Accidents of Providence (10 page)

Visiting a soldier in the field was not unusual—many women did it. Elizabeth had done it for John during his active service as a lieutenant colonel in Parliament’s army. She had warmed his stews and mended his boots while John watched her with eyes rebellious and needy. When Walwyn found out Rachel was going to pay her brother a similar visit, he offered to accompany her. She reminded him it was the middle of December and especially bitter that winter. You will be sleeping on frozen ground, she warned. I know, he said with a grin. He was almost giddy about it. The two of them had never spent a full night together.

They set up camp in a dead meadow. They were staying a quarter mile south of Captain Savage’s company, adjacent to a small campsite set up by women who were following their soldiering husbands and sons and fathers. In the mornings these women would rise before dawn, emerge yawning from canvas tents, light the fires as they spoke to their younger children in hushed voices, and then haul pots of steaming broth into the men’s camp, distributing breakfast. Rachel waited to see her brother until late in the day, when these women were not around. She suspected they would not approve.

At night, she and Walwyn would lie on their backs under blankets that failed to warm, and they would listen as winter drifted over the top of the tent. Hours before sunrise, they would hear three hundred rank-and-file soldiers in the distance, chanting and praying in unison. When the sun broke over the foothills, the troops would practice marching, and after breakfast they would clean their pikes or count their premade cartridges. On blustery days the soldiers’ fingers would go numb, and some would fumble their ammunition, breaking the cartridges open, so that they had to separate the gunpowder from the snow. Double shafts of steam blew from their nostrils as they worked. Near the end of the day Rachel would carry soup to her brother. She walked beside Walwyn as she went to find him, their faces shielded by scarves; the cold rendered them both anonymous. They grew lightheaded with imagined freedoms. Walwyn’s shoulders loosened; his hand constantly sought hers. She said she could not hold his hand and a pot of soup too. Give me the pot, he said; I will carry it. But she lifted her face up to him as he spoke so he would kiss her.

After they saw Robert, they would return to lie shivering again under the canvas tent. They spoke of birds, and sometimes of Scripture, and sometimes the two conversations would coalesce and turn into one and they would wind up discussing all the places where Scripture spoke of birds, or all the ways birds reminded them of Scripture. Rachel was interested in these things. She told Walwyn that she was not able to read. He replied that he would help her learn, starting tomorrow if she wanted. He had been waiting for her to say something about this so he could offer his help. But she buried her face in the blanket and said she did not want to talk about it. Trying to reassure her, he said she had not missed much. The world is better than a book, he said; most books by my reckoning are useless. Rachel pulled down the blanket just far enough so her green eyes showed. I would like the chance to decide that for myself, she told him—but Walwyn was no longer paying very close attention. His hands were taking over. They were wandering. They burrowed under her petticoat. When she closed her eyes he put his mouth on her eyelids. He rose up, and then again, there it was; there was this thing, this lightness, between them, and even though it was patently absurd—
it
being everything—and the cold was whipping them both to shreds, still they pressed forward, and there followed a great lumbering and heaving, with gasps of stifled laughter back and forth. I don’t want to wake those other women, Rachel kept whispering. What other women? Walwyn said. The outer world did not exist for him in that moment. He pulled and plucked at her clothing and then, reaching under her skirts with a vigorous and ingenious blind navigational system, he warmed his hands on her thighs and traveled northward; she cursed his hands for being so cold, though at the same time she was waiting, writhing, unable to see, unable to stomach another second without him taking her, which he did. They kept their eyes on each other in the dark. When she cried out he withdrew and rolled onto his back and pretended to be dead, pretended to be unyielding and aloof, until she slapped and straddled him and he revived, tickling her, she pulling at his wrists to get him to stop, her skirt crowning both their hips, while underneath great acrobatic feats of mischief took place. You are mine, he whispered up at her. No, she said regally; no, you belong to me. You are my property. She was right, at least in that one moment. When he teased her, she said, I insist; and she moved harder and faster; she was strategic about all this. I must tell you something, he breathed; I want to tell you something. Hush, she said, and covered his mouth with her hand. The faint line of her breasts rose and fell beneath her dress. There was no way she was going to take off her clothing in the middle of December. Around them, snow fell. Before he could get out another syllable he was undone; it was all over for him.

After, Rachel was the one to fall asleep. She could not help it, could not fight it, could not begin to resist the urge. She didn’t sleep; she slumbered. She had never known such quiet. There was nothing to hear, nothing to say, no one to watch over. There was no walk to sweep, no brother to feed, no gloves to sew, no Mary. Just this.

While she slept, Walwyn lay on his side and watched her. During the quietest part of the night, the snow ceased falling and he thought about the pieces of his life. He did not have to ask what it meant to be an honorable man to know how far short he had fallen. He did not have to ask what it meant to be in debt to understand he owed more than he could afford. The Levelers believed in prompt repayment of all outstanding accounts, however rashly incurred. But what if a person owed multiple debts at once? Did those assumed in the past take precedence over those shouldered most recently? What counted as an imprudent obligation, and what counted as a wise one? He remembered telling Mabbott the newsman that God had given him back his life the night he first saw Rachel. “I didn’t know your life had been taken from you,” Mabbott had replied as the two men watched the darkening silhouette of St. Sepulchre’s, the bell of which tolled for the condemned. Walwyn did not reply.

He recalled the time he and Rachel, passing through St. Paul’s churchyard, had come across a group of soldiers forming a circle around what was called a wooden horse, a device used by the army for punishing thieves and blackguards. The horse consisted of a wooden board elevated horizontally six feet aboveground and lashed with leather ties to two standing beams, each split at the base for balance; these held the suspended plank aloft. Two soldiers with muskets tied across their chests
were hoisting a shivering boy, no more than thirteen or fourteen, onto the horse, forcing him to straddle it, tying his wrists with rope. The boy wore a soldier’s breeches, but his chest was bare; Walwyn could count his ribs from twenty paces. The soldiers tied their muskets to the boy’s ankles with a rope that began to twist and snarl, causing the weapons to rotate. The boy tried to stay still, but the guns began revolving of their own accord, cutting a red swath into his ankles. Walwyn remembered how one of the soldiers had flung a bloody hide over the boy’s shoulders, which gleamed as pale as Guernsey flowers. “To warm you,” the soldier had shouted as a gathering crowd applauded. Another soldier slung a writing board on a necklace of twine over the young thief’s head.
FOR STEALING AND ENDEAVORING BY FORCE TO STEAL DEER,
the sign read.

Turning to Walwyn, Rachel asked how long the boy would stay that way. “Two hours,” he replied. “I cannot believe the army continues this practice. It is barbaric and humiliating. This boy is one of their own.”

“He stole,” she countered. “He took something that wasn’t his. This is his punishment.”

“But he is starving!”

“He took what he did not own,” she insisted.

“You would condemn a man for filling his stomach?” he asked, incredulous.

“Well, no,” she replied, conflicting emotions flickering across her face. “No, but I would wonder how hard a man tried to earn his food before he fell to stealing it.”

On their last morning at the winter camp in Hounslow, Rachel climbed outside the tent before dawn and Walwyn rose to join her. Together they made their way through the snowy meadow to see her brother one last time; the next day they would return to London. At first Robert seemed embarrassed to receive another visit from his sister. “I thought you left yesterday,” he complained as she bent down and inspected his failing boots. “I’m a grown man. I’m twenty. I don’t need you mothering me.” But he got over the mothering when he saw how the other soldiers were responding to Walwyn. In 1647 the Levelers were still giants; they were still on the winning side. When Walwyn unwrapped his scarf, finally revealing his face, some of the soldiers recognized him, and his name spread in whispers through the camp. They lionized him. Walwyn had quite a time that morning. Clapping the youngest troops on the back, he said hello to everyone; he gave away all his tobacco, all his spare coins. He admired the soldiers’ strength of will and he thanked them for their courage. He did not thank them for their sacrifices. These were men who had joined the army because they were destitute, because they needed a day’s wage. So when he thanked them, he said
courage
; he did not say
sacrifices.
Meanwhile Rachel restitched her brother’s boots and told Robert not to do anything foolish.

Later Walwyn supposed he should not have let all those rank-and-file soldiers see him with a woman who was not his wife. But it had been one of those mornings where the air hung so crystalline and suspended, so still and clear as the lapwings whipped and carved the light, their wings like straight-edged blades, that he could feel no shame. He looked over as Rachel threw her arms around her brother. In that moment her name eluded him. She was winter and spring alike; who was she? Her name was written all over his body. His body was saying her name for him. That night he fell asleep still trying to remember it, still trying to get her name back on his lips. He continued the struggle in sleep. In the morning as they packed their few belongings and prepared to return to London he listened to starlings rooting and vying for whatever green shoots might by some accident of providence have thrust their spindly arms up from the barren soil overnight, and he found the word at last, waiting for him.

B
ARTWAIN HAD A VISIT
from the prosecutor. Edmund Griffin was twenty-four years old and silky as a nesting dove. He was the kind of man who kept one eye on his complexion in the mirror and another on a possible Parliament seat.

The younger man traipsed down the Sessions House corridor after Bartwain. “I need your notes, Investigator. The trial starts in three days.”

Bartwain pulled a bound book and a stack of papers from his shelf and handed over both items. “These are my depositions. In the papers lies the coroner’s report.” Reaching behind his desk, he retrieved a wooden box. “Material evidence,” he stated flatly. The box included the infant’s yellow dress as well as several tiny caps and cloth boots taken by the coroner from Rachel’s box made of wainscot. The coroner had removed the child’s body by the time Bartwain started his investigation. He was glad he did not have to see it. He hoped someone gave the poor thing a decent burial. Rachel had not been allowed to take possession of it.

“Is everything accounted for?” Griffin asked.

Bartwain had never found whatever thread or string had caused the blue bruising, but the prosecutor would not need that item to make his case. “The coroner’s report and witness testimonials should be enough,” he said.

The younger man nodded cheerfully. “This case is open and shut.”

The Baptist William Kiffin had used the same phrase. Bartwain fought off a surge of irritation. “Be careful. You are new to these situations. They have a way of becoming complicated.”

“They are not complicated. The law is plain and simple. The law asks only if she hid the bastard’s death and if the child was hers. You are the one who taught me that. Did Rachel Lockyer conceal its death?”

“Yes.”

“Was the child hers?”

“Yes. Though she has not come right out and said exactly what happened.”

“What she did or didn’t say doesn’t matter now. This case is effectively closed, wouldn’t you agree, Investigator? It is a fait accompli. I appreciate all of your labors on my behalf. You have worked industriously.”

Bartwain did not care for his tone.

“I’ll take the evidence box with me,” the prosecutor went on. “If nothing else, it will be good for giving the jury a show. Everyone likes a good show.” He snatched the infant’s yellow dress out of the box and laid it against his slender chest, pretending to wear it. He twirled around in a circle.

Bartwain did not like young counselors. He did not like young men, period. When he regarded them—Such white teeth! Such arrogance!—he remembered all the promotions for which he had been passed over.

“Mr. Griffin,” he said brusquely. “I am well aware what the parameters are in this case. I have devoted my professional life to the law and to its upholding. I have investigated over twenty-five bastard cases during my thirty years as investigator. And I am reminding you to be careful.”

“Yes, yes, of course. I’ll take your notes and review them. You’re certain she didn’t tell you anything useful?”

“She said that she had not yet resolved what happened.”

Griffin snorted. “Then it is up to me to resolve it for her—and for the jury.”

“I’m not sure it’s that simple.” What was he saying? It
was
that simple. But Bartwain was in a terrible mood and needed to dispel it. “The statute against bastard murder does allow for one possible escape,” he told the prosecutor. “Surely you know this?”

Griffin’s face remained blank. You are green, Bartwain thought. Green and stupid. The investigator reached for his statute book and flipped through the pages until he landed on the relevant section of the 1624 Act to Prevent the Destroying and Murdering of Bastard Children. “Here it is. Listen.” He cleared his throat. “‘If any Women . . . be delivered of any Issue of her body, Male or Female, which being born alive, should by the Laws of this Realm be a bastard, and that she endeavor privately either by drowning or secret burying thereof, or any other way, either by her self or the procuring of others, so to conceal the death thereof, as that it may not come to light, whether it were born alive or not, but be concealed, In every such case, the said Mother so offending shall suffer Death, as in case of murder—’”