army continues this practice. It is barbaric and humiliating. This boy is one of their own.”
“He stole,” she countered. “He took something that wasn’t his. This is his punishment.”
“But he is starving!”
“He took what he did not own,” she insisted.
“You would condemn a man for filling his stomach?” he asked, incredulous.
“Well, no,” she replied, conflicting emotions flickering across her face. “No, but I would wonder how hard a man tried to earn his food before he fell to stealing it.”
On their last morning at the winter camp in Hounslow, Rachel climbed outside the tent before dawn and Walwyn rose to join her. Together they made their way through the snowy meadow to see her brother one last time; the next day they would return to London. At first Robert seemed embarrassed to receive another visit from his sister. “I thought you left yesterday,” he complained as she bent down and inspected his failing boots. “I’m a grown man. I’m twenty. I don’t need you mothering me.” But he got over the mothering when he saw how the other soldiers were responding to Walwyn. In 1647 the Levelers were still giants; they were still on the winning side. When Walwyn unwrapped his scarf, finally revealing his face, some of the soldiers recognized him, and his name spread in whispers through the camp. They lionized him. Walwyn had quite a time that morning. Clapping the youngest troops on the back, he said hello to everyone; he gave away all his tobacco, all his spare coins. He admired the soldiers’ strength of will and he thanked them for their courage. He did not thank them for their sacrifices. These were men who had joined the army because they were destitute, because they needed a day’s wage. So when he thanked them, he said
courage
; he did not say
sacrifices.
Meanwhile Rachel restitched her brother’s boots and told Robert not to do anything foolish.
Later Walwyn supposed he should not have let all those rank-and-file soldiers see him with a woman who was not his wife. But it had been one of those mornings where the air hung so crystalline and suspended, so still and clear as the lapwings whipped and carved the light, their wings like straight-edged blades, that he could feel no shame. He looked over as Rachel threw her arms around her brother. In that moment her name eluded him. She was winter and spring alike; who was she? Her name was written all over his body. His body was saying her name for him. That night he fell asleep still trying to remember it, still trying to get her name back on his lips. He continued the struggle in sleep. In the morning as they packed their few belongings and prepared to return to London he listened to starlings rooting and vying for whatever green shoots might by some accident of providence have thrust their spindly arms up from the barren soil overnight, and he found the word at last, waiting for him.
Seven
B ARTWAIN HAD A VISIT from the prosecutor. Edmund Griffin was twenty-four years old and silky as a nesting dove. He was the kind of man who kept one eye on his complexion in the mirror and another on a possible Parliament seat.
The younger man traipsed down the Sessions House corridor after Bartwain. “I need your notes, Investigator. The trial starts in three days.”
Bartwain pulled a bound book and a stack of papers from his shelf and handed over both items. “These are my depositions. In the papers lies the coroner’s report.” Reaching behind his desk, he retrieved a wooden box. “Material evidence,” he stated flatly. The box included the infant’s yellow dress as well as several tiny caps and cloth boots taken by the coroner from Rachel’s box made of wainscot. The coroner had removed the child’s body by the time Bartwain started his investigation. He was glad he did not have to see it. He hoped someone gave the poor thing a decent burial. Rachel had not been allowed to take possession of it.
“Is everything accounted for?”
“He stole,” she countered. “He took something that wasn’t his. This is his punishment.”
“But he is starving!”
“He took what he did not own,” she insisted.
“You would condemn a man for filling his stomach?” he asked, incredulous.
“Well, no,” she replied, conflicting emotions flickering across her face. “No, but I would wonder how hard a man tried to earn his food before he fell to stealing it.”
On their last morning at the winter camp in Hounslow, Rachel climbed outside the tent before dawn and Walwyn rose to join her. Together they made their way through the snowy meadow to see her brother one last time; the next day they would return to London. At first Robert seemed embarrassed to receive another visit from his sister. “I thought you left yesterday,” he complained as she bent down and inspected his failing boots. “I’m a grown man. I’m twenty. I don’t need you mothering me.” But he got over the mothering when he saw how the other soldiers were responding to Walwyn. In 1647 the Levelers were still giants; they were still on the winning side. When Walwyn unwrapped his scarf, finally revealing his face, some of the soldiers recognized him, and his name spread in whispers through the camp. They lionized him. Walwyn had quite a time that morning. Clapping the youngest troops on the back, he said hello to everyone; he gave away all his tobacco, all his spare coins. He admired the soldiers’ strength of will and he thanked them for their courage. He did not thank them for their sacrifices. These were men who had joined the army because they were destitute, because they needed a day’s wage. So when he thanked them, he said
courage
; he did not say
sacrifices.
Meanwhile Rachel restitched her brother’s boots and told Robert not to do anything foolish.
Later Walwyn supposed he should not have let all those rank-and-file soldiers see him with a woman who was not his wife. But it had been one of those mornings where the air hung so crystalline and suspended, so still and clear as the lapwings whipped and carved the light, their wings like straight-edged blades, that he could feel no shame. He looked over as Rachel threw her arms around her brother. In that moment her name eluded him. She was winter and spring alike; who was she? Her name was written all over his body. His body was saying her name for him. That night he fell asleep still trying to remember it, still trying to get her name back on his lips. He continued the struggle in sleep. In the morning as they packed their few belongings and prepared to return to London he listened to starlings rooting and vying for whatever green shoots might by some accident of providence have thrust their spindly arms up from the barren soil overnight, and he found the word at last, waiting for him.
Seven
B ARTWAIN HAD A VISIT from the prosecutor. Edmund Griffin was twenty-four years old and silky as a nesting dove. He was the kind of man who kept one eye on his complexion in the mirror and another on a possible Parliament seat.
The younger man traipsed down the Sessions House corridor after Bartwain. “I need your notes, Investigator. The trial starts in three days.”
Bartwain pulled a bound book and a stack of papers from his shelf and handed over both items. “These are my depositions. In the papers lies the coroner’s report.” Reaching behind his desk, he retrieved a wooden box. “Material evidence,” he stated flatly. The box included the infant’s yellow dress as well as several tiny caps and cloth boots taken by the coroner from Rachel’s box made of wainscot. The coroner had removed the child’s body by the time Bartwain started his investigation. He was glad he did not have to see it. He hoped someone gave the poor thing a decent burial. Rachel had not been allowed to take possession of it.
“Is everything accounted for?”
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