When Temperance Smith woke up that bright midsummer morning, he did not expect to end it in a soldier’s convoy with shackles around his wrists and a noose looming in his destiny. A man wailed next to him. He had been caught stealing ducklings so had the gallows to look forward to as well. It seemed a bit of an overreaction but the distinct absence of the man’s ears betrayed him as a repeat offender.
The cart hit a pot-hole in the road. The wooden wheels strained with the sudden shift in weight, struggling to hold. He did not have long to worry about this when the prisoner opposite him, a woman believed to have spread syphilis to every man in the hamlet she inhabited, including the vicar, fell forward onto his lap.
It was a struggle to get her off him and into her seat again, what with their hands being bound and all. He managed it by violently kneeing her in the side which caused her to yelp and dart back into her seat to soothe her aching ribs.
Next to the woman sat a bald, bearded man who stared obstinately ahead, refusing to engage with any of the other prisoners. This was the man who had got Temperance in this whole mess. If he weren’t a god-fearing man he would spit at him. The top of his scalp was pale where once a curled wig had stood and the clothes he wore, while torn and filthy, were clearly of expensive make. Instead of abusing the cause of his predicament, he straightened his back and clasped his hands together to pray, a task made more difficult as he tried to make sense of the day’s occurrences.
It had started as any other, he awoke next to his darling wife, Joy-In-Sorrow, ready to attend to the day’s tasks and hungry for breakfast. After a bowl of porridge, lovingly prepared by her, he put on his hat and coat and left their home to finish their harvests. They had a child on the way and much to buy so hard work was a necessity. With their dog, Continent, by his side, this proved light and joyous work.
Around mid-day, Temperance broke for a lunch of bread and cheese. While he ate by the side of the road, leaning against the cart and peering out into the rolling fields of England there came the sound of dirt crunching underfoot. It wasn't strange a strange occurrence, there had been a battle in some of the nearby fields over a year ago and ever since there had been the occasional treasure hunter looking for decent teeth and metal to sell. Temperance had prayed through the days and nights that the sky was alive with cannon fire that his field had been saved and in God's provenance his prayers had been answered. He looked up to see a man, panting and stumbling toward him his clothes in tatters and his face red with exhaustion and sweat.
“Hullo, friend,” Temperance said, “You appear to be in a hurry.”
The man stared at Temperance as if he were a ghost and looked ready to dart away, but something kept him from doing so.
“Do you know the way to Kettlewell?” he asked.
It took a while for Temperance to understand what he was saying, the man had a strange voice, like the priest who had been sent to replace Father Morton after he passed away.
“Kettlewell, you say?”
“Yes, I must reach it before nightfall,” the man replied between panting breaths. He collapsed to the ground sending clouds of dirt around him.
“What for?”
The man shook his head.
“I can’t say. Do you know the way?”
“I would say so,” Temperance replied. “You’re not too far, another couple hours walk thereabouts. Sit with me and I’ll draw a map for you.”
The man shuffled on his bottom into the shade of the carriage. Continent came up to him, sniffed, then turned away with his tail between his legs. The man eyed the dog warily.
“Don’t mind him, that’s just Continent. He’s harmless,” Temperance said as he tore some bread and cheese away. “Here, have this. You look famished.”
The man snatched the food away and took two huge mouthfuls before he muttered thanks.
“No thanks needed, Sir,” Temperance said with a smile as he flatted the cloth he’d wrapped his lunch and took a piece of charcoal in hand. “The Lord says that Charity is one of the virtues he looks most kindly upon. You just eat up and I’ll have this map ready for you in no time.”
Temperance handed over the map when it was done. It was a crudely drawn thing with no real scale but he hoped the directions would be simple enough. He then removed his hat and placed it on the man’s head.
“There you are, sir. It will keep you safe from the sun.”
“Thank you…” the man trailed.
“Temperance, sir. Temperance Smith.”
“Thank you, Mr Smith.”
And with that, the man was on his way. It was only after he was long gone that Temperance realised he had never asked the man for his name.
When the day’s work was done he returned home. Joy-In-Sorrow embroidered a blanket with their child’s name, Jesus-Christ-Came-into-the-World-to-Save, he kissed her lightly on the forehead then removed his boots to sit in his favourite chair and read his bible before supper.
An hour later there came a knock at the door and Continent let up a slurry of barks loud enough to bring the walls of Jericho atumbling. Joy-In-Sorrow answered it while Temperance stroked Continent’s back to quieten him, and gave a startled yelp. Temperance jumped to his feet to see what had scared her. He was a peaceful man but was not afraid to resort to violence when his family was threatened.
Three men barged past Joy-In-Sorrow. They wore steel breastplates and helmets that looked like they had the tales of a lobster attached. Two held spears in their hands while the third had a sword strapped to his waist. No amount of righteous rage could bring a glimmer of victory when Temperance was armed with nought but his bible and his pipe.
The swordsman approached Temperance.
“Be ye Temperance Smith?”
“That’s me,” Temperance replied and before the words had left his lips he was struck by the back of the swordsman’s hands.
Joy-In-Sorrow screamed.
“Arrest this man,” the swordsman said and one of the soldiers approached with shackles in hand.
“What for?” Temperance asked.
“You are guilty of aiding an enemy of the Lord Protector Oliver Cromwell.”
“I haven’t helped any enemies of any Lord Protectors!” Temperance protested. Though wrath was a sin he could not help feeling anger at being struck.
The shackles locked around his wrists.
“No?” the swordsman replied, his mouth curling into a grin. “Be this not your hat, Temperance?”
To punctuate the question, the swordsman produced from his person a wide-brimmed black hat and dropped it on the table. It fell on its top leaving the inside for all to see, stitched on the inside, a label read, “Temperance Matthew-Mark-Luke-and-John Smith.”
“That is my hat,” Temperance admitted, frowning in confusion.
“Then why, pray tell, was it found atop the head of one Lord Bartholomew Greenwich, known Royalist and advisor to the heathen king?”
“I’ve never met any Lords, Royalist or not.”
“More lies!” the man scoffed. “Take him away. Ye shall be hanged this very evening.”
The soldiers took Temperance by the arms and lifted him so his feet dangled above the floor. They carried him outside and threw him onto a cart with three more prisoners before locking his shackles to the floor.
Temperance twisted for one last look at Joy-In-Sorrow who stood in their doorway her hand around her stomach and tears trailing down her cheeks. There were more soldiers all around their home, some plundered their apple tree while another group struggled to get their donkey to move. One of the soldiers jabbed Temperance with the bottom of his spear and told him to face forward. With considerable force, he steadied his breathing and buried his face in his hands.
When Temperance looked up he saw the man who he’d met on the path earlier that day. The pieces all fell together and he realised that this was Lord Bartholomew Greenwich.
The convoy came upon a large tree outside the walls of a bustling town. The sun was setting and many of the lanterns were being lit for the night. Temperance had never been to the town but his focus was not on it. By the tree, a small crowd had gathered, a mixture of soldiers and onlookers. As they approached, three nooses were tossed and slung over one of the branches. The ends of these nooses were attached to three donkeys grazing next to their handlers.
After being pulled off of the cart and brought into the centre of the crowd, all three men had nooses fastened around their necks. The woman who had spread Syphilis remained in the cart. She had been sentenced to jail on account of her pregnancy. A condition that Temperance severely doubted.
The swordsman spoke up to them in turn, read aloud their sentences then asked if they had any last words.
“I wish to recite the Lord’s prayer before I pass to ease my passage into heaven,” Temperance said. He cleared his throat and in a clear and booming voice, began. “Our father, who art in heaven–”
The prayer was cut short as the donkey attached to his noose sprung into action, moving forward and pulling Temperance into the air by his neck. His feet twitched violently as he struggled for breath and the onlookers whooped in glee.
The prisoners watched in horror and looked beseechingly at the swordsman for explanation.
The swordsman shrugged and went over to the donkey. Tied around the donkey’s collar was a name tag.
“The donkey’s name is Our Father Who Art in Heaven.”