by Vicary, Tim
They reached the top of a hill and paused, looking out over the hills towards the sea, where a ship was running swiftly up channel with its topsails furled.
"Even if I had coupled with him, as you say I did, would that be a greater sin than to do nothing, and let my father die?"
"Mercy is in the hands of the Lord, just like vengeance. Who can touch pitch, and not be defiled?"
"Not you, anyway." She glanced at Tom, holding her hair back out of her eyes, and thought how stiff he seemed, how wooden, as though the wind was blowing round a megalith. And he was the man she had once thought it right to marry!
"Tom, don't you ever think, instead of eternally spouting holy texts? Don't you ever think for yourself and see that God doesn't always do what's good?"
His shocked reaction was utterly predictable. Entirely without thought, as Ann had known it would be. "That's blasphemy, Ann! 'Thou shalt not take the name of thy God in vain'!"
"I know it is. And it says 'thou shalt not kill' but I've seen people do a lot of that in the Lord's name, and it says 'honour thy father and mother' which I think means keep them alive, so then if I commit fornication which it does not say anything about, only adultery, then I do that in the Lord's name too to keep another one of His blessed commandments!"
"So you admit it. You did prostitute yourself to him!"
"I didn't say that, Tom. I said 'if'." But she knew it was a vain defence. She had meant to prostitute herself, anyway, even if it had turned out rather different.
"I know you did. And so your father can no longer lay your sin at my door. If I take you to be my wife it will be out of pity, not obligation now!"
He turned and strode ahead down the road, holding his hat on his head to stop it blowing away. She glared after him in fury, and then laughed out loud, the wind tearing her words away so that he did not hear them.
"You're glad then! You're really glad! You poor silly fool!" She set off down the road, and came up with him at the bottom of the slope.
"So you will go and tell my father that 'twas a sin for me to save his life, and because of that sin you are no longer bound to marry me. Is that it?"
"Yes. But we are still betrothed, Ann. And I didn't say I wouldn't marry you, if you would repent of your sins and show a proper Christian respect!" He had taken his hat off now, and the wind blew his short hair into strange waves and ridges over his solid skull as he scowled at her. She felt suddenly afraid of the huge strength that was repressed within him, while the wind's blew free. So she controlled her own scorn with irony, as she had done more than once in the last few days, and tried to look as though the marriage remained the possibility which Tom and her mother still thought it was.
"Then we had better see if we can find my father, and tell him the good news."
"Indeed. And I will try to find some pity for you in my heart."
So they tramped on over the high, wind-blown downs; the grim, lanky figure of Tom trying to keep his decorum in the wind, Ann letting her hair blow defiantly free to annoy him.
But they had started too late to reach Bridport that night, and when they came there in the morning, they heard that the convict train had gone ahead several hours ago. So it was not until late the following afternoon, when they got a ride in a cart half of the way from Charmouth, that they came up to the suddenly overcrowded workhouse in Honiton, and asked the soldier outside for help. He consulted his list, and then reluctantly lurched to his feet and took them inside. He called Adam's name into the great cell.
"Here!" someone shouted, and pointed to a short burly man sitting on a bench at the back, who began to get slowly to his feet. But it was not her father, it was John Spragg. When he saw her, he stood quite still, his unshaven face grey as the old ashes in the fireplace.
"But that's not my father. He's not here." Ann turned to the soldier in surprise.
The man scratched his head, plainly tired, and bored by the whole business.
"Well, I'm sorry, my dear, but 'tis the only Adam Carter we got. You want to talk to him or no?"
"No - yes! Yes, I do!"
"All right. This young feller'll look after you, will he? Give us a shout when 'ee want to come out."
Her father was nowhere in the cell, but John Spragg would know where he was. She pushed her way forward to him, and wondered why he stayed by the bench at the back of the room, staring at her like a rabbit at a fox.
"John, what is it? Why do they call you by my father's name?"
John Spragg gazed at her, his lips moving stupidly, like an idiot's, as though he thought he should speak but did not know the words. He shook his head faintly.
"He's ... he's not here, Ann."
"I can see that! But why? Where is he?" The concern in her voice had most of the men in the cell looking at her. John Spragg still shook his head slowly, tears coming into his eyes.
"With ... he's ... with the Lord, my dear."
The words were spoken so quietly that she did not hear or understand them at first. Then John Spragg buried his face in his hands and began to weep. Ann started to shiver uncontrollably, chilled by a fear colder than midwinter.
"Dead? John, he can't be dead! Rob promised me! He's not dead!"
She snatched her godfather's hands away from his face and stared at him, her green eyes wide with shock.
"Why do they call you by his name?"
John Spragg shook his head again hopelessly, as though trying to be rid of the whole thing and knowing he never could, not now, never.
"He ... he gave ... he gave me his life, girl. He made me do it. He said he didn't want to live any more, after ... "
"After what?"
"After what you ... did. No!" He shook his head more violently, and clutched his forehead with his hand. "I'm sorry, Ann, I shouldn't have said that, 'tis not true, 'tis all wrong! If you saved anyone's life 'twas a fine thing, however 'twas done, and your father was one of the best men I ever knew. Only ... he didn't want to live, and God forgive me, but I did!" He buried his face in his hands, shaking with sobs.
"You answered to his name." Ann spoke very slowly, the truth sliding like a frozen knife into her soul. "And so he was taken out to hang in Dorchester yesterday, while we were coming here. But he didn't say that about me, John, tell me he didn't say that!"
John Spragg looked at her and clasped her hands in his own. "No, my dear, I shouldn't have told 'ee that, you must forget it. If he did 'twas only by way of an excuse I'm sure, to say something to disguise his kindness to me. He was the bravest man I ever knew, girl, and he loved you dearly, really he did ... "
"And you took his life! You're living his life now - the life I saved! Oh, John!" She wrenched her hands out of his and turned away. "Take me out of here, Tom, we must go! Jailor!"
The soldier came at last and opened the door for the tall young man and the weeping girl, but he did not ask why she was weeping, or why she did not look back at the man she had come so far to see. He was tired and bored, and had seen too many such sights before.
50
"HERE'S ADAM Carter, sir! He be half deaf from cannon fire, that's why he didn't hear 'ee!"
Adam had smiled to himself more than once on the long march towards Lyme, at the memory of those words. He had called them out loud and clear as he had shoved John Spragg firmly forward in place of himself. He remembered the look of surprise and anguished gratitude which John had given him as they parted. It warmed him with pride, so that for a while he forgot his own despair.
He had spent half the evening before trying to persuade his friend to accept the chance of life he so longed for, and not till near sunrise had John agreed. Then when the moment had come John had stood stock still, like a tree, and Sir William Booth had shrugged and been looking for the next name on the list when Adam had called out. Even then he did not think John would have gone had he not still half believed that the judge would be merciful, and his own name be on the transportation list as well for Adam to answer to.
But John had be
en hustled outside before the roll-call ended, and he had been well away from the prison when, an hour later, a sergeant of dragoons had come into the half-empty cell with a second list, of those who were to be escorted to the various towns and villages around the West Country for their execution, so that their fate might be a reminder of the results of rebellion. Adam had stepped forward quietly in answer to the name of John Spragg.
He knew his brother would have been glad he had done it. John Spragg was a good, honest man who deserved to live. It was no crime to have shown fear at Sedgemoor - surely they had all felt that, Adam thought. At least John had fought in the end, and not sent another to die in his place, as Adam had done to his own brother years before. Adam felt it was some sort of atonement for Ruth Spragg, too, who might have married Adam's brother, that he was now at least able to save John for her.
But he had not done it really for that, or for the shame he had spoken of to John, at what he feared Ann had had to do to. save his life. All that was part of it, but not the central part; it did not really touch the core of his resolve.
For in the trauma of the past few weeks he had found something within himself which he had never had before, and could not share with anyone; a bitter, brittle pride in the fact that he himself could face the worst, the cruellest things life had to offer without help from anyone. He had had no help from God, certainly, for God had never listened to him and now had failed His own chosen army. Nor, in the end, did he need help from his friends, for this last decision, this resolve to face the horrors of death just as he had faced the horrors that had gone before, had been made quite alone, just as it would have to be faced alone. He did not know what came after death, but he longed to face that too now, far more than he longed to live.
So he had even been happy, marching over the high, windswept downs to Bridport and Lyme, singing defiant psalms in the company of the other condemned men, including the indomitable veteran Colonel Holmes with his white hair and single arm. Adam would have preferred, as most of them would, to have been marched out quickly in Dorchester and hanged, but after so many days in prison the wind in their hair, the song of the larks, and the shifting pattern of the sun and clouds on the hills had an extraordinary sweetness, and he felt he saw them more clearly than he had ever done before.
He did not suspect where he was going until the next day, when he alone was called by the sergeant out of the prison cell in Lyme, and by then it was too late. It had not seemed likely before, for men had been drafted off piecemeal along the march to the sheriffs and constables of places they had never seen, and when he had been spared he had thought he would be one of the large party for Lyme.
But Colyton was the next town west of Lyme, and the sergeant confirmed it as they climbed the steep western hill they had descended with such hope two months before.
Then for the first time Adam regretted what he had done, and hung back praying vainly to the Lord to spare his wife and children the sight of what was to happen. But the Lord heard his prayers now no more than ever, and he trudged even more slowly across the downs, until the soldiers became irritable and began to drag and push him by his bound arms. He lost his pride, and pleaded with them to kill him there and then, but they only laughed. He tried to spare his family by jumping with his arms bound into the Axe before Colyford, but they caught him before he fell, and held him firmly as he was marched towards the roofs of his home town.
The young vicar, William Salter, was there to meet them outside the town. For all his hatred of the rebellion, he offered words of comfort and godly advice with a pity genuine enough as he walked beside Adam into the town, but Adam scarcely heard him. His eyes searched desperately through the faces of the crowd that gathered as they crossed the market place and followed them down Queen Street, dreading the first sight of the faces he loved. But the Lord was thus far merciful, that he did not see them as the procession went through the village to the little cottage next to the court house in King Street that was being used as a jail, though he knew the news would reach his family soon enough.
There was a small dragoon detachment posted in the town, and a tall, blond young officer signed a paper for his receipt. The sergeant untied his arms and thrust him unceremoniously upstairs into a small back room usually used to store bolts of cloth. Sitting disconsolately in a corner on one of them was William Clegg. He looked up as Adam came in, and the blue eyes in the lined old face lit up as they saw who it was.
"Adam! I'd hoped you might have managed to escape the devils!" He rose to his feet to clasp his friend's hands, which were still numb from being bound so long.
"No. They've had me ever since the battle, Will. I've been in Dorchester the last month." As he tried to flex his wrists Adam thought how his old friend had grown thinner, if that was possible, and his face more seamed and scrawny.
"Then why have they brought you here?"
"To be hanged."
The pain seeped into William Clegg's face, poisoning the look of joyful recognition.
"You've been tried already, then."
"Tried? If that's what you call it, yes." Adam told his friend the story of the promises before and after the trial, and the difference they had made. He said nothing about John Spragg.
"I see." William Clegg sat down again dully on a bolt of cloth in the corner. "They say this Judge Jeffreys will come here soon, to try me. It shouldn't take him long, then, if it goes like that."
"No. I shouldn't build your hopes, Will. He's the very Devil incarnate." Adam looked at his friend, trying to find some pity to offer him from that he would need for his family.
"And you say he hangs those who plead innocent, too? I had thought to make a try of that. There's one or two here who would stand up for me, to say I was never there." There was a feeble hope in the old weaver's voice.
"He hanged more of those who pleaded innocent. They were the first to be hanged. All of us who pleaded guilty were sentenced for hanging, though some were sent for transportation later. Not me, though, after what I said in court." He told the story briefly.
"So you spoke up to 'un, did 'ee?"
Adam nodded, marvelling at the faint smile on his friend's face.
"'Tis more my style, to be cracking jokes when they'm not wanted. He's got no sense of humour, then, this judge?"
"Only for his own jokes."
"Then I shall have to try and laugh at them, I suppose. I don't want to die, Adam." Shame at his own fear creased William Clegg's face, and Adam remembered the hand that had given him courage at Sedgemoor. He wanted to repay the debt, and did not know how. His own hands felt too stiff to move.
"No. There's not a lot who do, Will. But then it comes to us all, in the end."
"In different ways, true." William Clegg took a long deep breath, as though he could feel the rope around his neck already. The blue eyes in the wrinkled old face surveyed Adam carefully. "Then you think the best chance is to plead guilty, and hope he be in a friendly mood, do 'ee?"
Adam sighed at the impossibility of the question. Truly it was better to be without hope at all.
"I don't know, Will. 'Tis a poor prospect either way."
"At least 'twould be the truth. If I'm to be hung, I'd rather 'twas for the truth than trying to escape with a lie. That way I can spit in the bugger's face at the end, if I like."
"You do that, Will." Adam smiled at his friend's courage, feeling his own spirits lift slightly for the first time that day.
"Ar. And I'll make sure I got some proper filthy old baccy juice in me gob, too!"
William Clegg grinned back until his face could sustain it no longer, and then looked down at the floor mournfully. "But 'tis cruel hard to be caught yer, with all the family round. I thought I'd got away with it too - did you hear how 'twas?"
"Ann said something - about you hiding in your garden."
"That's it. Under they bloody cabbages! Proper foolish, bain't it! Poor little Daisy gave me away - 'er thought 'twas a game, bless her! That's the worst of it, to
o. I've told the little maid it don't matter, but 'er took on terrible at first. I sees 'em in here most days, and you know, I almost wish I didn't, Adam!"
"I can guess, Will." Adam sighed, and looked around the little room hopelessly, wishing he could escape. But there were strong bars set in the tiny window.
"You said Ann told you, Adam. How is the maid?"
"Well enough, I think, Will. But 'tis a long story …"
He had hardly begun it before he heard another disturbance below, and the sound of people coming up the stairs. There was a man's voice, arguing with two women.
The key rattled in the lock and the door was thrown open. "There he is! Sort 'un out for yourselves!"
"Adam!" His wife pushed into the room, followed by Ruth Spragg.
"Thank God! But where's my John?"
"'Tis a long story, Ruth." Adam held out his hands uncertainly to his wife. "Mary?"
"Why are you here, my Adam?" She stood quite still, staring at him, tears welling up in her eyes. As he watched, one trickled down the side of her round, red cheeks. He stepped forward and held her, embracing her big, old body carefully in his arms as though she were a child that might fall and hurt herself. He could feel her shaking inside; then she suddenly clutched him roughly to her as though she would never let him go.
"Where's John?"
"He's alive, Ruth, he's alive. Never fear that." Adam rocked his wife in his arms as she wept on his neck. Then she stood back impulsively and shook the tears out of her eyes.
"But why are you here, Adam? They said 'twas John Spragg to be hanged, not you."
"Be you John Spragg then, or be you not?" The dragoon sergeant interrupted angrily from the door.
"No he's not John Spragg, this is my husband Adam, like I told you! You can't hang him now, you got the wrong man!" Mary turned on the sergeant defiantly, a desperate hope in her round face.
