Thomas Cadwell watched as the children danced around the bonfire, singing:
A penny loaf to feed the Pope.
A farthing o’ cheese to choke him.
A pint of beer to rinse it down.
A fagot of sticks to burn him.
He marked the fifth of November — as all in England did — though it was a strange kind of celebration. But he was old enough to actually remember the events they all sang about. He’d been in London when it happened; he had been just a boy, no more than five or six, visiting relatives for the opening of the parliament, and the celebrations that would accompany the long-awaited event.
Burn him in a tub of tar.
Burn him like a blazing star.
Back then England had been partly Catholic, even if there were no rights for them. Not anymore.
Burn his body from his head.
Then we’ll say ol’ Pope is dead.
Hip hip hoorah!
Hip hip hoorah!
His family couldn’t get very close to the Houses of Parliament, because of the crowds. It ended up saving Thomas’s life. The explosion had been spectacular: When the gunpowder went off, the House of Lords was reduced to rubble, killing King James and many nobles instantly. Everyone within 100 yards of the building was killed — the crowds outside, the Commons, all of the Lords — and the stained glass in Westminster Abbey shattered like the uneasy peace between Catholics and Protestants.
But the carnage was not over.
It came to light that the catastrophe was a Catholic conspiracy; the plotters tried to set Princess Elizabeth, James’s eldest daughter, on the throne. But England was having none of it. Catholics were rooted out and slaughtered, though some were allowed to convert to the Church of England.
Thomas had been one of those. In 1605 he’d only been six — younger even than the new King, Henry — and the mob that hunted down his Catholic family showed him mercy.
But not his father or mother, his brother or sisters.
Remember, remember the fifth of November,
The gunpowder, treason and plot,
I see of no reason why gunpowder treason
Should ever be forgot.
He knew the children dancing around the flames could not remember what happened, so he was not angry with them for starting to sing the song again, dancing now with even more fervor. Since that day, Parliament had never met again, and the King’s power in Great Britain was absolute.
A tear ran down his face, and Thomas looked away, as the children continued dancing, and singing as the flames licked the darkening sky.
A papist plot of great extent,
Blew up the King and the Parliament.
Three score barrels of powder below,
Poor old England to overthrow:By God’s providence they were catch’d
The Catholic treason was o’ermatched.Holloa boys, holloa boys, make the bells ring.
Holloa boys, holloa boys, God save the King!
Hip hip hoorah!
His son, Jemmy, looked calm and free of fear, despite being tied to a post in the Altdorf market square. He’d seen his father shoot and he knew that he was in little danger, but Wilhelm was nervous.