Calypso Directive (50 page)

Eyam, England
September 1665

R
ECTOR
W
ILLIAM
M
OMPESSON
knocked on the door to George Vicars' cottage. After hearing no reply, he knocked again. No reply. Something strange was afoot, the young clergyman thought. The tailor had come to him three nights ago, reporting that his seventeen-year-old daughter, Kathryn, had gone missing. But in the days since, he had neither seen nor heard from Vicars. It was Mompesson who had organized the search party the night of Kathryn's disappearance, calling upon eight of the town's most able-bodied and reliable young men. Using lanterns and horses, they had combed the village and surrounding countryside for Kathryn. To Mompesson's chagrin, and Vicars' dismay, they had returned from the mission empty-handed. It was not until the next afternoon that the mystery of Katherine's disappearance had been solved. Henry Foster had ridden into town to report that his eldest son, Paul, had disappeared the previous night as well. Foster had also divulged that one of his grey mares had gone missing—a mare that Paul was particularly fond of. Having witnessed the two young lovers together many a summer afternoon, it had taken the young rector all of five seconds to put the pieces together.

Henry Foster's reaction to the news of the elopement had been to smirk, shake the rector's hand, and request that if any word of the children's whereabouts reached Mompesson, to please send for him at the Foster farm. George Vicars' reaction had been to take the Lord's name in vain, curse the name Paul Foster, and then offer a flustered and dismal apology to the rector for his expletives. Vicars then beseeched Mompesson to send the previous night's search party further afield and to continue searching until his daughter was found and brought home safely to him. Vicars went on to say that Ethan Cromwell would be none too pleased, and the entire foolish business needed to be resolved before Cromwell returned from London in two days' time. At least, this is what Vicars attempted to communicate amidst a furious and frothy coughing fit that spanned their entire conversation. The tailor's hair was drenched with sweat and plastered to his forehead. The freckles on his normally cheerful face were drowned by a fever-red complexion. Mompesson pardoned the tailor's ill temper without taking offense. Clearly the man was under considerable stress; everyone in town was aware of Ethan Cromwell's intention to marry Kathryn Vicars. Everyone in town was equally aware of Cromwell's hot and venomous temper. Evidently, the previous night's search had taken its toll on Vicars, because he had come down with what appeared to be a dreadful case of flu. Mompesson had instructed Vicars to strip down to his knickers, drink a large glass of water, and go straight to bed. Vicars had nodded, turned, and dragged himself toward his bedroom, without bothering to shut the door to his cottage. The rector had wished him a good night's sleep and told him not to worry—they would find Kathryn and bring her home to him before the morrow.

That was two days ago.

Mompesson opened the cottage door and was immediately hit with a wave of rank, humid air. All the curtains inside were drawn. He crossed the threshold and stepped inside. Flies buzzed with agitation at his intrusion, but then quickly settled back on the filthy plates and cups strewn about the cottage. Mompesson shivered, despite the sweltering heat. He swallowed, and resisted the childish urge to turn and run away as fast as he could.

“Mr. Vicars?”

He pulled back one of the curtains, illuminating the main room of the cottage with a shaft of warm yellow sunlight.

“Mr. Vicars?” he called again, louder. “It's Rector Mompesson. I've not seen you out and about for a couple days … I've come to check if you're well … Hello?”

Silence.

The door to Vicars' bedroom was closed. The door had no knob or latch, only a triangular iron pull. Mompesson grasped it with two fingers and tentatively pulled the door open. The stench was unbearable. Ten times the pungency of what he had smelled upon entering the main cottage. He gagged involuntarily. A bedpan, over-flowing with bloody vomit and diarrhea, sat on the floor. Dozens of flies buzzed and crawled on and about the putrid excrement. Mompesson pulled his handkerchief from his pocket, crushed it into a wad in his palm, and then pressed it tightly against his nose and mouth. Then, he saw Vicars. No, not Vicars. A monster. Sprawled in bed, eight feet away, was a thing that bore only the faintest resemblance to the tailor Mompesson knew. A pulsing bubo, the size and color of a large plum, protruded from the side of the tailor's neck. Violet, blood-filled patches blotted his grey-yellow skin. The ends of his nose and fingertips had begun to blacken from gangrene, indicating that the bacteria concentration in Vicars' bloodstream was so high that his system had turned septic.

“Mompes … son?” Vicars mumbled, waking from his delirium.

Yes, Mr. Vicars. I am here,” the rector replied, making no move to approach the bed.

“What's … happening … to me?” Vicars asked, in labored, wheezing gasps.

Although the young rector had never seen anyone infected with the bubonic plague, he was an educated man. He also made it his business to stay current with the news of the times, and the news was that plague had already claimed thirty thousand souls in London over the summer months. Now, Death had come to Eyam, and its bloodshot gaze was fixed squarely on him.

“There is no good way to say this, George, but you are dying. You have caught the Black Death,” Mompesson said through his handkerchief.

Vicars groaned and began to weep. This emotional upwelling triggered a horrific coughing fit that violently shook his entire body. He hacked bloody sputum haphazardly all over his chest and soiled bed sheets. The pain he felt was so menacing, so acute, that Vicars was not even aware of this repulsive display, nor the fact that he had lost control of all of his bodily functions.

Mompesson took several steps backward. He knew the disease was spread by contact, and he understood plague's contagious nature. His mind raced, shifting from the events of the present, to a bleak and terrifying future. He had to take preventive measures. There would be panic; there would be fear. Since his tenure in Eyam as rector had not encompassed even one year's time, there would be those who challenged his decisions, and his authority. He could not afford to worry about that now. Without swift and decisive action, the scourge would spread. Like a wildfire across dry, sun-baked earth, the Black Plague would consume everyone in its path. To save the neighboring villages of the Derbyshire, he would impose a quarantine. The citizens of Eyam must make a stand. Together and alone.

“Come closer,” Vicars whimpered.

“I cannot.”

“Help me.”

“Your fate rests in God's hands now. Pray with me, brother,” Mompesson said. He bowed his head. “May the Lord forgive thee thy trespasses in life, and remember instead the times thou showed kindness, prudence, and generosity. May the Lord bless thee, takest thee into his arms, and welcome thee into his eternal kingdom of peace and love. Amen.”

The room was silent for several long seconds, then Vicars spoke in choking gasps.

“Tell Kathryn that … I love her. She has my blessing … to marry whom she will. Love is all that matters. On the dining table … you'll find a letter … please give it to her.”

Tears pooled in the corners of Mompesson's eyes.

“I will give her your message and the letter. You have my word. Rest now, George. You have made peace with God.”

Mompesson shut the bedroom door and crossed himself. He grabbed the wax-sealed letter on Vicars' dining table, tucked it in his coat breast pocket, and with great haste ran from the tailor's cottage.

First, he would bathe. Then, burn his clothes.

And after … there was much to do.

Eyam, England
November 1665

“I
'
M SO NERVOUS
, Paul,” Kathryn said, in a diminutive voice, barely audible over the grind of the carriage wheels on dirt and pebbles. “What if Papa won't speak to me?”

“Of course he'll speak to you. You're his only daughter, and he adores you. Besides, what choice does he have? He can't stay angry at us forever,” Paul said, feigning confidence. But he was nervous too. His thoughts were consumed by what his own father would say. He had abandoned the family right before the autumn harvest; they would be angry and disappointed with him. Luckily, Fosters were not opposed to forgiveness, provided that sufficient supplication was involved. He wouldn't be surprised if he and Kathryn were forced to sleep in the barn for a fortnight as punishment.

“I hope you're right,” she said, wringing her hands. “How do you think he'll take the news that we're married?”

“I'm sure he suspects as much. He will have made peace with the idea by now. And Cromwell too.”

She smiled a tenuous smile, but said nothing else.

Paul guided the carriage horse—the mare he had borrowed from his father's stable —into town and onto Church Street.

“Paul, what is going on?” she asked gravely, pointing to a bright red cross painted on the wooden door of the Hancock cottage, as the carriage rolled past.

He shook his head. “I don't know. Look, there's another … on the cottage across the street.”

She gripped his hand. A bitter November wind snapped at their cheeks and caused their eyes to tear. The overcast sky, grey and nebulous, reinforced the listless, somber atmosphere that hung over the village. The Eyam they held fondly in memory—the one from that sunny day in August—was like a sparkling diamond that someone had tossed to the bottom of a murky lake. Dread crept into their minds.

When they reached the Vicars' cottage, Kathryn gasped.

A red cross emblazoned the front door.

Paul hopped down from his perch, and extended his hand to Kathryn, helping her down from the bench seat. He gave the grey mare a pat on the neck, and then he escorted her to the door. He knocked. After thirty seconds elapsed with no reply, he knocked again.

“Papa! Papa, it's me, Kathryn. Please open the door!” she bellowed. Then, with her jaw clenched, she pushed past Paul, intent on barreling into the door. He caught her by the wrist and stopped her dead in her tracks. She glared at him, taken aback by the power of his grip.

“No, Kathryn. We dare not open this door,” he scolded.

“But Papa!” she cried.

“Your father is not inside. That much I'm certain of. We should go to the farm. My parents can tell us what is going on.”

“Okay,” she whimpered. “But Paul … I'm scared.”

•     •     •

A
LICE
F
OSTER HAD
prepared for this moment, but now that the moment was upon her, she fumbled the delivery of her speech.

“You see, Kathryn, your father didn't know … er, what I mean to say … ‘twas not his fault that he brought the Plague from London. He fell ill so swiftly. Had we known where you and Paul had gone, Henry would have sent word … but, of course, there is nothing you could have done.”

“What are you saying, Mrs. Foster? What happened to my father?”

Alice bowed her head; she did not meet Kathryn's eyes. “Your father is with our Holy Father in Heaven.”

“Oh no! Papa … Papa,” Kathryn wailed.

Paul held her and tenderly stroked the back of her head as she sobbed and trembled in his arms. Alice looked on with wet eyes. As a mother of five children, she was an expert at mending things. Scraped knees, torn britches, sibling feuds—such calamities all fell within her motherly domain. This tragedy, however, was uncharted territory for her. All she could do was watch in silence as her eldest son comforted the daughter-in-law she had officially met only five minutes ago.

Henry Foster ordered the younger children away to the loft so he and his wife could talk privately with the young runaways. He took a seat at the head of the family table next to Alice, while Paul and Kathryn sat on the opposite side. To Paul's astonishment, the conversation did not unfold as he had expected it would. Neither parent chastened him for missing the harvest, nor for running away. His father did not even mention the theft of the mare. Instead, Henry and Alice welcomed them home and told them how relieved they were that the young couple had eloped to Chesterfield and stayed clear of the Plague.

After Paul and Kathryn related the details of their previous three months as newlyweds, Alice reciprocated by explaining what had transpired in Eyam during their absence. She explained how the village had searched for Kathryn the night she ran away, and of course, how the search party had returned empty-handed. She recounted the details of Rector Mompesson's visit to George Vicars' cottage three days later, his discovery that the Plague had reached Eyam, and of the tailor's proclamation of love for his daughter. Then, taking Kathryn's hand, she explained that Rector Mompesson had later told Henry that the tailor's final act had been to give his blessing for Kathryn to marry Paul. This news caused Kathryn to brighten, clench Paul's hand, and then burst into tears. Sobbing, Kathryn inquired after her father's funeral service. Alice dutifully recounted the details of George Vicars' burial and eulogy, which in turn caused her to weep. After both women had regained their composure, Alice admirably steered the conversation onto other town gossip. Henry Foster chuckled as Alice acted out the story of Ethan Cromwell's visit to the Foster farm. With her chest puffed out and her nose held high, Alice imitated how the aristocrat had stomped about the house for ten minutes, yelling at Henry, and then at Alice, and then at Henry some more, about their insolent son, and how he would make them suffer the consequences if he learned Kathryn and Paul had done anything so foolish as to marry. When Kathryn inquired after Cromwell's current state of mind, Henry Foster smirked and said simply, “As far as I imagine, the only thing on Ethan Cromwell's mind is six feet of cold, hard earth.” Alice explained that the Plague had ravaged the Cromwell estate during the last two weeks of October, and that Cromwell had died the Friday before last. The conversation carried on for two hours, but the longer they talked, the more Paul's mind gravitated toward a single thought. Plague. Fear took hold of him, and he erupted.