Edward Marston - The Merry Devils

'I thought my lads would die for me,' he whimpered.

'We would,' said Dart bravely.

'Give us the chance, sir,' asked Blundell.

'I do not ask much of you, my friends. Just two bare hours upon the stage in flame-red costumes. What harm is there in that?'

'None, sir.'

'None, sir.'

'You tell me you are unhappy in the parts and I can understand that but happiness must be sacrificed for the greater good of the company.'

'Yes, master.

'Indeed, sir.'

'We act for our patron,' said Firethorn in a respectful whisper. 'Lord Westfield himself, who puts food in our mouths and clothes on our back. Am I to tell him his merry devils have run away?'

'We are here, sir.'

'We will stay.'

'I will beg, if that is what you wish.' Firethorn pretended to lower himself to the ground. 'I will go down on my bended knee…'

'No, no,' they chimed, helping him back up again.

'Then let me appeal to your sense of obligation. As hired men, as close friends, as true spirits of the theatre__-will you help me, lads?'

'Oh, yes!' Blundell was now weeping convulsively.

'We will not let you down,' added the snivelling Dart.

'That is music to my old ears.'

Firethorn bestowed another kiss on Dart's forehead, approximated his lips to the sprouting turnip, thought better of it and released the two men. He drifted to the nearest door to deliver his exit line.

'My heart is touched, lads,' he said. 'I must be alone for a while. Nick here will explain everything to you. Thank you-and farewell.'

He went out to an imaginary round of applause.

Nicholas Bracewell's sympathies were with the assistant stagekeepers but he had to admire the actor-manager's technique. He had now shackled the men in two ways. Fear and duty. There was no escape for them now. The book holder stepped in to join them.

‘I’ll be brief, lads,' he began. 'Lord Westfield insisted on a second performance because he liked the merry devils, all three of them who took the stage at the Queen's Head.'

Dart and Blundell reacted with identical horror.

'That foul fiend will come again?'

'Not from Hell,' said Nicholas, 'nor anywhere adjacent to it. He will come from beneath the stage at The Rose, as indeed will you. The third devil will not fright you this time, lads. You know him too well.' He signalled Caleb Smythe in. Here he stands.'

Caleb Smythe was a short, slight man in his thirties with a bald head and wispy beard. Though taller than his co-devils, he was lithe enough to bend his body to their shape and his talent as a dancer was second only to that of Barnaby Gill. As the unexpected third devil who put the others to flight, he was the best choice available. Caleb Smythe, however, did not share this view.

'I like not this work,' he said lugubriously.

Nicholas swept his objection aside and told them about the alterations that had been made to the play. Doctor Castrato's magic incantations had been shortened and the circle of mystical objects had been removed. None of the preconditions for raising a real devil now existed. The book holder emphasized this point but his companions were not wholly persuaded.

It was the funereal Caleb Smythe who put the question.

'What if a fourth devil should appear, Master Bracewell?'

The answer was quite unequivocal., 'Then I shall be waiting for him!'

*

Light drizzle was still falling as the last few items were brought out of the cottage. Glanville stood under the shelter of a tree and watched it all with grave misgivings. Jack Harsnett and his wife were being evicted. Their mean furniture and possessions were loaded on to a cart. It was sobering to think that they had both lived so long and yet owned so little. The mangy horse that stood between the shafts now cropped at the grass in the clearing for the last time. Like his owners, he was being moved on to leaner pastures.

Harsnett came over to where the steward was standing.

' Thankee,' he said gruffly.

'I tried, Jack.'

'I know, sir.'

'The new master was deaf to all entreaty.'

'New master!'

Harsnett turned aside and spat excessively to show his disgust. By order of Francis Jordan, he should have been turned out of the cottage on the previous day but Glanville had permitted him to stay the night. It was the only concession he felt able to offer and he was taking a risk with that. Harsnett was a surly and uncommunicative man but the steward respected him. The stocky forester was conscientious in his work and asked only to be left alone to do his job. He never complained about the misery of his lot and he held his chin up with a defiant pride.

' Things'll change,' he grunted.

'I fear they will, Jack.'

'We're but the first of many to go.'

'I will work to get you back.'

'No, sir.'

'But you are a proven man in the forest.'

'I'll not serve him!' sneered Harsnett.

There was a loan moan from inside the cottage and they both turned towards it. The forester's wife was evidently in great discomfort.

'Let me help you,' said Glanville kindly.

'I can manage.'

'But if your wife is unwell…'

Harsnett shook his head. 'We come into the place on our own, we'll leave the same way.'

He walked across to the cottage and ducked in through the low doorway. A couple of minutes later, he emerged with his wife, a poor, wasted, grey-haired woman in rough attire with an old shawl around her head. The whiteness of her face and the slowness of her movements told Glanville how ill she was. Harsnett had to lift her bodily on to the cart. He returned quickly to the cottage to bring out his last and most precious possession.

It was his axe. Sharp and glittering, it had seen him through many a year and was the symbol of his craft. He slammed the door behind him then turned back to view the place which had been their home throughout their marriage. The cottage was his no more. It belonged to the new master of Parkbrook House. Hatred and revenge welled up in Harsnett and he saw the building as a version of Francis Jordan himself, as a cold, bitter, cruel, unwelcoming place. He swung the axe with sudden violence and sank the blade deep into the front door.

After this last gesture of defiance, he pulled the axe clear of i he timber and hurried across to throw it in the back of the cart. When he climbed up beside his wife, she collapsed against him. He took the reins in one hand and put the other arm around his ailing spouse. In response to a curt command, the horse struggled into life.

'God go with you!' said Glanville.

But they had no time to hear him.

*

Kirk said nothing to his colleagues about the progress he had made. They would not understand it. The other keepers at Bedlam took the simple view that lunatics should he treated in only two ways. They should either he amused with toys or beaten with whips. Play or punishment. It never occurred to them that their charges might respond to individual care of another kind. Rooksley typified the attitude that was prevalent. The head keeper believed that lunatics could not be cured by anything that he and his staff might do. The salvation of the mentally deranged lay entirely with the Almighty. In support of this credo, Rooksley could recite, word for word, from a document which dated from the first year of Queen Elizabeth's reign and which confirmed the institution's status as an asylum for the insane.

‘Be it known to all devout and faithful people that there have been erected in the city of London four hospitals for the people that be stricken by the hand of God. Some be distraught from their wits and these be kept and maintained in the Hospital of our Lady of Bedlam, until God call them to his mercy, or to their wits again.’

For the vast majority of inmates, therefore, there was no respite and no hope. Stricken by the hand of God, they were repeatedly stricken by the hand of man as well. It was a savage Christianity.