Chapter 32
The following day Thomas rode into Brandwick, headed toward the vicarage on the other side of the town. He intended to see the Reverend Lightfoot to take him the few remaining bottles of milky physick to distribute to any of his parishioners who may have need of it. There was hardly anyone abroad. Many of the shops were shut and the market square was empty, save for a few elderly men huddled in a corner. A gaggle of ragged children ran up to him, holding their hands out for money or food, or both. Thomas noted several had coughs. An old woman chewed her gums as she sagged on the front step of her cottage. A few laborers sat on low walls talking, or crouched in doorways. A dog lolled by the water trough and half a dozen tethered horses swished away the troublesome flies with their tails.
Down the broad main street Thomas rode until he reached the outskirts of the town and the church of St. Swithin’s. The doors were shut, but he could hear a man’s voice inside. Grabbing the large handle, he slowly and carefully turned it and the door creaked open. So this is where the people of Brandwick are, he thought to himself. Row upon row, pew upon pew, was full of people. But this was not a Sunday, nor a Holy Day, but an ordinary Saturday in August, a time when most men would be in the fields gathering in the harvest. Instead they were to be found in their parish church. It did not surprise him. They were all growing increasingly fearful, and last night’s meteor was, for many, the final portent. As far as the common man was concerned, it seemed Judgment Day was imminent, but there was still just enough time to make amends.
Despite his best efforts, the creaking of the church door alerted a number of people to his arrival and many turned their heads to look at the latecomer in their midst. So, too, did the Reverend Lightfoot, ensconced in his pulpit. He had just exhorted the congregation to pray for those afflicted by the fog, but he did not lower his own head and spied Thomas immediately.
Straightening himself and lifting his arms in a gesture of exhortation, the reverend addressed the young doctor directly.
“Brethren,” he announced. “Even men of science, with their complicated theories and highfalutin explanations, are turning to the Lord. They are seeing the signs and believing. Witness Dr. Thomas Silkstone.” He pointed to the door.
All eyes turned to the back of the church, where the young anatomist stood, rather bemused.
“I see fear written on his face,” continued the vicar, looking at Thomas directly. Then, shifting his glare to his wider audience, he went on. “I see fear written on many of your faces. But I tell you fear is for sinners. Last night the heavens were illuminated by a strange and mysterious sight, reminding us of God’s infinite power and majesty. It is written in the scriptures that he commands ‘even the winds and the water’ and, I tell you, those who are righteous have nothing to fear. For we have seen the power of the Lord firsthand and know that we will bask in its glory.”
Some of the women in the congregation gasped. A man shouted “Alleluia,” and some others answered him with “Amen.” The worshippers were enthralled by the vicar’s words. Even the crying babes on their mothers’ laps remained calm.
“So I say to you,” he exhorted them. “We may be living through difficult times; the devil himself may be spewing out his foul breath across the land, but the Lord will protect us if we have faith. Believe in Him and the saving grace of his Son, Our Lord Jesus Christ, and he will deliver us from this evil.”
A great calm and sense of well-being had descended on the people. They had flocked to the church in fear of their lives, certain that the Day of Judgment was upon them. Yet this clergyman had allayed their fears. If they did but believe in Jesus Christ and his healing love, then they would be safe. No poisonous fog could suffocate them. No meteors could touch them. Their salvation lay in the pages of the Bible and in prayer. If they put their trust in the Lord, all would be well.
Thomas was glad to leave the church. Reverend Lightfoot had embarrassed him, intentionally or not. He was skirting the crowd, heading toward Mr. Peabody’s shop—he had run out of turmeric for his physick and intended to purchase some—when a voice called him back. He turned to see the vicar standing behind him, looking solemn. It was clear to him that the Reverend Lightfoot’s devotion to his duties was taking its toll. Thomas noted how exhausted the churchman looked. His skin was sallow and drawn over bones that had been previously been hidden under fleshy cheeks. “Forgive my forthrightness in church, Dr. Silkstone,” he said.
Thomas was momentarily taken off guard. “There is no need to apologize, sir,” he told him.
“I am glad you feel that way.” He paused and it was clear to Thomas that there was something more he wanted to say. “I have heard that you are taking the sick to the caves at West Wycombe.”
“That is so.”
The vicar nodded. “Then I wondered if I might pay a visit?”
Thomas’s mind flashed to the faces in church, to the people lapping up the vicar’s words like hungry cats would cream. He would bring spiritual solace to the sick and dying, as surely as his own medicaments brought them physical relief. “You would be most welcome,” he told him.
“Excellent,” replied the vicar, ordering his features into a reassuring smile before adding, “You and I are alike in so many ways, Dr. Silkstone.”
The young doctor paused. “How so, sir?”
The vicar’s nostrils flared and he gestured at Thomas with his wiry hand. “You are a physician of the body; I of the soul,” he said with a shrug. Thomas let the remark pass.