Traitor to the Crown (28 page)

Proctor winced as someone stepped on his ankle. “Who are the prisoners?”

Digges shouted over the tops of heads as the crowd shoved them apart. “Men awaiting trial or execution—debtors, rapists, killers.”

It didn’t make sense to Proctor, but it was hard to think as he was buffeted from side to side. The Covenant had stolen the Protestant Association from Gordon. What did they have to gain from the “No Popery” beliefs? Why would freeing killers and rapists serve their purpose?

“Over there,” Digges suggested, reaching through the crowd to clutch at Proctor’s shoulder.

Proctor saw what he meant. A group of black men was tearing down the far wing, brick by brick. Proctor weaved his way through the crowd to reach them. He felt as if his skin were sizzling—there were men and women with talent in this mob, whether they knew it or not. The power almost crackled. When he came close, he didn’t recognize any of the faces. At least, he didn’t see ugly John among them.

A young man, dressed like an apprentice, pale as a ghost, squeezed by Proctor in the crowd. He had a pronounced widow’s peak and a small cupid’s bow mouth, and his eyes were wide open, darting from side to side, taking everything in. He crackled with the talent, the same as Proctor or Digges.

“I’m looking for a woman,” Proctor said.

“Aren’t we all looking for a woman?” laughed the apprentice.

“This one’s a negress.”

“A slave?”

“No, a free woman—an American. She has a talent—”

“America!” exclaimed the young man. A coronet of light flared around his head. “The spirit of America. The image of God who dwells in Africa, carried to the American shore. We must tear down the walls of our prisons. We must cast off the king of our lesser conscience and break free of the mind-forged manacles that make all of us slaves. When we are all America, we shall all be free.”

The man sounded as mad as a prophet. “She’s like you and me, Mister—”

“Blake, William Blake.”

“Proctor Brown. She’s like you and me. She has a talent, bright as—”

The crowd surged, carrying them apart. Proctor held on as long as he could, until he was stretched out nearly horizontal to the ground. Blake’s jacket was about to rip in his hand, so he let go.

“Get rid of your shackles, Mister Brown,” Blake called. “Tear down your prisons!”

Digges was calling Lydia’s name, but none of the women in the mob who turned her head or responded was the Lydia they sought. Proctor turned and joined him, shouting her name. But their effort was in vain. All the prisoners had been freed, and men were looting the cells not already consumed by flame. A bonfire of broken furniture filled the street, while rioters carried away smaller pieces and plate wrapped in sheets.

Gunfire sounded close by.

“Soldiers,” Digges said. “It’s time to leave.”

Many others had the same idea, and they were carried along with the tide of people fleeing the sound of guns. Proctor’s heart was pounding. His throat was raw, and his lungs hurt from all the smoke. He felt out of control and in constant danger. He squeezed out of the crowd
into the harbor of a doorway, reaching out to grab Digges as he passed.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Digges said. “Not in all my life.”

“I’ve seen …” Proctor decided he couldn’t compare it to other things he’d seen, like the slaughter on Bunker Hill, or the first approach of the ghosts at Brooklyn Heights. “I have to find Lydia,” he said. “The Covenant is up to something here. She knows more about them, firsthand, than anyone else. More than you, more than Gordon. I have to figure out what they’re doing with these mobs, and how it connects to”—he didn’t want to mention the demon’s attack on Deborah, not when he was still uncertain of the outcome—“how it connects to America. So I can stop them.”

“You’re like a small dog chasing after a wagon,” Digges said. “Even if you catch it, you won’t be able to stop it.”

“I may be a small dog but I’ve got big teeth,” Proctor said. “You leave that to me.”

“But she could be anywhere,” Digges said. “There are mobs all over London.”

“Then I’ll look all over London.”

And while he was looking, he would try to figure out the Covenant’s plan, just in case he didn’t find her.

Back at the house on Welbeck Street, Digges opened another bottle of port and drank himself to sleep. Proctor paced through the night and prepared to go out again at dawn.

Grueby stopped him at the front door. “I wouldn’t go out there today.”

“You don’t have to,” Proctor said, and pushed past.

He stepped into the street and looked at the sun, obscured by the pall of smoke that hung over the city. It might be easier to find Lydia in daylight than in darkness. He still felt the jitters, drawing him toward what ever the Covenant intended. He started walking the streets at random. He was confident enough now with just a few landmarks that he could find his way back. He could always find the river. If he found the river, he could find the Houses of Parliament. Once he found the Houses of Parliament, he could make his way to the shops on Bond Street, and from Bond Street he could find his way back to the house on Welbeck.

So he didn’t pay attention to where he was going, following instead the pull of magic wherever it took him. At first glance, the city had the dismal appearance of a drunk at dawn, slow to move, grimacing at the light, and holding its breath against any sudden noise. The mansions and public buildings were barricaded, protected by armed guards. The shops were closed and had
NO POPERY
signs hanging in the windows or from the doors. In
the side streets, the smaller houses had chalk marks on the door:
THIS IS THE HOUSE OF A TRUE PROTESTANT.

Proctor was reading those sounds when he heard a young boy’s voice behind him.

“Give us your money.”

He spun to see three lads of no more than ten or twelve carrying iron rods pulled from a rich man’s fence. The lead boy, the biggest, raised his menacingly.

“I don’t have any money,” Proctor said. He took a step toward them, just to show them he wasn’t afraid. He searched for a spell that would disarm all three at once.

But at his approach, the boys turned and ran away. Proctor shook his head, sure that their courage would grow with the next attempt.

As the sun rose higher, he saw other people in the street. Men picked through the wreckage of burned buildings, salvaging anything of value. Thousands of regular troops in their red coats marched toward Parliament to protect it from further assaults. More mobs gathered in the streets, men and women both.

“Where are we going?” Proctor asked a woman with the spark. Her face was caked with makeup to cover pox marks on her skin. Her blouse was low enough to show the curves of her breasts and her skirt high enough to show her stockings. As soon as he spoke to her, Proctor realized that she was probably a harlot.

She seemed oblivious to anything but their purpose. “We’re going to free the prisoners from the King’s Bench,” she said joyfully, and ran ahead with the mob.

So the Covenant wanted more prisoners free? As he moved through the streets that day, from mob to mob, Proctor found the prisons at the King’s Bench, Fleet, and Marshalsea all broken open. Doors were torn from their hinges, bars were ripped from their moorings, stones were pried from their walls, and the prisoners pulled in
a human chain to freedom. Blacksmiths brought their hammers into the streets to break the shackles. A man wearing broken shackles rode a great brewer’s horse through the street, calling men to him for an assault on the bank of England, and the mob followed after him.

If the Covenant wanted chaos, they had it. But he was sure they wanted more. The surprising things Proctor saw—a great bridge spanning the Thames and covered entirely with shops and houses like any ordinary street—paled in comparison with the way that people were driven by their passions.

He could feel the fire in him, the desire to find Lydia and discover the secret purpose of the Covenant. It was the only way he could get home again to his family. God, he prayed that Deborah and Maggie were safe. He could feel the urges building in him beyond reason, pushing him to desperation, and he vowed to stay in control of himself. So he walked away from the city and made his way back to Welbeck Street.

“You just missed Gordon,” Digges said on his arrival.

“Where has he gone?”

“To see if anything can be salvaged from this disaster. He has sent private messages to the king, imploring him to have mercy on the rioters. Judge Fielding wants to set an example so there will never be riots again.”

“There’s no law out there at all.”

Digges’s eyes were bloodshot. He held another bottle in his hand. “I feel the pull constantly to go out into the streets.”

Proctor shook his head. “You can’t fight it if you’re drunk.”

“If I’m too drunk to walk, I can’t obey it,” Digges said. He put an arm familiarly around Proctor’s shoulders and hugged him. Then he lifted the bottle and took another swallow.

The Covenant’s spell inflamed passions that were already
present in people. The voluntary aspect was important to them. But why?

As the sun set, fires sprouted up throughout the city, brightening the sky like a false dawn. Digges stood at the windows, watching the flames spread. He rubbed his throat like a thirsty man and opened another bottle of wine.

Proctor rose from Gordon’s overstuffed chair and took Digges by the elbow. “Come on,” he said. “We’re going to go see what’s drawing us.”

“It’s a lantern and we are but moths,” Digges said. “If we go, we are going to our own annihilation.”

“Not if I have anything to say about it,” Proctor said. He was filled with rage built on a foundation of fear mortared with uncertainty. For over five years now, the Covenant had dominated his life at every ill turn. They had tried to kill him, they had tried to destroy his country, they had tried to hurt his family. Maybe they
had
hurt his family. It was time to find them and stop them.

This time, he dragged Digges through the cobbled streets, leading the way.

“At least you’re taking me in the right direction,” Digges said.

“What do you mean by that?” Proctor asked.

“We’re headed toward Langdale’s distillery.” Digges stumbled to a halt. “My God, I think Langdale’s a Catholic. They’ll burn everything.”

So many people were running through the streets, answering the Covenant’s quiet siren, that Proctor could simply follow them. Groups of five and twenty hurried boldly down the middle of the streets, while solitary shadows jumped from doorway to doorway. A gangly boy in shabby clothes and brand-new boots burst out a side alley, tugging at Proctor and Digges as he ran past.

“The regulars are coming,” he cried. “The regulars are coming!”

The march of boots on cobblestones and the
rat-tat-tat
of the drum echoed between the buildings, and Proctor and Digges turned and ran after the boy. The army was driving them toward the fire. They rounded the corner onto a street and their feet splashed. The gutters and cobbles ran with water even though the skies were dry. The air smelled like spirits. Ahead of them a ware house burned. Thousands crowded the streets in front of the fire, cheering. Big men passed kegs around, drinking directly from the bungs. Other men smashed a tun with an ax, spilling hundreds of gallons of alcohol into the street. An old lady ran along the gutter, scooping it up with a tin cup and pouring it into a bucket. Another man crawled on his hands and knees, sucking it up from the street. He slipped and hit his head, and couldn’t rise again. A little girl of six staggered past Proctor, clearly drunk, while her mother trailed after her, laughing at the sight.

“I think I’m going to be sick,” Digges said.

Proctor felt a charge flowing through him, like the spark leaping from the flint in a musket. “We need to step away from this quickly,” Proctor whispered.

But it was too late. The army appeared at the head of the street, ordering the mob to disperse. The mob, drunk and full of rage, flung the barrel staves at the troops. Men began to pry up cobbles from the street and hurl those.

Proctor started to drag Digges away, around the corner of a house, but Digges said, “Isn’t that Lydia?”

A barrel stave flew end over end through the air, striking a soldier in the head and knocking him down. At the front of the crowd stood a group of black tradesmen. One of them looked like ugly John.

“I don’t see her,” he said. “Where is she?”

“I don’t see her now, either,” Digges said.

The soldiers advanced with their bayonets. The mob thronged together just out of range of the iron points and hurled things. It was like the Boston massacre all
over again. The ware house roof collapsed, sending up a shower of sparks into the air. A cobble hit one soldier in the front rank, knocking him to the ground.

It was bad. Everything in him screamed that this was bad, that he should run away. But if there was a chance to find Lydia …

Proctor ran toward the soldiers and the mob.

The mob pressed forward and the soldiers threatened them with bayonets. Someone threw a torch at the soldiers and the front rank responded with a volley of fire. Dozens of people fell down dead or wounded. Farther down the street, others gathered to watch the battle as though it were an entertainment. The mother with the drunk little girl brought her back by the hand to see the soldiers shoot people. Proctor pushed his way through the crowd as the second rank fired and the third in quick succession. Men fell down dead in the road; others stumbled away, bleeding.

“Lydia!” Proctor called, but he couldn’t see her anymore, couldn’t see ugly John.

And then something hit the pool of liquor in the street—sparks raining from the ware house or fire from the muskets or a dropped torch. The street went up in a sheet of flame. Proctor turned to run, only a split second ahead of the mob. He looked over his shoulder in horror as he ran. The man on his hands and knees was still sipping from the gutter when the flames washed over him. The old woman with the tin cup was slapping at the flames on her skirts.