Monday morning would tell if the aura of good feeling generated by the curate on Sunday had any lasting value.
For the Matthews household the morning began like all others. Christopher Matthews was up first, praying and studying his Bible. Then, he slipped outside and prayed some more as he walked through the cornfield at the end of High Street.
Nell and Jenny awoke next. They tiptoed around the sleeping Drew on the floor of the sitting room. He awakened to the sounds of the girls in the kitchen, rose, and hurriedly dressed. The inconvenient part of staying with the Matthews family was his lack of privacy. He was tucking his shirttail in when Jenny emerged from the kitchen door with a bowl of apples in her hands.
“Oh!”
That was all she said as she quickly ducked back into the kitchen.
“It’s all right. I’m dressed,” Drew called after her.
For whatever reason, she didn’t return. As Drew rolled up his bed of blankets, the front door creaked open and the head of the household entered.
“Master Morgan!” beamed the curate. “It’s a fine morning God has given us.”
For most people saying good morning was a ritual. It could be said without effort or thought and had absolutely nothing to do with the person’s opinion of the day. Not so for the curate of Edenford. When Christopher Matthews said, “It’s a fine morning,” he meant it. The tone of his voice, the sparkle in his eyes, and his cheerful smile combined in a convincing display of sincerity.
“You’ve been much in my prayers, young man.”
The curate thumped Drew on the back. Before Drew could respond, something behind him caught the curate’s eye.
“Now there’s a vision of loveliness!” he beamed.
Jenny had emerged from the kitchen, carrying the same bowl of apples she had earlier.
“Poppa!”
She flushed with embarrassment.
Going to her, the curate gave his youngest daughter a one-armed hug.
“And where’s my other beauty?” he asked.
Nell came from the kitchen. Maybe it was the interior light or the lack of trees or ancient stone walls, but the magical radiance that surrounded her on the hillside was gone.
Maybe I’m expecting too much, Drew reasoned. After all, she’s fixing breakfast, not making a ballroom entrance.
The curate hugged his elder daughter with his remaining arm.
“Well, Master Morgan, how long are you going to keep us in suspense? Will you stay with us, or will you be leaving?”
Drew surveyed the faces of the family before him. Oddly enough, of the three, the curate’s face was most hopeful. There was a touch of pleading in Jenny’s eyes. Nell wasn’t even looking at him. She was looking at her father.
“Well, if you’ll have me, I’d like to stay.”
“God be praised!” the curate shouted, hugging his daughters even tighter. Then he bounded toward Drew to congratulate him.
Drew extended his hand. The curate shoved it aside and embraced him, adding a few breath stealing slaps on the back.
Whirling around toward the girls, he said, “Isn’t that wonderful news?”
“Yes, Poppa! Wonderful news!” Jenny’s eyes twinkled as she spoke.
“Just wonderful,” Nell said, as she placed the utensils on the table.
Her response stymied Drew. The words were there, but the emotion was flat.
“I have a confession to make,” the curate said.
All eyes turned to him.
“I already knew you would stay.”
Drew was skeptical.
“God told me,” the curate said.
It was a simple, straightforward statement. He said it in the same way someone would announce news from a neighbor.
“It was just this morning. I was walking in the cornfields, and God told me you were staying.”
The curate grabbed Drew by the shoulders and looked him square in the face.
“My boy, God has something important for you to do in Edenford.”
Drew tried to decide if he believed the curate or not. Ministers were always saying things like that. They were forever saying it was God’s will that an offering be taken, or it was God’s will that their living be increased, or some such nonsense. It was usually an attempt to invoke God’s authority to get their own way. But from what Drew had seen, Christopher Matthews was different from the other clerics he had known. This man was without guile. He was sincere and direct in everything he said and did. If Christopher Matthews said God had spoken to him, there was little reason to doubt him.
The week couldn’t have gone better for Drew. Everything went according to plan; no, everything went better than planned. It was incredible. By the end of the week, not only had he gained the confidence of the people, but he was the town hero.
Monday was a day of politics. Drew shadowed Christopher Matthews from shop to shop and house to house as the curate lobbied the townspeople to adopt an economic plan. By mid-afternoon there was a town meeting to consider the plan. The meeting was held at the town house, the site of Drew’s introduction to the men folk of Edenford. At Nell’s suggestion the women gathered at the church. While the men deliberated, the women prayed.
During the meeting the curate harvested the seeds he had sown all morning. The result was that Edenford had a working plan to cope with its economic crisis.
Simply put, Edenford temporarily became a closed economic system. A common granary and food dispensary was established to distribute fairly the town’s food supply without cost to the townspeople. In exchange, farmers received equitable compensation in services and goods from the other merchants. In all other matters, the town switched from a monetary system to a barter system. David Cooper was appointed arbiter to settle any disputes. Finally, a town bank was established, funded by the people’s money. The bank would purchase goods not produced by the town. Also it would pay the ship tax money in a lump sum, saving the high constable the trouble of having to go house to house to collect it. The bank would be the true test of the town’s solidarity. It was one thing for a people to agree to united action and quite another for them to hand over their money to a community chest. But that’s just what they did.
The sense of cooperation and willingness among the townspeople was impressive. The credit belonged to the curate. During the proceedings Drew remembered thinking this kind of cooperation could never be found in Winchester or London. He remembered his father’s partners moving through financial waters like grinning sharks, circling and circling until they found a weakness in someone’s position. Sometimes all that was needed was the scent of fear in one of their own. They attacked en masse and wouldn’t let up until their victim was bereft of all he possessed, stripped, and tossed aside like a carcass.
The town meeting wasn’t entirely peaceful. There was a moment of violence when Edward Hopkins expressed his opposition to the ship tax. Hopkins was the angry dark-haired man who had punched James Cooper in the kidneys during their wrestling match. He claimed to have heard reports that the cities of Witheridge, Halberton, and Crediton had been treated similarly by the king and were equally incensed. There was talk of resistance, armed resistance if necessary. Individually, Hopkins said, they were no match for the king’s forces. But if all the towns in Devonshire banded together, they could raise a militia and force the king to rescind his blasted tax.
A good number of the Edenford men, including James Cooper, supported the idea of armed action, and several volunteered for the militia. Then someone suggested they kidnap the high constable when he came to collect the tax and hold him hostage. The mounting anger eased when a wag pointed out that kidnapping the obese official would be self-defeating. He said the ship tax would cost them much less than feeding the captive constable.
However, the laughter was brief, and the support for armed resistance escalated. David Cooper stood and spoke against the use of force. That’s when Drew saw the sharks begin to circle. Mistaking his call to reason for fear, they attacked. It began with name calling and insinuations about the cobbler’s courage. Hopkins accused Cooper of being a royalist, the king’s boy sent to suckle his crying subjects. James Cooper sprang from his seat. Before anyone could stop him, he was on top of the dark-haired Hopkins. Like a spark to powder, the attack ignited a brawl. A farmer grabbed David Cooper by the shirt and cocked his fist. The cobbler was too quick for him. With a head butt to the farmer’s face, the cobbler knocked him to the ground and then fell on top of him. They rolled around the floor like a bowling ball, knocking several other fighting men to the ground.
Blam!
The sound of a musket reverberated against the barn’s splintered walls. Everyone froze, but no one released his grip. The smell of gunpowder wafted through the room as heads swiveled frantically in search of the gunman. A swirling puff of smoke rose to the ceiling directly over Edenford’s curate.
It was the only time Drew saw Christopher Matthews holding a weapon. It looked out of place in his hands, just as peculiar as Bishop Laud looked holding a crossbow. The weapon was a pistol, held high over the curate’s head, pointed at the ceiling. Drew had no idea where the weapon came from or whose it was.
Shaking the pistol, the curate said, “Will this solve our problems? Do you really believe that we can make this a better world by killing those who disagree with us?”
He had their attention, but no one backed down. They were frozen in action, like subjects in an oil painting, angry men clutching each other’s clothes, muscles straining, faces red and wet. The focal point of the scene was Christopher Matthews who stood tall over them with arms stretched overhead, his right hand still holding the smoking pistol.
Slowly the painting dissolved. Men released their grip without apologies. But not until everyone resumed his place did the curate lower his arms and drop the weapon. It hit the wooden floorboards with a hollow thud. “We have weapons more powerful than guns. We have God’s weapons: prayer and faith!”
“Prayer ain’t gonna stop the king from taxin’ us!” Hopkins yelled.
“Who do you think is stronger, the king of England or God?” Matthews shouted back. “With God’s weapons Moses defeated the powerful pharaoh of Egypt! With God’s weapons Joshua felled the walls of Jericho and entered the Promised Land! With God’s weapons the sun stood still, fire fell from heaven, and men were raised from their graves! What does the king of England have that can compare to weapons like these?”
No one answered him.
Matthews continued, “‘Not by might, nor by power, but by my spirit, saith the LORD of hosts!’ I, for one, choose to fight with the weapons of God. Who will join me?”
The curate walked to the center of the building and dropped to his knees in prayer. Without a word, one by one, the assembled men of Edenford knelt around their curate. First, David Cooper and old Cyrus Furman, followed by the bachelors Manly and Dudley, then James Cooper. Even Edward Hopkins joined them. The entire male population of Edenford followed Christopher Matthews in humbling themselves before God.
Drew alone remained standing. He was off by himself, leaning against the outer wall of the structure. He considered joining them but decided against it. It was too early.
He stared in awe at the curate. Who is this man? Never before had he seen anyone have this kind of power over other men. How does he do it? Is it the words he uses? At one point it was clear he was quoting Scripture. Do the Bible words act like an incantation? Do they have some kind of magical power?
It was while the men were praying that Drew realized the difference between Bishop Laud and Christopher Matthews. The similarities between them had always been obvious: They both worshipped the same God. They both read the Bible. They both believed strongly they were doing God’s will, although their beliefs pitted them against each other. This town meeting scene made their differences equally as obvious: The bishop wielded political power like a sword to defend God, his church position, and himself. The curate, on the other hand, believed that God could defend Himself. Instead of trying to protect God, the curate found protection in God.
When the last amen sounded, one final action was taken. Thursday was set aside as a day of prayer and fasting for all able bodied men and women. This too was the curate’s idea.
“On Thursdays our meat and bread will consist of prayer and supplications to God. We will find our strength in Him,” he said. Then, with a grin, he added, “We shouldn’t overdo it, though. We wouldn’t want to grow spiritually fat!”
Tuesday was a setback for the town.
It began well enough. The new community order was implemented as David Cooper arbitrated between the merchants and the farmers for a fair exchange of goods and services. Ambrose Dudley was elected the town’s banker. A council of five men was chosen to determine what needed to be purchased and how much money was to be spent.
Spirits were high in the face of worsening conditions. Most families would be able to eat meat only once a week, maybe twice; some not at all. Many of them would have to exist on watery vegetable soups and bread sliced so thin it looked like parchment. Mothers braced themselves for the changes that would occur among the children. Their cheeks would grow hollow, their eyes would yellow, and their skin would take on a grayish cast. Drew remembered the look. He had seen it on the faces of the street children in the alleys of London. It had never bothered him before because he only saw them briefly as he passed by on his horse or in the family carriage. Now he would be living among them. He had to remind himself it was temporary. Before long he would be back at London House, sitting at the round cook’s table.
Because of the scarcity of wood, houses would have to go unrepaired and roof leaks unpatched. A delegation led by Christopher Matthews journeyed the short distance to Lord Chesterfield’s manor to request the use of some of the trees in his forest for the more urgent repairs. Chesterfield received them kindly but refused their request. If he allowed them to take his trees, he explained, his game animals would be deprived of places to live.
Drew felt the first pangs of real hunger on Tuesday. Not the it-must-be-time-to-eat-again hunger, but the kind of hunger that weakens a person, feeding on his disposition as well as his body. Drew encouraged himself by making it a test of his manhood. The Round Table knights knew hardship and hunger, he reasoned. If they could endure hardship, so can I. Besides, being one of the hungry in a town full of hungry people works well into my plan.
Tuesday’s great setback came when it was discovered that Rose Furman had died. Drew was accompanying the curate on his visitation rounds when they entered the Furman home and found old Cyrus sitting in a rocking chair, rocking back and forth, holding an emaciated Rose in his arms.
Drew had heard somewhere that old people sometimes acted infantile. He thought Cyrus was merely obliging his senile wife by rocking her to sleep. Then, as he got closer, he noticed her one eye was half-open and her limbs were stiff. She had been dead for some time.
“I should have told someone,” Cyrus cried. “But I knew if I did, you’d take her away from me.”
He brushed thin gray hairs from her eyes, wrapping them behind an ear.
“Forty-three years. We’ve been together forty-three years. When I let her go, it’s over. I just wanted it to last a little longer.”
Christopher Matthews placed a hand on Cyrus’s shoulder.
“You hold her as long as you want.”
It didn’t matter now. The spell was broken. Drew and Matthews had intruded on the final intimate moment between a man and his wife. It was over. Gone forever.
The news of Rose Furman’s death weighed heavily on the village. It wasn’t death itself that depressed them; to the people of Edenford death was an unwelcome but frequent guest. It was the death of Rose. Maybe it was because the Furmans were unable to have children; all they ever had was each other. True, they were an oddly amusing couple. Rose was strong-minded and determined while Cyrus was easygoing, slowwitted, and clumsy. She would yell and complain, he would grin and shrug, but they loved each other. For forty-three years they loved each other, and it was difficult for the townspeople to imagine one without the other.
If it hadn’t been for the distraction of the miracle on Wednesday, the townspeople would have nursed the loss of Rose Furman for months.
Wednesday was the second full day of Drew’s tutelage at the hand of Edenford’s curate. As he did the previous day, Christopher Matthews woke Drew at four o’clock for Bible study and prayer. Since Drew’s arrival in Edenford, the curate had learned two important things about him. First, Drew wasn’t a Christian; and second, he loved adventure, especially in his reading material.
Using the latter to address the former, the curate chose the life of Paul as the subject of their Bible studies. On the first day of study the curate had Drew read from Acts 27, the account of Paul’s shipwreck in the Mediterranean Sea. Drew was fascinated with the nautical detail of the story, like passing to the lee of Cyprus and Crete due to unfavorable winds; the ill-fated gamble to reach Phoenix, a harbor that faced both southwest and northwest, in which the ship could winter; and binding the hull of the ship with ropes during a storm to hold it together. He was also intrigued by the adventurous spirit of Paul. This apostle wasn’t like the churchmen of England who hid from the world behind church walls, wearing robes and attending councils and complaining that Englishmen were no longer interested in religion. Not the apostle Paul. The idea of an adventurous preacher struck Drew as odd but intriguing.
Wednesday morning’s Bible reading came from Paul’s defense of his ministry in 2 Corinthians 11:22–33.
Are they Hebrews? so am I. Are they Israelites? so am I. Are they the seed of Abraham? so am I. Are they ministers of Christ? (I speak as a fool) I am more; in labours more abundant, in stripes above measure, in prisons more plenteously, in deaths oft. Of the Jews five times received I forty stripes save one. I was thrice beaten with rods, I was once stoned, thrice I suffered shipwreck, a night and a day I have been in the deep; In journeyings often, in perils of waters, in perils of robbers, in perils by mine own countrymen, in perils by the heathen, in perils in the city, in perils in the wilderness, in perils in the sea, in perils among false brethren; In weariness and painfulness, in watchings often, in hunger and thirst, in fastings often, in cold and nakedness. Beside those things that are without, that which cometh upon me daily, the care of all the churches. Who is weak, and I am not weak? Who is offended, and I burn not? If I must needs glory, I will glory of the things which concern mine infirmities. The God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, which is blessed for evermore, knoweth that I lie not. In Damascus the governor under Aretas the king kept the city of the Damascenes with a garrison, desirous to apprehend me: And through a window in a basket was I let down by the wall, and escaped his hands.
The curate and his student discussed the Bible reading as they walked the road beside the cornfield. It was getting late in the year, and the stalks were brown and sagging. There was a chill in the morning air, enough to turn their speaking into wisps of fog.
“It’s hard for me to believe he endured all those things. What kept him going? What was he looking for?” Drew asked.
“Paul kept going not because he was looking for something, but because he had found something.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I know. You don’t understand because you’re still looking for what Paul found.”
“What did he find?”
The curate smiled.
“Something worth living for, something worth dying for.”
“His faith in Jesus, right?”
The curate stopped and studied his student. Drew’s remark was an academic one, not a life changing one. He resumed walking.
“Paul’s faith in Jesus Christ changed him so dramatically that he spent the rest of his life traveling throughout the known world, enduring whatever trials and hardships came, to tell others about his discovery.”
“It still doesn’t make sense to me. People didn’t want to listen to him. They hated his message. What did he gain?”
“Until you experience what Paul experienced, it won’t make sense to you. Believe me, there is sufficient motivation. Someday, Drew, you’ll understand him.”
After breakfast and family devotions with Nell and Jenny, Drew assisted the curate in gathering information for his monthly report to Lord Chesterfield. To complete the report, they had to inspect each phase of the wool industry in Edenford, from the tending of the sheep to the stored serges.
The shepherds gave him a total head count, the number of sheep lost to predators (with explanation, since it was the shepherd’s duty to protect the sheep), and the number of new births.
Those suspected of having a disease were inspected. Everything was recorded by Drew precisely according to Christopher Matthews’ directions.
The spinning wheels were housed in family residences. Each house was visited and a record made of the production total for each worker. The looms were next. They were all under one roof. Again, production was checked as well as the status of the equipment. A list of needed repairs was appended to the report.
The two men had to cross the village to get from the looms to the fulling mill beside the river near the village’s south bridge. Drew had never realized the amount of work that went into making simple wool cloth. For the Morgans it had always been a matter of sending a servant to town to get the needed material. The servants then sewed their own clothes. Of course, the Morgan family’s clothing was purchased and fitted in London at the finer tailor shops.
It was at the fulling mill that Drew saw the danger of cloth making. There, the material was thickened and scoured by soaking and pounding it. After the serges were soaked, they were drawn out and pounded with notched timbers that looked like giant teeth. The mill drew the serges with such violence that if a person were standing too close, the giant teeth could grab a bit of his clothing and pull him to his death in a moment. At first it seemed that the process would injure the serges, but the finished product proved otherwise.
The scoured serges were then taken outside and placed on racks lining the banks of the river. Each piece was about twenty-six yards long. The long strips of white cloth waved gently in the breeze as they dried. From here most of the serges were taken to be hot pressed, folded, then cold pressed, and stored for shipment to Exeter. Other strips were sent to the dyeing vats before being pressed.
The vats for dyeing were located on the west side of the village in a large wooden structure next to the grazing fields that rose gently toward the mountains. Racks of dyed serges stretched across the fields, making the countryside look like a giant patchwork quilt of blue, green, yellow, black, and red.
Actually there were only four vats of colored dye, one for each primary color and one for black. The green cloth was made by dipping the serges twice, first in yellow, then in blue. The blue, yellow, and black vats were housed in one large room. The vat holding the scarlet dye had a room all to itself, since it was the most changeable dye and needed stricter control.
To dye the cloth, the serges were stretched across the vats between two horizontal poles, which were rolled by two men, one at each pole. The serge was lowered into the vat by unrolling it from one pole and pulled out of the vat by rolling it onto the other pole. When the end of the serge was reached at one pole, the process was reversed. In this way the cloth was dipped back and forth until it was the desired color. A furnace of coal under the dye vats kept the liquid hot, almost to the boiling point.
As Drew and Christopher Matthews entered the room of three vats, Drew immediately recognized one of the workers at the blue vat by his red hair. It was the fiery James Cooper standing on a platform and turning one of the dipping poles. Seated at his feet was a little boy. Drew assumed it was James’ brother, since he had seen the small boy with the Cooper family Sunday afternoon on the village green. As for the other worker, Drew couldn’t recall ever meeting him.
“Good afternoon, James, William,” the curate said. Then with a note of surprise upon seeing the little boy sitting on the platform at his brother’s feet, “And little Thomas!”
“Hi, Master Matthews!” Thomas waved enthusiastically.
“Curate,” the redheaded man acknowledged dutifully.
He didn’t look down at them. His eyes were fixed on the man across from him on the far side of the vat. It was a look of animosity, which didn’t surprise Drew. Every time he had seen James Cooper, the redheaded giant was at odds with someone.
“Good morning, curate,” William said as he steadily unrolled the serge from his pole.
The serge had to be kept moving to keep it from being unevenly dyed.
“What’s Thomas doing here?” asked the curate.
James pulled in the serge as he answered.
“Mom’s fixin’ up Mrs. Furman for her burial. Dad’s arbitratin’ between the farmers and tailors. So I got stuck with him.”
The dark blue cloth rolled out of the vat with gentle ease. Splashes of blue dye on the wooden platform indicated the process did not always go this smoothly.
“Do you think it’s wise for him to be up there on the platform with you?”
“It’s the only way I can keep an eye on him.”
The curate looked around.
“I suppose so. Just be careful. How many serges have you dyed today?”
James almost spit out the answer.
“Two.”
William kept his head lowered and continued to unroll the cloth from his pole into the vat.
“Is that all?”
“That’s all,” James answered through clenched teeth.
The curate bent over and looked under the vat.
“Here’s your problem. Fire’s almost out. The embers are barely alive.” He straightened up.
“Why is the fire almost out?”
Both workers began yelling at once, each accusing the other for being responsible for the dying fire.
The curate held up his hand for them both to stop.
“I don’t care whose fault it is. Work it out peaceably”—he emphasized the word peaceably—“between the two of you, but finish that serge and relight that fire. Understood?”
“Yes, sir,” William said.
James nodded his head, still glaring at his coworker.
Matthews looked at the dyers a moment and decided the matter was settled. He indicated to Drew where to record the work output for the blue vat and turned toward the yellow vat to check the progress there.
Drew recorded the number. When he looked up, the dyers of blue cloth had reached the end of the serge.
“One more time,” William said.
James shook his head no.
“It’s finished.”
“One more time!”
“No!”
William began rolling up the serge on his pole for one more pass, but James held his pole firmly in place. As the slack in the serge was taken up, the blue cloth rose out of the dye. To force the issue, William gave his pole a jerk. Blue dye splattered on the sides of the vat; some fell to the floor.
This gave James an idea. He released his grip and the cloth inched downward. He wanted William to think he was conceding to one more pass. Just as the cloth dipped below the surface, the redheaded giant yanked back on his pole. His plan was to snap the cloth taut and spray William with blue dye, but the plan backfired. The cloth snapped taut, sending the dye flying. Liquid blue sprayed all over James and his little brother.
William laughed to the point of hysterics at his coworker’s failed attempt. Drew joined him. James and Thomas looked like they had been attacked by a band of renegade blueberries.
Thomas was crying, partly from the surprise, but also from the heat of the dye. He was trying to wipe it off his arms, which only succeeded in smearing the dye all over him.
William laughing at him and his little brother bawling made James furious. He grabbed the blue serge with his hands and yanked it with all his might. William’s pole spun wildly, knocking him off balance. He fell onto the platform and almost into the vat. Now there was fury on both sides of the vat. William struggled to his feet and grabbed his end of the serge. A tug-of-war ensued over the vat of hot blue dye.
William was no match for the red-haired giant, and Drew feared he would be pulled into the vat. Confident in his superior strength, James pulled William until his midsection was against the pole; then he pulled a little more until William would have to let go or fall in. Then James would let up. Once William regained his footing, the giant would pull him against the pole again. William knew he was overmatched, but he wouldn’t let go.
“James! William! Stop this right now!”
It was the curate. The incident at the blue vat had everyone’s attention now.
“Both of you, let go!” he yelled.
“He started it!” James yelled back.
He looked down at the curate as if to plead his case.
William saw this temporary distraction as his opportunity. He tugged sharply. It was enough to cause the red giant to lose his balance. But only for a moment. His attention drawn back to the tug-of-war, he strengthened his grip and reset his feet.
Suddenly, his right foot slipped on the wet platform, and his legs flew from under him. Releasing the serge, he tried to catch himself on the pole, but his arms slapped against the wad of blue serge wrapped around his pole. As he tried to grab it, his right hand fell on slippery, wet cloth and came up empty. His left hand slipped off the cloth too and slid down to the wooden pole where he managed to gain a hold. With only one hand secure, the momentum of his falling weight swung him sideways, knocking little Thomas into the vat of hot blue dye.
The little boy didn’t have time to scream. In an instant he disappeared beneath the surface.
“Thomas!”
James released his grip on the pole and landed on the wooden platform with a thud. Scrambling over onto his belly, he reached into the vat after his brother.
“AAHHHHHHH!”
He screamed, pulling his hand from the hot liquid. It was blue up to his wrist.
The instant Drew saw little Thomas plunge into the vat, he dropped his papers and sprinted up the steps to the platform. When James reached into the vat, he had held onto the giant’s shirt to keep him from falling in too.
James’ eyes were frantic as he nursed his hand.
“You’ve got to pull him out!” Drew yelled at him.
“It’s too hot!”
“If you don’t, he’ll die!”
James whimpered. “I can’t. He’s already dead.”
Drew searched the surface. There was no sign of Thomas.
“Get out of the way!” he yelled.
“What are you going to do?”
“Just get out of the way!”
Drew tried to pull the giant aside. He wouldn’t budge.
“James!”
It was the curate.
“Move aside!”
It took a second for the voice of authority to reach its mark. When it did, James moved to the side of the platform.
Drew fell to his stomach and plunged his arm into the dye up to his shoulder. Every nerve in his arm exploded with pain, crying to him to pull it back out. His teeth were clenched; he grimaced with agony but kept his arm in the vat, searching for little Thomas. Each swish brought greater heat and greater pain; his fingers numbed; even if he found the boy, he didn’t know if he would be able to get a grip on him. There! For an instant he thought he felt something. Drew closed his grip and pulled.
Nothing.
By now the curate was standing on William’s platform. All the other workers in the building encircled the vat. They stood at a cautious distance from the hot sides.
“Look there!” the curate pointed to the middle of the vat. The back of a small hand had floated to the surface in the middle of the vat. It was too far away.
“Is there a long pole or something?” Drew yelled.
“Over here!” a worker pointed toward the corner of the building.
Just then the small hand sank below the surface.
Drew cursed.
Pointing to William, he yelled, “Stretch the serge tight!”
William gripped his pole. The curate moved into position to help him.
Turning to James, “Pull the serge tight and hold it taut!”
James just sat there, his forehead propped up by the back of his blue stained hand.
Drew knocked his arm away.
“James, help me save your brother!”
The giant looked at him dumbly. There was a large blue stain in the middle of his forehead.
“He’s dead! I killed my little brother!” James sobbed.
“He’s not dead!” Drew grabbed the giant’s shirt and tried to pull him up.
The giant was too heavy.
“He’s not dead!” Drew yelled again. “Help me save your brother!”
“Not dead?”
“Not if you help me!”
Drew’s assurance nudged the giant into action.
“Pull the serge tight! As tight as you can get it!” Drew yelled.
James pulled slowly at first, then with more determination. The serge cloth rose out of the vat and stretched tight.
Drew ducked under the pole and balanced on the edge of the platform. He inched his toes over the edge the same way he would if he were diving into a lake. He would have only one chance. He couldn’t afford to slip.
He leaped onto the serge. The sudden weight brought grunts from William and the curate as they tried to hold it tight. The serge was slippery and wobbled from side to side. Wrapping his arms and legs around it, Drew fought to keep from rolling over. The heat from the vat below rose all around him. He felt like a pig on a open spit.
“All right. Now lower me to the surface!” Drew yelled.
As the serge dipped slowly, Drew scanned the surface for Thomas in the area where he was last seen.
“Stop!” he yelled. “That’s close enough!”
Drew was just inches away from the hot blue liquid. To balance himself, Drew spread his legs wide and pivoted to his right, keeping his hips in the center of the serge. There was a moment of imbalance. Drew steadied himself, but not before his left foot dipped into the hot liquid. He grimaced, laying his head against the wet serge.
“Drew, let us pull you in,” the curate said softly. “It’s too late anyway. We don’t want to lose you too.”
Drew shook his head. “Just hold the serge steady.”
The curate nodded. “Lord, help him!” he prayed.
For the second time, Drew plunged his arm into the liquid. Burning pain engulfed it. Tears streamed from his eyes as he fought to ignore the pain and concentrate on reaching little Thomas.
There! His hand brushed something. Just beyond reach. He stretched farther and bumped it, pushing it farther away.
“No!” he screamed.
The pain was more than he could take. A darkness began to close around him. He pushed it away. If you lose consciousness, you die, he told himself.
He had to stretch farther, but there was only one way for him to do that. He didn’t want to. He didn’t know if he could.
The boy is dead. Save yourself.
He took a deep breath and plunged his head, shoulder, and upper torso into the hot liquid. The pain was incredible. Hot dye filled his ears and seeped through his eyelids, stinging his eyes. He could hear muffled cries from the bystanders on the other side of the surface.
The dark that surrounded him was more than just the absence of light; it was a hot, burning liquid darkness. It was not alone. Another darkness accompanied it, the darkness of unconsciousness. He’d fought it once, but it was back, stronger than before. A third darkness joined them, the darkness of death. It was curious sensation. It was cold. In the midst of burning liquid, the hands of death were still cold.
His hand brushed against something. An arm. Then a body. Drew pushed past the pain and reached through the darkness; he grabbed the boy’s shirt. With all his might Drew Morgan pulled himself and little Thomas Cooper to the surface.
The last thing he remembered was what seemed like a hundred hands pulling him out of the vat.