A Brand from the Fire
A Brand from the Fire
Susanna clasped and unclasped her hands nervously. It wasn’t the surroundings that made her nervous. She didn’t mind massive city structures, for she’d been born and raised in London, and York, though smaller, was nearly as urbane. She didn’t mind coming face-to-face with an archbishop; her own father had been a man of eminence in contact with important personages. She grew up surrounded by great men and great thinkers.
What made her nervous was the topic of this audience. Sam had first approached the Archbishop of York five years before and for the same reason—to beg money. Sam had received twenty pounds from the man and, with a London trip and a few other unaffordable extravagances, the money had evaporated even before Susanna had seen it. Now here she was on the prelate’s doorstep.
The archbishop’s aide entered the far end of the long hall. “Milady, His Grace will see you now.”
Susanna followed the young man out through ornately carved mile-high doors. She expected the archbishop to be seated on some sort of throne-like chair on an elevated dais from which he could peer down upon an humble rector’s wife. But no. They walked out into a pleasant little walled garden.
Forget-me-nots lined the well-groomed paths with their soft, gentle blue. Primroses splashed their gay colors against the feet of the cabbage roses along the east wall. And here, mounded up against the rockwall, sprawled the dark-green tangle of sweetbrier. Susanna paused as inconspicuously as possible to fill her nose and heart with the rich, clinging aroma of its first flowering. The familiar old-home scent bolstered her courage and restored the confidence she had enjoyed as a youngster, when she knew all the answers. Oh, true, God was with her; but surely God was with the Archbishop of York as well.
His title sounded imposing, lofty, and yet the man himself was nothing like that. He sat on a wooden chair near a sundial, with neatly trimmed privet at his back, and he smiled at her approach.
She performed the appropriate obeisance for an archbishop and instantly worried that it hadn’t been appropriate enough. It was done now. It would have to do.
“Do be seated, Mrs. Wesley. Let’s not dwell on formality.” He motioned toward a stool before him. She thanked him and perched on the stool, no less nervous because he seemed so approachable, and clasped her hands firmly to make them behave.
“I heard,” he began, “that our Samuel is in debtor’s prison in Lincoln. I heard also that you sent him your rings, the only thing of value you own, for fear he wasn’t getting enough to eat.”
She felt her cheeks get warm. “He returned them; said that wasn’t necessary. Perhaps I overreacted.”
The august gentleman leaned back and laced his fingers together, much as Papa had once done. Susanna got the vague feeling that she ought to be sitting at this man’s feet. “Tell me please, Mrs. Wesley; have you ever really wanted for bread?”
“Strictly speaking, my lord, no. Not want. But then, it’s so much trouble to get food before it’s eaten and then to pay for it after, that it’s misery for me. I think to have food on those terms is the next degree of wretchedness to having none at all.”
He was looking at her with large, soft eyes, the way Papa once did. “You have five children at home here?”
“Samuel Junior is away at school in London. A bright boy; he’s fifteen now. There are six others at home yet, ages two to thirteen. We would have a newborn now, except—” Words failed her. When words came, they were the wrong ones. “—except that we’re Tories.”
She bit her lip. She hadn’t meant to mention the matter at all. But that pain her body felt for its lost baby was still too fresh, the wound in her spirit still too new. It all tumbled out; the fires, the harassment, the constant opposition—and lastly, the cows and dog.
“Shortly after Sam was arrested—in his churchyard, I might add—vandals damaged the church. There was talk of locking it, but the magistrates decided better of it. And the cows. Not long after Sam was taken away, someone slashed our cows during the night. Slashed their milk bags, cut their udders. The dog must have tried to defend them. He was stabbed, too, a leg nearly cut off. The cows are alive; it takes more than that to kill a cow, I understand; but they’re useless for milking. We need the milk, Your Grace.”
He sat quietly for long moments, and Susanna was glad. She could use the time to compose herself. He drew in a bucketful of air. “What would you have me do, Mrs. Wesley?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know what you might do, nor what I can do, for that matter. Sam is determined to stay; he’s accepted that God has put him there in Epworth. But what next?” She shook her head.
He smiled. “I’ve been getting mail.”
She frowned a moment until the light dawned. “Of course. Letters of complaint from Sam’s enemies.”
“In part, yes. He preaches renewal and revival, I take it. The letters don’t agree with each other, but between the lines I detect that your Samuel is pricking consciences. As well he should; it’s his job. And they complain of his politics.”
“I am assuming your politics and Sam’s coincide.”
“Quite. Also I received a letter from Samuel himself. From the prison.” He dug into the tightness of his cincture and pulled out a folded sheet of foolscap. “Let’s see. He mentions his enemies burning his flax; quite disappointed to lose his flax it seems. He’s dabbling in farming?”
“Dabbling. Yes. The flax was his pride, and it was indeed coming well. The field had lain fallow, in pasturage for several years, and was fertile.”
He nodded, smiling. “Quote: ‘One of my biggest concerns was my being forced to leave my poor lambs in the midst of so many wolves.’ And later: ‘My wife bears it with that courage which becomes her, and which I expected from her.’ Then he goes on to talk about his ministry inside the prison walls. He’s pleased God is using him among the men who need God so desperately. Talks about the good he can do there.” The archbishop folded the paper. “And that delights me more than you know—to have a man in my bishopric so totally devoted to God.”
What could she say? “His constant prayer is for revival. He’s certain it will come, somehow.”
The prelate stood, smiling. “Mrs. Wesley, I enjoyed this visit. You say you don’t know what to do, and yet you’re doing it. I receive reports of your exceptionally well-mannered children. Rearing children in the fear of the Lord is an awesome responsibility, as is maintaining this rectory in your husband’s frequent absences. And now, I believe I’ve thought of a few things I might do.” He produced an envelope and pressed it into her hand. “This is one of them. A church fund established just for such occasions. I shall be in touch.”
The aide escorted her out, past the sweet-brier. She walked in a sort of haze, that envelope in her hand. It was some minutes before she had collected her wits enough to open it.
The envelope contained a gift, a generous gift. It wasn’t enough to buy Sam’s freedom, but it would hold the wolves at bay and bring bread to the table for the next few weeks. Bread and milk. Who could be so vindictive as to slash her cows and the family’s dog?
She thought back on the conversation, trying to trace its nuances through her memory. She could tell one thing: from the gentleman’s tone of voice and his avuncular mien, he was on Sam’s side in this unholy war of nerves and cowardly sorties. The man’s firmness of voice suggested to her also that when he spoke of “some things to do” on Sam’s behalf he would do them.
Some weeks later the archbishop managed by subscription to pay off about half Sam’s debt load. Sam was home by Christmas, then away for the balance of the winter as proctor to the London convocation.
Susanna found herself writing frequently and long to Sammy, and Sammy through his responses seemed to welcome her letters. “I would advise you to arrange your affairs by a certain method,” she wrote, “by which means you will learn to improve every precious moment.”
Come summer of 1706 Susanna surprised herself, if not the world, by not giving birth. Early 1707, however, brought Martha, who became Patty around the house.
A week before Christmas in 1707, months before her due date, Susanna gave birth untimely to a boy. He was such a fragile thing, and tiny. She had lost all her other premature boys. She made the desirability of sons a major theme of devotion and prayer. Perhaps God would be gracious and spare this child. She named him Charles.
Charles lived and grew, although he was excessively slow to gain weight. But once he outgrew the setback of an early birth he became by many measures her brightest, cheeriest, and prettiest child—and most active! By February of 1709 he was walking at a dead run and getting into everything.
Wednesday, February 9, seemed like any other Wednesday during the final throes of a pregnancy. Susanna spent the day in bed, too sick to care if the world continued or not. She could by now fully appreciate the constant illness her own mother had endured. Her mother had borne twenty-five. This was Susanna’s nineteenth. Were the men to bear the children, every family would have but one.
John wasn’t quite six yet, Patty but two, and there went Charles at full gallop. The maid was getting run ragged and Emilia at seventeen couldn’t carry the full load. Perhaps they should hire a second girl. And yet their finances would hardly allow it. Their debt still weighed too heavily.
Politics heated up again. Susanna could do without that. At least Sam was home for the moment.
Dinner came as usual at six, but Susanna couldn’t eat anything. She sipped at a glass of wine and didn’t even finish that. Despite the Bible’s suggesting a little wine for Timothy’s stomach’s sake, she had sharply curtailed her usual intake of drink. Perhaps this was one of God’s checks and balances; that if she were healthier she would drink too much.
The house dropped silent at eight. Somewhat later Sam came padding up from his study, kissed her good night, and retired to the room next door. Why couldn’t she sleep well? Her mind and body refused to settle into ease. She felt vaguely dissatisfied, restless. She wasn’t going to go into labor prematurely again, was she? No, Lord, please—not another early, difficult birth.
In the blackness beyond the door, Hetty’s soprano voice screeched. The door burst open. “Mama, fire! Pieces of fire fell by my feet!”
“Your father—”
Hetty was gone. Susanna heard the girl pound on Sam’s door, heard Sam’s voice and heavy footfalls.
Here were Emilia and Sukey in the darkness, but it wasn’t dark anymore. An orange glow, that hideous orange glow of a prior nightmare, lighted the doorway. As Susanna and her girls staggered out into the hall Sam broke in the nursery door shouting.
The wall beside her, already hot, burst into a solid sheet of flame. Susanna shrieked. Somehow one foot flung itself ahead the other and propelled her down the stairs. Emilia was gone; now she was back with a steadying hand.
Here was Sam; they’d be fine now.
“The keys! I forgot the keys!” Sam plunged back up the stairs.
Here came the maid with Charles and Patty tucked under her arms. Raw heat roared on all sides, searing Susanna’s naked body. Fire blotted out reason and sent dirty churning smoke into her eyes and lungs.
Sam was back, his key ring rattling. The yellow staircase exploded afire behind him. There would be no more going upstairs. Thank God the chambers and nursery were empty!
Where were the children? Susanna couldn’t see. She could only feel the fire on all sides, pressing in, licking at her. She couldn’t reach the garden door. Fire blocked the main door. And now Sam was beside her again, shielding her.
A tiny voice cried out from the nursery!
Susanna’s heart thudded. “Sam! Jackie—!”
Sam turned to go back.
“No!” she screamed. “Don’t!” but it was an idle request. The stairs, already aflame, shimmered and collapsed, howling, into a white-hot pile. Sparks splashed upward unrestricted to join the angry fire in the third floor.
Sobbing, Sam dropped to his knees and commended his son’s soul to God.
How did Susanna get out? She didn’t know. She remembered crying out to her Savior to help her. She remembered wading naked through open flame, and she ever remembered the cool, willing hands of neighbor women seizing her and wrapping her in aprons and petticoats. She was laid on a pallet of some sort in the chill grass.
Jackie! Her mystic, her devoted one, the child who most like her loved order and method in his young life. Then the boy’s tiny head appeared in the second-floor nursery window, back lighted in bright yellow.
“Up there, lads!” cried a burly farmer. “On my back now, Billy! That’s it.” As the farmer braced himself against the stuccoed wall a quick slim little man clambered up onto his shoulders. The height of the two of them together just reached the bottom of the window. Jackie leaned out as the small man’s hand grasped at his hair. The five-year-old came tumbling over the sill, safe in the arms of these unlettered servants of God. His feet were running as he touched ground, straight for Mama.
Even as those two wonderful men dashed away, the roof with a mighty howl dropped into the third-floor room. Roaring, the whole third floor collapsed into the second. Moments later the east wall caved inward slowly, casually, majestically. The north wall dipped a shoulder toward its fallen mate and just as nonchalantly crumpled into the thunderous blaze. Susanna’s world melted in white heat.
There would be no saving anything this time, not books or notes or the twenty pounds cash tucked away in a desk drawer in the study. So much money—Those wonderful, musty old books—
Susanna had spent months writing a devotional manual for her children. It was gone, all gone, dissolved to nothing like hay and stubble. She mustn’t let this devastating loss or the horror of the night affect her as it might. She mustn’t let the terror and upset bring her unborn child into the world untimely. She must present a firm and staunch example to her children. And yet, this hurt so. Something seemed to reach in and snatch her heart right out of her.
No one bothered to fight the fire. The blaze had won, hands down. The other two walls fell. People moved back and shielded their faces from the heat. Sparks and brands danced like a million demons through the night sky. Neighbors were lifting her, pallet and all, to carry her to the Wilkes house next door. Sam and the other children would be there.
And Jackie would be there, miraculously plucked from sure destruction at the last possible moment. She vowed to God right there to pay special care to this little soul God had so mercifully provided for. It was clear God had special plans for little Jackie. Susanna’s job was clear as well—to rear the child in the fear and nurture of the Lord and train him both in letters and behavior to be pleasing to God, useful to God.
Safe. No prodigal, little Jackie, yet the word Susanna had quoted once regarding Sammy when he had been lost pertained even more so. Scripture always served well. For this my son was dead and is alive again, was lost and is found.