“John, can you hear me?”
John Milton was stirred from a light sleep by his father’s voice, and tried to inhale. The pain in his right side wrenched him awake, and he moaned. He felt hands turning him and gritted his teeth against the pain.
“What have they done to you, John?”
John gasped. The pain of simply trying to breathe was tremendous.
“Father, what have they done to him?” John recognized the voice of his younger brother Christopher, who had recently begun studies for the bar. “Is he injured?”
“John, can you hear me? Son, what did they do to you? Tell me.”
“Kicked…Ribs…ohhhh…” His hands clutched his side.
“Dammit. Christopher, he has broken ribs. We must get him vertical. He’ll die of congestion of the chest if he’s allowed to lie here like this. Help me get him up.”
Christopher and the senior Milton picked up John as gently as possible, pushed insect ridden straw into another corner, and used it to prop him in a sitting position. Both visitors retched at the smell of the floor.
“You have got to stay vertical, John. Otherwise you might catch a disease of the lungs and die. Do you understand me? You must sit upright!”
John managed a slight nod, but a wave of nausea came over him. He moaned slightly.
“Bastards!” Christopher exclaimed. “You’ve done nothing to deserve this. No crime has been committed. This is injustice at the highest level, total disregard of the law-”
“Shush! None of that here. Be quiet, boy. There is a time and a place for such talk. And this is neither. We’re here for your brother. No sense in all of us being locked up. Hush, or return home.”
Christopher glanced over his shoulder at the closed door of the cell, looking for signs of an eavesdropping guard. “I’m sorry, Father. I shouldn’t let my feelings get in the way of our immediate needs.”
The elder Milton nodded grimly. “And those needs are great, if we are to save your brother’s life. The beatings should stop now we have paid the guards, but what remains? That concerns me, Christopher.”
John finally produced a rasping voice. “Will somebody please tell me what the fuck is going on? Wh-” He stopped and licked his lips. “Why am I here?”
“Give him some brandy, Christopher. Then some bread,” his father said.
Christopher nodded and began digging into the knapsack he was carrying, brushing a semi-clean area on the floor where he could sit in front of his brother. His father lowered his voice. “You got our letter in time at the cottage in Hammersmith, I assume?”
Milton nodded.
“We understand they caught you in Kent?”
Milton nodded again. Christopher gave him some brandy to drink, and he sipped it carefully so as not to cough.
His father sighed. “We have learned some things since that time. This all goes back to that accursed Grantville, landed in the Germanies. Apparently the king, in that history, was beheaded. The whole thing was there in the books of the town. There were lists of who was on what side in the revolution-who was a royalist, and who was not. Most of what would have occurred would have happened in a few years. So, in truth, nobody has done anything yet. Except the king, who is having nearly everyone on that list brought in for questioning. And anyone who signed his death warrant is put to death.”
Christopher jumped in, fuming. “Have you heard of John Bradshaw? He was a fine legal mind, and mayor of Congleton in Cheshire. The rumors say that he was taken from his home and executed in front of his young wife. No trial, no hearing, just summary execution. Outrageous.”
Father continued. “He was apparently the Chief Justice at the trial where they found Charles guilty.” He paused and shook his head. “To kill a man in front of his family for something he has not done, nor likely will ever do! It makes me ill to think of it. Once we heard of what was going on, we were afraid-everyone was afraid, but we did not appear on any lists, at least so far.”
John blinked at them in disbelief, and then became thoughtful. “Am I on that list? Is that why I am here?”
“Thank God, no.”
Milton steeled himself to speak, softly. “I am a student. A poet. That is what I do. There is no secret to that.” He paused, and tested a deeper breath, and winced. “You’re right, Father, it’s better if I am upright.”
“John, you have always been a proud and strong willed young man. Brilliant, yes. But contrary. You know what happened at Cambridge. You were nearly thrown out-”
“That man was an imbecile.” Milton’s outburst sent him into a painful cough. When his coughing stopped, Christopher offered him more brandy, and a small chunk of bread. John nodded gratefully.
“Nonetheless,” his father continued, “you jeopardized your academic career because of pride and stubbornness. You are a man of principle, John, but not always the greatest of judgment. When we heard that you were involved with this government that killed Charles, we believed it. It sounds like something you would do, quite frankly. With so many legal minds being taken-did you ever meet Oliver Cromwell? He was the leader of the rebellion. He is in the Tower, awaiting what fate I do not know. Others have disappeared. And many of them are young. Thomas Grey, son of the earl of Stamford, only eleven years old, was dragged away from his mother by soldiers. We do not know what has happened to him. A ship’s chandler by the name of Okey here in London…simply disappeared. We think he’s dead. There are many others. Sir John Danvers, MP for Oxford. Did you know John Hutchinson at Cambridge? Many others. We just don’t know.”
Christopher said, “I was able to get some word out to you because I heard of it- you — at Lincoln’s Inn. We occasionally handle paperwork for Whitehall, and thank God for serendipity. I tell you John, this was a grave mistake on the part of the king. To kill men who have done nothing, and up to now were either innocent children or loyal subjects…I tell you it has set the courts on their collective heads. And several of the men taken were practicing before the bar, or were sons of Lords, or were members of Parliament-if it ever meets again. ’Tis tyranny, simple and pure. I have never seen so many learned and respectable men so angry. It’s infuriating to anyone with a sense of justice. I truly do not know what will come of this.”
“But what of me,” John whispered. “Where do I fit into this insanity?”
His father looked worried. “We truly do not know, John. Apparently you were known for your poetry in the future world. That is comforting, I am sure. But why would a poet be the object of this sort of persecution? We are still hoping to find out. Perhaps the Americans in the Tower would help us, if we can speak to them somehow. You must take care until we understand what is happening. We will do our best to discover why, and get you out of this. There are many who will help us.”
“What should I do?”
“Stay alive, John Milton. Stay alive until we can do something.”
He had no Plato, no Homer, no quill, ink or paper. It was the boredom, killing him a little each day. Once a week, his father or brother were allowed to visit, briefly. This week, it was his brother.
“I’m sorry, John. They found them-”
“My mind has been honed sharp for the last five years! To be imprisoned here, held here with no stimuli, no challenge worthy of my mind, is-is maddening! I feel as if I am falling into atrophy. Do you understand, Chris? Atrophy! I can feel my brains and heart and soul shriveling like dried fruit. I may as well be dead.”
They were sitting next to each other in the small cell, on a recently acquired pallet for a bed. Christopher looked down at the floor, embarrassed. “I was too ambitious, and they found the papers on me, John. I was trying to bring you more than last time. I–I am sorry, John. Sorry.”
John stood and began pacing around the small cell, frustrated. “I have been here nearly two months with not much news, and even less to read. I must have stimulation, Chris, or I shall go mad, surely as I stand here. Stark-raving-foaming-at-the-mouth mad.” He quieted and turned to his brother. “I tell you, I have never felt so dark a time such as these. I want to write about it. Yet I am unable to write about it. That makes things darker still.”