Act of Oblivion, page 21
‘There’s a farmer I know, a little way on.’
‘Can we trust him?’
‘I believe so. I’ll take you.’
Now here is peril, thought Ned as they hurried out onto the path. This is how we die – running from pillar to post, forced to put our trust in strangers, each one less known to us than the last. But what else was there to do?
The morning was turning hot now. As the ground became steeper and they climbed in their heavy army coats towards the cliffs, they began to sweat. A cottage built of stone appeared ahead, and the figure of a man in white shirtsleeves chopping logs. The rhythmic blows of the axe mingled with the sound of woodpeckers and twittering birds.
Jones said, ‘Wait here. I’ll speak with him.’
Ned dropped his bag and sank gratefully to the forest floor, legs stretched out. He looked over his shoulder at the path behind them. It wound through the trees and dipped out of sight. He listened hard but could hear nothing that suggested pursuit.
‘Take heart,’ said Will. ‘We’ve been in tighter scrapes.’
‘If so, I’d be obliged if you could name them.’
Will laughed at that, and after a few moments Ned joined in. He lay full length on his back and felt the sun on his face, glad to at least be out in the open. He wondered who they were, these eight men on their trail. By God, if he was to die, he’d like to take a few down with him.
Jones returned with the farmer. His rolled-up sleeves showed muscled arms, brown as leather, and a long scar on his right arm from his elbow to his wrist. He looked as if he had been in a fight or two. The colonels stood. Jones said, ‘This is Richard Sperry. Richard, these are the friends I spoke of.’
Sperry nodded but did not offer his hand.
Jones said, ‘He’ll show you a place where you can shelter. I’ll return as soon as it’s safe.’ He embraced them both, and with a final ‘God be with you’ set off back to New Haven.
‘We are—’ Will began, but Sperry cut him off.
‘I know who you are. Best not speak of it. The less I know, the fewer lies I’ll need to tell.’
He set off without another word. They lifted their bags onto their shoulders and followed him – first to the yard of his cottage, where he collected his axe and a weighty coil of rope, and then for about a mile along the path, climbing ever steeper, until abruptly he left it and led them into the gloom of the forest. There was a strange thundering noise that gradually became much louder, and through the trees they saw a waterfall, plunging a good forty feet over the edge of a rust-coloured cliff face into a pool that fed a stream.
Sperry said, ‘Stay here.’
He looped the rope around his neck, tucked the axe into his thick leather belt and began to climb the cliff, swinging from foothold to foothold, weaving back and forth as he ascended the sheer rock. Ned put his hand to his forehead to shield his eyes from the sun and followed his progress. ‘By heavens,’ he muttered, ‘does he mean for us to follow him?’
Sperry reached the top and vanished over the edge. A moment later, he reappeared and began paying out the rope. He shouted down, ‘I’ll start with the bags.’
They tied Ned’s first, and Sperry hauled it up quickly, banging it against the rock. He took the next bag, and then called down to Will to tie the rope around his waist. ‘Don’t be afeared, I have you.’
Ned could not bear to watch, but then he thought he must, to see how it was done. There was no careful seeking-out of footholds. Will went up straight, leaning out at an angle from the cliff, his hands clutching the rope, as if he were walking along the ground. Near the top, his boot slipped, and Ned cried out, certain he must fall. But the rope held, and after dangling for a few moments, Will leaned out once more and finished his ascent.
Sperry paid out the rope again. Ned was sure he could never manage it. If it came to it, he would sooner die fighting with his back to the wall of rock than be killed in a fall. He shouted up, ‘No, I cannot. I am too old, and too heavy.’
Will called back, ‘We can hold you, Ned. So long as you are tied tight, you cannot fall.’
‘Come on, Colonel,’ shouted Sperry. ‘I fought at Marston Moor. If you can beat a king, you can beat a bit of rock.’
A veteran, thought Ned. That explained the scar – a pike wound, probably. It put things in a different light. He’d never lost face in front of his men. He’d be damned if he’d do so now.
He tied the rope around his stomach, fixed it with a triple knot and felt the line tauten. He grabbed it in both hands, hauled himself up, and began to climb. With every third or fourth step, the soles of his boots slipped against the smooth rock, but somehow, leaning back, he managed to maintain his purchase. The last part was the worst – swaying out in the breeze over the sheer drop. He made the mistake of looking down, and that almost did for him. But then he closed his eyes and scrabbled the final couple of steps, and Will leaned out and grasped his wrist and dragged him to safety.
He crawled on his hands and knees away from the edge. He stood and brushed away the dirt on his coat and surveyed the spot. A wide ledge, maybe thirty paces across, extending like a roadway in either direction, strewn with boulders and bushes and small trees, to one of which the rope was anchored. Another wall of rock behind them, with a cleft in it as wide as a man and twice as high, which looked as though it might lead to a cave. A cascade of water into a clear pool. And a view, magnificent, across the forest to the plain, with New Haven’s grid of streets plainly visible, and the harbour, and the sea beyond it stretching to the horizon.
Sperry said, ‘The cave is dry, though the wind does howl when she blows off the sea. There’s a track to the top, but hard to find. You should be safe enough.’
‘Shelter, water, aspect,’ said Ned. ‘It is the perfect place.’
‘I’ll leave the rope and send my lad later with food in a basket, which you may haul up. Don’t show yourselves – it’s best he doesn’t see you.’
Before they could properly express their thanks, he was gone, shinning down the rope.
‘This will do us very well,’ said Ned, ‘for a night or two, at least, or even longer if needs be.’ He climbed up onto a boulder. ‘We can keep a good lookout from up here.’
He extended his spyglass and trained it on New Haven. Groups of figures were moving purposefully through the streets towards the south-east corner of the town, where Jones and Davenport lived. He watched them for a while, trying to make out what was happening. Whatever it was, it looked like trouble.
By the end of the morning, Nayler’s mission was mired in difficulty, and the situation, far from progressing, was turning ugly.
Hannah Jones’s waters had broken, and she had gone into labour and been taken upstairs. Word had spread through the town that an outrage of some kind had been committed, and twenty or more citizens – several of the menfolk armed with their militia swords and pistols – had congregated in the yard. Davenport was conducting a prayer meeting in the street, appealing to God to protect mother, child and community (‘“And let them make me a sanctuary, that I may dwell among them . . .”’).
In the middle of all this, Governor Leete had arrived with another sombre magistrate of the colony – Mr Joseph Crane, from the nearby town of Branford – and was angrily demanding an explanation.
Nayler stood with Kellond and Kirke and the rest of his search party on the side of the road, between the Jones and Davenport houses. He had ordered his men to put away their weapons to avoid further provocation. Crampton had disappeared. Nayler was attempting to mollify Leete.
‘We had good intelligence that Whalley and Goffe were in one or other of these properties. It was necessary for us to act upon it quickly.’
‘You had no legal authority.’
‘Is the authority of the King not recognised in this part of his dominions? Really, Mr Leete, I am bound to say, you have done everything in your power to frustrate us.’
‘And I am also bound – by the laws of this colony.’
Davenport, who had come over to listen to their argument, joined in. ‘The sole authority in New Haven is God.’
Nayler had already taken the minister’s measure – pious one minute, imperious the next; the worst kind of hypocritical religious despot. He lost his temper. ‘Do you deny, sir, that the regicides lived under your roof? You cannot! The whole town knows it. They drilled the militia and preached sedition.’
‘They did indeed lodge briefly with me, and if you had treated me with courtesy, I would have explained the facts. I had no knowledge of any warrant for their arrest, and by the time I learned of it, they had left.’
‘To take ship at New Amsterdam?’
‘So it is said. They were seen in Milford, on the road to New Netherland.’
‘“So it is said”! What manner of reply is that? These men are wanted for the murder of the King.’ He swung back to Leete. ‘I demand the right to search the town.’
Leete said, ‘Before I have the authority to draw up such a warrant, I must first have the agreement of Mr Crane here, and of two other magistrates, Mr Gilbert of New Haven and Mr Treat of Milford.’
‘And where are they?’
‘They are sent for.’
‘I swear this colony has more magistrates than people.’ Nayler looked over Leete’s shoulder, at a man hurrying down the street from the northern part of the town. He seemed to be a notable figure. People were taking off their hats, murmuring to him, patting him on the shoulder. ‘Who is that person?’
Davenport said, ‘That is William Jones, whose wife you so cruelly abused.’
‘Jones? The son of the regicide? And where has he been all this time?’ Nayler left the group and strode up the street. ‘Mr Jones! A word, sir, if you please.’
Jones halted at his gate. ‘I shall speak to you after I have seen my wife.’
From inside the house came the sound of a baby crying. They both glanced at the open upstairs window. Nayler felt an unexpected surge of relief. He had not wanted a miscarriage on his conscience – that would have been the bitterest of ironies. He seized Jones by the arm. ‘I insist you answer my questions now.’
‘You have no right, sir.’ Jones shook himself free, and disappeared inside, and when Nayler moved to follow him, his path was blocked by two burly men in Puritan dress. He turned away, went back down the street and beckoned to Kellond and Kirke to join him.
‘That Jones – whose traitor father I caught and hanged last summer – has just spirited away the regicides, I’m sure of it.’
‘But we searched the house,’ objected Kirke. ‘There was no trace of them. How could they have moved so quickly?’
‘Perhaps they left while we were detained in Guilford, and he has just returned from warning them.’ Suddenly he glimpsed what must have happened. ‘This ban of theirs, on travelling over the Sabbath – it would have applied to Whalley and Goffe, would it not? They’d not have been permitted to go further than two miles. Jones came from the north just now.’ He looked at the cliffs beyond the town. ‘That’s where they are. I feel it in my bones. Mr Chapin!’ he shouted to the guide. ‘Do you know those hills at all?’
‘A little.’
‘Take us there.’
‘And the town?’ asked Kellond. ‘Are we not to search it?’
‘There must be a hundred houses here, and we are only eight men. It’ll take us days, we’ll find nothing, and our quarry will all the while be up there, laughing at us.’ Nayler could not bear the thought of being mocked, of being defeated by these wretched people. He could sense the regicides slipping through his fingers. He called out to the Scotchmen, ‘Mount up. We’re moving on.’
As the four men moved towards their horses, Leete hurried to intercept him. ‘You must not search till I have spoken with the magistrates.’
‘Speak with your magistrates, sir, and when I return to London, I shall speak with the Privy Council, and then we shall see whose speech has most power in this colony.’
He swung himself up onto his horse, dug his heels into its flanks, and set off up the street, followed by the others. The townspeople outside Jones’s house briefly tried to block their way, but he galloped straight at them, scattering them like bowling pins, and the way ahead was clear – to the green, the meeting house, and the road to the distant hills.
Watching through his spyglass, Ned observed the party of riders moving through the town. He continued to watch them until they disappeared into the wood. He lowered the telescope. ‘I count eight men, doubtless coming our way.’
‘They are unlikely to discover us up here.’
‘Even so . . .’ he clambered down awkwardly from the boulder, ‘we should put away that rope and hide our bags.’
Chapin went ahead of the rest. Occasionally he dismounted to inspect the track. They would halt to watch him as he prodded the leaves and twigs and put his face close to the ground. But each time he looked up and shook his head. He stopped again at the ruined mill and went inside. When he emerged, he said, ‘There was a fire lit.’
‘How recent?’ asked Nayler.
‘It’s cold. I cannot say.’
He looked back at the path. ‘Do you reckon we’ve come two miles yet?’
‘Aye, just about.’
He took off his hat and wiped the sweat from his face. He felt the sting of a mosquito on the side of his neck and clapped his hand to it then inspected his palm, a trace of his blood amid the black smear of its corpse. He rubbed it off on his leg. ‘So they could have rested here over the Sabbath and then moved on this morning? By God, we’re only two or three hours behind – so close I swear I can almost smell them.’
They set off again. After a while, they reached a stone cottage. Nayler jumped down from his horse, drew his pistol, went forwards and knocked on the door. It was opened by a woman with a baby in her arms and another child clutching her skirt. She was drab and beaten-down-looking, her frizzled brown hair already threaded with grey.
Nayler said, ‘Is there a man of the house?’
‘He’s hunting with our boy.’
‘My name is Nayler. We are officers of the Crown, on the track of criminals. You will permit a brief inspection, to make sure you’re safe.’
He went straight in without waiting for a response. Mackwater and Kellond followed him, while Kirke and the other Scotchmen headed for the outhouses. The search took no time. There was nothing to see except evidence of a hard life – rough home-made furniture, wooden plates, plain whitewashed walls. On a peg on the back of a door hung an old buff coat, New Model Army issue. Nayler felt the thickness of the leather between thumb and forefinger.
‘Your husband fought with Cromwell?’
She did not reply.
‘What is his name?’
‘Richard Sperry.’
Nayler made a note. He went out to the others. ‘The colonels passed this way – they must have done, if they were heading for higher ground. The farmer here is an old Roundhead. My guess is he must be helping them.’ Their expressions were sceptical. He could see they were becoming exhausted and disheartened. ‘Cheer up, lads! We must press on. Mr Chapin?’
They toiled on up the track behind their guide as the day grew hotter, the climb steeper, the mosquitoes hungrier. Nayler began to feel as though the peaceful emptiness of the forest was taunting him. Chapin no longer bothered to stop and look for clues. A perilous narrow path, winding up the side of the cliffs, drew them westwards until they came out onto the summit of the ridge of hills, the plain of New Haven spread beneath them. Without waiting for Nayler’s command, the men dismounted and threw themselves down in the shade of the scrub oaks and passed around a gourd of water. There was insolence in the action, he thought – insurrection, even.
‘Well, we are here, Mr Nayler,’ said Kirke, ‘as you commanded, on the ridge. Now what do you intend?’
He lifted his leg and swung himself out of his saddle but remained standing. ‘To rest a while and then continue.’
Kirke looked around at the others, as if seeking their support. ‘To what purpose, might we ask? You could put an army up here for a week and they’d still find nothing.’
‘That is not the spirit of our enterprise, Captain Kirke. We have a commission; we must discharge it.’
‘Aye, but as it stands, we are chasing the uncatchable.’
‘That’s right,’ said Stewart, the Springfield blacksmith. His compatriots nodded.
Kirke continued, his tone becoming more defiant, ‘If the colonels live rough in open country, then their arrest is a different task entirely to the one you set us back in Boston – impossible, in fact.’ Further nods of agreement. ‘Would it not be more profitable to return to New Haven, give out your posters, see what intelligence we may gather, and then follow their trail towards New Amsterdam? Davenport says they were seen in Milford. That should be our next stop.’
‘But surely that is a false scent? If it really was their plan to board a ship to Holland, don’t you think they would have taken pains to keep it secret? Instead, they told the entire town of their intention, then made sure they were noticed in Milford.’ It was so plain to him at that moment, so entirely obvious, he was amazed they could not grasp it. ‘You may embark on a wild goose chase, Captain Kirke, if that is your preference, but I shall search for them here.’
It was a mistake to have made such an offer. He wished at once he could take it back. But he was hot and vexed, and his leg was aching, and he realised too late that he had in effect given them permission to abandon the search.
‘Very well,’ said Kirke quickly, with his merchant’s eye for clinching a good bargain before it was snatched off the table. ‘That’s what we shall do, if the others all agree?’
They did – even young Kellond, who was the most obedient of the party; even the dogged Chapin, who said sorrowfully that he felt the trail had now gone cold.
As they mounted to return to New Haven, Kirke called down from his saddle, ‘We shall meet up with you in the town later, Mr Nayler. Or on the road to New Amsterdam, if you care to follow us. Otherwise, we’ll await you in Boston. God be with you.’
