Act of Oblivion, page 35
After he had stashed the skins in his room – they would fetch a good price when he sent them to the fur traders in Boston – he went across the landing to deal with Ned.
His first task of the day, as always, was to check he was still alive. He touched his cheek. The old man’s eyes met his. ‘God bless you, Ned. Good morning.’ In response came a slur of sound. ‘Let us give thanks to the Lord for another day.’ He put his arm beneath Ned’s shoulders, pulled him upright, then lifted him off the bed and supported him as he shuffled over to the commode. A quick inspection showed he had not soiled himself during the night, always a good start. He pulled Ned’s nightshirt above his wasted legs and guided him into position, then stood behind him, his elbows hooked under his armpits to support him. While he waited for the morning piss to start, he sang, in that fine voice of his, made by God for chanting psalms:
Ned, Ned, lies in bed,
His legs don’t work and nor does his head.
The silly little rhyme, composed in the early days, had always amused Ned. Most of the time he seemed to understand what was said to him, even though he could not speak. He smiled. A drool of spittle leaked from the corner of his mouth, and Will pulled out a handkerchief and wiped it away.
This has been their routine for the past seven years.
After the morning visit to the commode, Will dresses him. In a practical sense, this is pointless, since the old man won’t be leaving the room, but it saddened him too much to see Ned, once so particular about his appearance, lolling around all day in his nightshirt. He has to do everything for him – wash him with the Russells’ greasy home-made soap of lye and tallow, spoon-feed him, hold a cup of water to his lips, trim his hair and beard, cut his fingernails, prop him up in his chair (in winter by the fire, in summer beside the open window, just far enough back so that he cannot be seen from the road), read to him, talk to him, put him back to bed again at night – an endless cycle, month in month out, year in year out. It is hard physical labour: Colonel Whalley even shrunken by old age, is still a heavy man. Little wonder Will is fit, with arm muscles more powerful even than in his youth, as if Ned has bequeathed him his strength.
He does not resent it. On the contrary. It is the Lord’s work he is doing. ‘Bear ye one another’s burdens, and so fulfil the law of Christ’ (Galatians, 6:2). Or again: ‘Who sees his brother have need, and shutteth up his bowels of compassion from him, how dwelleth the love of God in him? Let us not love in word, neither in tongue, but in deed and in truth’ (John, 3:17). With every task he performs – the humblest and most squalid especially – he feels himself drawing closer to God.
When Ned was first struck down, Reverend Russell consulted a doctor in Springfield. The symptoms described in his medical textbook – ‘a malady, very sudden in its attack, which arrests more or less completely the powers of sense and motion, caused by an effusion of blood or serum in the brain, and preceded by giddiness, partial loss of muscular power, etc.’ – plainly matched those of apoplexy. There was little hope of recovery.
To begin with, a nineteen-year-old young woman named Lydia Fisher, of a good Puritan family in Dedham, Massachusetts, came to stay and help. But Ned became agitated whenever she touched him, and Will found her proximity aroused feelings within him he had managed to suppress for the best part of a decade. She made it plain, by smiles and the occasional hand on his arm, that she felt the same about him. After a few months, he had had to send her away, not least because tending to Ned brings Frances into the room. He can see so much of her in her father, especially now his flesh has thinned, and his cheekbones have become more prominent, his expression innocent and trusting. It is another blessing of old age, he has discovered – it peels away the layers built up by years of suffering and experience; it lays bare the child inside the man. Sometimes he feels he is gazing down at her face. He wonders what, if anything, goes on in Ned’s mind. The thought troubles him.
One day, not long after Lydia’s departure, when he had brought up a broom from the kitchen and was cleaning Ned’s room, he shifted his father-in-law’s old army bag to sweep away the dust that had gathered behind it and noticed a thick sheaf of papers tucked inside. Some Memories of the Life of His Highness, the Late Lord Protector. He glanced across at Ned. As usual, he was asleep. Overcome with curiosity, he carried the manuscript into his own room and started to read.
I was born in the Year of Our Lord 1598 . . .
He read on until Ned needed feeding and cleaning, and then went back to it, lighting a lamp as the day faded. The early part was unobjectionable enough – fascinating, indeed. It kindled memories of his own – his early years as a pikeman in Colonel Pride’s regiment of foot, marching fifteen miles a day with sixty pounds upon his back, fighting at Naseby, storming Bristol, where they had been the first to scale the city’s walls, the meetings at Saffron Walden and Putney, where his sermons and visions had brought him to prominence, the purging of Parliament, in which he had played an eager part, his wooing of Frances after the King’s execution.
It was only when Ned began to introduce Frances’s name, and address her directly, that the tone changed and Will started to become uneasy. You may wonder – many did; I did myself – at the action of an army that had gone to war in the name of Parliament now treating it more roughly than the King had ever dared . . . What was this? And then there was the curious sympathy and respect for Charles Stuart – shocking, really – and his doubts about the King’s trial, and then the most disturbing passage of all: Dear Frances . . . one question troubles me. If the victories God gave us were proof we were doing His work, how are we to interpret what has happened since? Has he withdrawn his favour from our cause, or were we in error all along? His portrait of Cromwell hinted at sins of personal ambition, pride, anger, duplicity, cynicism – a strange instrument for God to choose. The legibility of the manuscript declined badly towards the end, full of crossings-out and misspellings and repetitions, but the final page was clear enough:
I have read that my colleague Col. Hacker, a neighbour to me in Nottinghamshire, a good soldier and a pious man, declared to several of his friends a little before he suffered execution that the greatest trouble he had upon his spirits was ‘that he had formerly borne too great a prejudice in his heart towards the good people of God that differed from him in judgement’.
If he chose that for his epitaph, it may also stand as mine.
Thanks be to God, and may He forgive his humble servant.
Edw. Whalley
Will had sat back, appalled. It was as if the ghost of Ned had risen from the husk of his body across the landing and started raving in utter madness. This could not be the man he knew. Some devil had seized his pen. Little surprise that God had struck him down. The thought that Frances might read his words was especially dreadful. She must be protected from the effect of her father’s sickness. And Ned must be protected from himself.
He lit a fire in his grate and burned the memoir, page by page.
In the summer of 1671, four years after Ned’s seizure, Russell had announced that Reverend Mather was now willing to risk forwarding a letter to Frances. Will had spent a long time in its composition. He did not disclose their whereabouts. He hinted at her father’s state of health without going into details. He most certainly did not mention his writings. In case the letter fell into the hands of the government, he had addressed her as ‘Mother’ and signed himself her son. The following spring, he had received her reply.
My dearest Son, How your letter, so greatly longed for, has revived my spirits! Through mercy we are all in health and do experience much of the love & care of our good God in supporting & providing for us in such a day of trial as this. I rejoice to hear that America agrees with you & that you thrive so well, though I am sorry to hear your friend is sickly. I know not whether this will come to you safe, & therefore shall be the briefer to let you know how dear you are to me & your little brothers and sisters, all in good health, only Betty is weakly, & all longing greatly to see you. If the Lord says it is good for us, He will bring our reuniting to pass in His own time. We are compelled to be thrifty but if there is anything I can serve you in, pray command me, for I shall do it to the utmost of my power, if the Lord permit. I beg your prayers and promise mine, & with my dear Love to yourself, & duty & service to all friends, committing you & them to the safe protection of the Almighty, I take my leave & till death remain, Your dear & Loving Mother
A few more exchanges had followed. Then had come a long gap, caused by the Dutch war and the interruption of shipping across the Atlantic. On that August morning in 1674, the day of his visit to the Norwottucks, it was a year and a half since he had heard from her.
Once he had settled Ned in his chair and opened the window wide to admit some air into the stifling room, he packed up the beaver skins and took them downstairs to Russell.
‘And how is our friend this morning?’
‘The same as ever. Perhaps a little weaker.’
‘God will take him when it pleases him. It cannot be long now.’ They had had the same exchange for years. Sometimes Will wondered if Ned would outlive them both. Russell glanced at the sack. ‘More business with the Indians? You weren’t seen, I trust?’
‘No, I’m always careful. Two dozen beaver, ready to go to Boston. Five shillings a pelt. Six pounds total. I have made a list of goods I require from Hartford.’ It was a source of pride that he could pay his way. With the profits from his Indian trading, and the income from the investments Gookin had made on their behalf in 1661, plus gifts from home and a legacy of fifty pounds given to them by Richard Saltonstall of Ipswich, he and Ned were nearly wealthy, despite the rent he paid to Russell.
‘A letter has come from England for you.’
He recognised Frances’s handwriting. ‘Thank you, John. God be thanked.’
His hand shook slightly with anticipation as he carried it upstairs.
‘Here, Ned, is news from Frances at last.’
The old man murmured.
Will pulled up a chair to the bedside, broke the seal and started to read it aloud. ‘It is dated the twenty-ninth of March. “My dear Son, much has happened since last I was able to write to you, and I must give you first the hardest tidings of all, that sweet Betty has been taken from us by the Lord in her eighteenth year.”’
He looked up. Ned was staring at the ceiling, his expression blank. He wished he had read it to himself first, but he did not feel he could stop now.
‘Her health was always sickly, & we were prepared, but she had survived the plague & the fire, & the blow has been most grievous. May our Maker & Redeemer provide to you the comfort in her loss that he has shown to us. Also, you should know that Frankie is newly married to a salter by trade, a gentleman, though not in very high condition, as business is poor. She is with child, & the time of her deliverance does now draw on. My dearest, I fear you must be angry with me, that this was done without your knowing or advice, & though I strive to be a goodly mother & pray for guidance, I cannot but be sensible that I lack your wisdom & guiding counsel . . .’
He crumpled up the letter and crept away into his own room. His image of Betty, rubbed away by time, had become a pale blur. Frankie was still to him a little girl with a doll. He had missed their lives. Now, one was dead and the other wed and pregnant. He cried for them both and he wept for himself. When he went back in to see Ned, his father-in-law had turned his face to the wall and would not look at him.
A few days later, after he had fed Ned his supper, Russell brought him another letter, inserted into a packet containing one from Reverend Hooke. The letter from Frances was brief, a single page, dated a few weeks after her last.
Dear heart, a line to tell you that Frankie was delivered of a boy two days ago, but the child, named William in your honour, lived only a few hours. She suffered grievously but the Lord appeared in her needful hour, & she now seems likely to recover, thanks be to Him who watches over us.
Once Ned was settled for the night, Will sat at the table in his father-in-law’s room, moths fluttering round the candle. He had been putting off replying. Now he tried to find some words.
I shed my tears upon the hearse of her that is deceased, whose loss I lament. But my dearest, let me not renew your grief by speaking of my own sadness, for I know you will have grieved enough, if not too much already. Let us give thanks for her life, and also that you should have been made the joyful grandmother of a son, however shortly. They are at rest with God.
You say you fear I might be angry with you concerning the matter of Frankie’s marriage. Oh, my dear heart, how could you fear such a thing from me? You know I never yet spoke an angry word to you, nor conceived an angry thought towards you, nor do I now, nor shall I ever, for you never gave me the least cause, and I believe you never will. Let us praise the Lord who has so united our hearts together in such a love that it is a thing scarce possible to be angry with one another.
It was a hot night. In the bed behind him, Ned muttered and tried to move. Will went over and turned down his blanket to let him cool. He looked at him for a while, waiting for his breath to become more regular in sleep, then went back to the table.
Your old friend, Mr R., is yet living, but is scarce capable of any rational discourse, his understanding, memory and speech do so much fail him, and seems not to take much notice of anything that is either done or said, but patiently bears all things and never complains of anything. I have sometimes wondered much at this dispensation of the Lord towards him. The Lord help us to profit by all, and to wait with patience upon Him, till we shall see what end He will make of us.
There was a fit of coughing from the bed, and more muttering. He went to look at Ned again. He seemed agitated by something. For the first time, Will sensed the end was near. Was his father-in-law dying in the hope and expectation of resurrection, or was his faith now lost to him, like his belief in the cause he had fought for? He knelt beside the bed and took his hand. ‘Ned? Can you hear me? Our struggle was just. The Lord was with us. We have borne witness to the truth, you and I. Tell me you know it. Give me a sign that you are ready to meet God in the certainty of mercy and the life to come.’ But the only sound was Ned’s breathing, creakier perhaps than before, with a slight rattle, as if he was finding the effort difficult.
Your old friend, being asked just now whether he desired anything more to be added concerning himself, said I desire nothing but to acquaint myself with J; Chr: & that fullness that is in him for those that believe and have interest in him. This sentence he uttered with some stops, yet with more freedom and clearness than usual.
He sealed the letter and gave it to Russell to dispatch to Boston the following morning.
Two days later, when he went into Ned’s room to wash him and give him breakfast, he found him, as so often, with his eyes open, staring at the door, waiting for him, but even before he touched his shoulder, he knew that he was dead.
He and Russell made the coffin together out of some of the seasoned oak planks stored in the barn, and at nightfall, hidden by the darkness, they carried it into the house and up the stairs. Will took off Ned’s nightshirt and dressed him in his old cavalry coat and boots, then they lifted his body, Will at his head and Russell at his feet, laid him in the coffin and placed it on the bed.
Outside, at the back of the house, Russell’s second son, Jonathan, now a hefty sixteen-year-old, and Abraham, the black slave, were waiting for them. They set about digging a grave in the moonlight, close to the cellar wall, beyond sight of the road and the nearest houses. The work to start with was easy, the topsoil sandy. But then they hit compacted stones and roots and had to take it in turns, wielding a pickaxe as well as shovels. The sound of metal striking rock carried on the still August air so clearly, Will was sure it could be heard from one end of Hadley to the other. Even so, nobody came to see what was going on. They went deep, the full six feet, and when it was dug, they brushed the dirt from their clothes and went up to Ned’s room to fetch him. Just before they nailed down the lid, Will kissed him on the forehead. His wrinkles had gone. His skin was smooth and cold and white as marble, like the effigy of a knight in an English church. In his army coat, he looked as if was sleeping on the eve of a battle.
The four of them struggled to carry the coffin down the staircase. Only when they reached the parlour were they were able to lift it onto their shoulders and carry him to his final rest with dignity. Once they had lowered him into the grave, Reverend Russell recited the burial prayer – ‘dust to dust, ashes to ashes’ – then they covered the coffin with flagstones to protect it against marauding animals and shovelled in the earth.
By the time they had finished, it was getting light. The distant mountain was pink in the dawn. The others left. Will lingered, reluctant to go. He contemplated the rough patch of unmarked ground, so far from home. For once, no prayers came to him, no phrases from the Scriptures. He stood there for a long time, until he heard voices coming closer along the road. Then he remembered where he was, and hurried indoors so as not to be seen.
Chapter Thirty-Three
AFTER THAT, HE fell into a deep despair, and lacked the energy to leave his room. Without Ned to care for, his days were empty. He lost all interest in trading, failed to order goods from Hartford or keep his appointment with the Norwottuck woman. He stripped Ned’s bed, brought his belongings across the landing and put them with his own – his sword and pistols, a couple of shirts, a pair of stockings, his telescope. It made him weep to see how little there was.
Autumn came, and winter, and no letters from England. His fifty-seventh birthday passed at the end of April, unremarked. With Ned gone, he thought more about his family than he had since he came to America; not just Frances and the children, but his mother, who had died when he was eight, his father, the unflinching Reverend Goffe, from whom he had inherited his zeal for Christ and his gift for preaching, and his brothers, Stephen and John, both priests – John a moderate, Stephen, the eldest, a zealot on the other side, a Catholic convert, God save him and show him the error of his ways. Were they even still alive? All he knew for certain was that he would never see them again.
