Forged in the Fire by Ann Turnbull Page B

who were sick, his sister screaming as they refused her admission. But it was not allowed, and they left. I felt that Sadler took particular pleasure in thwarting Quakers.
    Four days later we heard that Francis had died. I clung to John and sobbed. I knew Francis was now with Christ in Paradise, but that did not prevent me from being overcome with grief; the more so when his body was removed and buried in the prison pit even before his family had been informed.
    The following night I noticed on John’s forehead a film of sweat; and though it was a hot night I felt uneasy. I dared not speak to him or ask if he felt unwell, for fear of making it come true.
    In the early morning I heard him shivering and groaning, and knew my fears were not unfounded.
    â€œJohn,” I whispered, “art thou sick?”
    He turned to look at me, and in the half-light I saw the terror in his eyes: John, who had never shown fear of any man or any punishment.
    â€œPray for me – and for my poor wife,” he said.
    He asked me to read to him from Paul’s letter to the Romans, and by flickering candlelight (for it was not yet full day) I read aloud: “‘Who shall separate us from the love of Christ? Shall tribulation, or distress, or persecution…’”
    There were rustlings and sighs around us. Someone snarled, “Let a man sleep, for Christ’s sake!” But I was aware that others were listening, and I continued, more strongly than before. “‘For I am persuaded, that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor powers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature, shall be able to separate us from the love of God, which is in Christ Jesus our Lord.’”
    John nodded, and licked his dry lips. “It is the truth,” he said.
    Next morning he found the swellings in his armpit and groin, and the guards took him away from me. Later I heard, outside our door, the screams and raving of his wife when she was told, and the curses she threw upon jailers and Quakers alike.
    â€œFetch an apothecary!” she cried. “Mr Baynard in Coleman Street. He treated my cousin for the plague, and she lives! Fetch him!”
    The sound of her cries retreated as she was hustled away. I felt shaken, and wretched. I knew she was right. At home, with her, and with the care of an apothecary, John might have a chance of recovery. Here he had none.
    He died three days later. His wife shrieked as they took his body away, and I curled myself into a ball, with my hands over my ears, unable to bear it. Now I was alone, without friends in this place, overcome with grief and guilt. I blamed myself for the deaths of my two friends, believing they might never have been in Newgate if I had not spoken out that day at Blackfriars. I waited now for the sickness to claim me too, and felt sure it must.
    The day John died all the bells in the city were silent. I had been scarcely aware of them, for their ringing had been an almost continuous sound with so many dying every day. It struck me strangely because of my distress, but later someone told me that an order had gone out that passing bells should no longer be tolled.
    It was a week later, when my spirits were still low, that I began to feel ill. My head ached; I felt cold and shivery, then burning hot. Both Francis and John had sickened in the same way. When I saw the fear in the eyes of those around me I knew I was not imagining my illness.
    I clenched my teeth against the shivering that wracked me. I knew it must be the plague. I would die, as my friends had died. I prayed to God that I would leave this earth with Christian courage and acceptance, but feared I would not; and I felt bitter self-pity that I must die without ever seeing Susanna again.
    The other prisoners demanded of the jailer that I be removed. “Search him! Search for the tokens!”
    An old woman was sent to look me over –