“They are already full,” said Richard firmly. “The Reverend James brought me books, and I cannot leave them behind. If my mind fails, Cousin James, physical well-being is irrelevant. All that has kept me sane these past three months has been the chance to read. The worst horror of a prison is the idleness. The utter lack of anything to do. In Bunyan’s day—yes, I have Pilgrim’s Progress—a man could perform useful work and even sell what he made to support his wife and children, as Bunyan did for twelve long years. In here, the gaolers do not even like us to walk. Without books I would truly have gone mad. So I must keep them.”
“I understand.”
After much packing, unpacking and rearranging, the entire treasure trove was squeezed into the box. Only after Willy sat on its lid could its two stout locks be snapped shut; the key, on a thong, went around Richard’s neck. When he lifted the chest, he estimated that it weighed at least fifty pounds.
There was a box for Willy too, smaller and much lighter.
“The words have not been invented to tell ye of my gratitude,” Richard said, his eyes alive with the purest love.
“And I thank you,” said Willy, moved to tears despite Richard.
They parted then, to meet in Gloucester at the Lent assizes.
* * *
At dawn on the 6th of January, Richard and Willy picked up their boxes and shuffled through the barred gate into the passageway, where Walter waited with another individual, a stranger armed with a cudgel. They were thrust into the ironing room; for a fleeting moment Richard thought that they were to be divested of their irons for the journey, and breathed a sigh of relief. The box was heavy enough without the weight of fetters. But no. The sorry-looking fellow who ran this chamber of horrors took a two-inch-wide band of iron and locked it around Richard’s waist. His wrists were fitted with manacles, their two-foot chains attached to the lock at the front of his belly. After which the chain between his ankles was removed and replaced with two chains, one going from his left ankle to the lock on the belt, the other from his right ankle to the lock on the belt. He could walk with a normal stride, but never with sufficient agility to escape. Four lengths of chain met at the lock above his navel.
Somehow he managed to pick up his chest, and found with an odd surge of pleasure that the wrist chains formed a cradle for it, distributing the load between his arms and his trunk.
“Hold your box so, Willy,” he said to his shadow, “and it will bear better.”
“Hold your tongue!” barked Walter.
The piercing air outside felt and smelled like a distillation of Heaven. Nostrils and eyes dilated, Richard set out in front of their escort, who so far had not spoken a word. A Bristol bailiff?
How wondrous to be rid of that stinking dungeon! Gloucester, he knew, was a small town, therefore its gaol was bound to be more tolerable than the Bristol Newgate. Crime in rural areas was not unknown, but all the gazettes said that it was far greater in big cities. He could also comfort himself with the knowledge that he had more time in prison behind him than before him: the Gloucester Lent assizes were to be held in the latter part of March.
Oh, the air! Threatening snow, said the lowering black sky, but the only cold parts of him were his ears, unprotected now by hair. His hat shielded his scalp, but its upturned three-cornered brim could do nothing for his ears. Who cared? Eyes shining, he strode out down Narrow Wine Street, his chains jingling.
Though the hour was very early, Bristol was an early-rising sort of place; people were expected to be at work shortly after dawn, there to spend eight hours in winter, ten hours in spring and autumn, and twelve hours in summer. So as the three men walked, the two felons in front, there were plenty of people to see them. Faces would contort in terror, figures would plunge precipitously to the far side of the street—no one wanted to brush by a felon.
Wasborough’s brass foundry doors were wide open, its interior an inferno of flame and roar. The Royal Navy was getting the flat, hook-linked brass chains for its new bilge pumps, obviously; he had never walked up to see since losing his money.
“Dolphin Street,” said the bailiff curtly as they reached its corner. Not in the direction of the Cooper’s Arms, then, but north across the Froom. Well, that made sense. The Gloucester Turnpike ran north.
Which led to a new thought: who was paying for all this? He and Willy were being extradited from one county to another, and the importing county was the one had to pay. Were he and Willy so significant to Gloucestershire, then, that it was willing to disburse several pounds on forty miles of travel and the cost of their bailiff escort? Or was it Ceely paying? Yes, of course it was Ceely paying. With pleasure, Richard imagined.
From Dolphin Street it was left into Broadmead and the wagon yard of Michael Henshaw, who operated freight wagons to Gloucester, Monmouth and Wales, Oxford, Birmingham, and even Liverpool. There they were shoved into an alcove full of horse dung and allowed to put their boxes down, Willy gasping in distress.
At least, thought Richard, three months of inertia have not stripped me of all my strength. Poor Willy is not strong, is all. But three months more will see me reduced to Willy’s plight unless Gloucester Gaol offers me the opportunity to work and feeds me enough to work on. But if I do work, who will guard my box, keep thieving hands out of it? I will not lose things like my oil of tar and dripstone, but my rags and clothes will vanish in a second and someone might find the hollow compartment holding my golden guineas. My books might go! For certainly I am not the only prisoner in England who reads books.
The huge wagon Willy and Richard climbed into was provided with a canvas cover stretched taut across iron half-hoops; they would be protected from the worst of the elements, including what looked like a coming snow-storm bound to be more severe away from the heat of Bristol’s chimneys. A team of eight big horses were harnessed to the wagon, and looked fit to struggle through the mud and mire of the Gloucester Turnpike. The interior was jammed with so many barrels and crates that there was nowhere to put their feet, and the wagoneer began to insist that their boxes stay behind.
“They has their property, man, that is the Law,” said the bailiff in a tone brooking no argument. He climbed into the wagon to unlock the chains between their ankles and waists, fastening them instead to the half-hoops supporting the canvas shroud. The best they could do was dispose themselves among the cargo with legs stretched out. The bailiff jumped down, and for a moment Richard wondered if he was leaving them here. The wagon jerked into motion; the bailiff’s back was ranged alongside the wagoneer’s on the driver’s seat, over which an adequate shelter was rigged.
“Willy, stir yourself,” said Richard to his doleful companion, clearly dying to burst into tears. “Help me shift my box to rest against this sack, then I will do the same for you. We will have something to lean against. And do not cry! Cry, and ye’re dead.”
The pace was tormentingly slow on that completely plastic, unpaved road, and from time to time the wagon bogged to its axles in mud. Richard and Willy would be unchained and unloaded and set to digging and pushing—as was, Richard noted with amusement, the indignant bailiff. The snow was coming down hard, but the temperature was not low enough to freeze the surface. By the end of the first day, unfed and unwatered save by mouthfuls of snow, they had covered eight of the forty miles.
Which pleased the wagoneer, disembarking in front of the Stars and Plough in Almondsbury.
