Lazarus Rising revisited (1 + 2)

Hello Gentle Reader, as some of you may know I am trying to write a novel. Entitled Lazarus Rising, it is a revenge story set during the late 18th/early 19th century.
I unfortunately have not been able to write much for a long time due to other things but it is my intention to finish it during the summer.

For those of you who have not seen it I am going to post what I have written so far 2 chapters at a time.
I would really like you to give me feedback in the comments. Thanks.

Lazarus Rising

A novel by

Neil Thomson

Chapter 1. July 27th 1816

The sun crept up the sky the way ivy grows up a wall.....slowly. The light smeared the dark blue of morning creating new and unique shades which shimmered and then vanished as if they had never existed. A breeze caused the crooked weeping willows branches to sway gently. Its drooping leaves brushed the ground like an errant, magical broom catching the dust and causing little eddies to form and rise; eventually falling back to earth to settle once again amid the sparse grassy riverbank.

The river itself was narrow and shallow. It gently meandered through thegree fields of the Kentish countryside. In the early morning summer light, a flock of starlings, which had been disturbed by an unseen intruder, circled and called as they rose up into the slowly warming air. Their call was shrill and startling and pierced the air.

The man who had been dozing against the trunk of the willow woke with a start and glanced around him with the look of a man who had woken up with absolutely no clue where he was. For a short moment he couldnt even rememer who he was, but eventually a look that looked a bit like a cross between clarity, anger and despair appeared on his face and he slumped back against the tree trunk banging his head so hard that the tree actually shook in response.

With a pained groan, he stood up and dusted himself down. He was actually surprised how dirty he was. To anyone watching the scene, the man seemed to disappear in a cloud of dust only to reappear, coughing from the dust that he had inhaled.

When he was standing up and not caked in muck, that hidden observer would say he was impressive to look at. He was in his mid to late 20's, tall, perhaps 6 foot two and broad like a bear. His hair was dirty blond and his fringe was longer than the rest. A closer observation of the man would allow our witness to notice the remnants of an old scar on his temple and a newer, fresher looking scar on the left hand side of his neck.

Despite these physical flaws, a lady would describe him as handsome and a closer look at his deep blue eyes would make her believe that this was a poor tortured soul because these beautiful eyes were pained by a secret and had seen things that had changed the man forever.

A grimace of pain crossed his face as he stretched. His thin dirty white shirt lifted up to reveal a toned muscular abdomen where another ugly scar had left its mark. he looked down to the ground where he had been recently sleepimg and there partially hidden , was a gnarly tree root. He had been so tired the night before when he had crashed out after walking for the whole day, he had not even noticed it.

He stretched his back again, slowly arching it like a cat and he lifted both arms above his head and linking his fingers he pushed up until his shoulders made a loud clicking sound. A blackbird which had been scared by the loud crack was startled enought to take flight and twittered angrily as it did so.

"Sorry" said the man with a shrug.

His accent was a strange combination, refined and rough at the same time. He searched around the base of the tree and picked up a  rough hessian sack. He swung it up with a simple jerk of his arm and it arrived on his shoulder with a solid thud. He looked around him as if he was still trying to get his bearings. Finally he picked a direction and headed off.

As he disappeared, the blackbird flew back to the tree, the starlings landed back in the field and the river slowly kept flowing as the sun continued to rise into the brightening sky.

_______________________________

The village sat in a gentle dip in the landscape. It wasn't a large place, less than 20 cottages, surrounded by a circle of trees. At its centre stood a church, an inn and a small village green. 

As the man entered the village, the sign at the side of the humble road said Stelling Minnis.

In the distance the church bell indicated that it had just turned 8 and there was plenty of life to be seen.  An old man was pushing a dilapidated wheelbarrow which every now and then squeaked in protest. The younger man nodded a greeting with a smile. The old man trudged on, incredulous to the strangers greeting. Further down the road, he could see several women standing on a corner. They were all dressed the same and had the weary look that mothers and wives the whole world over had. Frowning faces, limbs hanging loosely at their sides and wearing simple grey skirts that came way below the knee. Boots rather than shoes indicated that these women were not from the highest echelons of the community and this daily gathering, in their shawls and aprons was probably the social highlight of their day. As he got closer, he also saw that twoof the younger women were carrying babies and three slightly older children were sitting at their feet playing in the dirt.

It was at this point that the man was noticed by the women who as one all turned and followed his progress towards them.

"Good morning Ladies" he called, "Isn't it a lovely day?"

He was greeted by 5 blank stares and a cough and even the children seemed to stop and look at the man   

with a gaze that wouldn't look out of place on the face of a biologist looking at an unusual new insect species.

'Friendly bunch' the man thought to himself and he quickened his step away from the women. As soon as he was past them he glanced back to see the women deeply caught up in conversation and glacing furtively in his direction.

The man chuckled to himself, 'Welcome home' he muttered under his breath.

The road that he had been walking down now began to widen. Up ahead he saw that the road split in two and looped around a small but neatly kept village green. To the left of the green was an inn that was called the Rose and Crown. It was a white building that was obviously cared for and in front of each window there was a window box that was filled with colourful flowers.

On the right hand side of the green, there was a small village grocers amd the much more imposing sight of St Mary's church. The steeple reached up into the blue sky and on the top of it a weather vane with the shape of a cockeral indicated that a southerly breeze was blowing.

The man could see the graveyard beyond the church and he suddenly felt a sense of real apprehension. He walked over to the church wall and leaning on it, he gazed into the churchyard.

Here there were gravestones in neat rows. Some had flowers, others without. Mostly plain gray stones with the names of people long dead. He made his way slowly to the rickety gate in the graveyards corner. It groaned in protest at the pressure he exerted, but it swung inward to allow him entry.

He stepped into the graveyard and suddenly seemed to freeze with fear. His face tigthened as if a dark memory that he had kept buried deep in his subconcience was snaking up into his brain.

After a  moment, the man seemed to recover. He slumped against the hard stone wall until he seemed to regain his composure. He stood up straiht, brushed his wayward hair from his eyes and walkied purposefully towards a large, wonderfully ornate grave at the centre of the cemetery.

He walked past several graves that had plain grey slabs marking their occupiers lives. A farmer here,a clergyman there. Husbands, wives and children buried together under grey stone that had been carved with names and dates.

At the centre of the graveyard however there was a different memorial. Standing 7 feet tall atop a white marble block stood a statue of the virgin Mary in prayer. She smiled down on him as he approached with cold unblinking eyes that seemed to chill him to his core.

The block had been intricately carved and sculpted and 3 of the 4 sides had been designed to show biblical scenes. The birth of Christ was there; shepherds and the 3 Magi paying homage to the child in a manger while an angel flies overhead bearing a star in its arms. Next was a rendition of the Last Supper, Jesus at the centre with his apostles around him listening intently to what the son of God was saying. One of the figures seemed to shy away from the others as if it did not want to hear the mans words.

"Judas" the man spat the word quietly, "There is always a Judas."

The third side showed not the crucifiction, but the ressurection. The figure of Jesus seemed to glow, even on the dirty  white marble. The two kneeling figures were the two Mary's, mother and whore together in their adulation.

The man thought back to his own recent past and smiled to himself. Only recently  he had undergone his own ressurection. No one had been there to see it however and he was absolutely certain that when he had come back from the brink of death there was nothing glorious or magical about it.

Finally the man stepped around to face the final side of the block. There in the stone, engraved with skill and precission, and then darkened to make the letters stand out more clearly was the name of a woman.

Abigail Foxworth

1766 - 1798

Wife of George Foxworth

Mother of Robert Foxworth

It was not these words however that shocked the man. In newly carved words painted with the same black paint was another name.

George Foxworth

1753 - 1816

The man stared unbelieving at the name and let out a despaired scream that cut through the peaceful village air like a knife. He fell to his knees with such a force that pain passed in waves through his body. He groaned loudly and in a mixture of pain, grief and exhaustion he passed out.

When he was found a few minutes later he was still there.

Chapter 2

November 5th 1789

The wind howled wildly and shook the house. The maid, who was running along the main upstairs corridor of the house screamed as a jagged flash of lightning illuminated the window and she almost dropped the bundle of towels she was carrying. A stern faced woman in her mid 50's opened the door and glared at the young maid with a look that could curdle cream.

"What took you so long, you stupid girl? the older womn demanded.

"Sorry Mrs Stokes" the girl stammered. 'The master demanded my attention downstairs."

"Its your mistress who is demanding now, my girl" the woman replied; "lets hope this ends quickly."

A scream from inside the room caused the young maid to turn as white as her apron and she clutched at the wall to stop herself from falling.

"Dont be so squeamish Violet", the woman scolded. "Have you never heard a woman give birth before?"

"My father used to let me help when the spring lambs came. I have never heard anything like that before."

The older woman shushed her, "Keep your voice down! Your mistress is no ewe in a field; and this baby may well be the new master one day."

"Yes, Mrs Stokes. Sorry Mrs Stokes. Here are the towels that Dr. Metcalf asked for."

"Good, now go and ensure that the master and his guest have everything they need."

Violet turned and quickly scurried back along the corridor towards the stairs. The housekeeper turned and entered the room from where the screams had been coming and the door was quickly shut.______________________________________

Inside the room, which was sparsely decorated, was a bed and on the bed a young woman aged about 22 was in labour. The labour was not going well and the village doctor, a kindly loking, elderly man was looking down on the woman with obvious concern. He briefly looked up to acknowledge the housekeepers return.

"Ahh Mrs Stokes, I hope I'm not being to much trouble to you and your master. Will the gentleman of the house be joining us?"

'Unfortunately, Dr. Metcalf, the master is entertaining a business colleague who has travelled from London and he has specifically asked not to be disturbed."

The woman on the bed screamed again and the doctor refocussed his attention onto her.

"You are doing wonderfully Mrs Foxworth, everything is going to be fine" he reassured her with a lie.

"Where's George?" the young woman asked the housekeeper.

"The master is downstairs Madam, he is being updated as to your progress and sends you his best wishes and his wish for a quick and happy resolution."

"Please impart to him my own regards and that I hope my early  confinement has not caused him any..." her words were cut  off by another scream, "...inconvenience." she finished.

The doctor turned to the housekeeper and whispered, "Mrs Stokes, Mrs Foxworth is minutes away from giving birth." He got up and leaning in closer he added "She has lost a large amount of blood, that is why I requested more towels."

He cleared his throat and continued "There is a chance that she or the child may perish and your master, her husband is busy downstairs entertaining. It is essential  that he is made aware of the seriousness of this."

"I will pass on your message, but the master understands that business must be put before personal matters."

"Even at the cost of his wife or child? the doctor was shocked and horrified.

"Yes sir" the housekeeper informed him matter of factly and without rush or urgency she turned away and left the room.

"So McFadden, tell me the news from Virginia."

The man who had asked the question was huge. He stood 6 feet and 4 inches and built like a bull. His black hair had started to grey at the temples but it was still lush and thick. At 36, George Foxworth was a self-made man. The son of a ship's captain, he had gone to sea when he was only 13 years old and had worked his way up the ranks through a combination of hard work and a ruthless streak that even his father found unappealing and possibly dangerous.

When he was 16, Georges father had taken him on what he called an 'educational journey'. His father was taking a consignment of rifles and other cargo to the Ivory Coast in Africa. This was going to be a long voyage for the young man who was still learning his place onboard ship and in the world. The journey was uneventful and when they reached their destination, young George was intrigued by the climate, the scenary and the people he saw. 

Rich merchants milled around the docks in their finest attire, bidding for and buying cargo and even the ships. Tired, bedraggled sailors lurched from tavern to tavern.
But what really interested George were the slaves. Hundeds of men, women and children; most in chains, dressed in rags, the women with their breasts bare. The men were silent as they sat in cages in little groups but even aged 16, George could recognise the fear and anger in their eyes. This did not frighten the young man; it inspired him.
He could see the merchants who had become rich from buying and selling humanity. He saw his father earning a salary but not really sharing in the fortunes that could be made. George decided there and then that he would be the richest man he could.

Over the next 10 years, young George grew and prospered. He bought his own ship, filled the hold with slaves that his men had kidnapped and sailed it himself to Jamaica where he sold them for a massive profit. From there he travelled north to Virginia where he refilled his hold with cotton and tobacco to take back to Britain. Finally he sent cargo back to Africa and the Triangle of Trade was complete.
As the years passed, George , after making his fortune, decided to build, or buy some roots of his own. He found a well respected, but poor family, wooed and wed the eldest daughter and when her father mysteriously died in a hunting accident, he inherited the family manor house on the edge of the village of Stelling Minnis in Kent.

In just 15 years, George had gone from cabin boy to Lord of the Manor through his own hard work, ruthlessness and strength of will. Now 5 years on he was set to become the owner of a complete fleet of merchant ships and that would cement his name into the history of the British Empire.

The fact that his wife was upstairs making a hell of a racket was not helping his tension.
The man, McFadden, an earnest looking Glaswegian who acted as George's deputy answered, "Very Good Sir. The new American government is still willing to to do business with us." He smiled at this and he was relieved to see his employer smile too. George had a reputation of being difficult to please.

"So, profits are up, I can get my new ships and the future looks bright. Tonight, hopefully, my son and heir is being born."
"Yes sir, congratulations sir, a true blessing"
"Shut up you snivelling little worm", George snapped. "Your job is to make me money. Do that and I will be happy. Keep your sicophantic opinions to yourself."

A tortured scream broke the flow of the conversation and George looked genuinely furious.
"Bloody woman! Can't she just do it quietly?"
McFadden looked genuinely shocked at his employers outburst.
"Sir, this is your wife; she is obviously in a lot of pain."

"How dare you speak to me like that sir. I will not allow a jumped up little pen pusher like you to tell me how to treat a bloody woman. Breeding sir, all they are good for; just like the nigger bitches we sell in Kingston and Virginia. No bloody brood mare is more important than money. Remember that McFadden; a man without money is nothing."

McFadden, was very disturbed by his employes tirade but managed to retain his composure, he took a deep breath and managed to answer "Yes Sir" to his red-faced employer.

A knock at the door was followed by Mrs Stokes who stepped respectfully into the room.
"What do you want now Stokes?" George demanded, "Can't you see I'm busy?"
The housekeeper seemed to shrink in her masters presence. In front of the maids and the other staff she came across as a strict authoritarian who ran the day to day running of the house with a strong hand, When George was around she was just another employee and his presence in the house always caused tension.
"I'm sorry sir, but Doctor Metcalf has asked me to tell you that Mrs Foxworth is in great pain."
"I didn't need you to disturb my business with that you stupid woman. Half of Kent can hear that bloody woman's screams. Maybe some sort of gag for her to bite down on will solve the problem."
" Sorry sir, no." the housekeeper said. "Mrs Foxworth has lost a lot of blood and the doctor is unsure that the outcome will be successful."
George seemed to visibly crumple and he grabbed the arm of a red leather chair and sat down. He reached to the table beside it and picked up a half full glass of brandy. He stared into the glass thoughtfully as if he was trying to see the future in the swirling brown liquid. He took a deep sip and sat back in the chair.
"McFadden, please leave" he said quietly but firmly.
"Of course sir" the young Scot said and he headed for the door.
"Mrs Stokes, see him out and then return please."
"Of course, sir."
She ushered the gentleman out of the room and then closed the door behind her.
George took another large gulp from the glass, finishing his drink. He was pouring himself another when the housekeeper returned.
"What about the child?" he asked quietly.
"Dr Metcalf is not sure, sir" she replied.
George rose up to his full height and looked at the housekeeper.
"Tell the doctor that if it means saving my son; he must...whatever the cost. Do you understand, Mrs Stokes?"
"Whatever the cost, sir?" she asked with the tear in her eye.
"Yes, whatever the cost."
He turned his back to her and leaned with both arms on the mantlepiece over the fireplace and stared into the flames. He heard the housekeeper leave the room and he lifted his head to look into the ornately carved mirror that was hung over the fireplace. He gazed at his reflection and was suprised how old he looked. A tear gently rolled his cheek and he felt ashamed at his own weakness. He wiped the tear away, looked squarely at his own reflection and said to himself again, "Whatever the cost."