No Shame, No Fear

by Ann Turnbull

  Abigail looked at me, wide-eyed and scared.

  “Don’t be afraid,” I said. “We shall all be together. And it’s only for one night.”

  But I did not feel brave.

  The constables rounded us up quickly and marched us there. Deb came too because they could not prise her from my side.

  When we arrived, the older boys, including Isaac, were taken away to join a gang of men breaking stones. The rest of us were set to picking oakum: old frayed rope that had to be unravelled to make fibrous stuff for packaging. After a few hours my back ached and my fingers were bleeding. There was a vagrant woman there with matted hair, skin like old creased leather, and a ripe stink about her. She seemed a little mad, but was kind; showed us how to do the work and defended Abigail from the overseer when the fellow accused her of slacking. I saw the light burning strong within her and told her so.

  She cackled. “I live on the road. Only light I know is sun or moon.”

  “The light of Christ is within you,” I said.

  She looked me over. “I seen those Quaker women,” she said, “after the war. Tramping the roads, preaching. Saw one whipped and the branks put over her head to quiet her. Broke her jaw. You should stay home, wench, and spin. Earn yourself a husband – eh?”

  At the end of the day the boys were released from the stone-breaking and came stiffly indoors. We lay on filthy straw and heard rats squeaking. Deb whimpered with fear. I held her close and soothed her till she fell asleep.

  For myself, my thoughts kept me awake. I saw again, over and over, Henry Heywood’s look of hatred at me, and heard his words. Every time I remembered it I found myself trembling and tearful with shock; I had never been so much hated before.

  I tried to still my thoughts and wait on the Lord, but the stillness would not come. I thought about Will, imagined how he must be feeling now, after being shamed in front of me, taken home like a child. I wanted to put my arms around him, reassure him, tell him I did not think any the less of him, that I loved him. Henry Heywood believed it was because of me that Will was here, but I knew it was not; I knew he had found his own way to the light.

  And yet I did feel guilt. I’d been glad when Will told me he would turn down Nicholas Barron’s offer. This offer, if he took it up, and went to London, could make him one day a rich man, perhaps influential in society. Here, with me, there could be nothing but persecution and trouble. And love, my heart insisted: and love. If he married me, if we were together, and lived in the truth and loved each other well, no trouble would be beyond bearing.

  “You bold-faced little whore,” his father had called me. Henry Heywood would exert all his power to keep us apart. But I had power too, and would use it.

  William

  All the way home, my father blustered and shouted at me, so angry that he seemed not to notice the stares of passers-by.

  “I forbade you to go to that place!”

  “And I said I would!”

  “You won’t go again. I’ll lock you up.”

  “You can’t keep me in.”

  “It’s that girl, isn’t it? That bold wench? She’s the cause of this. They set these girls on to entice men.”

  “She did not entice me!” I was still furious at the way he had insulted Susanna. “I pursued her! She is a maid of fifteen and knows nothing of enticement.”

  “Huh! They know, these country girls.”

  We had reached the house, and the servants must have heard us as we quarrelled our way across the yard.

  My stepmother and sister were waiting – dressed in their finery, I noted angrily, as if the church was a place to parade wealth.

  “We are too late for church now,” said my stepmother, with a reproachful look at me.

  “But I have hauled him out, as I said I would.” My father pushed me in ahead of him and snatched the hat from my head. “He has a girl – that’s the cause of it all. Some little drab of a maidservant, by the look of her.”

  “I know the one,” said my stepmother. “She lodges with the glover’s family.”

  “Find out her name. I’ll bring a complaint against her; get her sent back to her village.”

  They were talking about me as if I were not there. I could not tolerate any more.

  “Her name is Susanna Thorn,” I said. “She’s a weaver’s daughter, from Long Aston. And I love her and intend to marry her.”

  There was a moment’s silence. Then my father gave a snort of laughter. “Marry? You are my only son, the heir to my business, and you intend to marry that girl? You must have lost your wits entirely.”

  We spoke no more about the matter that day. Indeed, we spoke little at all. I ate in the kitchen, where Joan was kind and asked no questions. Anne, I guessed, had been instructed by our stepmother not to talk to me about Susanna, but whenever we met she showed me her allegiance with looks of sympathy.

  I had not meant to tell my father I would marry Susanna. I had thought about marriage, felt it might happen, but had not spoken of it to anyone, not even to her. Now that the words were spoken it became a thing of substance, a commitment. There was a sense of rightness about it, and I became desperate to see Susanna, to ask her, to be sure she would have me.

  I planned to slip out after supper, but before I could do so Ned came to me with a message from the Mintons’ servant, Hester, saying that Susanna and all the children had been sent to Bridewell and would be kept in overnight.

  “Bridewell!” I stared at Ned. I could not bear to think of Susanna in that place while I slept comfortably at home.

  Ned tried to cheer me. “It’s not so bad, sir, the Bridewell. I’ve been in there myself, time past. And they’ll be out in the morning.”

  “I should have been there with them,” I said.

  I took the stairs at a run, intending to confront my father and demand that he get them all released. But by the time I reached the drawing-room door I had thought better of it. He would not help; nothing could be done tonight; and to insist on it would only turn his anger even more against Susanna. I went to my room and lay awake much of the night, knowing that she too must be awake and thinking of me.

  The next day the Quakers who were held in prison were brought to trial.

  My father made no objection when I said I would go to the courthouse – indeed he thought it would be a lesson for me – but he insisted that I sit with him at the front, among the town councillors.

  We arrived early, but already the building was packed. It was clear that most of the spectators were townsfolk, but many others looked like Quakers, and I realized that they must have come from miles around to support their friends. The benches were full; people were standing and many wore hats which blocked the view. The weather was still hot and the doors and windows had been thrown open, but still the smell and press of people were overwhelming.

  I felt a rush of relief when I saw Susanna there, already freed from the Bridewell. She was at the far side, near the front, with Tom Minton. They were standing. She looked around once, and saw me, but with my father beside me I could only acknowledge her with a discreet nod.

  There was a stir as the jury began taking their places. I saw Susanna and the families of those accused scanning the faces of these men. Would they make up their own minds, I wondered, or would they be intimidated by the justices? I knew there could sometimes be trouble for juries if they came up with a verdict the judges did not like. They were all citizens of the town: merchants, shopkeepers and the like. Some I knew by sight.

  A hush fell as the justices came in. One was Sir William Cheevers, known for his rigour against Dissenters. He was an old man, tall and upright, with a long, lean, supercilious face, full of the confidence that comes with power. The other was Richard Stourton, a heavy, red-faced, choleric-looking fellow. Neither of them, I imagined, would have any sympathy for Quakers.

  As the first prisoner was about to be called I saw a clerk approach the mayor, and some consultation between him and two of the aldermen; and then a messa
ge was passed to the justices, who conferred briefly. Justice Cheevers’ face clouded and I thought I caught the word “coroner”.

  “What is it?” I whispered to my father. But he did not know.

  Before we could learn more the first prisoner was called.

  “Daniel Kite!”

  He appeared wild as ever, auburn curls springing from beneath his tall black hat. But when I looked closer I saw that he had lost weight and there were dark circles under his eyes. I knew he had been confined in the Pit for so-called troublemaking, and his suffering showed, but the spirit was still strong in him.

  “Take off your hat, sirrah!” demanded Justice Cheevers.

  Daniel turned to him. “By what law dost thou command me to do so?”

  A buzz of pleasure and expectation went around the court and people settled to enjoy the exchange.

  “You do not prosper your case by this behaviour,” began Cheevers.

  “I only ask by what law—”

  “We are ministers of justice. We represent the King’s person. Therefore you should pay due reverence to our authority.”

  Daniel seemed to consider this. “I don’t keep my hat on in contempt of the King,” he said, “or in contempt of any authority. But why choose my hat? Why not some other garment?”

  And he glanced down at his body as if considering what else he might remove. This caused an outbreak of laughter – the more so, perhaps, because he was comely and people remembered that he was the man who had walked almost naked through the marketplace two months before. I saw some of the Quakers shaking their heads as if to say “he goes too far”, but others were smiling; and the townsfolk loved it.

  The justices, however, did not.

  “Take his hat from him!” commanded Cheevers. “And make sure the other prisoners are hatless before they appear.”

  An usher seized the hat – nervously, for Daniel was a well-muscled man, a blacksmith by trade. As Daniel moved, one of his sleeves slipped back and I saw red scabs and bruising on his wrist. I remembered then that they had kept him manacled in prison. He did not resist the usher, only remarking loudly as the hat was taken, “Reverence and respect are not shown by removing the hat, or any other part of the clothing.”

  For this he was fined five pounds, to be added to any other fine he might incur – for the proceedings against him had not yet begun.

  A witness – one of the soldiers – was brought in to testify that he had seen the accused at an unlawful meeting held under the pretence of a religious exercise; that this religious exercise was conducted in a manner other than that allowed by the Liturgy of the Church of England; and that he was seen there with other malefactors to the terror of the people and disturbance of the peace.

  At this last, sighs of exasperation and even laughter went around the room. Yet underlying them I heard a murmur; there was genuine fear in the town of unruly Dissenters.

  Justice Cheevers called for silence.

  “Daniel Kite, what do you say to these charges?”

  “I say the evidence does not prove me guilty of being at an unlawful meeting.”

  I saw that the judge was growing impatient. “Were you there?” he demanded. “At that time and at that place? If you were, the law judges the meeting to have been unlawful.”

  “The meeting was simply a meeting,” said Daniel. “The unlawfulness of it must be proved by something done or said.” And he turned to the jury. “Take notice, jurymen, that the witness has not proved that anything occurred at this meeting to make it unlawful.”

  Now the justices had had enough.

  “We will direct the jury’s attention,” said Cheevers. “Take the prisoner away.”

  I saw that some of the Quakers in the courtroom were taking notes.

  The next prisoner was the tanner I had sat next to at my first meeting. He did not attempt to argue, but cried out, “You are like the scribes and Pharisees! They said they had a law, and by that law they crucified the Lord of Life!”

  A roar went up from the room. I saw Cheevers’ face harden. He spoke harshly. “Send him down.”

  They called Mary Faulkner next. She knew the law.

  “I am here indicted for being at an unlawful meeting,” she said, “but it is not yet proved that the meeting was unlawful.”

  She stood challenging the judges, her stance aggressive, like a man’s, her voice and mind keen; and I saw how threatening and unwomanly they must find her.

  Stourton snapped, “It was held under a pretence of worshipping God and contrary to the Liturgy of the Church of England.”

  “But if there is no pretence? If we truly meet to worship God, must we suffer for that?”

  Stourton, red-faced, cried, “Yes, you must!” and people in the room drew breath in shock and dismay. The Quaker note-takers scribbled.

  I saw that Justice Cheevers was annoyed at Stourton’s rash remark. He intervened. “You are not indicted for worshipping God, but for being at an unlawful assembly.”

  “Where no unlawful thing was done or said?”

  “We don’t care what you did there. We have proved that you did meet.”

  Mary gave him a look almost of pity. “You are executing a law which is contrary to the Law of God.”

  “Take her away.”

  Someone behind me murmured, “It’s a farce. A show. Why do they try them?”

  As the morning wore on I felt the mood in the courtroom vary as different people testified. The townsfolk had not liked Mary. For all her common sense, it was her unwomanly manner that repelled them. I heard snatches of talk around me: “They deny the Church … lead young people away from authority…” “We’ll have riots…” I felt frustrated by their lack of understanding. Couldn’t they see the honesty of the prisoners? Couldn’t they feel the spirit at work in the courtroom? A group near the back began to cheer every time a prisoner was sent down, but gradually, as one testimony after another was made, there was some sympathy too, and admiration. As for me, I felt myself strengthened and uplifted. If others could be steadfast, so could I. I saw Nicholas Barron’s offer for the temptation it was. I’d have fine clothes, prestige, the prospect of a good career, a comfortable life – but the life of the spirit was here, in this courtroom.

  Fewer than half the prisoners were seen that day. The rest would come tomorrow.

  The last to be called was Alice Betts, a shoemaker’s wife and a simple woman with no skill in argument. But her testimony reached me like no other. She said, “I know nothing of your law, but I have often met among the dear children of the Lord. And if God grant me life and strength to do so, I shall meet with them again and again.”

  She was sent away, and the jury went out, Stourton calling after them, “You’ll get no dinner till we have a right verdict!”

  Despite this, they took half an hour, and I wondered whether any had been wrestling with their consciences in that time. They pronounced all the prisoners guilty. The judges sighed in satisfaction, stood up, and thanked the jury for their good service. Then Cheevers delivered the sentence: all were to be fined five pounds, and must remain in prison for three months with hard labour or until their fines be paid. And he warned them that if they offended again they would be fined ten pounds with six months’ hard labour, and that for a third offence they would face transportation to the colonies of the New World for seven years.

  And then the court adjourned for the day.

  I left with my father. He signalled to me to come with him as the aldermen began moving out of the courtroom. They were going to share a meal at the Bull.

  In the tavern all kept their hats on and I was not conspicuous, though I knew there had been plenty of talk about me and I caught some councillors looking me over for signs of dissent.

  They were talking, not of the sentences, which I suppose were as expected, but of that interruption I had noticed at the beginning of the proceedings, when the coroner was mentioned.

  “There has been an outbreak of jail fever,” my father expla
ined to me. “Two of the prisoners died early this morning—”

  “Died! Who?”

  I thought of Nat and Judith. I had not seen them.

  He shrugged. “I forget…”

  “Judith Minton? Nathaniel Lacon?”

  “Neither of those.” I gave thanks in silence as he continued. “Several more are too sick to come to court. No one wants them there for fear of contagion. And now the coroner’s involved. He’s sure to complain about the overcrowding. But where else can they be put?”

  He spoke as if the dying people were nothing but an administrative nuisance. And yet I knew he was not a heartless man. I remembered when a young servant we once had was ill, how he paid for the apothecary, took all care; and was brought to tears when, despite everything, the lad died.

  “Perhaps they should go home,” I said.

  He looked at me sharply. “If they want to go home there are several of them who could afford to pay their fines. But you may be sure they’ll choose to make martyrs of themselves.”

  Alderman Green leaned across. “We’ll have to move some of them to the Stonegate, or the Bridewell.”

  “The Bridewell’s not suitable,” my father said.

  “But if we fill up the Stonegate, where will we put the felons?”

  I said, without thinking, “You admit the Quakers are not felons, then?”

  Both men glared at me for my impertinence. At once I felt admonished, and rightly so. It was bred into me not to speak disrespectfully to an older person. But even as I apologized and sat with head bowed, I reflected that Daniel Kite would not have been quelled so easily. Somehow, I felt, there must be a way of combining respect for elders with my own integrity.

  As expected, the coroner pronounced himself shocked by conditions at the Castlegate prison and warned of the spread of disease. Half the prisoners were to be moved immediately to the Stonegate.

  To my surprise, I saw them that afternoon as I looked out of my bedroom window. They were walking along High Street in a group – about twenty of them – but with no guards visible. People were staring. I heard George Woodall, the tailor, call out, “Make a run for it! Now! You have your chance!”