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Loose Canon

Written by Kirt Lee

 

 

The insistent man at the rectory door turned out to be George Andrews, Magistrate, so Bartholomew set aside his complaints about the late hour, lit a candle, and opened the door.

"Good evening, Bartholomew."

"And good evening to you as well, George. What brings you about at such a late hour. Something official?"

"Not at the moment, Reverend. Officially, I'm not here at all until morning. Late morning, I should guess."

That was a rather strange statement for George, who was usually quite straightforward. "I see. And upon what business will you be calling, if I may ask?"

"It would seem that I am to take you into custody for transfer to the Old Bailey in London."

Stranger and stranger. "Old Bailey? London? That seems a bit of a bother for a minor Non-Conformist like myself. By whose order?"

"By order of the king himself, it would appear. A messenger arrived with the papers just before nightfall. And a nice set of documents they are, too. Wax seals. Quality paper. The best handwriting. Bound in red tape. All very proper looking."

Bartholomew was taken aback . . . to say the very least. "Well, I do seem to have come up in the world a bit."

"More than you know. It would seem that His Majesty has a notion that you plot schism."

"Schism? That is preposterous, and you know it, George! Or should."

"Oh, I've little doubt of it, Reverend, but tell it to that messenger. The fellow became quite chatty after his fourth or fifth pint. It would seem there's a larger roundup in progress. Can't say as I have heard some of the names he mentioned, though I do seem to recall the Cromwell fellow in connection with that business about the fens a while back. The messenger seemed to think that some of them were bound for the tower. Alas, I am afraid it's the Old Bailey for you, though. I should not expect us too early, however. The messenger insists on being present himself. The man can certainly put it away, when drinking on someone else's coin. I left him in the care of Old Hollow-Legged Harry, at the inn. That should keep him busy."

"What should I pack for the Bailey?" said Bartholomew's ever-practical wife.

"I would rather your husband were not here at all when we arrive, Anne. Given the messenger's demeanor, I shouldn't be surprised if Bartholomew arrived at London in less than pristine condition. Oh, and the man may be rather disappointed at not being able to take your son John into custody with you."

"What son John? I've no children."

"True, but he insists we take John as well. He was quite adamant on that point. John is named in the papers quite clearly."

Bartholomew considered that for a moment, before realizing that . . . "Oh, how preposterous. Is this about that Thuringian business? What was the name of that place? Grantburg? Grant town? Something like that. Simply preposterous."

"Thuringian business? Preposterous or not, I'd not care to have that fellow escorting me to the Bailey. He brought his own shackles, if you please. Quite fond of them, too, the way he caresses them. It's a long trip, Reverend, and there are more like him at the other end. The man seemed positively crestfallen when I told him you would never put up a fuss over surrendering. That is not to mention the Bailey's involuntary residents with their various maladies of body and soul. I do hope you will be off visiting in the morning. Perhaps we can arrive to learn that you have left for Amsterdam or some such, and we missed you."

"Should I pack for Amsterdam, husband? It might be best to travel light, under the circumstances." Anne had her faraway "making a list" look.

"You'll find friends in Amsterdam, Bartholomew. Perhaps I can find someone to remember that you have gone to London," offered George. "I think I can manage that. Last week might be best."

Bartholomew surrendered. "Pack for Amsterdam, wife."

****

As luck would have it, they got to Amsterdam before the siege began . . . if you can call that luck.

As ever, the city enjoyed no lack of ministers, and of many sorts. Doctors were in shorter supply. Bartholomew was an experienced physician, so if he could not serve God in one way, then he would serve Him in another. Anne practiced midwifery, like the good wife of a man both minister and physician.

There was dysentery in this part of the lines. Bartholomew followed his nose, and found the reason easily enough, if the Grantville woman could be credited. He sought out the responsible officer.

"You are aware of the orders regarding latrines, Captain?"

"We've enough holes in the ground."

"You've not, nor are they deep enough." Bartholomew raised his walking stick, and pointed to a mark on it. "This is the proper depth. Did not your father see to your learning of letters, Captain? If not, I can read to you the orders regarding latrines."

"Did your father see to your instruction in the use of shovels, Reverend Doctor? If so, I can offer one."

Bartholomew exploded. The captain erupted. Volleys were exchanged. A truce was signed. Bartholomew found himself supervising some disfavored soldiers in the use of shovels. His insistence regarding the mark on his walking stick caused some surliness. That ended, or at least quieted, when Bartholomew used the stick in its second office, knocking a soldier into his own inadequate excavation.

He made a mental note to come back on the morrow to see that his instructions were followed regarding the usage of the resulting trenches. It had become routine. This lot was new to the lines, or slow to learn, or both. He would next begin on the subject of boiled drinking water. Bathing and laundry might take longer. ...