The Flight of Sarah Battle

by Alix Nathan

  ‘Sarah, Mrs Cranch,’ Martha says one day, ‘that man come again.’ She refuses to give him a name. Sarah has not told her why William Leopard calls, but Martha knows.

  ‘Mrs Cranch, I thought it wise to visit you before the onset of winter.’

  ‘I knew you were about to appear again, having seen you outside the house two days ago.’ It’s a feeble attempt to trip him up.

  ‘Oh yes? Perhaps you did.’

  ‘But you didn’t call.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  He always comes when Tom is out, always looks the same: disreputable, panting slightly, smiling, sure of himself.

  ‘What amazes me, Mrs Cranch, is that you should actually want the status of married woman.’ Sarah says nothing; will not be drawn. ‘For in the married state you have even less freedom than if you’d continued under your unmarried name. And of course I’ve heard you speak of the need for liberty for married women at the Indian Queen.’

  She will not indulge him with a reply.

  ‘I wonder why any woman ever desires marriage. The legal position is one of complete dependence. Blackstone put it most succinctly: “the husband and wife are one, and the husband is the one”. Hah!’

  ‘But as you remind me periodically, I am not married to Mr Cranch!’ She can’t stop herself. ‘And I have discarded my previous marriage.’ A sense of worthless triumph wells.

  ‘Ah, and there I have some information for you which you should not ignore. Some ten years or so ago a law was passed in Pennsylvania allowing the termination of certain marriages.’

  Sarah looks at him.

  ‘Of course I refer to your marriage to Mr James Wintrige. Shall I tell you more?’

  ‘Yes. Please.’ Leopard grins.

  ‘Under the 1785 Pennsylvania law, divorce is allowed when either spouse has deserted the marriage for at least four years. It is not necessary to provide evidence of anything else, such as adultery. You deserted your marriage in 1796, I believe?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Therefore you could sue for divorce in 1800.’

  ‘But surely he would sue for divorce. And he is in England and neither of us is an American citizen.’

  ‘So advanced is this law, Mrs Cranch, that only one year of residence is necessary for filing. All that is needed is to persuade Mr Wintrige to dwell here for a year. There are only two more years to wait. And though I say so myself, only two more years of my visits to you, if he should decide to do that.’

  As if to account for this free advice Leopard raises the payment to fifty dollars and Sarah does not protest.

  Later, as she begins to tell Tom, she realises the corollary of the welcome relief from blackmail.

  ‘James would refuse to sue for divorce, I’m sure of it, let alone sail to America. And even if he did then oh, it would all come out would it not?’

  Tom puts his arms round her. Studies her face with his deep, bright eyes.

  ‘We need Mr Leopard to keep things quiet for us, don’t we?’

  *

  Sarah sits in Martha’s kitchen talking about a dinner that Robert and Tom want to give for Daniel Eckfeldt. Ever since she’s met Willie, Sarah has wondered helplessly how Robert can be persuaded to admit his paternity. She’s decided to ask Tom, but first, having promised Martha not to tell, she must ask her permission to speak to him about it.

  Martha is making pastry, Sarah peels and chops apples.

  ‘Martha, I’ve kept my promise not to mention Willie to Robert.’

  ‘You have.’

  ‘Will you let me tell Tom? We talk to each other about everything. He’ll understand the situation, the need for silence. And he’ll have a good idea.’

  ‘What idea, Sarah?’

  ‘Robert must cease treating you as a servant.’

  ‘Oh he like it that way!’

  ‘But surely you mind it, Martha?’

  ‘I not mind.’

  ‘He should marry you! I’m sure Tom would say so, too.’

  ‘Mr Cranch he really wise.’

  ‘Yes, he is.’ Sarah blushes.

  ‘There, look at you! You two! Mr Wilson he never like that with Mrs Wilson.’

  ‘But she’s dead, Martha. I’m sorry for him. How terrible to be widowed. And yellow fever, too!’

  ‘She not dead.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘She leave him.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘She take other man.’

  ‘Oh!’

  ‘She like other men, Mrs Wilson. Like plenty other men. And he like me. There, now I tell you!’

  ‘Did Mrs Wilson leave him because of Robert and you?’

  ‘She say so. But she already have favourite lover, she leave the city with him, take furniture, too, go some place south. They send message she die of yellow fever, but it not true. Folk see her there.’

  ‘That explains everything about his attitude to women, Martha.’

  ‘Oh but he kind to me. He like me still.’

  The stained sofa. It’s what Sarah always suspected, though of course up on the second floor neither she nor Tom would hear what goes on in the basement kitchen at night.

  ‘And he knows Mrs Wilson’s not dead, so he can’t marry you? If his wife’s alive it would be bigamy marrying you.’

  ‘Oh he not want marry me! The big men in the church not like it. White man. Black woman.’

  ‘And he keeps Willie in secret, too.’

  ‘He give me money, food for Willie, clothes. So I no need to go to the Guardians. And he pay that man. He have no money left!’

  ‘That man? You mean Leopard is also blackmailing Robert? No wonder Robert needs our rent. And that’s why Leopard was here the other day. I saw him hanging around. Oh, Martha, Oh!’ She held her stomach. ‘It’s happening again!’

  ‘My poor Sarah. I get towels. I help you right away.’

  She supports Sarah onto the sofa, to be stained yet further, Sarah thinks wryly, and Martha, with towels, warm water and kindness, helps her through what is, after all, a small event compared to birth itself. But it depresses Sarah greatly. Martha holds her to herself like a child.

  5

  At the Seven Stars, on Bethnal Green before it splits into Dog Row and Red Cow Lane, the men nod a good evening to the publican, step down into the tap-room. An upholsterer, two shoemakers, a bookbinder, dwarf tailor, soap-boiler, boot-closer, gardener, silversmith, baker. Ten in all. They pass round the jug, fill pipes with screws of tobacco. They are not poor; their clothes not ragged, not stiffened by brick dust, lime wash. Fustian, flannel, serge, the colours are dour. Their only badge is the shortness of their hair, though that’s a spreading fashion anyway. They’re middle-aged or more, have wives, walked well over an hour to reach the remote fields north-east of the city.

  ‘Citizens,’ says Thomas Jones, silversmith of quick intelligence, ‘our meeting opens with the swearing in of our new member Matthew Dale. Citizen, step forward. You need not place your hand on a bible if you do not believe.’

  The others watch him sceptically, this boy yearning to be a man.

  He begins reading the sheet too fast: ‘I, Matthew Dale, do sincerely promise and swear that I will persevere in endeavouring to form a Brotherhood of affection among Englishmen of every religious Persuasion and that I will also persevere in my endeavours to obtain a full equal and adequate representation of all the People of England in Parliament.’ Gasps for breath. Sets off again, more slowly.

  ‘I do further declare that neither Hopes Fears Rewards or Punishments shall ever induce me directly or indirectly to inform or give Evidence against any Member or Members of this or similar societies for any Act or Expression of theirs collectively or individually in or out of this Society, in Pursuance of the Spirit of this Obligation. So help me God.’

  The last four words come out as a confused mutter, he having refused a bible. There is a general murmur of approval and Jones leads him to each man to shake hands. Left hand to left hand, thumb to forefinger’s first join
t.

  ‘Unity,’ says the first man.

  ‘Answer “Truth”, Matthew,’ Jones instructs him.

  ‘Truth.’

  ‘Liberty,’ the next man says, his grip hard, a painful press on Matthew’s finger joint.

  ‘Answer ”Death”.’

  ‘Death.’

  ‘Citizens, our meeting continues as usual with a debate. Citizen Dale has volunteered to take notes. (Matthew – remember, names in the secret script I showed you.) Our subject, sent to us by the committee, is national schools.’

  An aggressive yawn from one corner of the room.

  ‘No, Citizen Clark, this is a vital matter. The question is: how shall the republic educate its children?’

  ‘Gardeners, soap-boilers, we need no hedgecashun.’

  ‘Citizen Jones, I agree with Citizen Clark,’ pipes up Matthew. ‘I say we have no need of schools at all. Destroy them! Our purpose is to work,’ (he blushes, for he has none), ‘to clean away corruption and lies and live a pure life.’ Silence. Reluctant applause from soap-boiler Clark.

  ‘Citizen Dale. We well understand that you might wish to destroy a school such as that from which you recently escaped. But how are we to spread our word if the people cannot read?’ The bookbinder’s face contorts kindly. His skin seems sewn from his own off-cuts.

  ‘The committee would have us agree to national schools in the republic,’ says the upholsterer, the oldest man present. ‘Let Citizen Dale record that we do agree and let us get on to more important matters, citizens.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘The business out of doors.’

  ‘First, citizens, the committee would have us consider a new name.’

  ‘I say we keep Sons of Liberty.’

  ‘That was only ever a few of us. What’s wrong with United Englishmen?’

  ‘United Britons is more like United Irish. What’s right for the Irish is right for us.’

  ‘True Britons has been suggested,’ says Jones. ‘Citizens. Let us vote on United Britons or True Britons.’

  The vote is unclear, duly noted. The men begin to empty their mugs and stand ready for the evening’s main activity. A huddle of Jones and two others speak in low voices. Matthew hovers.

  ‘No notes for this, Matthew.’

  Arthur Heron the bookbinder asks Jones: ‘Thomas, are we driving on again?’

  ‘I’ve been talking with the Captain,’ Jones speaks in low-voiced urgency. ‘This morning. He is for going ahead; says fifteen hundred men might take London. But it’d be no less than five thousand could keep it, he thinks.’

  ‘Look what they achieve in Ireland! Look at it!’ The voice of upholsterer John Boxer, grates between breaths from poisoned lungs.

  ‘John, I think more of us should meet with the Captain and the committee.’

  ‘But have they any plan? A plan for acting upon not debating. That is what we need, a Plan of Insurrection. Tonight I’ll go to see a person I know in the Tower’ (Matthew’s ears prick up), ‘to consult whether if we can make a Hubbub that cannot be delivered up.’

  ‘That’s good, John. Once begun we might sweep through the Nation. The committee surely know how many divisions will join us, how many have organised in the rest of the country.’

  Even as he glows in the light of this language, is flattered by Jones’s treatment of him as an equal, Matthew feels the wash of vagueness lap about them. He has been welcomed, protected in Thomas Jones’s house in Plough Court, Fetter Lane, ostensibly learning the work of silversmithing, in fact helping Jones write pamphlets, sometimes minding the baby. Occasionally he thinks of William Leopard. Wishes he could see him now.

  The main activity of the evening assures him somewhat even if there are only ten men to drill together in the garden of the Seven Stars. They have weapons, well a few, which they pass from hand to hand like priceless contraband. Lit only by the alehouse windows, they learn to march in step, to halt at command, to hold still for testing amounts of time, above all to obey without argument; not to think, rather to listen even when commands are whispered, and to act.

  They drill for an hour, dare not shoot for fear of raising villagers, stop suddenly at heavy breathing behind the hedge, resume when they hear the slow tread of cows. Troop back into the tap-room, fetch more jugs, tobacco, open the door and sing loudly, as proof to spies or casual sneaks that they really are a convivial debating club rounding off the evening in their cups.

  A good-natured nice king

  But hope we ne’er shall have a-nother!

  Pause while they listen for the clink of hostility. Then louder than ever the songs they’ve learned from the Irish, ‘Erin go Bragh’, ‘Croppies Rise Up’ and, from the heart of the Revolution, ‘Dansons la Carmagnole’. Best of all:

  Ah! ça ira, ça ira, ça ira

  Les aristocrates à la lanterne!

  Ah! ça ira, ça ira, ça ira

  Les aristocrates on les pendra!

  And all the rest of the verses, every word.

  *

  Although Joseph sometimes speaks of Lucy as his wife, of course she’s not. He tells her she’s his wife by common law, for haven’t they lived together now for more than three years?

  He hasn’t brought Fanny Lobb to the new house in Little Russell Street. Yet Lucy now knows when he visits her, for she has learned the signs that must precede it. First his ebullience dulls, he becomes morose, still occasionally weeps at the worthlessness of his work. Something distils within him, drip by drip. He barely speaks, nor will she risk abuse by speaking to him. He looks up from his work only to stare, listening to an inner violence. Sits all night without moving, as though suddenly he might crumble to dust.

  She is relieved when at last he goes. Shutters out intermittent bawling from the street; tries less easily to shut away her worries about Matthew. The Watch proclaims each half hour. She reads the poet of consoling gloom.

  ‘How have you the patience for such melancholic stuff? Nothing but dying trees and dead rabbits,’ Joseph has said to her. Though he approves of Cowper’s poem against slavery, he abjures all writers except Milton and Paine. And Shakespeare of course.

  Alone, her feet warm before the grate, Lucy reads Cowper undisturbed.

  But me, perhaps,

  The glowing hearth may satisfy awhile

  With faint illumination, that uplifts

  The shadow to the ceiling, there by fits

  Dancing uncouthly to the quiv’ring flame.

  Not undelightful is an hour to me

  So spent in parlour twilight: such a gloom

  Suits well the thoughtful or unthinking mind,

  The mind contemplative, with some new theme

  Pregnant, or indisposed alike to all.

  She is suffused by gentleness. The poet is a mother to her, a father, kinder by far than they who brought her into the world; than her brilliant, erratic, heartless, common-law husband.

  His return, exhausted, his pupils glittering pinpoints, is always merely a confirmation. He plunges into sleep and she must wait until he wakes.

  Fanny did sit for him as Emilia. The print sold well, Lucy’s distress as Desdemona all too real. He abandoned a scene with Fan as Lady Macbeth and another with her as Gertrude for which she might have been suitable. But he brought along his black Othello before the move from Albion Place.

  ‘Lucy, meet a friend of mine, Gilbert Downs. He’s agreed to sit for Othello to your Desdemona. He knows the play.’

  A big man, taller than Joseph, Gilbert, curious, genial, shakes hands with Lucy.

  ‘I’ve read the play and I’m pleased to be your husband, ma’am!’

  ‘Yes.’ Lucy nods politely. Gilbert cannot know how his joking declaration pains her, for, of course, he could be, she not being married in law.

  Something in her face alerts him. ‘Your play-husband, Mrs Young, for I am myself married and my wife, Ann, would not tolerate bigamy.’

  ‘Indeed, Gil, you are a good husband.’ Lucy is unsure whether irony o
r guilt or neither flit over Joseph’s face.

  ‘Well, I’m glad not to have to remember all the lines,’ Gilbert says. ‘What memories these actors have!’

  ‘Valets surely must remember what their masters want, Gil? Gilbert is valet to Lord Whoever-he-is with a vast wardrobe, Lucy. Will he buy a print of you as Othello?’

  Gilbert laughs. ‘No, no! He mustn’t know of it.’

  ‘The valet as general!’ says Joseph. ‘You may develop some airs, Gil.’ More laughter.

  First Joseph paints the half-completed scene in which Desdemona presses Othello on Cassio’s behalf. Gilbert is swathed in a fine white cloak with braided edges. It emphasises his height, his upright bearing, his blackness. Lucy watches.

  Then comes the first scene of the play’s final act. Desdemona in bed asleep. Othello standing over her with a lamp contemplating the wife he’ll shortly kill.

  ‘And shall I sleep all day?’ she asks, half-jokingly.

  ‘When I’ve painted you, Lucy, you can get on with your work.’

  ‘No, Joe. That won’t do at all,’ says Gilbert. ‘How can I think that whole soliloquy with only a bed before me? My face will express nothing but thoughts about your sheets!’ They shout with laughter. Lucy, unsmiling, closes her eyes, knows she’ll never make him laugh like that.

  It is the strangest thing she’s done in her life, though sewing a Tricolour for the King’s Birthday in the middle of the night was odd enough. Desdemona’s story is hard to bear. How awful to be an actress, to act your own death on stage! Yet here she is, feigning sleep on her bed, contemplated by a man who is not her husband, who is making himself think Othello’s jealous, murderous, loving thoughts while looking down upon her.

  She wonders about Gilbert: is he a freed slave? She’s seen black musicians in the street, black servants in livery. One comes regularly to hire the amorous portfolios for his master. Gilbert has been educated, speaks easily. He and Joseph are friends; no doubt he knows of Joseph’s other life. Of Fanny Lobb.

  She dozes. Is Gilbert’s wife black too? He is a handsome man. Does he, like Joseph, have another woman from whom he cannot keep away, despite what he says about bigamy? What is he thinking about as he stands there? Can he look at her lying on a bed without wanting…?