Women of Courage

by Tim Vicary

  Adam had smiled to himself more than once on the long march towards Lyme, at the memory of those words. He had called them out loud and clear as he had shoved John Spragg firmly forward in place of himself. He remembered the look of surprise and anguished gratitude which John had given him as they parted. It warmed him with pride, so that for a while he forgot his own despair.

  He had spent half the evening before trying to persuade his friend to accept the chance of life he so longed for, and not till near sunrise had John agreed. Then when the moment had come John had stood stock still, like a tree, and Sir William Booth had shrugged and been looking for the next name on the list when Adam had called out. Even then he did not think John would have gone had he not still half believed that the judge would be merciful, and his own name be on the transportation list as well for Adam to answer to.

  But John had been hustled outside before the roll-call ended, and he had been well away from the prison when, an hour later, a sergeant of dragoons had come into the half-empty cell with a second list, of those who were to be escorted to the various towns and villages around the West Country for their execution, so that their fate might be a reminder of the results of rebellion. Adam had stepped forward quietly in answer to the name of John Spragg.

  He knew his brother would have been glad he had done it. John Spragg was a good, honest man who deserved to live. It was no crime to have shown fear at Sedgemoor - surely they had all felt that, Adam thought. At least John had fought in the end, and not sent another to die in his place, as Adam had done to his own brother years before. Adam felt it was some sort of atonement for Ruth Spragg, too, who might have married Adam’s brother, that he was now at least able to save John for her.

  But he had not done it really for that, or for the shame he had spoken of to John, at what he feared Ann had had to do to. save his life. All that was part of it, but not the central part; it did not really touch the core of his resolve.

  For in the trauma of the past few weeks he had found something within himself which he had never had before, and could not share with anyone; a bitter, brittle pride in the fact that he himself could face the worst, the cruellest things life had to offer without help from anyone. He had had no help from God, certainly, for God had never listened to him and now had failed His own chosen army. Nor, in the end, did he need help from his friends, for this last decision, this resolve to face the horrors of death just as he had faced the horrors that had gone before, had been made quite alone, just as it would have to be faced alone. He did not know what came after death, but he longed to face that too now, far more than he longed to live.

  So he had even been happy, marching over the high, windswept downs to Bridport and Lyme, singing defiant psalms in the company of the other condemned men, including the indomitable veteran Colonel Holmes with his white hair and single arm. Adam would have preferred, as most of them would, to have been marched out quickly in Dorchester and hanged, but after so many days in prison the wind in their hair, the song of the larks, and the shifting pattern of the sun and clouds on the hills had an extraordinary sweetness, and he felt he saw them more clearly than he had ever done before.

  He did not suspect where he was going until the next day, when he alone was called by the sergeant out of the prison cell in Lyme, and by then it was too late. It had not seemed likely before, for men had been drafted off piecemeal along the march to the sheriffs and constables of places they had never seen, and when he had been spared he had thought he would be one of the large party for Lyme.

  But Colyton was the next town west of Lyme, and the sergeant confirmed it as they climbed the steep western hill they had descended with such hope two months before.

  Then for the first time Adam regretted what he had done, and hung back praying vainly to the Lord to spare his wife and children the sight of what was to happen. But the Lord heard his prayers now no more than ever, and he trudged even more slowly across the downs, until the soldiers became irritable and began to drag and push him by his bound arms. He lost his pride, and pleaded with them to kill him there and then, but they only laughed. He tried to spare his family by jumping with his arms bound into the Axe before Colyford, but they caught him before he fell, and held him firmly as he was marched towards the roofs of his home town.

  The young vicar, William Salter, was there to meet them outside the town. For all his hatred of the rebellion, he offered words of comfort and godly advice with a pity genuine enough as he walked beside Adam into the town, but Adam scarcely heard him. His eyes searched desperately through the faces of the crowd that gathered as they crossed the market place and followed them down Queen Street, dreading the first sight of the faces he loved. But the Lord was thus far merciful, that he did not see them as the procession went through the village to the little cottage next to the court house in King Street that was being used as a jail, though he knew the news would reach his family soon enough.

  There was a small dragoon detachment posted in the town, and a tall, blond young officer signed a paper for his receipt. The sergeant untied his arms and thrust him unceremoniously upstairs into a small back room usually used to store bolts of cloth. Sitting disconsolately in a corner on one of them was William Clegg. He looked up as Adam came in, and the blue eyes in the lined old face lit up as they saw who it was.

  “Adam! I’d hoped you might have managed to escape the devils!” He rose to his feet to clasp his friend’s hands, which were still numb from being bound so long.

  “No. They’ve had me ever since the battle, Will. I’ve been in Dorchester the last month.” As he tried to flex his wrists Adam thought how his old friend had grown thinner, if that was possible, and his face more seamed and scrawny.

  “Then why have they brought you here?”

  “To be hanged.”

  The pain seeped into William Clegg’s face, poisoning the look of joyful recognition.

  “You’ve been tried already, then.”

  “Tried? If that’s what you call it, yes.” Adam told his friend the story of the promises before and after the trial, and the difference they had made. He said nothing about John Spragg.

  “I see.” William Clegg sat down again dully on a bolt of cloth in the corner. “They say this Judge Jeffreys will come here soon, to try me. It shouldn’t take him long, then, if it goes like that.”

  “No. I shouldn’t build your hopes, Will. He’s the very Devil incarnate.” Adam looked at his friend, trying to find some pity to offer him from that he would need for his family.

  “And you say he hangs those who plead innocent, too? I had thought to make a try of that. There’s one or two here who would stand up for me, to say I was never there.” There was a feeble hope in the old weaver’s voice.

  “He hanged more of those who pleaded innocent. They were the first to be hanged. All of us who pleaded guilty were sentenced for hanging, though some were sent for transportation later. Not me, though, after what I said in court.” He told the story briefly.

  “So you spoke up to ‘un, did ‘ee?”

  Adam nodded, marvelling at the faint smile on his friend’s face.

  “‘Tis more my style, to be cracking jokes when they’m not wanted. He’s got no sense of humour, then, this judge?”

  “Only for his own jokes.”

  “Then I shall have to try and laugh at them, I suppose. I don’t want to die, Adam.” Shame at his own fear creased William Clegg’s face, and Adam remembered the hand that had given him courage at Sedgemoor. He wanted to repay the debt, and did not know how. His own hands felt too stiff to move.

  “No. There’s not a lot who do, Will. But then it comes to us all, in the end.”

  “In different ways, true.” William Clegg took a long deep breath, as though he could feel the rope around his neck already. The blue eyes in the wrinkled old face surveyed Adam carefully. “Then you think the best chance is to plead guilty, and hope he be in a friendly mood, do ‘ee?”

  Adam sighed at the impossibility of th
e question. Truly it was better to be without hope at all.

  “I don’t know, Will. ‘Tis a poor prospect either way.”

  “At least ‘twould be the truth. If I’m to be hung, I’d rather ‘twas for the truth than trying to escape with a lie. That way I can spit in the bugger’s face at the end, if I like.”

  “You do that, Will.” Adam smiled at his friend’s courage, feeling his own spirits lift slightly for the first time that day.

  “Ar. And I’ll make sure I got some proper filthy old baccy juice in me gob, too!”

  William Clegg grinned back until his face could sustain it no longer, and then looked down at the floor mournfully. “But ‘tis cruel hard to be caught yer, with all the family round. I thought I’d got away with it too - did you hear how ‘twas?”

  “Ann said something - about you hiding in your garden.”

  “That’s it. Under they bloody cabbages! Proper foolish, bain’t it! Poor little Daisy gave me away - ‘er thought ‘twas a game, bless her! That’s the worst of it, too. I’ve told the little maid it don’t matter, but ‘er took on terrible at first. I sees ‘em in here most days, and you know, I almost wish I didn’t, Adam!”

  “I can guess, Will.” Adam sighed, and looked around the little room hopelessly, wishing he could escape. But there were strong bars set in the tiny window.

  “You said Ann told you, Adam. How is the maid?”

  “Well enough, I think, Will. But ‘tis a long story …”

  He had hardly begun it before he heard another disturbance below, and the sound of people coming up the stairs. There was a man’s voice, arguing with two women.

  The key rattled in the lock and the door was thrown open. “There he is! Sort ‘un out for yourselves!”

  “Adam!” His wife pushed into the room, followed by Ruth Spragg.

  “Thank God! But where’s my John?”

  “‘Tis a long story, Ruth.” Adam held out his hands uncertainly to his wife. “Mary?”

  “Why are you here, my Adam?” She stood quite still, staring at him, tears welling up in her eyes. As he watched, one trickled down the side of her round, red cheeks. He stepped forward and held her, embracing her big, old body carefully in his arms as though she were a child that might fall and hurt herself. He could feel her shaking inside; then she suddenly clutched him roughly to her as though she would never let him go.

  “Where’s John?”

  “He’s alive, Ruth, he’s alive. Never fear that.” Adam rocked his wife in his arms as she wept on his neck. Then she stood back impulsively and shook the tears out of her eyes.

  “But why are you here, Adam? They said ‘twas John Spragg to be hanged, not you.”

  “Be you John Spragg then, or be you not?” The dragoon sergeant interrupted angrily from the door.

  “No he’s not John Spragg, this is my husband Adam, like I told you! You can’t hang him now, you got the wrong man!” Mary turned on the sergeant defiantly, a desperate hope in her round face.

  “Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that, missus. We’ll hang ‘un just the same!”

  “But you can’t! He’s the wrong man! You’ve got to let him go!” She snatched at his key, and he pushed her away, waving his pistol menacingly. “Get back, missus! I can just as well shoot a woman as a man! Davy, George, get up here!”

  Two more dragoons clattered up the stairs, and the sergeant turned to Ruth Spragg.

  “Do you say he’s not your husband?”

  “Yes. He’s Adam Carter. My husband’s not here.” Ruth smiled in tearful triumph, for she too had been weeping at Mary’s distress.

  “Then how come you’m yer instead of John Spragg, eh? Where’s he to?” the dragoon sergeant asked Adam.

  Adam shrugged. “How should I know?”

  “You can’t hang him.” Mary persisted. “‘Tis not justice. You got the wrong man!”

  “We’ll see about that,” the soldier repeated stubbornly. “Judge Jeffreys’ll be here tomorrow, to try that bugger and the others downstairs. And Sheriff Pole as like as not. Let them sort it out. Now come on, you - out of it!”

  “I’ve come to see my husband. I’ve hardly spoken to him yet!”

  The man hesitated. “All right then, I’ll give you five minutes, no more. But you can get out now.” He nodded at Ruth Spragg.

  “But I want to know more about John ... “

  “One only. Out!”

  “Ruth,” said Adam quietly.

  Ruth stared at him for a moment, and then nodded. “All right.” She turned to the sergeant, and dropped an insolent curtsy as she flounced out. “Thank you, officer.”

  The door swung shut behind her and the key turned in the lock.

  “Well, Adam?” Mary turned to him, quieter now. Her face was streaked with tears but she was mistress of herself. He remembered how pretty that round apple face had been once, when as a girl she had held her first baby up to him, and they had named it Ann. Mary had the same features now, a little thickened and coarsened by time. It was strange how it took a long absence to make him see it again.

  “Well, Mary. I did not mean to come home to you like this.”

  “But you have. I always said you shouldn’t go.”

  “I had to go, my dear. Don’t let’s argue that again.”

  “But why have you come back like this? They think you’re John Spragg!” Her voice broke again on the last words; the absurdity of the confusion was too cruel.

  Adam did not touch her. He was going to hurt her too much to do that.

  “John is to be transported, my dear. I let him answer my name when they called out the lists, that he might live.”

  “You ... let him?” She did not fully understand, or could not believe it.

  “Yes. We were all condemned to be hanged, you see, but some were later reprieved to be transported. I ... I didn’t want to be transported, you see, and so when they called out my name, I made John go instead.”

  He had thought he was impervious to pain now, he had thought he could face anything. But he could not bear to see the pain he inflicted himself.

  Several times she tried to speak, but her lips shook too much. She put her hand to her mouth to steady herself.

  “You ... you ... asked to die?”

  “I didn’t ask, Mary. I chose it, rather than the other.”

  “But you must be mad.” She spoke very slowly, unable to believe what he said. “Or do you hate me so much, that you must let me see you be killed?”

  “I did not choose to be killed here!” he burst out angrily. “I thought I should die in Dorchester, not here, and spare you the pain of it. This is their godless cruelty!”

  “And did you think it would spare me pain for you to die, rather than know you were alive, even across the ocean? You have a strange idea of kindness, Adam Carter!” She turned away, unable to face him any longer.

  “And have you thought of the years, Mary, have you thought of the pain of that? It’s ten years, you know, the transportation. Both of us waiting and wondering all that time if the other was dead or alive? I should be sixty when I came back, if I came back at all! An old man, a grandfather with all these hairs white, leaning on a stick with no more years to live! John’s eight years younger than me, you know. Would you have him die instead?”

  She shook her head wildly, staring away from him at the wall as though it hurt her eyes to see him.

  “I would have nobody die, Adam! You know that!” She turned back to face him, her voice quick and desperate as she heard heavy footsteps on the stairs.

  “But they mustn’t hang you now, Adam, they can’t! You’re the wrong man, they can’t do that! I’ll see this Judge Jeffreys in the morning and explain it all. He’ll give you mercy, you’ll see!”

  Adam stepped forward and seized her by the shoulders. “Mary, you mustn’t betray John, now! You mustn’t get him hanged! D’you hear me, woman?”

  She stared back at him, her round face full of grief and hope and confusion.

  “I
don’t know where John is, Adam. But I can ask for mercy, surely a wife can do that?”

  “He won’t give it to you.”

  The key turned in the lock and the door opened.

  “Come on now, missus, that’s enough,” said the sergeant, his boots loud on the floor. Mary hugged her husband impulsively, crushing his thin ribs tight against her.

  “I’ll get you saved, my dear, never you fear. I’ll see the judge!”

  “But you must not hope, Mary. He’s too cruel.”

  “Come on, missus, now. Five minutes was all I said.” The dragoon sergeant put his hand on her shoulder and she turned to go away.

  “I can bring him some food, at least, can’t I?”

  “Yes, yes, of course. Leave it with us and we’ll see he gets it. Outside now.”

  Somehow she could not smile as she left, though she meant to, and his last sight of her showed him how heavy and ugly her face became with pain, how dark her eyes with worry.

  He sat down heavily on a bolt of cloth opposite William Clegg, and for a long time neither of them spoke at all.

  51

  IT HAD rained during the night, and then the wind had died, leaving the sky half covered with heavy cloud, so that as the sun slowly climbed towards its zenith it became progressively more hot and sticky in the narrow, sunken lanes to the north of Colyton. The two figures that trudged wearily along them took little joy from the bright colours of the butterflies that fluttered between the late flowers of the choked, uncut hedgerows, or the sight of the early sloes and blackberries that were beginning to ripen everywhere around them. The man, a tall, strong figure in sober dark clothes with a handsome face that would have been attractive had he ever smiled, occasionally took off his broad puritan hat to swat irritably at the flies that hummed around their heads; but his companion, a well-built girl in a faded brown riding-dress that had seen better days, only hung her head lower as she walked, or occasionally passed a hand feebly in front of the rich auburn hair which half-hid her face.

  Once or twice Ann’s grief had overcome her and they had stopped, sitting hopelessly by the roadside in places which seemed pointless to be in and pointless to leave. But there was little comfort in resting, for in the end she or Tom spoke to break the silence and confront the futility of what had happened, and speech turned her grief into rage. Each time her search for sympathy foundered on the cruel rock of Tom’s conviction that the sin was hers, and her father’s death was God’s judgement upon it. Adam had died because he was ashamed of his daughter; John Spragg’s words had confirmed it.