by Mary Hooper
Conscious that he is praying for me, I think it meet to whisper, “And may God convey me swiftly to paradise.”
They smile and look at each other. “Those were her last words!” Dr. Willis says.
“A . . . and her f . . . f . . . first,” adds Robert.
“But we don’t want that now,” says Dr. Petty to me. “We rather hope that God does not convey you swiftly to paradise, my dear, for if he does, he will undo all the good we’ve done.”
Dr. Willis gets up from his knees in such a hurry that he stands on his gown and tears it. That will be a difficult tear for a servant to repair, I think, for the fabric’s old and the threads are pulled. “William, William!” he says. “This is a great day. A miraculous day. A day when we have witnessed his divine intervention with our own eyes.”
Dr. Petty nods thoughtfully. “Yes,” he says. “Or . . .” He looks at the other with one eyebrow raised. “Or perhaps the hangman’s noose had a faulty knot and didn’t press where it should have done to dispatch its victim.”
Dr. Willis gives no indication of having heard this. “Today the bells of heaven will ring out in joy!”
“And the bells of Christ Church, if I have anything to do with it,” adds Dr. Petty.
The girl who had been sleeping on the floor of the room—I hear her being called Martha—rattles out the grate and lays and lights a fire, and another man comes in carrying a bleeding bowl and some cloths. He is introduced to me as Mr. Clarke, the apothecary whose house we are in. Next to arrive is a tall man with two assistants; he is Dr. Bathurst. All stand around and gaze at me, marveling and exclaiming by turn. Robert is sent down to the herb garden to see if there’s any wintergreen growing fresh, but it’s not the season, so he comes back with dried leaves from the shop, which are quickly made into a balm and applied to my throat and neck. Mr. Clarke goes to get the best honey from his lavender bees, and Martha is told to add three spoonfuls of this to some warm milk. She and Robert then lift my head gently so that I can drink it, and it soothes my throat most excellently.
Two more gentlemen arrive who are said to be masters at the university. They are told of my progress, my heartbeat, and my breathing, and they join the little group around my bed. Martha is instructed to go to the baker’s for a fresh loaf of white bread and then crumb the inside of this and sop it into warm milk for me. I need nourishment, they say, for I have been through a great ordeal.
“To heaven and back!” says one of the masters.
“I’ll go when I can find the time,” Martha says, and Mr. Clarke looks at her most severely, telling her that the day will be a busy one and she must be prepared to work hard. She whispers something in his ear and he nods, then solicits some coins from the two doctors and presses these into her hand.
I’m bled into a bowl, my forehead is soothed with oils, and one or other of the men there takes my pulse, looks into my mouth, or just stands and stares at me. I marvel greatly at my circumstances; at how one moment I can be in the meanest jail among rogues and vagabonds with not a friend in the world, and the next be treated with as much deference as a queen.
“Is there anything you want?” Dr. Petty asks, his words drifting into my thoughts. “Or is any part of you in pain?”
With my fingers I point to my tongue, which feels strange and is numb at the tip. I frown a little; I can think the words I want to say, but not speak them. This must, I think, be a little like the trouble that afflicts Robert.
Three men look into my mouth and examine the part of my tongue I’m pointing to.
“It’s been bitten,” one says.
“But is not furry . . .”
“I think you must have chewed on it when you were hanging,” says the third.
The apothecary looks in my mouth also. “And to treat it . . . perhaps a salve made from the green fruit of the blackberry? ’Tis more usually employed for ulcers in the mouth, but ‘twill do, I think.”
The others nod agreement. Robert is sent down to the shop to choose the ingredients and returns to say the assistant has them and will compound them into a paste.
My mind is set on what Robert promised earlier, and when he comes close I signal to him and point outside. He knows what I mean.
“H . . . h . . . her f . . . f . . . family,” he says to the others.
“Of course!” says Dr. Willis.
“At this moment!” cries Dr. Petty, and they decide between themselves that he, Dr. Willis, and Robert will go to tell them that I’m alive. On the way out, Dr. Petty speaks to Martha, who is bent over the fire and looking agitated, her hair still frowsy. She nods but sighs when he’s gone and looks at me rather crossly.
In a moment or two she brings up a bowl of warm water from downstairs and, asking the other gentlemen if they’ll kindly wait outside for a moment, produces a chamber pot from under the bed. Ascertaining that I don’t want to use this, she replaces it and then takes a muslin cloth, dampens it in the bowl of water, and, rubbing a morsel of soap on this, wipes me all over, being very gentle around my sore face and neck. She removes the bedraggled red ribband, brushes my hair, and brings out a pink ribband to tie back my tresses. Finally she goes to the coffer and gets out a worn cotton nightdress, which she changes for the stained undersmock I’m wearing. I can’t think of what to say or how to thank her for all these ministrations, so merely smile at her gratefully and squeeze her hand.
She seems to unbend a little and smiles back. “You look better now,” she nods. “Indeed, for a dead corpse you look a great deal alive.”
I return the smile. A dead corpse, I think. I close my eyes for a moment to wonder about all the things that are happening, and why they are doing so. And when my mind clears a little, I reach some kind of an understanding and believe I know the truth of it. And the truth is this: I was hanged, but did not die.
Chapter ~ 24
I may have slept again for a moment after that, for when I wake I feel more certain about what’s happening and more accepting of it—although I still cannot understand such a thing. I look anxiously for my family, but they do not appear, and I’m in a fright of concern about them, for they’ll surely never believe what has happened. Besides, my pa is not used to conversing with gentlemen and may have taken himself off in a fright on their approach.
Three more men from the university come into the room to look me over. Two of these fall to their knees and pray by my bedside to give thanks to God for my deliverance. Unsure of how to compose myself but knowing I must show a serious countenance, I close my eyes while they are doing this and press my hands together in an attitude of prayer. “May God convey me swiftly to paradise . . .” I whisper, and they smile at me and look wondering.
Martha complains about her bedroom being hardly big enough for such goings-on, and it’s decided that I should be moved to Mr. Clarke’s room. Accordingly, a witty and waggish fellow, one who came in with Dr. Bathurst, picks me up bodily, bedstuffs and all, and takes me to Mr. Clarke’s own bedroom farther down the corridor. Here I am queen indeed, for I’m placed in a proper wooden tester, with gold and magenta hangings at the head and a deep feather mattress. The room is paneled, a quilted silk carpet sits on the floor, and paintings hang on the walls: two large ones depicting highland beasts, and smaller paintings of herbs and flowers. I’ve not been in such a room before—or only to clean—and feel anxious about it, for I have put Mr. Clarke out of his own bed. He, however, seems extreme happy to have me there and says to the others, “I am a made man. We are all made men!”—by which I understand that they’ll receive recognition for what has occurred.
One other thing goes with me into Mr. Clarke’s room: the coffin that they tell me I was placed in after my hanging. This is propped up by the window with its lid standing beside it, and gives me the horrors whenever I look upon it.
Robert and the others are away a long time, and I begin to wonder if my parents might have gone home. I find out later, however, that the doctors had difficulty in making them understand what had
happened, for my pa refused to believe it at first, thinking that they had come from Sir Thomas and were playing some cruel trick on them.
Martha brings a bowl of bread and milk, and I eat it in little mouthfuls, for it pains my throat to swallow. At last I hear noises: lots of footsteps in the hall and the voices of the two doctors floating out loud and cheerful as they shepherd everyone up the stairs, and I become very excited.
“In here now! In here!” Mr. Clarke calls, and in they troop: the doctors first, and then Ma, Pa, Jane, and my two brothers, all silent, awkward, and awestruck, which I know is because none of them has been a visitor to such a house before.
I smile, but don’t know what to say to them; for that one single godly sentence I have in my head is not altogether appropriate.
“Well!” Ma says, staring at me with her hand pressed to her mouth. “Well!”
Jane takes two steps into the room, looks around at the furnishings, and her jaw drops. Pa and my brothers whip off their old felt hats and stand awkwardly, bowing around at the gentlemen gathered there. Jane sees what they’re doing and begins curtsying and, strangely, gives a curtsy to me as well.
This makes me laugh and she laughs too, which makes things easier.
I struggle to sit up and hold out my arms to Ma but find myself weak as a kitten and fall back on the pillows. Ma comes to me then, and holds me, and we weep for a considerable time. After this I kiss everyone, then Ma and Jane take up positions by my bed while Pa and my brothers go out into the hall in order to leave more space for the gentry.
Finding that I’m still unable to speak, the doctors apply a plaister to my throat, which warms it greatly, and after I’ve eaten a second bowl of bread and milk I find myself able to say a few words, but croakily. I say Thank you, first, and Hello to some visitors, and then I say the names of all my family, which pleases them enormously, and ‘tis like when an infant babbles for the first time. It pleases the doctors, too, for Robert tells me later that some of them feared for my sanity until they heard me begin to speak. After this the words arrive all the time. I do not speak to anyone to ask what I long to, however, which is for news of John Taylor. Has he heard that I’ve survived? Does he care enough to visit me and accept my apologies?
Two youths arrive who are scholars with Robert. “Ah,” says Dr. Petty cheerily (and indeed everyone is very cheerful). “Here come a couple of fellows who are the very flowers of the nobility and gentry of the kingdom!”
The scholars bow around them, and Ma and Jane curtsy once more.
“Congratulations on your newborn patient!” they say, greeting Robert with a punch to the arm.
“G . . . good morning,” he says to them, and they all hoot and ask him whether he’s in his cups that he can speak so well.
He says, “No, not at all,” very carefully, and then grins, delighted.
They both then gather around and gape at me as if I’m a sideshow at the May fair.
“We saw you yesterday in your shift, madam!” one says, winking at me. He is fine and dandy, with long, curling hair and a ruffle of lace at his throat. When Martha comes in he winks at her also and makes her blush, which makes me long to tell her not to believe any such sweet talk from him, for he’s a master and she a servant, and I know from my own experience that any coupling would not prove a happy one.
Another of the scholars wants to make a drawing of me and retires to one side of the bed with a pad of paper. “I made two when I thought you were dead, and this will complete the set,” he says.
More and more people arrive, and the one who was drawing me has his position taken by an elderly gentleman who brings his own shooting stick to sit upon. A hackney carriage comes from Cambridge containing some medical men, and they say some from London may come on the morrow.
“And all to see you,” Dr. Petty says.
“And this is just the start of it,” says Dr. Willis.
The new medical men stand at the end of my bed, stare at me, and marvel, and then look at my coffin and say that such a thing has never happened before and that I was indeed fortunate to have been nearly dissected by such learned men, for others might not have been able to revive me.
I hear Dr. Willis say, “Of course, we have no idea when the light of life goes out and the soul departs . . .”
“Or when the quick become dead,” adds Dr. Petty, and there is general agreement in the room that this is true.
The two scholars go off to the coffeehouse and are quickly replaced by double that number. Shortly after this, a messenger brings word that two great ladies have come all the way from Windsor and wish to set eyes on me.
This causes quite a little stir in the room. I have my hair combed out once more (Jane makes an effort to curl it), and a walkway is made through the people so that these two ladies—Dr. Willis says that both are countesses—may approach me while everyone else stays at a respectful distance. The room goes silent as they arrive and so do I, for I can scarce believe that I am the purpose of their visit. They are finely dressed in velvet gowns, one in maroon and one in dark green, with fur-trimmed cloaks over, and when they throw their hoods back, their hair is dressed in ringlets, with pearls threaded through. Ma sinks into a deep curtsy, but Jane has forgotten to do so, and I see her out of the corner of my eye, her jaw hanging loose in wonder.
“Is it really true, my dear?” the maroon gown asks. “Were you hanged yesterday?”
I nod, feeling shy.
“And what was it like before you were awoken by the doctors? Can you remember where you were?”
I shake my head, and their faces fall.
“Nothing?” they ask. “You can’t remember a thing?”
“I . . . I was just in darkness,” I answer.
“But surely you must have seen something,” the green gown asks, and she pouts her lips a little.
“Was it something very private and personal?” says the other. “For we are simply agog to know!”
The green lowers her voice. “Someone we know who suffered a fit and nearly died said she’d seen a vision of paradise, and it was all hot sun, green pastures, and silver rivers, as beautiful as could be . . .”
I nod slowly, wondering if I could have seen such things and forgotten about them after.
“Angels!” says the maroon. “Some people on point of death say that they’ve seen angels with flowing white wings and silver harps.”
I nod more eagerly. “I believe I did see some angels,” I say, remembering the blurry shapes that had passed across my vision in the darkness. “Four of them, walking together.”
Their eyes light up. “I knew it!” green gown says.
“She may be a prophetess!”
I don’t know what this is, but I nod, and before I can help myself am agreeing with them that I’d seen all sorts of things: strange wild beasts walking with lambs, rivers of silver, flying cherubs, and all manner of heavenly creatures together in a glorious garden in which an abundance of sweet-smelling flowers grew.
When the ladies leave, much pleased with me, Dr. Petty and Dr. Willis clear the room for a short while, saying that I need some rest. Everyone goes out, even Ma and Jane, then Dr. Petty sits on the bed and takes my hand. “Now, Anne,” he says, “I want you to tell me exactly what you saw when you were in that other place—before you awoke and found yourself in Martha’s bedroom.”
I feel myself blush.
“And you must tell us the truth, mind,” says Dr. Willis, speaking very seriously and kindly.
I lie back on my pillows. “I think I did see angels.”
“What were they like?” Dr. Willis asks.
“They were somewhat blurred,” I say, “but seemed very much like angels.”
Dr. Petty gives me a reproachful look. “Anne . . . ?”
I look away.
“And what of the strange wild beasts and the cherubs?” asks Dr. Willis.
My head drops. “Perhaps I didn’t see them. But I thought . . . thought that was what the ladies wished to
hear.”
“Oh, they did, certainly,” says Dr. Willis.
“But you mustn’t be tempted to say such things,” Dr. Petty says, “for on such a flimsy basis, whole religions can be formed. Some would need no more excuse to put you at the head of the Church, like Mother Mary, and a web of mummery and superstition formed about you.”
Dr. Willis looks as if he regrets there not being any angels or silver streams. “The shapes you saw were probably those forms we all see under our closed eyelids,” he says with a sigh.
The next visitors who arrive—two elderly and very learned gentlemen from Cambridge, in plush coats and plumed hats—I am more reticent with. I hardly say a word (for anyway, my throat is paining me), but Jane chatters like a jackdaw, smiling as she recounts the family’s joy, and weeping copiously while she tells of our previous sufferings. The gentlemen are most sympathetic and give me a gold angel as they get up to leave. It must be used, they say, to purchase whatever is necessary for my complete recovery.
This is treasure indeed, for ‘tis worth ten whole shillings. The family comes around the bed to marvel at the very goldness of the coin, and Jane bites it to make sure ‘tis not counterfeit.
I find that I am more at ease in the grand bed now. I know that I have not, but I begin to feel that I’ve done something particular and special to be so lauded. Only two things prevent me from being truly happy: firstly, I fear that Sir Thomas may arrive at any time and take me to be hanged again; secondly, there is someone that I long to see and beg forgiveness from.
There are more arrivals. Dr. Willis brings a fellow to me. “This man is from Mr. Burdet, the printer, and he is to write up a pamphlet about you,” he says, “so you must tell him truthfully whatever you can remember. And no more!” he adds.
I nod, and the fellow brings a chair and sits down beside the bed. People jostle all around him, so he asks Jane to hold his bottle of ink, then takes out a quill and a pad of paper. “‘Twill make an excellent good story,” he says to me. “An improving story wherein people may learn that good can triumph, and that justice may be found on Earth as well as in paradise.”
