Rebels and Traitors (98 page)

Being arrested naked had shocked Lambert. When he came to himself — When the drink wore off!’ his wife muttered — he refused to recant, but ceased raving and dancing. They were fortunate. Others clung un-repentantly to their beliefs. One Ranter interred at Bridewell was a defiant shoemaker. Whenever he heard any mention of God, he would laugh and say, ‘he believed money, good clothes, good meat, and drink, tobacco and merry company to be gods’. Anne heard that the wife had remonstrated, but the man retorted coldly that ‘if she would give him any beer or tobacco he would take it, but as for her advice, she might keep it to herself.

Scared that Lambert might be infected with these attitudes, Anne Jukes did not waste breath on nagging. She made a petition to Parliament. Mary Overton, wife of the Leveller, Richard, helped her write it. She pleaded Lambert’s long military service and his dismal health since Colchester, then cited her own need for support and companionship. Lambert’s own willingness to work meekly at a filthy job while in Bridewell may have helped convince the authorities that he was worth saving.

It took many months to work through the process, but at the end of summer Lambert was fined and pardoned. Gideon retrieved him from the Gatehouse and led his crushed, hangdog, enfeebled brother back home to Bread Street. Continuing to live with Lambert and Anne, Gideon then devoted himself to re-establishing normal family life.

It was not easy. Other mystic sects existed. In an effort to rebuild their marriage through shared interests, Anne and Lambert Jukes joined one together. They chose a visionary, Deist, anti-Trinitarian group called Reeveonians. Their sect had been established in February 1652 when John Reeve, a London tailor, received three visions which appointed him God’s Prophet (he said), along with his cousin, Lodowick Muggleton. Their followers acclaimed them as the ‘two witnesses’ mentioned in the Book of Revelations, who would preach to an ungodly world in preparation for the beginning of the final days. Reeve and Muggleton honoured Reason and Faith. Gideon and Robert Allibone thought Reason had little to do with it, but they were known sceptics.

Confusingly, the group thought the soul was mortal, which meant all human existence died with the body and this sect looked for a heaven on earth rather than an afterlife. However, they also believed the Millennium was close at hand, so it was vital to prepare. Preparation took an amiable form. They met in taverns, where they held discreet Bible readings and sang godly tunes over a few rounds of drinks -during which they were generally viewed by other people only as a slightly eccentric private party.

Reeveonians, or Muggletonians as they became after John Reeve died, did not actively seek new members; they waited for those with an interest to approach. People who asked to receive the Revealed Word were welcomed; those who subsequently declined the Revealed Word were condemned. Perhaps as a result of this uncompromising outlook, they had a limited membership. That generally kept them below the sightlines of the authorities, though both Reeve and Muggleton were imprisoned in Bridewell for their beliefs in 1653, at which point Anne and Lambert Jukes let their membership slide. One spell in Bridewell was enough for Lambert. Besides, the grocery business was picking up.

Privately relieved, Gideon had kept quiet, because the Muggletonians had some likeable features: they supported toleration and avoided strict religious doctrines. A problem was that they attracted disheartened followers from crazier sects. Eventually Laurence Clarkson, the Ranters’ founder, moved in on the group, which caused consternation; he quarrelled bitterly with Lodowick Muggleton and brazenly hijacked the leadership. Gideon cynically suggested Clarkson was attracted by the Muggletonians’ female following; leaders of peculiar sects traditionally expect sickly adoration from female acolytes. By this time, fortunately, Anne and Lambert Jukes were long gone.

Lambert subsided as a religious fanatic. He lived quietly, hoping to avoid notice. Nothing was said by the Society of Grocers about his naked run, perhaps because it was known that Anne Jukes had been long-suffering. Livery companies tended to respect their members’ wives, since most were formidable. Publicly forgiven, Lambert devoted himself to grocery and good works. From then on he occupied the traditional position of a City of London liveryman: under the thumb of his wronged wife.

Once a month or so, Lambert would courageously remind Anne that she too once had a revolutionary fling. They would excitedly discuss whether work together, eat together’ was a more attractive doctrine than ‘tippling, swearing, committing adultery, incest, buggery, dancing and gambolling, ranting naked in the street and sleeping with other men’s wives’. Inevitably one thought one thing, one the other. If Gideon was at home, he sneaked out to the back yard to smoke a pipe of Virginia tobacco on the site of his father’s aborted house-of-easement. Only occasionally did he throw in comments: how fortunate it was that disputatiousness filled awkward lulls in conversation, for instance. Irony was poorly received. Yet, worn out by hard work in their business and by the encroachments of age, the couple gradually lost their inclination to wrangle.

Their arguments may have put Gideon off remarrying. Although he had thought of it on his return from Dunbar, somehow he never got around to it. Lambert and Anne occasionally paraded spinsters and widows in front of him (there were plenty to choose from while they were Muggletonians). Gideon would seem polite, but he would quickly disappear to the print shop. Lambert suggested Gideon did not know what he was looking for; Anne suspected he knew only too well.

Robert and Gideon ran the print shop together after Gideon’s return to London. Despite their long friendship, it became an awkward fit. The reasons were practical. Robert had always been the master and, although they were nominally partners, he had run their business by himself ever since Gideon went to Newport Pagnell. That was nearly a decade ago. Now in his late forties, Robert was still fit and active. Gideon, though fifteen years younger, was limited in what he could do physically. His shoulder had eventually been righted by Mr Surgeon Elishak’s sharp use of the Commander, but he had been warned he must not strain the joint with any heavy work. He had to be careful about turning the press or lifting bales of paper and piles of documents. He could set type, but that had never been his forte or his interest.

Ever affectionate and sympathetic, Robert suggested that Gideon should concentrate on building up a specialist list of copyrights. ‘Just do not tell me we should cover poetry’ Gideon reckoned that with the coming of peace there would be new schools and a need for instructional material. He set about commissioning dictionaries, grammars and other textbooks. It was hard work for the compositor and at first sales were not brisk, but it kept him happy in a period when he was struggling at home and felt uncertain about his personal future.

Peace at last seemed a possibility. In 1651 Cromwell had lured the King and his Scots’ allies into making a dash south; he imposed yet another set-piece crushing victory on them at Worcester. After some weeks on the run, including his famous night spent in the boughs of an oak tree, Charles II fled from England with a price on his head.

The Scots, meanwhile, had lost too many armies to continue; they were granted toleration of religion within their own country, but a powerful army under General Monck stayed in Scotland to ensure order. There would be no more Presbyterian invasions. With all the three kingdoms quiescent at least temporarily, the new Commonwealth was sufficiently confident and free from home disturbances to turn its attention outward. Once Admiral Blake had driven away Prince Rupert, the navy was freed up to represent the Commonwealth’s maritime interests. A Navigation Act was passed, which forbade the importation of goods into England or English colonies except in English ships or ships of the goods’ country of origin. Aimed against Royalist-supporting Holland, it seriously affected the Dutch carrying trade, so after a three-year war at sea they capitulated. There would be setbacks, but this marked the establishment of Britain’s maritime might.

In domestic policy, peace was welcome but nothing changed the fact that a way to govern the country had never been decided. The Rump Parliament was still sitting. By July 1652, the army was petitioning for new, free elections to end this moribund body, while Rump members were shamelessly attempting to thwart the proposed arrangements. In April 1653 came an upheaval. Oliver Cromwell heard that an Act was being passed in the Commons that would enable Rump members to continue in their seats without re-election. Informed of this by a series of breathless messengers, Cromwell strode to Parliament. He was dressed in black, with a tall black hat and grey woollen stockings, like an ordinary citizen, though he took troops.

At first he sat quietly listening. Then, just as the bill was about to be voted on, he rose in his place and, taking off his hat, began to speak. Initially, he addressed the House calmly, then — as he could do — he systematically wound himself into a towering rage. He informed the members they were useless, thinking only of themselves, that they had become tyrants and the supporters of tyrants. The Lord hath done with you,’ he cried, ‘and hath chosen other instruments for the carrying on of his work who are more worthy’ No plan had been laid as to who this should be.

Fully incandescent, Cromwell crushed his hat upon his head and strode on to the floor of the House. ‘You are no Parliament,’ he shouted, stamping his foot. ‘I say you are no Parliament. Come, come, I will put an end to your prating. Call them in!’ His soldiers grimly marched into the Chamber. The members scurried to leave, while Cromwell flung taunts, calling some drunkards, others unjust persons and evil-livers. Then came the most famous moment. Catching sight of the Mace as it lay upon the table, Oliver cried derisively, ‘What shall we do with this bauble? — Here, take it away.’

The House was empty. Locking the door, Cromwell stomped off. So, after twelve monumental years, the Long Parliament ended.

Many people turned against Cromwell then. Amongst long-term radicals, feeling ran high. Edward Sexby changed his allegiance. So did John Wildman. John Lilburne was so incensed he returned from exile in Bruges, was thrown into Newgate Prison and between June and August was on trial, supported by Richard Overton. As a measure against subversion, John Thurloe, a member of the Council of State, was given sole charge of collecting intelligence. His role included oversight of press censorship. For him it was the start of a serious career as a spymaster, a career in which one day Gideon Jukes would work with him.

With the abolition of the Rump came further measures against printers. The press had been in difficulties politically for a long time. Almost as soon as the Star Chamber was abolished and freedom from censorship announced, Parliament had regretted it. Attempts to rein back began immediately and repression had continued ever since. Many of the news-sheets that had sprung up during the civil war had already been extinguished, though so far the
Public Corranto
struggled on. After the King was executed new laws had forced Robert to pay a bond of three hundred pounds, promising not to publish seditious or scandalous material.

Gideon knew that Robert Allibone was incensed. Robert saw Cromwell’s expulsion of the Rump as new tyranny. The partners had had some arguments because Gideon was afraid that free elections would lead to a Presbyterian government. He shared the Army’s exasperation with the Rump’s attempts to self-perpetuate itself, yet he was anxious not to see the New Model Army’s achievements thrown out. So Gideon did not entirely share Robert’s anguish.

He was not
surprised
when Robert produced a new pamphlet under his old pseudonym, ‘Mr A.R.’, calling it
The Bauble-Botherer’s Betrayal.
What was unusual was that for once Robert must have been careless. Gideon was astonished how fast the authorities reacted. Perhaps Robert had been under suspicion before. Perhaps this time an informant supplied an address. At any rate, early one morning, when Gideon and Lambert were having their breakfast in Bread Street, the printers’ apprentice, Miles Gentry, burst in. Miles was hysterical, crying that the print shop had been trashed in a dawn raid. Robert had been dragged out of bed in his nightshirt and arrested.

Gideon ran to the shop. The weeping Miles stumbled at his heels. Everything was as he said: the print shop had been crudely turned over. Papers littered the street, but Gideon could tell that many printed items must have been removed. All copies of
The Bauble-Botherer’s Betrayal
had been seized. Back editions of the
Public Corranto
were gone too. Metal letters had been tossed from their trays and strewn about the shop. Ink had been emptied out in the street gutters. Most extraordinary was that where the press had always stood was now an empty space.

Miles went down on his knees, fervently gathering up the scattered type, especially Robert’s favourite, his Double Pica Roman, a clean and readable font he had used throughout his career after secretly smuggling the letter set from Flanders. Recent laws forbade the importation of printers’ letters, implements or presses; replacements would be not only expensive but almost impossible to obtain.

Gideon stared at ink-stained floorboards, almost unable to believe his eyes. ‘They took the press!’

‘They brought a cart for the purpose, Gideon.’

‘Robert has had that press as long as I have known him — we lugged it here from Fleet Alley, before the war!’

‘It is confiscated. The men said they had orders to find all the obnoxious publications, seize the press and take Robert to the Tower.’

Word had run around the tight community. Other printers came from Coleman Street to commiserate. Witnesses were found. In that conspiratorial area, everyone was on constant alert for interference. A dawn raid might have an element of surprise for the victim but it could not be achieved without attracting a crowd. Miles was too distressed to describe the raid, but others came forward to tell how Robert had been subjected to a barrage of questions. He had with great spirit returned what seemed to be printers’ standard answers: