Chapter 38
B
ack at Boughton, they settled the boy into bed. The room had not been occupied for some months and the air was hot and stuffy. Since the windows could not be opened because of the fog, the room smelled fusty and damp. The exertion and excitement seemed to have triggered the child’s cough once more. His breath came in short wheezes. Thomas had given his small patient a more thorough examination. He suspected his time as a chimney sweep, shinning up soot-filled flues, albeit for a short period, had also taken its toll on his respiratory system. Tiny particles of carbon would be embedded in his lung tissue, causing constant irritation.
Lydia sat at her son’s bedside, concern etched on her face.
“Tell me he will be well soon, Thomas,” she said, dabbing Richard’s forehead with a vinegar-soaked pad.
The young doctor watched her slow gestures of maternal love that came so naturally to her. He tried to reassure her. “Now that he is here with you, I am certain he will be fully restored. Rest and good food will give him strength,” he told her, adding: “But most of all he needs his mother’s love.”
“I have longed for this day for so many years,” she said, stroking her son’s curls. “But I did not picture it would be like this.”
Thomas shook his head. “But he is here and he will be well. That is all that matters now.” He stroked her arm. “And once he is a little stronger, perhaps he could go with you to the caves for a few days.”
Lydia thought for a moment, and then nodded. “Yes. Yes, we will do that.”
Thomas returned his listening tube and a phial of physick to his case. “I shall be on my way now,” he told her. There were many more new patients to see. She acknowledged his need to leave with a wistful nod of her head, then lifted her hand just as Thomas was about to turn toward the door.
“There is one more thing I would like you to do.” She broke off to frame her words carefully. “Just in case . . . he does not . . .”
Thomas put his finger over her lips to still them and spare her the agony of saying what they both feared most. “And what might that be?” he asked.
“I would like him baptized,” she said. “I do not believe he has been and it would please me very much.” She bit her lip to stop it from trembling.
“Of course,” he replied. “I shall ask the Reverend Lightfoot this afternoon.”
Stepping out into the fog once more, Thomas saw Will Lovelock approach from the stables with his horse. “Ah, Will. ’Tis good to see you back,” he greeted him. The boy looked pale, but seemed much stronger. His spell at West Wycombe had obviously had the desired effect. He returned the doctor’s smile.
“Thank you, sir. I feel much better,” he replied with a nod.
Thomas hoped a stay in the cool caves with their plentiful supply of fresh air and untainted drinking water would have the same effect on young Richard. He had just ridden down the drive at Boughton and had turned his horse toward Brandwick, where he planned to meet with Mr. Peabody, when he saw Reverend Lightfoot. His dogcart was jouncing along the lane, headed in the same direction. Thomas spurred his horse to a trot and soon caught up with the vicar.
“Good morning, sir,” he greeted him, doffing his tricorn. “The fog seems to have lifted slightly today.”
The clergyman did not return his smile. “Good morning, Dr. Silkstone,” he said, his lips remaining tight and flat.
The air was thick with small flies and Thomas’s horse was slightly skittish, its head flicking erratically, trying to fend them off. “How goes it today, sir?” he inquired.
The vicar waved the flies away from his face. “The Lord calls someone each day,” he said gravely.
Thomas had hoped for a better report. The fog was certainly dispersing, albeit gradually. Yet still its legacy lingered. “Then I must delay you no further,” he told him.
“Very well, Dr. Silkstone,” said the vicar. He was obviously in no mood for pleasantries. Thomas was just about to bid him a good day when he remembered he had been tasked with organizing the young nobleman’s baptism. “Lady Lydia would appreciate a call from you, sir,” he said, “when you have a moment in the next day or so.”
The vicar managed a faint smile. “Very well. I shall go to the hall tomorrow. I am occupied this afternoon.”
Seeing the reverend had no wish to engage in further conversation, Thomas tugged gently at his horse’s rein and moved off at a steady trot toward the village. Lightfoot followed at a more sedate pace several yards behind him. The doctor needed to see Mr. Peabody about concocting some more linctus and to find out from him the latest additions to the list of patients struck down and needing care.
He arrived at the apothecary’s shop to find several people milling around outside. In their midst was Mr. Peabody in a state of high anxiety. He had dispensed with his wig and was sweating profusely.
“Please be calm,” he called out, but his voice was drowned by the cries of seemingly angry customers.
“My children are sick!” cried one woman. “We need physick now!” exclaimed another.
As soon as they saw Thomas arrive on his horse, the crowd calmed themselves. “Good people,” he addressed them from the saddle. “There will be plenty of physick to go ’round and there will be no charge for it.” Lydia and Sir Henry had agreed on that.
At his words, a loud cheer volleyed into the hot air. “But Mr. Peabody and I need to be allowed to work undisturbed so that we can make up more linctus. Return when the church bell tolls seven and a new batch will be ready.”
Some of the villagers nodded. It was only fair that this physician should be allowed to make the very medicine that could save their families. And to offer it for free, without money changing hands, was indeed a rare gesture. So the crowd dispersed, leaving Thomas to shepherd a shaken Mr. Peabody into his dispensary at the back of the shop.
All afternoon they worked hard in the heat, measuring, pounding, and blending. Thomas had found that the milk in his original formula was souring too soon and had to be substituted with powdered chalk mixed with a little water. He also made up some new remedies he had come across in journals in Boughton’s library. Sage juice and honey were supposedly efficacious when the patient spat blood, while syrup of horehound was recommended for an inveterate cough.
Mr. Peabody had also ordered a large quantity of Peruvian bark that, according to him, worked wonders for a dry cough when taken within twenty-four hours of the first spasm. An amount the size of a peppercorn was to be chewed only as long as the spittle remained bitter, then spat out. Thomas questioned its efficacy, but the need to give some sort of hope to his patients was so great that, as long as no harm was done, Thomas felt anything was worth trying.
It was approaching six o’clock. The light, such as it was in the fog, was fading fast when Thomas realized he needed more elixir of vitriol for mixing. He put down his pestle and went to seek out a new bottle from the shelf in the shop. Glancing out of the window that looked onto the street he saw a small crowd beginning to gather in the market square. At first he thought the people were merely eager to be the first in line for the opening of the dispensary at seven o’clock, but when he saw the Reverend Lightfoot mount the steps of the market cross, he realized he was mistaken.
Moving closer to the window for a better view, he could see the vicar more clearly. He was wearing a surplice and around his neck a large cross and chain of gold. A small table had been placed on the steps by his side and on it was a tall candle and an open copy of the Bible.
More and more people gathered ’round, until the number had swelled to at least a hundred. There was a strange air of expectancy about them. They did not appear angry or aggressive as he had seen them earlier, but rather nervous and excited, as if waiting for something or somebody.
Thomas remained transfixed at the window until, a few seconds later, a cart drawn by a pony pulled up alongside the gathering. The driver jumped down and proceeded to demount the side of the vehicle to reveal two people, lying prone.
Half a dozen men came to the driver’s aid and carried the passengers—Thomas could now see they were a young girl and a boy a little older—onto the steps. Both were dressed in loose shifts. The girl was crying and she began to kick out, while the boy flailed his arms in the air like a windmill. His tongue lolled from the side of his mouth and his chin was wet with spittle.
A collective murmur rippled through the crowd as they watched the men seat the children on the steps. The girl tried to rise, but she was held down by a burly man on either side, pressing on both her shoulders. The boy seemed more compliant. His head drooped down, but odd staccato noises flew from his mouth from time to time.
Hearing the commotion outside, Mr. Peabody joined Thomas at the window. He dabbed his furrowed brow with his kerchief. “What is going on?”
“I cannot be sure, but I fear for the safety of those children,” replied Thomas, still looking intently at the scene.
From out of the crowd came a man with a flaming torch. He walked up the steps, lit the candle, and withdrew. An odd silence descended on the throng. It was then that the Reverend Lightfoot lifted his arms and spoke.
“Beloved in God,” he began. “We are here today to pray for these two wretched souls who their father fears are bringing the devil into our midst.”
The vicar then laid both his hands on the girl’s head. She jerked, trying to free herself, but he persisted, intoning a prayer as he did so. He did the same to the boy, then clasped his hands together. In a loud voice he exhorted his congregation: “Let us sing together the hymn ‘Come Sinners to the Gospel Feast.’ ”
While the congregation raised their voices in song, Thomas ventured out of the shop and walked across the street to get a better view. He saw the driver of the cart clearly now. It was the gravedigger Joseph Makepeace. His wife had died of the fog sickness the week before and he had buried her, just as he had buried dozens before her. Haggard and hunched, he stood on the market steps by his children, whom the doctor recognized from his visit to their dying mother. Both of them suffered from serious conditions; the girl from the falling sickness and the boy from some form of St. Vitus’ dance, which rendered him incapable of speech or coordinated movement.
The hymn was coming to its climax, building up in tone and volume, when suddenly the girl began to writhe. Her eyes rolled back in her head and her limbs stiffened, so that the men who had been holding her jumped back in shock. Some of the women in the crowd screamed.
The girl dropped down and began to convulse on the steps, foul words issuing from her mouth. Flecks of foam appeared at her lips and her limbs twitched uncontrollably. Her father rushed forward.
“See, she is cursed!” he cried, pointing at the child as her body juddered beneath him. “The devil is in her. He has brought the fog on us all!”
Dozens of voices now joined in the fray. Thomas could not hear what they said, but the tension in the air was mounting. He looked at some of the faces. Eyes were narrowing, teeth were flashing. Like a pack of wild dogs, the people were working themselves up into a frenzy. From somewhere in the crowd he heard a taunt of “witch.”
“Burn her!” called another.
He had seen enough. He elbowed his way through the throng and bounded up the steps. The girl’s body was still juddering wildly and her head kept hitting the stone steps below. Throwing off his topcoat, he folded it into a cushion. The crowd surged forward; some people jeered. They were enjoying the spectacle. They did not want the foreign physician to spoil it.
“Stay where you are!” shouted Thomas, waving his arm at the baying congregation.
Meanwhile, the Reverend Lightfoot’s expression had changed from one of serenity to fear. He had unleashed a fury that he could not control. “Get back!” he called. “Get back in the name of the Lord!” When he held a large wooden cross aloft, the crowd quieted a little.
Bending low, Thomas could see that the girl’s tongue had rolled back and she was in danger of choking. Quickly he tilted up her chin. A few seconds later her body relaxed and her eyes closed. She lay unconscious on the steps and the multitude fell silent.
Thomas straightened himself. His face was scratched from where the girl’s nails had scraped his skin in her frenzy and his shirt was torn. He surveyed the audience as he caught his breath. Some of the faces were familiar. There was Noah Kipps and his brother Luke, their fists raised. And there was Ann Banks, who had buried her husband last month, her features contorted with hatred. They had turned into monsters just as surely as leaves turn in autumn.
“This girl is not possessed by the devil. She is sick,” he told them. His voice was raised but he did not have to shout. Calm had been restored, at least for the time being.
“We are living in 1783. We no longer call women witches and burn them at the stake!” His words hung in the air for a moment, then fell like gentle rain.
The crowd murmured. They seemed less agitated. Nevertheless, the clergyman remained determined. He stepped forward and whispered to Thomas, “I will cast out the children’s demons, Dr. Silkstone,” and turned his face away from the expectant crowd.
Thomas looked into the reverend’s eyes and saw the deep conviction there. He accepted that this was what the crowd expected of him and that to disappoint them could unleash yet more anger. He took a deep breath and sighed. “Very well,” he conceded, “but please take heed.”
The vicar nodded. “I do the Lord’s work,” he assured him, and he turned to the crowd with his arms outstretched. “Let us pray.”
On the steps below, Thomas could see the young girl was waking. He bent down and stroked her head. Her left cheek was badly bruised from her fall and her knuckles were bleeding. “All will be well,” he whispered, as the Reverend Lightfoot began intoning a prayer over her and her brother once more.