Beautiful Star and Other Stories

by Andrew Swanston

  ‘What about what the Bible says?’

  ‘I don’t know, Father. Perhaps there were witches then. What I do know is that my grandmother is not a witch and nor is anyone else. If they were, Mr Gardiner and Mr Strutt and all those other witnesses would not have to make up stories about her. They could find a real witch.’

  ‘What about her confession?’

  ‘What about it? If people went on wrongly accusing you of something, you might admit it just to be rid of them. And I think she wanted to frighten them.’

  ‘So you’re sure she’s innocent?’

  ‘Of course she is. Where’s the proof? Stories about cats and babies and sticks and spells? It’s nonsense. It’s the people who tell lies who should be on trial.’

  ‘The judge agrees with you but the jury will decide.’

  It was two hours before we were allowed back in to the court room. By then the lawyers and clerks had reassembled and the gallery was filling up again. My grandmother was escorted up to the dock, the judge took his place and the jury filed in. Nothing was said until they were settled.

  The judge asked the foreman of the jury if they had reached a verdict. I held my breath. The foreman said that they found her guilty. The judge asked whether they found her guilty of ‘conversing with the devil in the shape of a cat’. The foreman replied that they did.

  All of a sudden the court was in uproar and the gallery emptied. Everyone wanted to be the first to carry the news of the first conviction for witchcraft for years, a crime for which there was only one possible sentence. My father put his arm around my shoulders. I was shaking.

  My grandmother stood in the dock, an officer on either side of her. She must have sensed me because for the first time she turned and looked up at the gallery. There were tears on her cheeks.

  Once again Sir John used his hammer to silence the court. He explained that he had no alternative under the law but to sentence the defendant to death. He was shocked and angry. Not only had the jury ignored his advice but as a result an old woman would be hanged.

  He passed sentence and then announced that he was suspending the date of execution while he explored the possibility of a pardon. I did not understand this. My grandmother had been found guilty and sentenced to hang. How could she now be pardoned?

  The journey home was much worse than the one there. I sat with my father’s arm around me, bumping about on the cart and wiping my eyes with my sleeve. When at last we got home, I went straight to bed. My mother said nothing.

  Another stream of pamphlets appeared within days of the trial. Some were vicious. The Reverend Bragge, who had testified against her, described Jane Wenham as having ‘the character of a whore’, and deserving to die ‘on other accounts than witchcraft’. Others set out to prove the existence of witches ‘from scripture and reason’ and pointed to the plight of Anne Thorn as conclusive evidence of Jane Wenham’s guilt.

  Only a few poured scorn on the idea of witchcraft and on the reasons for the trial. One described the trial as ‘absurd’ and the testimony of Anne Thorn as that of a sick woman and a shameless liar. I read them all.

  Oddly enough, once the trial was over and the verdict known most of the jibes and taunts stopped. Our customers returned and I could walk down the street without being abused. It was as if a battle had been fought and won and the victors had decided to be merciful. Even Alice and Mary kept their distance.

  Meanwhile my grandmother was in Hertford gaol, having been sentenced to hang. I wondered why, if the judge could reprieve her execution, he had not simply quashed the jury’s verdict and let her go free. Instead, a week after the trial he let it be known that he would personally apply to the queen for a royal pardon. I wondered if my grandmother knew that or whether she was resigned to being hanged.

  In April, four weeks after the trial, I travelled again to Hertford, this time without my father. The coach stopped in the market square from where it was a short walk to the prison in Fore Street. The gaoler told me that I was Jane Wenham’s first visitor. If she was surprised to see me, she did not show it. She sat in a low chair, the same shawl around her shoulders, her face and hands filthy again and a look of resignation on her face. I sat beside her on a narrow straw cot.

  ‘Grandmother, it’s Emily,’ I tried. ‘I came by coach from Ardeley.’ She squinted at me but said nothing. I tried again. ‘Have you enough food? Here’s some bread.’ I gave her a loaf which she put on the floor. ‘If there’s anything else you need, I could bring it for you.’ She shook her head. ‘Have you heard the news?’

  She looked up sharply. ‘What news?’ It was more of a croak than a voice.

  ‘Sir John Powell, the judge, is to ask the queen for a royal pardon for you.’

  ‘Won’t do no good. They want me dead.’

  ‘I don’t want you dead, nor does the judge.’

  ‘Won’t make no difference.’

  ‘Of course it will. The queen will grant a pardon and you’ll be free again.’

  ‘Free? Free to do what? Starve? Might as well be hanged and be done with it.’

  ‘I’ll take care of you. Find you somewhere to live in peace. Bring you food.’

  For perhaps ten minutes, she was silent. Then she said, ‘You don’t think I’m a witch then?’

  ‘Of course I don’t. There are no witches and there’s no witchcraft. It’s just nonsense.’

  ‘Sometimes I wonder myself.’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘I do. They said it so often, I began to believe it.’

  ‘They said you were a whore, too. You didn’t believe that, did you?’

  ‘That was that bastard Bragge. He’s a liar.’

  We talked about the trial for a while, agreeing that all the witnesses were either liars or idiots, until she said she was tired. When I asked her if I could come again, she nodded.

  I took the coach home. Although my parents knew where I had been, they still said nothing.

  It was another three weeks before I was able to go again to Hertford. This time, my grandmother smiled when she saw me and thanked me for the cake I had baked for her.

  ‘How are you being treated?’ I asked her.

  She laughed. ‘It’s better in here than outside. I’ve got a roof over me, a bed, enough food and no-one to stick pins in me or call me names.’

  ‘That’s good. Aren’t you lonely, though?’

  ‘I’m used to being on my own. I don’t mind it.’

  ‘There’s no news of the pardon. There should be some soon.’

  My grandmother’s voice took on a new tone – not bitter, but determined. ‘I want to tell you about my life. If they hang me, someone ought to know about it. There’s no-one else. Won’t take long.’

  I was astonished. Until then she had said so little and that begrudgingly. Now she wanted to tell me about her life. ‘I’ll listen if you want to tell me.’

  Including breaks for her to rest and for us to share the cake, it took about an hour. Where she was hard to understand, especially when she jumped from one time to another and back again and when her words became muddled, I have tried to make sense out of it. She spoke quietly, stopping often to catch her breath. I sat on her bed and listened.

  ‘My mother told me I was born on the day King Charles lost his head, so that would make me sixty-three years old now. My name was Jane Smith. I didn’t know my father. My mother was a serving woman in Hertford. We lived in a room above the inn where she worked. When she brought a man to the room, I had to hide under the bed. Later, when I was older, I went downstairs until they were done. I helped out in the inn until my mother died. Then I came to Walkern. I was about eighteen. I hadn’t more than a few pence and went looking for work. I tried the hatmakers and the brewers but they didn’t want me. I tried the inn and the shopkeepers. Nor did they. No-one did. They said local people should have the work, not strangers. I don’t think it was that. They didn’t like me because I couldn’t find the right words to say. My words came out wrong and I got co
nfused. That made me angry and it got worse. Swearing and shouting and such like. I got no work.

  ‘There was no help for the poor in Walkern so I took to begging. It was that or starve. I stole a bit too, when I had to, food and straw mostly. I slept where I could. Then I met your grandfather. Philip Cooke was his name. He let me sleep on his floor. After a bit, I moved upstairs and then I married him. That’s when tongues started wagging. They said I must have used a spell to make him marry me. If I’d known how, perhaps I would have. He was a good man. He got me work in the brewery where he worked. Two babies were stillborn before your mother but things weren’t too bad.

  ‘Then he died. Sarah would have been about fifteen. It was something he ate. Could have been anything. Tongues wagged again. Said it was me that poisoned him. Why would I do that? I asked them. They said there was no telling what a witch might do. Cruel, it was. Lost my husband, lost my work in the brewery and called a witch. So I let them think I was a witch. Thought it might frighten them enough to give me money and food.

  ‘The year after Phillip died, I married Edward Wenham and your mother moved to Ardeley. We’d never got on. She was a wilful child. Daresay I wasn’t much of a mother, having never had much of one of my own. She didn’t like Edward. Nor did I. He was a drunk, like his father and his brothers. They drank away the smithy and had to sell it. That’s why he married me. He’d no money and nowhere to live after they lost the forge. He came to live in the cottage. I took him in because I thought things’d be easier with a husband. I was wrong. I still couldn’t find work. He earned a few shillings here and there but he drank them away. Gave me nothing. I had to get food somehow, so I said he’d pay. When he found out, he had the town crier say that he wouldn’t. I had to start begging again and I went to those meetings of the Dissenters. They gave me a little money. That’s why I went. Didn’t care what they were talking about.

  ‘One day I asked Matthew Gilston for straw to sell to the hatmakers but he wouldn’t give it me. I called him a filthy miser and a stinking bastard. He didn’t like that. So when his cows died he blamed me. Called me a witch. A witch and a bitch, he said. I wanted to teach him a lesson, so I went to Chauncy. Thought I might get a guinea or two for the slander. Chauncy sent us to Gardiner. He only gave me a shilling. It wasn’t enough. I was starving. I told them I’d have justice somehow. Then that bitch Anne Thorn started playing up, pretending I’d put a spell on her, and Gilston did the same.

  ‘All of sudden everyone had a story. Gardiner joined in and so did Strutt. They said I’d poisoned Phillip, killed my own babies, put a spell on Edward and a lot else besides. It was a chance to be rid of me. I had not been born in their village and they didn’t like the way I spoke nor when I had to beg and steal. They took me from my cottage and made me go in front of Chauncy. They searched me for marks and made me say the prayer. I never could say the bit about trespasses right. I got confused with the words. When they asked if I was a witch I told them I’d been one for years, just for the devilment. They believed it and Chauncy sent me to the Assizes. And now here I am. Waiting to be hanged for a witch.’

  When she had finished I asked her if she thought Chauncy and Gardiner and the others really thought she was a witch or whether they were just lying to be rid of her. ‘Some really think it. Gardiner and Strutt do. Gilston too. Bragge’s a liar and so’s the Thorn girl. Don’t know about Chauncy. Doesn’t matter now.’

  The story had exhausted her. I left her to rest and took the coach back to Ardeley. I would not read any more pamphlets. I knew the truth of the matter.

  Waiting for news of Sir John Powell’s attempt to obtain a royal pardon was bad enough. Having no-one with whom to share the waiting made it worse. My parents would still not talk about the case and it was no good expecting anyone else in the village to do so. I thought of going to see the Reverend Strutt again but quickly abandoned the idea. I even considered writing a letter to Sir John Powell. I never did though. I did not have the words for it.

  I travelled twice more to Hertford during May and June. On both occasions I found my grandmother cheerful and pleased to see me. The roughness in her voice had disappeared and she stumbled over her words only now and then. Speaking calmly and clearly, she asked about my work and my friends and what schooling I had had. She remembered what I told her and smiled when I told her stories that I thought might amuse her. It was as if a great weight had been lifted from her, although whether that was due to her being resigned to her fate or having unburdened herself of her story to me, I do not know. She did not ask about a pardon or what people were saying about her and I am sure she did not care.

  I had no idea how long it would take for Sir John Powell to apply to the queen for a pardon or what the queen herself thought about witchcraft. For all I knew, Queen Anne had been brought up to believe in witches and wizards and imps and familiars. She might agree with the verdict of the jury and send Sir John packing. Or she might not wish to interfere. The longer we waited for news, the less likely a pardon seemed, and by the end of June there had been no word.

  Eventually, at the end of July the news arrived and was reported in newspapers all over the country. Sir John Powell had secured from the queen a royal pardon for Jane Wenham. There was another rush of pamphlets but I ignored them. I was relieved and happy but concerned about what would happen to my grandmother now. She could hardly go back to Walkern and she had no money and no means of getting any, except her old ways of begging and stealing. My mother would certainly not take her in and, as far as I knew, there was no-one else to turn to.

  Happily, we soon learnt that Sir John had thought of this and had arranged for my grandmother to live in a cottage on the estate of his friend, Captain John Plummer. I think Sir John felt responsible for the outcome of the trial and wanted to make amends.

  Over the next five years I made many visits to see her there. She was comfortable in her cottage, bothered by no-one and quite happy to sit and talk. Had she but known it, her case was still talked about, although the pamphlets did eventually stop. Anne Thorn and Ann Street both married men who had testified against my grandmother. Sir Henry Chauncy admitted to having been much troubled by his part in the affair. His son Arthur, who had stuck pins in her arm, turned out to be a scoundrel and it was commonly agreed that most of the witnesses were liars. The others, especially the Reverends Strutt, Gardiner and Bragge, believed that Jane Wenham was a witch because they wanted to believe it.

  When Captain Plummer died, my grandmother moved to another cottage, this one on the estate of the Lord Cowper. In the same year, I was married and moved to Cambridge. Then I could only visit her rarely. When she died, I travelled to Hertingfordbury for her funeral. Only the parson, the Lord Cowper and I were there.

  THE BUTTON SELLER AND

  THE DRUMMER BOY

  1815

  The Button Seller

  The button seller’s horse had gone lame just outside Waterloo and he had had the devil of a job finding a replacement – every charger, shire, Belgian draft pony and rundown old nag having been bought or appropriated by the regimental quartermasters. He was beginning to think that if he was to see the battle, he would have to walk.

  He had left Brussels a week earlier and ridden to the town of Enghien where the First Infantry Division under Major General Sir George Cooke was garrisoned. There he had managed to take orders for pewter buttons from the Second Foot Guards and the Coldstream Guards and would have stayed longer in the hope of more business had the news of Napoleon’s advance over the border at Charleroi not arrived by galloper in the early hours of Friday morning. By dawn the streets of Enghien were jammed with men and horses and carts and wagons hastening to block Napoleon’s road to Brussels. There would be no more business to be done in Enghien, so he had joined the throng of camp followers and artisans and ridden with them as far as the little town of Waterloo.

  It had occurred to him to ride back to Brussels and from there to Antwerp or Ostend to find a passage home, but something
– the fear of being thought cowardly perhaps – had made him stay. A civilian he might be, but he was also a proud Englishman, who would not take kindly to being accused of fleeing in the face of the French. In any case, Napoleon had already been defeated once and would certainly be defeated again. And the button seller wanted to be there to see it.

  At the village of Braine-le-Comte his resolve had been tested by a procession of miserable, battered, wounded men heading north, some using their muskets as crutches, others leaning on the shoulders of comrades. Arms and legs and heads were swathed in blood-soaked rags. Few had the strength to speak other than to beg for water. It was the first time the button seller had seen for himself the terrible consequences of battle.

  He had dismounted and sat at the side of the road for a while beside a private wearing the badge of the Third Infantry Division. The young man had taken a sword cut to his shoulder. The wound had been roughly bound with a blood-soaked shirt and the button seller doubted he would last the day. From the private he learnt that the troops now retreating northwards had met the French at a crossroads known as Quatre Bras, from where, having suffered heavy casualties and spent a miserable cold, wet night with little to eat, they had been ordered to retreat. The button seller gave the wounded man the bread and cheese he had intended for his own lunch and wished him luck.

  In the town that evening the stories became more alarming with every telling. In the foul inn in which he spent an uncomfortable night on a narrow straw cot – beds, like horses, being in short supply – he heard that to the east Napoleon had routed old Blucher’s Germans, that Marshall Né, the one they called the ‘bravest of the brave’, having won a decisive victory at Quatre Bras, was now marching north with his invincible Imperial Guard, that Wellington’s army was hopelessly inexperienced and outnumbered and that the French would be in Brussels within a day. The button seller began to think that he might have made a mistake in travelling south.