Текст книги "The Enterprise of England"

Автор книги: Ann Swinfen

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Текущая страница: 21 (всего у книги 22 страниц)

‘I’ll talk to the men who are yet unaffected,’ I said.

For years I had followed my father, taking my lead from him, but I realised now that I must act for myself. My father was simply too tired to confront what seemed a task far beyond our capabilities. I had noticed a big man of middle years to whom the others seemed in some ways to defer. He had a broad, sensible countenance and a quiet manner. I asked his name.

‘Tom Barley at your service, Doctor.’ He gave me the ghost of a smile. ‘Not that there is much service I can do you.’

‘That is where you are wrong,’ I said. ‘We need to separate the men. Move those with the flux aside to separate them from those with this other sickness. And I want the men who are well kept away from those who are sick.’

‘There’s nowhere else for us to go, Master.’

‘Why not up on deck? It’s summer weather. It’s cooler up there and you will be in less danger of the sickness. Is there spare canvas? You could rig up a shelter to protect you from the sun.’

He grinned. ‘The officers won’t allow that. This is where we must stay. Orders.’

‘There are no officers,’ I said bluntly. ‘They have taken themselves off.’

‘No wonder. They’ll not be wanting the sickness, and no blame to them.’

‘Then I will override their orders,’ I said. ‘Can you and the others here,’ I gestured towards the men playing cards, ‘help me move the men with the flux? They can probably walk, but they will be weak. And I’ll need some to help to clean this place.’

The stench from vomit and diarrhoea was overpowering. I could not understand how they had endured it so long. Why had they not taken some action themselves?

With Tom Barley’s help and the eventual, if reluctant, assistance of the others, I managed to move the flux victims to the far end of the gun deck, so that there was at least some space between the two groups. The men fetched buckets and mops to swab the deck and I persuaded them to open the gun ports so that the cleansing breeze could flow through, although some swore they would be punished for acting without orders from their officers. When the gundeck was clean, Tom Barley and another sailor found some spare sails and set the men to erecting a canvas shelter up on deck.

While my father began to treat the flux victims and to give what relief he could to the others, I went with Tom and three other fit men to visit ship after ship, to try to create some order out of the hellish chaos. On some ships the men were willing, on others there was hardly a man left standing, and the sick stared at me with the dull hopeless look of those who can see Death coming, his sickle already glinting in the corner of their eyes.

And so began our long exhausting days at Deptford. It was fruitless and dispiriting, for the illness, whatever it was, sprang up without apparent cause and we could do little except relieve the terrible fevers which affected the patients and comfort their dying moments. One moment a man would be raging at the heat, throwing aside any bedding, begging for water, the next he would be shaking, crying out that his limbs were frozen. Though his teeth chattered, sweat poured off his brow. The ships echoed with their howls of pain and their hacking coughs. Some imagined they saw snakes dropping from the beams above them, others screamed that monstrous spiders were crawling all over them. Those who lived more than a half a day began to develop a rash, though most died within hours. The worst was the pain they suffered. Headaches which seemed to blow their brains apart, agony in all their joints.

On the third day, as we paused briefly to drink some small ale and eat a pasty which had been sent down to us from the hospital, my father said, ‘I think it is a form of typhus, though it is far worse than any I have seen before.’ He looked resigned.

The diagnosis was not much help to us, for there was no cure. Either the body was strong enough to fight it off or – more often – it succumbed. However, separating the patients may have helped check the spread of the illness. As those with less serious cases of the flux recovered, we sent them to lodge with the fit men up on the open deck. Those who were weaker either died of the flux or contracted the typhus. Tom Barley had appointed himself our lieutenant, helping with some of the treatments, going with us from ship to ship to ensure the men obeyed orders. He also went with me to the shed on the quayside, where I demanded better rations for the men, who were down to maggot-ridden ship’s biscuit and rancid water. No help was forthcoming there, but I sent a letter to Walsingham, begging him to use his influence, and gradually some better stores arrived – fresh bread, ale, some cheap cuts of meat, and a couple of barrels of salted herrings.

I had taken to sleeping on deck myself, when I could spare the time to sleep, and one early morning I found myself being shaken awake by my father.

‘Kit, wake up! Tom Barley is struck down.’

I had feared it, as I had feared that my father, growing old and weak, would take the illness. But my father was spared and it was Tom who now lay in a corner of the gun deck, sweating and raving and striking out wildly. It was impossible to get him into a hammock in that state, so we made him as comfortable as we could on the boards of the deck. I forced febrifuges down his throat, though he fought me, and I bathed his burning limbs, dosed his pain with poppy juice and fed him sage pounded with honey for the cough that wracked him every few minutes.

I blamed myself for using him as an assistant. If he died, it would be my fault. But his body was strong and struggled against the illness. After five days he was no longer delirious, and at the end of a week it was clear that he would recover.

‘I’ve never known anything like it, Doctor,’ he said to me shakily, managing to hold a spoon for the first time himself. ‘My head – it was like, I don’t know . . .’ He moved his head, and touched his temple gently with his finger tips. ‘I can’t find the words. It was like there was a cannon in there, that kept blowing up. Not one shot after another, see. But all the time.’ He took a deep breath. ‘I just wanted to die. Just wanted to stop the pain. If I could have got up on deck I’d have throwed myself in the Thames.’

Tom was one of the last cases. The men who had recovered were sent off to their homes, still without pay. Even those who had refused to go earlier had grown so fearful of the illness which had killed so many that they trudged off, to try to beg their way home. I demanded that the harried officer on the quayside write out licences for them to beg, for without a licence a wandering beggar can be confined to the stocks by any parish official who lays hands on him. The final group of men, weak but recovering, were moved to St Thomas’s, the hospital south of the river. Tom refused to go with them.

‘I’ll manage the walk home to Rochester,’ he said, ‘given I take it slowly. I’ll fare better in the clean air of Kent than shut up in St Thomas’s.’

My father gave him five shillings. ‘It is no more than you deserve in payment for the work you have done for us,’ he said, ‘caring for the sick.’

‘You should buy a place with a carrier,’ I said, ‘to spare you the walk. You are not yet back to your full strength.’

But he merely laughed and shook his head. ‘I’ve better use for five shillings than to waste it on a carrier. My wife will be glad of it.’

The last we saw of him was his back, sturdy but stooped, as he set off along the road leading southeast.

Our work in Deptford finished, the last morning spent moving the final patients, my father and I took a wherry back up river to St Bartholomew’s. We were quiet most of the way and I watched my father nodding in and out of sleep as his chin fell forward on his breast. We stopped at our house for a meal and a change of clothes before reporting back at the hospital. Although my father revived a little with a good meal inside him, I could see he was fighting to stay awake.

I laid my hand on his arm. ‘They don’t expect us until tomorrow,’ I said, ‘and it’s nearly evening. I will go and see what’s to be done in the morning. Do you go and rest on your bed, you’ll be the fitter for work tomorrow.’

‘You’re a good lad, Kit,’ he said, mumbling a little.

A slight shock ran through me. We were alone, and when there was no one to hear he usually relaxed his guard and acknowledged me as his daughter. Bitterly, I thought: Soon even I will forget what I am, who I am.

He allowed himself to be persuaded to bed and I took myself off to the hospital, where I reported to the deputy superintendent before going to the wards. The first person I met there was Peter Lambert.

‘How was it at Deptford?’ he asked, without preamble.

‘Grim.’ I could not bear to say more. ‘Are there many new cases here?’

‘Plenty. Those navy saw-bones have sent on all their bungled work to us.’

I groaned. The naval surgeons, I had to concede, worked under terrible conditions, sawing off half-severed or crushed limbs while cannon balls crashed overhead, in a welter of blood and screaming men. Usually there was no way to save a man’s arm or leg. But the filth amongst which they operated meant that the terrible wounds, even when they had been cauterised with hot iron and coated with tar, almost always became infected and could turn gangrenous. Very few of our men had been killed in the battle itself, but many had died, and were still dying, of the typhus and bloody flux, and of their wounds.

The next morning my father and I were back in the wards, which were full of wounded sailors and soldiers. My father looked better after his rest, more at ease amongst these familiar surroundings. Unlike the cases in Deptford, it was clear what we could do for these men, removing stinking bandages stiff with blackened blood, cleaning and salving open wounds, easing fever and pain. Where gangrene had taken hold, we had perforce to send for a surgeon to cut back more of a damaged limb.

Men died.

Sometimes, I thought that death was a more merciful end than the future which awaited our crippled and broken patients whose lives henceforth would be nothing but misery and destitution.

Three weeks after our return from Deptford, Simon Hetherington arrived on our doorstep one early afternoon, when my father had sent me home to rest from the long hours of caring for the sick. We had not met for months and I noticed that he had grown even taller since I had last seen him. My heart lurched at the sight of him and I admitted to myself how much I had missed him. Andrew was a fine companion in a scrape, but somehow Simon touched something within me that I did not want to analyse too closely. He was dressed today quite grandly, in a costly velvet doublet. I had not thought that actors’ earnings would rise to such finery.

‘Not sporting with your friend Kit Marlowe?’ I said caustically.

He grinned. ‘Marlowe is abroad somewhere, on one of his secret missions. I must needs make do with Kit Alvarez instead. Now that he has returned from his own mission abroad.’

‘I hope you have not come to fetch me to the Marshalsea again.’

That was more than two years ago now, I thought. Nearly three.

‘Not to Master Poley, certainly,’ he said. ‘I hear that he is still in the Tower, and living like a king.’

I knew it. It was one of the first things I had asked Phelippes when I returned from the Low Countries. As long as Poley was imprisoned I felt my secret identity was safer.

‘You keep your friends amongst the prison warders, then?’

He laughed. ‘Still a sharp tongue, I see, Kit! You have not come to Durham House of late.’

‘We have been too much occupied with the men who served in the fleet against the Spanish, first in Deptford and then here with the men who survived the virulent epidemic that wiped out whole ships’ crews, but instead have lost limbs.’

I turned aside to the task I had been engaged on when he arrived, tidying the shelves of tinctures and salves, noting down what new supplies we needed.

‘While the country rejoices,’ I said, keeping my back turned to him that I might not betray my feelings, ‘they forget that men of our own were killed and injured. And as well as the sawbones during the battle, our surgeons at the hospital have had more than a few amputations, and we must care for the men after their butchery. It’s not a pretty sight,’ I said bitterly, ‘to see a man first lose his leg and afterwards find the gangrene creeping up the stump of it. And there have been festering wounds from shot. We have brought in four whole barrels of Coventry water to cleanse them. And even in the short time they were at sea, many of them contracted scurvy.’

I turned back and glared at him, as if it were his fault.

He raised his eyebrows enquiringly.

‘It makes me so angry!’ I said. ‘We physicians tell the sea captains what they must do – some fresh fruit for the men, or at least a little lemon juice. Too costly, they complain. Why, all they need, if they will not carry lemon juice, is a little cochlearia officinalis – scurvy grass is the common name. It’s to be found all round the coast, as if God planted it there for the sake of seamen!’

I spun round and gestured at our medicine cupboard, to make my point with greater force. ‘We keep it all the time here and in the hospital for the children of the poor, who are as likely as seamen to suffer from a bad diet. So easily cured, but so painful a disease, with swollen joints and bleeding gums, and the teeth growing loose and falling out!’

‘You really care for your profession, do you not, Kit? Such passion!’

‘Of course, I do!’ Then I smiled apologetically.

‘I am sorry for ranting like one of you players, but I hate to see uncalled-for pain. There is pain enough in the world.’

I did not tell him, for I had been sworn by Sir Francis to secrecy, that it was now estimated that, although only a hundred men had died in the battle, eight thousand had since died of sickness and wounds. The horror of it haunted me.

‘True indeed, there is too much pain in the world. But can your patients spare you to come and see my profession, my passion?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Have you heard of the new piece, Tamburlaine the Great?’

‘Everyone has heard of it.’

‘Kit Marlowe wrote it.’

I made a face. I could not hide my dislike.

‘He thinks somewhat well of himself, I know,’ Simon conceded, ‘but he has good cause. He and Tom Kyd, they are writing a whole new kind of play. Come with me and see! Tamburlaine is to be played this afternoon at the Rose, with Ned Alleyn as Tamburlaine again. Come, and you shall see and hear such wonders as you have never seen or heard before.’

‘Are you to play in it?’

‘No, it is Henslowe’s company, but next month I am to play Bel Imperia in Kyd’s Spanish Tragedy. After that, they are to let me take men’s parts.’ His eyes gleamed. Ever since I had known him he had longed to make the move from playing women, despite his successes.

Eventually, I allowed him to persuade me. To leave behind all the sickness and death which had surrounded me these last weeks – it was a temptation I could not withstand. Although I did a grown man’s work, I was still but a girl of eighteen. And I could scarcely admit to myself how much I liked his company and his way of looking at the world, so different from my own. I would never have admitted it to him. Yet my heart gave a little jerk of pleasure as we set off from Duck Lane, Simon whistling a new street ballad that was on everyone’s lips. We walked over the Bridge again, in the same direction we had taken nearly three years before, to the new-built theatre, The Rose, belonging to Master Henslowe, on Bankside, near the bear-gardens. Simon seemed to know all the people in this strange world of playhouses, so, without money changing hands, we found ourselves in threepenny seats with cushions, looking down on the stage. I had never before been seated so grandly in a playhouse.

‘Everything looks quite different from here,’ I said.

‘You will be able to see better how everyone moves about the stage, instead of craning up at the actors’ feet from below, like the groundlings, until your neck is stiff. It’s important for the actor to use the whole stage.’ He made a sweeping gesture, indicating the apron stage and the inner central chamber, and the upper stage on the large balcony behind the main stage.

‘Your sometime player,’ he said, in a schoolmaster’s voice, ‘your guildsman or schoolboy, will stand stiff and recite his lines to the audience, like a stuffed peacock. Your true player lives his part. He ignores his audience for the most part, walks about the stage as he would do in life, and talks to the other players. He will only speak directly to the audience when he wants to invite them into the play, or else when he puts his inmost thoughts into words, so we can share them. Then we seem to see inside his very mind. Do you understand?’

‘I think so.’ It had not occurred to me that the players’ trade was so complex. I had thought they simply conned their lines and then spoke them, though I had often listened to Simon talking about the way he imagined himself into a part. I had never thought about the way the players moved about on the stage or where they directed their words.

‘And notice how we use the different parts of the stage. The inner stage can be a private room, concealment for a spy, a place to die in – so we can draw the curtain across, you see? The balcony can present the ramparts of a castle, or a city wall, or the lookout of a ship, or the upstairs room of an inn, while the lower stage is the castle court, or the ground outside the city, or the stable yard of an inn. Do you not see these very places when we describe them? Though they are nothing but the parts of a wooden playhouse, open to the sky, like any bear-pit?’

I nodded slowly. It was true. If the play was well written and played with the skill Simon described, I felt myself to be in a palace or on a battlefield or in a crowded street. When an army crossed the stage, I saw an army, though there might be no more than half a dozen players pretending to be many.

‘Yes, you are right,’ I said. ‘And it makes me wonder: How can we know substance from shadow? How know what is real, and what is pretence?’

I thought of Walsingham’s projections two years before, and the Babington plotters, who were – or weren’t? – puppets whose strings he pulled. Perhaps all that terrible affair was no more real than a play in the theatre, with Walsingham as playwright and Phelippes as his theatre-master. I had stepped on to the stage to play my tiny rôle, then exited into the darkness of the tiring-house.

‘A play is another kind of reality,’ Simon said seriously. ‘We make something new, a New World which is as real to me, at any rate, as the unseen world of Virginia that Raleigh speaks of so much. I do not think that is pretence or deception. It is beautiful. It has fire and passion. It is a world we create as surely as the Creator created this world we walk about in.’

I laid my hand on his arm and glanced about. ‘Be careful, Simon, what you say. Your words could be taken for blasphemy.’

He gave me a strange look, then shrugged and smiled, and pointed up at the turret above the upper stage, where the flag was flying, to show that a play was to be performed this afternoon. A man had appeared up there. He raised a trumpet to his lips and played a fanfare. The noise of the audience faded into expectation. The play began.

It was like no play I had ever seen before. At the end of it, through the clapping and cheers and the bowing of the actors, I felt numb. It was terrible and beautiful, frightening and inspiring, and I was trembling as though I had lived the actions of that man, suffered the fate of his victims, been borne along by his triumphs. I said not a word as we descended the long dark staircase and emerged into the fading summer’s afternoon, jostled and elbowed by the crowd, wrapped in my own cocoon of silence against their noise.

‘Well?’ said Simon, as we walked back along the river toward the Bridge.

‘Yes.’ I said. ‘I think I begin to understand.’