by John Patrick
There was a sharp rap on the kitchen door. James took hold of the broken sword. Elizabeth herded the children away.
'Open up! By order of the Alderman and the Lord Mayor! We know you’re in there.' The banging started again.
Alice cried
James opened a crack in the doorway and held his sword out of view. Two men stood outside. One was dressed formally, sweating under a heavy dark cape in the evening sun, the other a large muscular man in tattered work clothes, one eye covered by a leather patch, a deep scar traversing his angular cheek.
'What do you think you're doing man, hiding from us? We've been at the front door for twenty minutes!'
James opened the door a little more. 'We weren't hiding. The upstairs is locked. This is the only entrance now. What... what are you doing here?'
'We are the law! My name is Edwards, Officer of the Alderman. That is Brock. '
Edwards nodded to his burly assistant who promptly shoved the door and James to one side. The pair marched into the kitchen.
'You’d be in charge of this house now would you?' Edwards pointed at James with a scroll of paper.
Miss Pewtersmith opened her mouth to speak, but then thought better of it and kept quiet.
'Well, the owner, Mister Jarvis, he's left for the country and …' James began.
'Yes or no?'
'Well, he left me in charge while ...'
'That’s yes then.' Edwards started to unroll the scroll. 'Now you'd be aware of the Lord Mayor's decree about plague, would you not?' He held open the furling paper.
James looked at it blankly.
'Are you aware or not?'
James said nothing.
'You can't read it, can you?'
James shook his head.
'Can any of you read this?’ Edwards looked at the other faces in the room. Miss Pewtersmith was nervous, standing well back, Elizabeth was holding onto her children as if snarling dogs had just entered the room. Edwards sighed. He turned back to James and then nodded at the chair. 'Sit, let me explain. This is the law as set out by the Mayor. It contains all the orders to do with plague.' He pointed to the paragraphs. 'This here says he can pick and choose whoever he wants to do his work, and if you don't do it he'll have you locked up. Each parish has an Examiner. He’s in charge of everything to do with the plague, locking up houses, ordering who goes where and all of that. He’s not a man to upset.' He pointed down the page. 'And here says about how the Examiner will appoint his watchmen, they’re his jailers. They lock the sick up in their houses for twenty days at least, or more often 'til the house smells so bad that you know they’re all dead. And further down it speaks of marking the sick houses with a red cross, about burying the dead, airing the house, no beggars and so on and so on.'
'What's this to do with us?' Elizabeth asked, still clutching her family around her.
'I'm coming to that.' He pointed to another paragraph near the top of the page. He paused, frowning at Elizabeth. 'It's not my choice this you know. I have children too... I don't know why they picked you out. I got no say in this.'
'What are you talking about? Haven't got a say in what?' James slid his chair backwards and cast a glance at his sword on the table. Brock leant a hand on the back of Edwards' seat. His one eye was fixed firmly on James.
'This part is about... about the searchers.' He cleared his throat. 'He appoints women to be searchers. It’s the law, you know. To go and check the dead bodies for signs of plague. So the examiner knows which houses to lock up and where the Infection has got to. Stop it spreading. You must have heard about them.' He kept his focus on the paper before him.
'I still don't see what this has to do with us.' James' voice became a little louder.
Brock moved forward and placed his hand on the table alongside the sword.
'I’ll get to the point. My orders are to come here and order your good wife to be a searcher for this parish. You are to be made a watchman to be called on when needed.' Edwards shot a glance at each of them. 'If either of you refuse I am to have you jailed until you change your mind.' Edwards edged closer to Brock.
'No please, no!' shouted Elizabeth.
James jumped to his feet. 'Get out! Out of this house now!' He reached for the sword but Brock already had a scarred hand firmly on the handle.
'Look, none of us want to be doing this but there is no choice. This is the law.' Edwards rose and stepped behind the burly figure of Brock.' I did expect this. Brock here will have no problems enforcing my orders if need arise.'
'They ain’t stayin’ ‘ere an' doing that!' Miss Pewtersmith barked. 'They’ll make this house dirty. They’ll bring that disease in ‘ere they will. You take ‘em away with you.'
'And who might you be?' asked Edwards.
'Miss Pewtersmith, head o' the kitchen... and household.'
'I see. Then perhaps it's you we should be taking with us.'
'No, no, I’m just saying you don’t want people like them infectin' clean 'ouses, that’s all. You should make 'em go somewhere else. You wouldn't want me... I’d be no use to anyone. I’ve… got rheumatism in all me joints; I can hardly walk most days. I’d be terrible.' She backed away into the corner of the kitchen again.
Edwards returned his gaze to Elizabeth. 'And from now on you must keep no other employment. You must keep away from all public places and must not trade goods or launder any clothes except your own. That goes for all of you in this house. You must keep to yourselves.' He took a deep breath. 'Now it's time we were leaving. You must come with me.' He nodded at Elizabeth.
James stepped in front of his family. 'You'll not be taking her. You'll have to kill me first!'
'As I said, if the need arises...'
Brock lifted the sword from the table. It looked little more than a bread knife alongside his bulky frame.
Edwards looked at the pitiful sight of Elizabeth, clutching her children and his tone softened. 'Look, I don’t want to be doing this but I have no choice. Someone in a high place doesn’t like you. If I don't do this then it's me that's in trouble.'
Elizabeth reached a hand onto James' shoulder. 'We have no choice James. I must go.' She knelt down, wrapped her arms around her children and pulled them in tightly. 'Children, no tears.' She wiped Samuel's face with her sleeve. 'You be good for your father, you hear?'
'No Elizabeth, there's got to be another way.' James turned to Edwards. 'Look, Mister Jarvis, he'll pay you when he returns I know he will. He’s rich and generous. He wants us to care for his house, I’m sure he’d pay. I give you my word.
Edwards looked at James disdainfully from behind Brock. 'Your word! What use is anyone's word? Half this city will be dead before this summer’s over.'
Samuel pushed himself away from his mother and pointed an accusing finger at Miss Pewtersmith. 'Take her! She’s the one you want. She’s no use. It would serve her right!'
Miss Pewtersmith scowled back in silence.
Elizabeth pulled her son back. 'Hush dear, don’t wish it on anyone.'
James looked desperately around the room. 'Here, take these.' He took the pistols from the cupboard and offered them to Edwards. 'They’re the finest quality. Look at the metalwork in them.'
Edwards held a pistol and stroked along the barrel. 'It is beautiful, that's true... But no.' He pushed it back into James. 'It doesn’t fix my problem. I’ve got to take back a searcher. I don’t know why but they insisted I come here.'
'Right, then I’ll go instead. As the searcher. Take me.' replied James.
'What you? Searcher is a woman’s job. I can’t take you!'
James pushed the pistols back in front of Edwards. He took them one in each hand and eyed them admiringly.
'You can’t give ‘im them guns. Them’s the master’s finest pistols.' Misses Pewtersmith came out from the shadows again.
Edwards raised the unloaded pistol to his eye and pointed it as Miss Pewtersmith. 'We do have plenty of vacancies to fill you know.'
Miss Pewtersmith shrank back into the
corner of the kitchen.
Edwards turned his attention back to James. 'Well, I suppose watchmen are ten-a-penny' he rolled the pistols in his hands 'and I suppose there’s no reason why we couldn’t have a man searcher.' He stood and shoved one pistol down the front of his breeches. He pushed the other gun across the table towards Elizabeth. 'I suggest you hold onto this one. But understand, if the Alderman objects, I'll be back for you.' He rolled his document and pointed it at James. 'Look, I’ll give you until tomorrow morning. Brock will be here just after dawn to make sure you don’t change your mind.'
Half a mile away the Reverend Singer sipped on a small glass of port in the Bishops’ sitting room. 'I understand there are other people searching for too, your Grace.' the vicar cringed a little as he spoke, awaiting the inevitable angry response. 'And I believe I saw it myself in the hands of children.'
'So why didn’t you seize it man?' the Bishop was clearly irritated. His foot was acutely painful with another attack of gout and he was unimpressed by the news from his vicar. His leg was raised on a small stool, his toes covered in a poultice and bandage. He'd already delayed his departure from London by several days because of his diseased foot and he was keen to get going. 'That blasted physician is no use to man or beast.' he roared. 'Every time it happens he just wants to fill me full of opium until I can’t think. He keeps telling me this is a sign of good health! I’d like to give him some good health, see how he likes it!'
'Let me look at it your Grace.' The Reverend Singer very carefully lifted the dressing from his foot. The big toe was swollen like a ripe tomato. 'Oh, very nasty.'
'Nasty? It's more than bloody nasty. I'd like to hack the thing off! Ow! Be careful man for God's sake!' The bishop gestured to his servant to top up his glass and continued through gritted teeth. 'This plague is a dangerous time for the church. This is a time when Satan can drive a hard bargain with any man, a time when witchcraft and wizardry lurk around every corner and people are tricked by the wolf into leaving the protection of our flock.' He focused his piercing dark eyes into the Reverend. 'You must burn the fear of God into every wretched soul you meet. I want them waking at night shaking with the fear of fire and damnation. Make sure they know they'll get torture and torment in hell for all eternity if they stray from us now. Don’t let them forget.'
'Yes your Grace.' Singer sipped nervously on his wine. 'And when do you think you might be leaving us for the country?'
'Tomorrow, I hope. If this blasted foot lets me.' He shuffled awkwardly in his chair. 'God has plenty of work for me to do in the future. Once this silly panic is over I'll return and rid this sin-ridden city of the devil's work.' He twisted again and spilt his drink. Port wine ran like blood down the front of his white silk shirt. 'Curses! It's spoilt! Blast this foot!'
'Let me help Sir.’ The Reverend plucked a handkerchief from his pocket and jumped eagerly to his feet. He lurched forward to dab the Bishop’s chest and bumped his swollen toe.
'Ow! Are you trying to kill me man?' the Bishop howled, pearls of sweat appearing on his crimson face.
The Reverend shrivelled back to his seat and sat child-like on the edge of the cushion.
The Bishop took some deep breaths and started again. 'And this evil stone calls out to every wizard, every witch and friend of Satan in London. I want it found and I want it brought to me. People must know that anyone who touches it will burn in hell for ever. When you catch these children, and whoever controls them, I want them tried for witchcraft and executed. Burnt. Do you hear?'
'Your Grace, do you think... do you feel the judiciary would still support us burning witches?' The vicar chose his words carefully. 'These are modern times - we are in the 1660’s now, after all. '
'Don't doubt me, Reverend. I know every judge in London. When the time comes, I will make sure whoever sits on that bench shares our passion.'
Chapter 17
