Elephants and Castles

by John Patrick

The night had been long, quiet and still. Distant screams and wails lingered in the air in place of the usual barking dogs and drunken shouts. James and Elizabeth had laid awake agonising over what they should do. Neither said it aloud but they both knew that the job of searcher likely came with a death sentence. James had considered running away and hiding but that would leave Elizabeth or even Mary to take on the role of searcher. They could all run away, but the city was now sealed and the only other place they knew to hide was the slum of St. Giles, and that would likely see them all catch plague. In the end James vowed he would go as ordered and not return to the house. If he survived he would come back weeks after it was all over. Until then, every morning at dawn he would stand outside the church across the road to let them know he was still alive. Elizabeth argued with him, but inside she knew there was no other choice.

  At dawn he rose. He gathered together a few valuables just in case the Alderman was open to negotiation. He had always driven hard into the children not to steal. He was a religious man and until recently had always followed his beliefs. Taking Mister Jarvis’s goods didn't come easily. He vowed to make penance later; surely God would forgive this indiscretion if it meant he could live on to care for his family. He promised himself that one day he'd pay Mister Jarvis back, but he had no idea how.

  Elizabeth said little. She fussed around James, gathering some clothes and food for him to take. She tried to avoid making eye contact for fear that would bring back the tears she had shed silently in their bed overnight. They both knew this could well be the last time they spent together.

  Elizabeth made breakfast and they sat together in silence at the table. Alice was still sleeping. They both stared quietly at the food, unable to eat.

  'Keep these doors locked, Elizabeth. Always locked.'

  'I will James.'

  'And practice with that pistol. Make sure you know how to use it.'

  'Yes.' her voice quivered. She swept away a tear.

  James wanted to be strong. He got to his feet and turned his head away. 'We’ll get through this.' he croaked.

  'We will James.'

  But they no longer believed it.

  There was a rap on the door. 'Time to go. The Alderman is waiting.'

  James reached for the bundle his wife had prepared. Elizabeth jumped to her feet and grabbed his arm. She pulled him away from the door. 'No, James. There must be some other way. You hide. I’ll tell him you’ve gone. You can hide in the loft. We could all hide there.' The tears now flowed freely down her face. 'They'll think we've run away. Let's get the children.'

  James wrapped his long spindly arms around her pulled her body against his. 'Shh Lizzie,' he whispered' we both know I have to go.' He pushed his face into her neck and gently kissed. 'It's down to you now Lizzie.'

  The knock on the door turned into banging. 'Come on! He’s waiting!'

  'Why don't we run? All of us. Head to the country. Get away from here forever.' she pleaded.

  'Lizzie, we can’t, you know we can't. The roads are blocked and people like us can't get a permit to leave London. And even if we did no village would let us in.'

  'We should give them that fat old cook instead.'

  James smiled. 'That’s not nice.'

  Elizabeth pressed her head against James' chest. 'Do you remember our wedding day James? Do you remember how wild the wind was that day, how the apple blossom blowing like snowflakes across the churchyard. And Fran, chasing after that vicar.' A smile flickered across her face. 'It shouldn't all end like this James.'

  James pushed his face into Elizabeth’s long brown hair and breathed deeply. There was no perfume. The odour was of wood smoke and household chores, of long, frightening births by candlelight and the daily struggle to survive on the pittance wages of servants. It was the smell of his whole family huddled together in bed to fend off the bitter cold of winter. It was a smell of all that mattered in his life.

  The banging on the door started again.

  'Where’s Mary and Samuel. Are they upstairs?' asked James.

  Elizabeth wiped her nose with her sleeve. 'I don't know. I haven't set eyes on them this morning.'

  James shouted up the stairs but there was no reply. He ran up and searched the living rooms then up to the first floor but there was no sign of the children. He entered the bedroom where he'd spent maybe his last night with Elizabeth. In the midst of the crumpled sheets lay Alice, fast sleep and arms thrown wide open as if set to embrace. He tip-toed up to the bed, leant over and gently pressed his lips against her forehead, his eyes tightly closed. He pushed back the thought that this may be the last time he touched her perfect young face and felt her fine wisp-like hair and soft breath on his cheek.

  Downstairs the banging on the door was getting louder. James reluctantly returned to the kitchen. Elizabeth was stood by the door, head down. James put a finger under her chin and gently raised her face to meet his. He had no words left so he kissed her for a last time; a long and passionate kiss, the like they hadn’t known since before their children.

  The door shook again.

  'Lizzie, I…I'll always…'

  'Get out 'ere now or I'm gonna knock this bloody door in!'

  Elizabeth raised a finger across James' cracked lips. 'I know James. I know.'

  James turned and slid open the stiff iron bolts. He smiled ruefully at Elizabeth, then left. He didn't see her collapse to the floor and sob.

  Brock had little to say. He walked with a limp, his gangly left leg swinging out to allow for his rigid knee. Even so, he set a brisk pace. James followed a step behind, like a begrudging child following his mother. Brock wore a rough sack-cloth shirt with sleeves rolled up, exposing forearms disfigured by ugly scars. From behind James could see that the scars on Brock’s face extended around to the back of his neck and disappeared under his shirt.

  'Hurry up,' snapped Brock. 'I promised Mister Edwards we would be there just after dawn.' His voice was hoarse with a strong Welsh accent. He allowed James to catch up and then set off briskly again.

  'You walk fast with that bad leg.'

  Brock just grunted in response.

  'You’re not from round here. Where you from, Ireland?'

  Brock scowled. 'No. I'm not from bloody Ireland. And that’s none of your damn business anyway. Just keep walking.'

  James was determined to engage him in conversation. If he could befriend Edwards' man servant then perhaps he could find a way out of this. He kept trying.

  'Was it accident or war? Those wounds.'

  Brock said nothing. He quickened his pace. James knew the likely reply. Brock was probably in his forties and would have been the right age for fighting in the Civil War that had raged a few decades before and had been followed by seemingly endless violent flare-ups. There were many men, and come to that woman too, who bore the scars of the battles that tore the country and its people to shreds.

  'I lost most of my family.' James went on, 'My father, my sister, both my brothers. They died for Charles. You look back now and wonder what it was all about.'

  'They’ll answer in hell for what they did.' growled Brock.

  'Who will?'

  'Cromwell, Fairfax, all of them. That's why God sent this plague. He knows what he’s doing.'

  'Where did it happen?'

  'Where did what happen?'

  'Your wounds. Where did you get them?'

  Brock hesitated. 'Naseby, if you must know.' he mumbled in reply.

  'You fought in Naseby?'

  Brock nodded. 'I did. With Charles. But these wounds weren't from no battle.'

  'So, what happened?'

  'What happened? Terrible things, that's what happened.' Brock looked to the ground, his walking pace now slowed. 'Terrible, terrible things.'

  'My father told me some stories, before he died. He said ...'

  'They rounded us up like sheep, after the battle was over.' Brock had stopped walking. He gazed into the distance as if watching the fight again. 'Said we were all Irish.
.. said we deserved to die. They slaughtered us, like animals, cold blood, long after the fighting was done. We tried to run, to getaway into the trees but they stood around and just hacked us down. They thought I was dead. They made a bonfire of the bodies around me and set it at alight. I lay there as long as I could, 'til they'd gone. That's how I got these.' He pointed to his mutilated forearms.

  'You were lucky to survive.'

  'Lucky?' Brock spat the word back with contempt 'There was nothing lucky! Death would have been lucky!'

  'No I didn’t mean it like that. I meant…'

  'I should have died.' He paused for a moment then went on. 'When they’d gone I went to where my wife had been camped with the women folk. They’d come to help us. They should have been waiting for us. It took me forever to get there. I could barely walk. I was praying they’d fled when they'd seen what was happening.' Brock took a deep breath and swallowed hard. 'But they didn’t.'

  'Did you find her?'

  Brock nodded. 'I found her. Hell itself can’t compare to what I saw that day. The bodies...they were everywhere. Women’s bodies. Dead, dying, screaming. I can still hear them.' Brock screwed his eyes shut. 'Their wounds, worse than the battlefield. They called them Irish whores and witches. Just killing them wasn’t enough. It took me an hour to find my Eleanor. I recognised her dress, and… and her belly... our baby was so close.'

  James looked uncomfortably at Brock. He had hoped to find some common ground but now Brock had started to tell his story for the first time he wouldn’t be stopped. This was more than James had bargained for.

  'That’s all I can see of her now. I try to remember her face and all I can see is what they did to her. Every day, every night when I close my eyes that’s what I see. If only I'd been quicker, got to her sooner.' Brock fell silent.

  'So why are you in London?'

  'There was nothing left for me at home.'

  'But why here?'

  Brock smiled ironically. 'If I'm honest, I came here to get revenge. To get Fairfax. And maybe even Cromwell. Ha! Me against them! Can you imagine?'

  'Did you try?'

  'No, not really. I had some ideas, some plans. But I never even caught sight of them. I drank and that was about all I did. Then one day Mister Edwards saw me. He offered me a job and somewhere to sleep. He took me back into the church. And anyway, God's getting his revenge now. There's nothing I can do that compares that.'

  James snorted. 'The likes of them will be in the country by now. They won’t be troubled by this.'

  'God will see to it. He's taken Cromwell already and he'll see the rest pay too.' Brock began his limping stride again. 'Anyway, we gotta keep going. We’ve got some way to go yet.'

  They passed large boarded up houses, chained and locked but without the red cross on the door. Brock pointed at one of them as they walked along the street.

  'There’s plenty of places to live now. You can take your pick.' Some of the boarded up doors had been smashed down; people dressed in ragged clothes, clearly too poor to reside in such grand houses, were making themselves at home.

  'Why did they pick you to be a searcher?' asked Brock.

  'Don’t know. Thought you might be able to tell me.'

  'They only tell me what they have to.' Brock stopped and looked earnestly at James. 'Look if you want to see that family of yours again, don’t touch anything in the those houses, especially the bodies.'

  'What? How can I do that?'

  'Use a stick. Throw it away after. Cover your hands, your face. Don’t touch anyone or anything. Get out as fast as you can. Who cares if they’ve got plague or not. Just say they have. No one’s going to argue. Don’t make that wife of yours into a widow.'

  Chapter 19