in an hour?”

  “Aye, Roger!”

  “We will!” The three men growled their assent. It was strange, Ann thought, how Roger Satchell naturally took the lead, bringing the other men to decide quickly in the shock of the moment, before their resolve could be weakened by their wives.

  “And I shall come too! The Lord give me strength to go beside thee, boy, as he gave me strength before!” Luke Goodchild rose to his feet, his watery eyes blinking in the candlelight. Roger hesitated before he spoke.

  “No, Luke. We spoke of it before. The Lord has spared you his service because of your eyes.” He looked at Tom. “And your son is just betrothed ... “

  “I’ll come,” said Tom calmly, rising to put his hand on his father’s shoulder. “You know, father, the Lord has given me strength to fight in his service, as he gave you strength before. And I have a score to settle with His enemies already.”

  “Then the Lord has found four good soldiers together.” Roger Satchell looked round at the still shocked faces of the women. “My dears, it may seem that I am taking your husbands and sons from you now, but I do assure you it is God’s cause, as John says, and the Lord looks after His own. Did he not smite the forces of Babylon into dust, as the good book tells us? In a few weeks your men will be back amongst you with news of just such another glorious fight, and the country will be saved for the true religion!” He glanced at the men. “At my house in an hour, then, if you can. You’ll need food, a water-bottle, blanket, and such weapons as you have.” Then he turned to the door and was gone.

  There was a brief silence, as they all looked at each other. Then everyone began to speak together in a buzz of excited talk.

  “But is it wise to fight against the King?” Mary Carter’s voice rose high above the rest as she looked desperately for support amongst her family and friends. “John, Will, Adam - is it wise? I know the cause be right, but think of what may happen! Now at least we can all feed and clothe ourselves, and worship in secret - how shall we manage if you’re all killed?”

  “Peace, Mary.” Adam took his wife’s hands in his own, imprisoning them so firmly that she winced with the pain. He tried to look at her steadily to calm her fears, but she only saw the shadows and candle light dancing crazily in his eyes. “Thou shalt not live by bread alone. This is a burden laid upon us by the Lord, as He did lay a burden on our fathers. We may not shrug it off. You must trust in Him, Mary, if you cannot trust in us. If He so wills, He will lead us to success, as He led our fathers before us.”

  She shook her head, despairing. Her voice quavered as she spoke. “‘Tis a just cause, Adam, I know that. But there be good men killed in every war, even the just ones.” Nonetheless she knew she was beaten. Her voice broke, and she hugged her husband tightly, hiding her tears on his chest, while he patted her back soothingly. Then she pushed him away from her.

  “But if you must go, you must. And you’ll need a good blanket to sleep in, and a change of socks, and a shirt, and some food. Ann, help me make them ready.”

  She spoke only to hide her feelings, for she could see Ann was already busy.

  “We must do the same. Mary, we must leave you.” Ruth Spragg spoke dully, her fight also lost. Mary turned to her as though dazed, and then suddenly awoke.

  “Yes, of course, my love. But for the Lord’s sake take food from this table. Here’s plenty and to spare.” So the women hid their feelings in a frenzy of activity, dividing food from the table into four piles, and seeking cloths to wrap them in. John Spragg and William Clegg hurried home to seek their weapons.

  Luke Goodchild was still arguing with his son.

  “Tom, I can go instead of ‘ee, boy. I can still make shift to push a pike with the best of ‘em, and I can’t have ‘ee leaving this beautiful young maid here like this.”

  His wife Martha intervened. “Don’t you be so fooli
sh, Luke Goodchild, you’m staying ‘ome along of me. Your eyes be that bad, you’m just as likely to stick your pike into your friends by mistake, and then where’d you be? ‘Tis pity anyone has to go, but young Tom’ll do the cause a lot better service than ever you would.”

  “That’s right, father.” Tom turned to Ann awkwardly. “I’m sorry ... “ he began.

  “No, Tom! Don’t be sorry! You shall go!” The fierceness of her own reaction surprised her, yet she could not stop it. It was the perfect resolution; Tom must go and fight, and she must support him. The war would settle things, give her time. “You will clear the Papists from our land, as Mr Satchell said, to make it safe for our children! ‘Tis the Lord’s decision, not mine.”

  “You understand, then. I must go.” Tom hesitated, still seeming to expect her to want to hold him back; but then his righteous enthusiasm took over. “We shall smite the Amalekites as they deserve, like old Noll Cromwell’s men, and make the country fit for honest godly folk to worship in again, instead of hiding in the wilderness and being waylaid by godless vain folk in their fancy clothes and scents. By Heaven, I hope the good Lord brings me face to face with they scoundrels we met t’other night, that a godly army may serve them as they served us!”

  “No, Tom, you take care! Don’t ‘ee try to fight ‘em single-handed, like you did t’other night!” Martha Goodchild looked up at her tall son protectively, as though he were still a little boy, as he still was in her eyes.

  “Mother, we shall be an army now. I shall have a hundred strong men on either side of me!” Tom laughed, and Ann saw that he, unlike the older men, was really glad to go. “When we come to battle, the Lord will judge between us.”

  “I do hope so too, Tom.” Ann shivered as she said it, as though someone had walked over her grave; and it was true, she did hope so, with all her heart. The problem was, that her heart was divided about the outcome. But whichever way, it was as though the Lord were taking matters into his own hands, and showing her a way that she could become whole again, and cast out her devil.

  For if an army of West Countrymen rose against the King in the name of God, then God would decide whether they deserved victory or not. And if Tom met Robert in battle, God would decide that too. She trembled at the thought. She knew who deserved the victory. It was hardly fair on Robert, somehow; if the Duke of Monmouth’s army were composed of honest, godly men like her father, Tom, William Clegg and John Spragg, then how could it fail? Those who fought against them must be at best, sorely mistaken; at the worst, damned. Was she wishing for Robert’s death? But then she remembered Simon’s leg, and Robert’s hard face and cruel words the other night, and hardened her heart. She knew really, she had always known, that it was right that she should marry Tom; and this way, if he came back victorious from the war, God’s judgement would be clearly shown. The little cottage might become a real home of her own, instead of the prison of spare furniture and mother-in-law’s fussing kindness that she had feared it might be.

  She put her hand on Tom’s arm, shyly. “God go with you, Tom.”

  “Yes.” He blushed and looked as though he might kiss her; then bent down instead, clumsily, and hugged her in his strong arms. Their bodies jarred awkwardly together.

  10

  AT THE time, Adam thought he would never forget anything that happened that night, although afterwards there were so many nights of sudden decisions, conflicts, ambushes and forced marches that the details of one night began to merge into another, and he only remembered the important things, such as whether it was raining, whether he had enough to eat, whether he was wounded.

  The first night none of these things bothered him. He was only aware that the long-dreaded moment had come, and that he was doing as he had decided, as other men expected: he was going to the war he feared. It was a strange, trance-like feeling, as though everything were at a little distance, and he were in a body not quite his own, which needed more attention than usual. He stepped out of the bustling cottage into the dark of the street, at once tremblingly aware of everything he saw and did, and at the same time detached, frozen and numb somewhere inside.

  It was a warm, breathless night, the air very clear and still. As his eyes got used to the darkness and looked away from the splashes of lantern light, he saw that the sky was deep blue, rather than black, with little points of stars just beginning to appear in it. But below the quiet sky there was movement everywhere in the little town. The narrow streets and cobbles echoed to shouts and the sounds of running feet, and people hurried out of doorways and around corners with lanterns that sent shadows leaping up the walls like giant demons from Hell.

  Roger Satchell’s house was a big flint-walled one in the market place near the church. Adam reached it together with Tom Goodchild, and he searched for some words of sympathy for the tall young man who was leaving his bride. But before he could find them Tom had eagerly pressed in amongst the crowd of men who were gathered together, talking together in low, eager voices. In the next few minutes their numbers doubled to nearly half of the men in the village. Most were family men like Adam, although there was a good sprinkling of younger ones like Tom as well, and even a fourteen-year-old boy, Paul Abrahams, whom Adam frowned to see. Only about one man in four had a weapon of his own, though most had at least a stout stick. Even when Roger Satchell had handed out the half-dozen old matchlock muskets and a few pistols and swords he had hidden in his cellar, more than half the group were still unarmed. Adam saw Roger offer a pistol to Peter Giles, one of the few Quakers in the town, but Peter pushed it away.

  “‘Tis not for me to bear arms against no man, Master Satchell, you know that.”

  “If you come with us where we’re going, there’ll be need of them, Peter. ‘Twon’t be no half measures this time.”

  “Then I must stay behind, for ‘tis not for me to presume to slay those whom the Lord has created, howsoever evil they may be.” Peter’s voice had risen, as though he wanted all present to hear his words. “‘Tis written quite clearly in the good book: ‘Thou shalt not kill.’“

  “Neither shalt thou betray the Lord thy God, nor bow to worship false idols!” Roger Satchell countered. He smiled briefly as he faced the Quaker, but his voice conveyed his impatience, his eagerness to be gone. “Peter, none of us here goes forth to kill willingly, out of a lust for slaughter, you know that. But these men we go to fight be foul Papists, that would burn our houses down about our ears if we let them! And yours too! Do you think to win such men over with mere argument?”

  “‘Tis a better way, Roger,” came the reply, but it was drowned in the turmoil as another group of men hurried into the market place from Vicarage Street.

  “Best make haste, brethren!” one of them called out hoarsely. “My son says he saw our young vicar running in the direction of Shute House a quarter of an hour ago, like there was a swarm of bees at his back!”

  His words were met by a nervous buzz and mutter of talk, and several voices cried out that they should be on their way.

  “Hold on a moment, lads.” Roger Satchell stood on the steps of his house, his hands held high for silence. He was the richest man of their persuasion in the village, apart from Sir Richard Young, who lived in the Great House on South Street; but Sir Richard, a staunch Whig who had supported many schemes in the past to exclude the Catholic King James from the throne, and even entertained Monmouth in his house some years ago, was absent from home, so it seemed natural for Roger Satchell to lead. “We go to be soldiers; let us start as we mean to go on. First check that your weapons are loaded and ready. That way all can see we mean business!”

  In the lantern-light Adam looked at the old musket that had hung so many years in his cellar, since the Civil War. It was loaded, but he had never fired it before. He thought he knew what he had to do: set it in its rest, pour some corns of powder into the pan, clean the edges of the pan, and apply the lighted end of the match to fire it. Oh, and aim before that, of course, or all the rest would go for naught. And as
for reloading; well, there was the scourer to clean the barrel - now where was that? For a moment he thought he had left it at home; then he found it, hanging from his belt. Also he had five bullets, and half a pouch full of powder. But how to clean the gun and reload, all in the right sequence, and in a hurry?

  It seemed a clumsy way of fighting. His head swam as he tried to remember the details; then he gave up. Whatever else, the musket was a hefty piece of equipment, with a solid wooden stock. He would fire it once, if it came to it, and then use it to lay about him like a club. He envied William Clegg and Philip Cox the simple, sharp hedging-tools they carried over their shoulders. John Spragg nudged him, and held out the end of his own coil of match, which glowed like dull embers in the dark.

  “I reckon us has to light these here, Adam. ‘Twill surely be too late if there’s a fight.”

  “Aye, John, you’re right,” he muttered, half to himself. “Let’s hope they give us more warning than t’other night.” He held the end of his coil of match to the glow of the other, carefully, until his own smouldered too. His hand was quite steady, he saw, not shaking at all. Only it did not seem like his hand, somehow.

  John Spragg held his lantern doubtfully over the pan of his own musket, looking at the ironwork around the pan. He gave a rueful smile.

  “I do surely hope ‘e frightens off they Papists, for ‘e do terrify me! ‘E’s likely to blow apart with all that rust, if I fires ‘un!”

  “Ye’d do better with something simple, like this yer.” Philip Cox, a short, jovial man, a tanner with five children, held up the hedging knife he had got from a farmer - a long, curved, wicked blade bolted to the end of a pole. “I can cut down four Papists with this while you’m still looking for your powder!”

  Adam more than half agreed with him. Though he had always thought he should carry his father’s old musket, he would have felt safer with a pike or a long knife.