by Mary Hooper
“And what will it be called?” Jane asks him.
“Newes from the Dead,” he says. “For your sister here was dead and now is not. And she brings us news from that other world.”
I look toward the doctors with some unease.
“We’ll start with the angels,” says the scribe. “The Countess of Wimborne says that you saw angels . . .”
Embarrassed, I shake my head.
“‘Twas all a misunderstanding,” says Dr. Petty.
The fellow frowns, rather disappointed. “Let me have your prayers, then, Mistress Green, for I must record your own words to the Lord. ’Tis said that when you awoke here, you began speaking at exactly the point where you left off on the gibbet.”
I glance toward Robert, who is nodding at me. “When I awoke I found myself saying, ‘May God convey me swiftly to paradise . . .’”
“Which were indeed her last words as she was hanged,” says Dr. Petty.
Dr. Willis approaches the bed. “It was as if Mistress Green were a clock whose weights had been taken off a while, and afterward hung on again.”
“Wise words, sir,” says the scribe, and he writes them down. He asks me how often I attend church and I am about to reply, when there is a stir outside in the corridor and a little ‘prentice boy runs in, pushing through the people. He works at a carpenter’s, I think, for he wears a dusty brown apron down to the ground, and pale sawdust frosts his hair and eyebrows.
“Whatever is it?” Dr. Willis asks.
“Please, sir,” puffs the apprentice, “Mr. Parker said I should come and tell you the news. He just heard from the Reade house, see. Got ‘structions to go there straight.”
“Who has? What do you mean, boy?” asks Dr. Petty.
“Mr. Parker,” answers the boy, panting some, “says I must tell you he has been instructed to go over to Dun’s Tew and measure for a coffin. A coffin for Sir Thomas Reade, who has upped and died!”
“Sir Thomas? Dead?” inquires Dr. Willis in a shocked voice.
There is a moment’s silence, and someone calls, “Oh, behold God’s providence!” and several men fall to their knees and begin praying aloud. As for me, I’d long wished him dead and at first wonder, with some guilt, if my wishes have worked a curse on him (but this guilt does not last long).
The scribe looks astonished for a moment, then I hear him murmur, “Excellent . . . excellent,” before the nib of his pen begins scratching along the pad again. “Behold God’s providence . . .” I hear him mutter under his breath.
Chapter ~ 25
I have slept well, or so the physicians who surround me declare, and my voice is sounder, the swelling and bruising to my neck much improved, and my heartbeat strong. I have even managed to stand for just a moment, before being overcome with a fit of dizziness. My brothers have had to return to their workplace, but Jane, Ma, and Pa are close by, and last night Jane and Ma shared my bed with me.
I feel leaden in my body, but my mind whirls away like a snowflake and notions and images run through my head, as many, varied, and entwined as ribbands on a may-pole. Why have I been saved? What is meant by such an occurrence? Can it be true—as I was told by one gentleman visitor—that God means to begin a new religious order through me? I sincerely hope it is not. I don’t feel able to lead such an order, to seek followers, or e’en know how I would address them.
I think about Sir Thomas’s death and (although I own it wicked of me) feel mighty content about it, being unable to spare a thought for his grieving widow or his surviving family. How selfish a person I have become—but how very strange it is that he should die while I should live!
The scholars are about my bed early and half fill the room, for their masters have set them a task to write a poem about my situation, and there is much laughter as they try out their lines (although some I cannot understand a word of, they being written in a language they say is Latin). Master Wren’s produces laughter, for no one can tell what it means, and Dr. Petty says to him, “By the Lord, Christopher, you had better look to your other talents rather than poesy.”
By the time the clock strikes ten o’clock the scholars half fill the room, and they are shooed out by Dr. Willis to attend lectures. Robert puts down his papers—as well as writing the poem, he has been recording my treatments—comes to me and presses my hand. “I . . . I . . . I fear you will have a tiring day,” he says. “It seems that the whole w . . . world are on their way to see you.”
“’Tis of no matter,” I say, for I am enjoying my reign as queen. I do not even have to speak much, but merely lie in the feather bed and smile graciously as people kiss my hand. I think ‘tis the best and easiest employment I have ever had.
I thank Robert again for his ministrations, and some moments later the first of that day’s proper visitors arrive: a group of clerical gentlemen who wish to pray at my bedside. They are joined by a deputation of apothecaries, a gentleman I am told is Cromwell’s deputy in Oxford, and a party of scientific men who have just arrived on the coach from London and have not e’en stopped at the tavern for refreshment. After these, a finely dressed lady arrives with two maids accompanying her, her gown tricked out with so many petticoats that it takes up the space of six men. While she is still laying her hands on me and mouthing softly, “Oh, my dear, how you have suffered . . .” a swarthy woman and her daughter come in and scare her away. It appears that they are fairground people, and they ask if they can buy my nightdress to cut into squares and sell as lucky charms.
I think this an excellent idea and apply to Dr. Petty for permission, but he refuses.
“We will not have people making money out of such gewgaws,” he says.
“Isn’t that rather hard, William?” Mr. Clarke asks.
“Maybe. But such things are hocum-pocum nonsense and have no place in the practice of medicine,” says Dr. Petty. “They are just in it to make money.”
“But will we not make money from what we have achieved with the girl?”
“No, we will not,” says Dr. Petty in a low voice. “We will make more: we will make our reputations.”
Martha is busying herself and has heard some of this conversation. “Anyway,” she says, “‘tis my old nightdress and not lucky at all.”
This matter with the fairground women has given Dr. Willis an idea, however. The doctors speak together and, the room being full to bursting again, it is cleared of all visitors, Dr. Willis saying that this is so that I may take sustenance and have certain medical observations made.
When just my family is left, Dr. Willis explains that as news of me spreads farther afield, the number of people coming to see me will increase. “And I fear we may not be able to admit them all to see Anne—this house just cannot contain them,” he says.
“Do you want her to come home now, then?” Ma asks, somewhat faintly, and I know she is envisaging a parade of finely dressed gentry treading the path to our little cottage.
Dr. Willis shakes his head. “She must stay with us for a few more days yet—perhaps a week—until we are sure of her complete recovery. But to help us all, we intend to restrict those coming to see her by charging them a fee.”
“Like a show at the May fair?” Jane asks.
“No, young mistress, like a proper scientific display, such as the universities put on from time to time.”
“The poorer sort will thus stay away, but the quality will not be refused,” says Dr. Petty.
“We will charge one shilling,” says Dr. Willis, “and in a short time—mark my words—we will have enough to pay for all the medicines used on Anne, for our attendance at her bedside, and for the legal fees that will be needed to obtain her a full pardon.”
“And what’s left after will go some way toward her marriage portion,” says Dr. Bathurst kindly, “for every girl should have a dowry of some sort.”
My family says nothing to this last, but I know that they are wondering who ever would take me.
The day proceeds with my father standing at the d
oor holding a wooden box Mr. Clarke has obtained and rattling this as people walk up the passage. They place their shillings in it without question (some give more), for a sign has been put downstairs in the shop warning of the charge, and those unwilling to pay do not venture up the stairs.
I am surprised at how quickly Pa falls into his role; “Come see Anne Green, the miracle woman!” he calls like a mountebank. “The woman that was hanged and lived to tell the tale! Come and see proof of God’s mighty providence!” And sometimes, if the people are very grand, Jane goes over to greet them at the doorway, brings them to my bedside, and affects an introduction with much flimflam and curtsying.
Dinner is at noon, and straight after this I receive a further small deputation of gentlemen from London, who speak at long and boring length to Dr. Willis and Dr. Petty, then come and stand at the foot of my bed and shake their heads at me. I try to be alert so that they may see that I’m fully recovered, but my eyelids are beginning to droop with tiredness when I hear a discussion at the bedroom door and a voice pleading to be let in to see me without payment.
A male voice says, “For on hearing the news I threw off my apron, jumped on the horse I was shoeing, and rode here without a pause.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” I hear my pa answer. “’Tis a shilling for all and sundry.”
“But I did not think to put money in my pocket, man!” the voice says urgently. “Do let me pass!”
Fully awake once more, I stare over the heads of the medical gentlemen and can just see the top of a battered felt hat.
“I’ll bring a shilling to you directly! Just let me see her now.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but I’m going to have to turn you away,” my father says, then adds jovially, “Indeed, I would lose my job if I let you in without payment.”
I hear a soft swear word and a sigh of exasperation, then comes the rustle of gowns and the clack of leather shoes as more visitors walk down the corridor. There is a clink as their money goes in the box.
Jane is sitting cross-legged on the bed sewing some gloves. “Who was that who spoke then—the man without a shilling?” I ask her with some urgency. “Go quickly and see!”
She nods at me but doesn’t move fast enough for my liking, so that I have to ask the medical men to kindly shift to one side to enable me to see around them and to the doorway.
But no one stands there now, besides three Puritan women looking like crows in their black moiré gowns.
“Go after that man!” I say to Jane, pushing her off the bed. “Quickly!”
She goes. But doesn’t have to go far, because the man in question has heard my voice, turned back, and now waits in the doorway.
He takes off his hat and stands awkwardly, staring at me. He’s still in his working clothes with a soot-streaked face, grimy arms, and hair caught back in a band. He has not, today, scrubbed his hands or cleaned his fingernails.
I call, “Let him in, Pa!” and John Taylor comes toward me slowly.
We stare at each other. There’s much to say, but that cannot be started yet. Instead I say softly, “Fie, John Taylor, am I not even worth a shilling?”
“Nay,” he answers, “but you are worth silver and gold to me.”
And I look at him and know that my life story can begin again, as if I am newly born, and count myself as both the most cursed woman, and the most fortunate, that ever was on this Earth.
Author’s ~ Note
I first came across the story of Anne Green in 2004 while listening to a program on BBC’s Radio Four. A panel was discussing the way in which women throughout the ages have been prosecuted for infanticide—the murder of a baby—when they had actually suffered a stillbirth or (if the child had lived a short while) a crib death. Anne’s case was mentioned, the story told of how she was hanged for infanticide and subsequently revived, and I was gripped. Her death and revival have been documented many times over the years from the point of view of the doctors who were instrumental in her revival, but I wanted to write the story from Anne’s perspective. Naturally, therefore, although the main thrust of the story is absolutely true, all the conversations and trivia are from my imagination.
Anne was a serving maid in the house of Sir Thomas Reade in 1650 and thus could have been present when Charles I visited the house to say his last goodbyes to Queen Henrietta some years previous to this. The present owners of the manor house in Dun’s Tew kindly allowed me access to the buildings and grounds, and although these have been much altered over the years, the huge dovecote still remains. There was also a trace of the old outside privies for the servants, presumably still in the same place as the ones that had existed in Anne’s day.
Sir Thomas’s heir, Geoffrey Reade, was sixteen or seventeen at the time of Anne’s hanging, but was spirited out of the county before her trial and was not heard of again. Sir Thomas’s displeasure at his grandson’s actions was, perhaps, illustrated by the fact that under the terms of his will, Geoffrey Reade only received a farm in Northampton, when he might have been expected to receive considerably more of the lands and great manors owned by the family. Sir Thomas was said to have been present at Anne’s dissection, but was taken ill and died three days after her revival, which was seen as further proof of Anne’s innocence and God’s judgment.
Anne, following the stillbirth, was described as miserably ill and weak, and the conditions in Oxford Jail were said to be “indescribable . . . with lack of sanitation, warmth, and lighting.” She would have had no one to speak for her during the trial. A law passed in 1624 prosecuted women (in practice, intended to apply only to unmarried girls of the lower class) whose babies had died, unless they could “make proof of one witness at the least, that the child whose death was concealed was born dead.”
The four doctors present at the dissection had their reputations made as a result of Anne’s case, although Christopher Wren’s involvement only became known a few years ago, when his poem was discovered among thirty others written by the young Oxford undergraduates present. Among these is also a poem written by one Robert Matthews, Fellow of New College, and this was my starting point for the character of Robert, although I have no way of knowing if he had a stammer. It is said that Dr. Willis had one, however, and ruminated on the cause of it.
Anne recovered very well from her ordeal, and her fame spread widely through the sale of pamphlets entitled “Newes from the Dead,” telling her story and giving speeches and prayers said to have been dictated by her. The original pamphlet with this title is included after this Author’s Note. Pamphleteers, as they were called, were the equivalent of newspaper journalists today. There were three or four such leaflets published and sold, and Anne’s ordeal made a great story. The information given in them differs according to what approach its writers wanted to take; one includes the scholars’ poems (which haven’t been included owing to their obscure language), another gives prayers that Anne is said to have written herself, one says Anne saw angels, another says she saw none. One can only imagine the sensation they caused at the time.
Generally, the people of the country felt that what had happened to her was God’s miraculous way of saying she was innocent. The money collected at the apothecary’s door from the hundreds who flocked to see her was used to pay for her pardon, and she became something of a celebrity, traveling up and down the country with her coffin and appearing in taverns and at fairs. She married soon after the event: the records merely say, “Anne Green of Steeple Barton married John Taylor of Dun’s Tew on the 29th May 1651,” so I am guessing that she knew John beforehand, probably from when she worked for Sir Thomas in Dun’s Tew. The couple were not married in Steeple Barton, however (Anne’s home village), but in the larger church at Tadmarton, which lies a little farther north. Perhaps the rector was unwilling to be a part of the fuss and excitement that would be bound to have accompanied such an event? However, Anne went on to have three children, and died in 1665.
What saved her from death? The instrument of hanging in those d
ays was merely a noose from a tree or scaffold, without a trapdoor beneath, so the victim would have suffocated to death rather than have their neck broken, and the knot that should have pressed into Anne’s throat may have been incorrectly placed. Perhaps most significant is the fact that on that day, 14 December 1650, it was fiercely cold, and it has been suggested that her suspended animation was due to something similar to cryogenic preservation, where the brain is frozen and thus prevented from being starved of oxygen.
Bibliography
Burdet, W. A Wonder of Wonders, being a faithful narrative and true relation of one Anne Green. Oxford, 13 January 1651. Source of image on page v.
Fuller, Thomas. History of the Worthies of England: “Sir Thomas Reade, Knight.” London, 1811.
Hewes, Gordon W. Human Anatomy at Oxford in 1650: The role of future members of the Royal Society. Paper given at the Conference on the History and Philosophy of Science, 28 April 1980.
Hughes, J. Trevor. Miraculous Deliverance of Anne Green: An Oxford case of resuscitation in the 17th Century. British Medical Journal, 285, 1982.
Oxford Dictionary of National Biography. Entries for Ralph Bathurst, Anne Green, William Petty, Robert Willis, and Christopher Wren. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004.
Pears, Iain. An Instance of the Fingerpost. New York: Vintage, 1998.
Petty, William. Ed. 6th Marquis of Lansdowne. The Petty Papers. William Petty’s own notes on the case. London, 1924.
Plot, Robert. The Natural History of Oxfordshire. Oxford, 1677.
Robinson, Tho. “Newes from the Dead, or a True and Exact Narration of the Miraculous Deliverance of Anne Green.” Leonard Lichfield, 1651.
