Nearer My God to Thee

Lisa Lahey

The massive wooden wagon rolled along the gravel road, its wheels groaning in protest at every bump and pothole. The entire carriage, lacking strong support, shook as it traveled. A single, gray-spotted horse was tethered to its front and a driver sat atop the wagon. He sang a song he’d heard many times sipping ales at the town tavern.

A slender, young woman stood inside the wagon, struggling to stay upright as the wagon lurched whenever it rode over a thick branch. The woman’s tightly braided copper hair hung down to her tiny waist. Her pale, patrician profile seemed frozen and emotionless. Her wrists and ankles were chained to the wagon’s side rails, forcing her to stand erect, and making it impossible for her to escape. She stood upon a bed of straw, listening to her heart pounding in her chest. 

Nellie Foster, a Presbyterian missionary, sat in the wagon reading aloud to the woman from her bible. Prematurely grey and in her thirties, Nellie was a fervent believer in the Lord and  His forgiveness of the wretched girl. Vivianne’s sob made her look up. She put her bible aside and went to her.

“Vivianne, ye must remember that God is with ye. Ye have repented yer sins, and, on this day, ye will join Him in His kingdom.”

Vivianne swallowed back tears and tried not to cry. 

“Nellie if ye weren’t with me, I would die of fear before I even reached the gallows. Is this really happening on this horrid day?”

The driver suddenly broke off singing and called back to Vivianne.

“Miss, would ye rather I sing you a hymn? How about Nearer My God to Thee?” he barked out a laugh.

“Never mind him,” Nellie muttered. 

The women heard the faint cries of an excited crowd before they could see it. Off in the distance, families, children, and the elderly revelled in excitement as they waited for Vivianne Dyer’s arrival. Little girls ran about with effigies made in her likeness. Vendors erected stalls displaying food and wares and served roasted meat and game pies to anyone with coin. Merchants sold parchment they claimed carried Vivianne’s confession. Musicians wandered about, strumming lutes and singing bawdy tunes as women pretended to blush and men howled with laughter. Ragamuffin children slipped through the crowd, sneaking coins out of men’s pockets and women’s purses. 

It was an exciting day in the hamlet of Ramble Field. It wasn’t often the small county had a hanging, and gleeful anticipation filled the air. In fact, the last hanging had taken place when Vivianne Dyer was only four years old. She might have attended it but had no memory of it nor the person who was executed. 

As soon as people spotted the wagon, an excited shriek went up. They uttered cries of “Hang the bitch!” and “Burn in hell!” 

Vivianne swayed and would have fallen over had it not been for her shackling. Nellie wrapped her arms around the woman’s small waist and held her tightly. People clamoured around the wagon, spitting at the prisoner and calling her vile names. Two guards pushed the crowd back so the wagon could pass through. The driver removed his hat and held it out to collect the coins offered to him.

 Finally, he stopped the wagon and dismounted with a grandiosity that suited a footman attending a prince’s coach. Moving around the wagon, he opened the rear gate, and a guard climbed onto it. Unshackling the prisoner, he grabbed Vivianne and pulled her roughly onto the ground. People surged around her and once again guards pushed them back. They forced Vivianne up the steps of the gallows. Nellie made to follow her, but a guard placed his hand on her chest and shoved her backward. 

Vivianne stood on the gallows and looked out over the grinning, laughing faces. There were hundreds of people present; many having come from the next town over when they’d heard of her execution. Vivianne’s eyes scanned the crowd for signs of her husband, Hector, but he had abandoned her on this day.

People were impatient. “Hang the baby killer! Hang her!” 

The hangman moved forward, placing a hood around Vivianne’s neck then securing it with a noose. He gave a sharp tug and tightened it around Viviannes throat to such a degree she feared it would suffocate her before she hung. Vivianne’s shoulders shook as she sobbed into the hood. She smelled the odour of tarp and the terrified sweat of the people who’d hung before her. She allowed herself to think of precious Delilah, something she hadn’t done since she’d killed her. 

A justice of the peace stood beside Vivianne and unwrapped a scroll. The crowd hushed each other in preparation for his words. He cleared his throat and read loudly from the parchment.

“Vivianne Dyer, ye have been found guilty of the murder of yer infant girl, Delilah. It was proven that on the fourth day of February 1844, ye fed the child arsenic until she suffered a horrid and painful death. A jury of yer peers has found ye guilty of infanticide and for that wretched crime ye shall hang by the neck on this twentieth day of June 1844, until ye are dead.” 

The crowd remained utterly silent, waiting for the hangman to pull the lever and send Vivianne to a well-deserved death. All that could be heard was her silent cries.

Suddenly, the trap door opened. Vivianne fell through it, her own weight snapping her slim neck. Her slender body hung in mid-air, the rope creaking as she slowly twisted in lazy circles. 

Cheers emitted from the crowd again. Children ran beneath the dead woman, peering up her skirts and pointing at what they saw. Men threw their hats in the air and youth hooked their arms together and danced. Vivianne Dyer was dead. The baby killer was no more.

Nellie blessed herself and wept into a cotton handkerchief. How so many people could display such glee at Vivianne’s great misfortune was a mystery to her. It wasn’t her way and certainly not the way of the Presbyterian church. Unable to look at Vivianne any longer, she turned away and began the long walk home.

*

Vivianne’s marriage to Hector Grey was a misery. The pretty, young wife was fifteen years younger than him. Their marriage had come to pass when Vivianne’s parents could no longer afford to feed and house their fifteen-year-old daughter. Hector, a widower, wanted a young wife he could use to bear his children. His role was one of cruel jailer rather than husband. He limited Vivianne’s social engagements, and she was seldom allowed to visit her parents. A jealous man, he despised his young wife, believing her to be unfaithful to their vows. Often, Hector took his fists to Vivianne at the slightest provocation, leaving her battered and bloodied. A late meal on the table, or a failure to answer him quickly when he asked a  question, warranted a beating.

Over time, Vivianne learned his triggers and was careful to avoid them; no speaking at the table unless he spoke to her first. No praying out loud. No asking for money, even to go to the marketplace for food. No singing hymns unless it was Christmas and even then, only a few. There were many other rules, so many that sometimes she forgot one or two. A swift and violent punishment followed.

Tonight, Vivianne stood at the stone fireplace, stirring a large cauldron. Her copper hair was swept into a thick bun and caught beneath a bonnet. Hector didn’t like for her to be seen without it. He felt her long, free hair made her look like a loose woman. A large, purple bruise was visible over her left eye. Her tongue flicked at her split lip, licking away fresh blood. Vivianne had made beef stew with root vegetables for Hector and prepared large slices of rye bread. 

The house was a dark, one-room stone hut with a thatched roof. The large fireplace where Vivianne cooked took up most of it. A large iron bathtub, a bed with a flat mattress, a wooden table and two chairs completed the meagre furnishings.

Hector burst into the cottage, startling his wife. He carried a large load of firewood, which he dumped onto a small pile beside the fireplace

“When’s it ready?” Hector barked at Vivianne. 

Vivianne flinched.

“Done, Hector,” she mumbled. She scooped a large ladle of stew into a bowl and passed it to him as he sat at the dinner table.

Without waiting for his wife, Hector sat and scooped stew with a slice of bread into his mouth. It dribbled from the corners of his mouth and into his frizzy, gray beard. He wiped it away with the back of his hand and kept eating. 

Vivianne took her place across from her husband and blessed herself, saying a silent grace. 

Hector snorted. “Prayin’ to yer Lord again. He hasn’t done a thing for us, wife. There are people with plenty on their plate, but He doesn’t do the same for me, does He?”

“Thou shalt not covet, Hector,” Vivianne reproached him in a soft voice. 

Hector took a swig of his ale and belched at his wife. 

“Covet, indeed! Is it wrong to want a larger house and a heartier meal than what I’ve got? I should pray for a worthier wife. Then I’d have some peace and order in the house!”

Vivianne held her tongue. Hector was leaving the following day for Burnaby to collect his meagre pension. Burnaby was 500 miles away, and he’d be gone for months. When he left, Vivianne would travel to see Rupert Sullivan again. She had urgent news to share, and it was imperative Hector didn’t discover it. He would beat her again, and this time, he’d throw her out for good.

After the candles were snuffed and the two were in bed, Hector relieved himself inside his wife, pounding her and grunting loudly in her ear. His fetid breath heated her neck, and she lay as still as she could, waiting for him to finish. With a grunt, he rolled off her and fell asleep. Vivianne stared at the ceiling, burning with hatred for her husband. Had she the nerve she would have smashed his head with the fire poker.

Early the next morning, Vivianne heard Hector moving about, preparing to leave. She kept her eyes tightly shut, not wanting him to mount her again. She would rather have eaten shit than lie with him. Thankfully, Hector left without bidding her good-bye, slamming the door behind him. Vivianne breathed a relieved sigh and pulled her quilt tight around her. A slow smile crossed her face until she remembered the baby. Her smiled faded.

Vivianne’s stomach churned as she thought about her pregnancy. It wasn’t Hector’s. She’d bled each month for weeks after he’d left for an extended stay to visit a sick relative without her. While he was gone, Vivianne met and became enamored with Rupert Sullivan, a stableman for a wealthy family. At a barn dance, they’d come together, and Vivianne, starved for affection, had brought Rupert into her home. Many times, during the following weeks, he crawled into her bed until it was time for Hector’s return. By then, Vivianne was pregnant.

Vivianne couldn’t sleep anymore. She got up and went about her day, bathing and braiding her thick, copper hair. Reaching beneath the bed, she pulled out a ceramic vase. It was nearly empty. She fished out just enough coins for a carriage ride to Rupert’s livery. She wasn’t sure how she felt about seeing him again. Although she’d missed him, he had no knowledge of the pregnancy. She prayed he reacted with joy.

*

Vivianne crossed the large property where Rupert worked until she reached the barn. Entering, she saw her lover hard at work pitching hay. Sweat rolled down his face and back as his shoulders heaved with the effort. She remembered the feel of those muscles above her during their lovemaking. A fleeting smile crossed her face.

“Rupert?”

He turned around suddenly and stabbed the pitchfork into the hay. His eyebrows raised.

She smoothed her hair and brightened.

“Vivianne! What are ye doin’ here?”

“Hector’s gone again.”

“Aye? Are ye up for a tryst?” His mouth twisted into a lurid grin she hadn’t seen before.

Ignoring this, Vivianne smoothed her cape over her belly with her hands. “Rupert, I’m with child.”

Rupert’s eyes widened and he stared at Vivianne. After a moment he asked, “What has that to do with me, woman?”

“Rupert! It’s yours!” Her glow faded.

“How can ye be sure? Hector’s been home for weeks.”

“Hector was away when ye got me pregnant! I’m too far along for him to be the father.”

“What is it ye want, Vivianne?”

“Rupert, ye can’t abandon me. By the time Hector returns the baby will be born. He’s no fool.”

“That’s between ye and yer husband, not me.”

“But Rupert—”

“Vivianne, ye have a husband. Let him care for the bastard. Tell him it’s his. He’ll never know. He seems as dumb as a stump.”

“Rupert, Hector will be furious with me. You know how mean he is!”

Rupert sighed and sat on a hay bale. He gave Vivianne a cold stare. 

“How do I know it’s mine? Yer far too easy to bed and I’ll bet me wages that I haven’t been the only one beneath yer skirts. Do ye think me a fool?” Rupert snorted with laughter.

Vivianne stared at him, speechless.

“Besides, woman, I’ve a wife in Dunagan. I’m returning home for four weeks to see her and bring her my wages, then I’m back here again. Ye don’t think I’m goin’ to leave her for ye, Vivianne? She’s a good Christian woman, not a slut like ye.”

“A wife?” Vivianne whispered. Her head began to spin. “Ye never told me.”

“Ye never asked!” Rupert stood up and returned to pitching hay. He glanced back at Vivianne. “Go on, go home to yer husband. Tell him it’s his.”

Turning his back on her again, Rupert went back to his work.

Numb, Vivianne turned and left the stable. Beneath her cape, she rubbed her slightly rounded belly. By the time Hector returned, she’d have a newborn to explain. He’d surely turn her out. She’d have nowhere to live with her new infant. They’d starve in the streets. 

Tears blurred her eyes during the long walk home in a daze. Vivianne didn’t know what distressed her more, Rupert’s cruelty or the pregnancy. She had believed Rupert’s soft words of affection during the weeks they were together. Had she known him so little? Once, he held her gently in his arms, tracing her mouth with his finger and promising her a future together. Now this dreadful, mocking man had become a pitiless stranger.  

*

In the following months, Hector didn’t send word of his whereabouts. Vivianne had no idea when he’d return, or if he was in good health. He sent no money, and she took up sewing to support herself until he returned. The income, however, was meagre and Vivianne was often hungry. It didn’t take long for her to empty the coins in the vase beneath the bed. 

As the months passed Vivianne seldom went into town. It became impossible to hide her pregnancy beneath her cape. She lived in fear of Hector’s return. Would he arrive before the birth or after? Once she’d had the child, perhaps, she could find someone to take it in. Then maybe, by some miracle, Hector wouldn’t find out about it. It was a ridiculous thought, but it was her only comfort

In early February, Vivianne went into labour. Alone and in agonizing pain, she delivered a small girl. Vivianne held the infant and looked closely at her. There was no resemblance to Hector. The child’s eyes were dark brown, and a tuft of black hair dusted her head. There was no question she was Rupert’s child. 

It would have been easy for Vivianne to love Delilah. She was a pretty baby and well-behaved. She seldom cried and she slept well. Vivianne’s heart broke as she held her daughter and nursed her. Many days she wept while Delilah slept peacefully in her arms. Had she belonged to Hector, Vivianne would have known great joy for the first time since they married. Instead, she dreaded the moment her husband came through the door. 

Would he beat her? Would he take a hand to Delilah? Vivianne was far too afraid to seek help from the townswomen. They would know that Delilah was born in disgrace and would have no sympathy for the mother or her daughter.

On a bitter, dark morning, Vivianne stoked the fire then sat on her bed. She watched Delilah, who lay sleeping in her crate. Vivianne’s lank hair hung around her face, and she was unable to cook or care for herself. Her worries beat at her heart every moment, giving her no peace. Vivianne’s eyes blurred with tears as she realized there was no hope for her and Delilah. 

She heard the scratch of a rat beneath the bed. Normally, it would repulse her, and she would pull her feet up beneath her, but she was too sullen to react. She watched the ugly creature scuttle across the floor beneath the table, searching for crumbs. She glanced upward at the mantle over the fireplace, looking for arsenic. She should set some out for the unwitting rat. Kill it quietly and think about it no more. Kill it quietly.

Vivianne held the arsenic in her hands and stared at it. She looked at her sleeping baby. If she fed it to the infant in a cup of water, surely her death would be quick, like the rat’s. Delilah would choke perhaps, maybe convulse, then lie still. Vivianne would send for the doctor, who would be none the wiser. Infants died quite often in Ramble Field. So did mothers, usually in childbirth. 

The rat ran over her feet and, with a shriek, Vivianne stepped on its head, stomping until it stopped moving. She had no need for the arsenic now.

Vivianne sat on the floor, her head in her hands as she wept. Kill her baby? Was she really a monster? Delilah was perfect. She’d done nothing to deserve such a dreadful fate. But there was Hector. 

 Vivianne thought of Hector’s beefy fists as she hugged her legs and rocked herself. Surely, he would kill the baby when he found her. Then he’d kill Vivianne. It would be easy enough for him to leave town and never come back. If he travelled far enough, they’d never find him.

Shaking, Vivianne stumbled to her feet, reached for the arsenic and poured it into a mug. She looked at her sleeping child. The most important thing now was to save her baby from Hector. Even if he believed Delilah was his, as she grew, he’d beat her as badly as he did Vivianne. Delilah would never know a day’s happiness. Worse, she might wed a man as evil as Hector. Vivianne had to act quickly. 

Vivianne looked at Delilah’s rosebud mouth. Her porcelain skin glowed in the firelight. Long, black eyelashes brushed her lower lids. Vivianne shook away the image of her doll-like infant. If she didn’t do this now, she never would. She scooped the baby into her arms. With a hand that shook, Vivianne poured the poisonous liquid into Delilah’s mouth.

 Delilah awoke and howled as loudly as a wolverine. Vivianne had been wrong about the arsenic. It wasn’t quick and Delilah suffered greatly, more than Vivianne had imagined. Delilah’s face reddened and her tiny hands curled into fists. She vomited, covering herself in watery, blood-stained bile, then began screaming again. Weeping, Vivianne placed her anguished infant back into her crate.

“Dearest God, forgive me!” She pulled on her cape and pushed her way outside into the frozen snow as Delilah screamed. Vivianne heard the child’s cries from outside the house. Clutching her cape, she tried to stay warm against a frigid wind as she ran from the stone hut.

Vivianne squatted beneath an oak tree on the frozen ground, rocking herself and moaning. Time passed and, as if sleepwalking, she eventually stumbled on numb legs back to the hut. She strained to hear any sounds from inside the stone cottage, but there were none. With reddened hands like ice, Vivianne managed to open the door and step inside. Delilah lay inside her crate without breathing. Vivianne fell to her knees, weeping and praying for God’s forgiveness. When she couldn’t cry anymore, she lowered herself into a chair at the table, dropped her head onto her arms and slept.

*

That was how Hector found his wife when he returned home. He pushed open the door and was greeted by silence. No fire was lit in the fireplace and Vivianne wasn’t cooking. He looked at his sleeping wife and felt his anger grow. 

“Vivianne!” He barked and she startled awake. “What’s the meaning of this? Why is there no meal on the table?”

Vivianne regarded her husband through blurry eyes. “Hector?”

“Yes, it’s Hector, ye bloody fool! Who else would it be?” He stormed across the room and threw his canvas bag onto the bed. He was about to turn away when his eye fell upon Delilah’s crate. He squatted down for a better look at the tiny child. Looking closer, he saw she was a light blue. He touched her face and found it cold. 

“Vivianne. Whose child is this? What’s happened to it?” Hector stared at his wife.

Vivianne sat with her shoulders slouched, pulling her cape around her.

“Good God, wench, ye look like ye’ve been through the wars. Yer a bloody mess.”

“Is she really dead, then?”

Hector glanced from the child to his wife. “Whose baby is this?”

“Mine, Hector. I had her while ye were away.”

Hector’s eyes widened. “What do ye mean, it’s yers? Ye weren’t pregnant, Vivianne!”

“I was, Hector.”

“Wife, ye were pregnant with my child but didn’t tell me?”

Vivianne shook her head. 

“Why in Christ not?”

Vivianne remained silent. Hector bent down and felt the child’s tiny hand.

“Jesus, it’s cold! It’s dead, Vivianne! Have ye called for a doctor ye bloody fool?”

Vivianne whispered, “Her name is Delilah.”

Hector crossed the room and grabbed his wife, pulling her to her feet. He shook Vivianne so hard her head bounced.

“What’s happened to her?” he spat.

Vivianne stared at Hector, utterly exhausted. “I killed her, Hector. I did. I fed her some arsenic in a drink. I thought she’d just go to sleep, but she didn’t, Hector. Oh, how awfully Delilah screamed. It was a terrible scream. I didn’t know a baby could scream so loudly. I surely didn’t, Hector. It seemed to take awfully long.”

Shaken, Hector released his wife and turned away. Leaning against the fireplace, he faced her again. “Are ye mad? Why would ye kill an infant, woman?”

“I didn’t want ye to know about her.”

“Why in Christ not?” he repeated, his face turning purple and his hands curling into fists.

Too bereft to fear her husband anymore, Vivianne said simply, “She’s not yers. I knew ye’d be angry, so I killed her. I was going to bury her before ye knew, but ye came home too fast. Ye should have written to me, so I’d know when ye’d be back. It’s just like ye not to write me, Hector. Ye’ve always been an imbecile. A husband ought to write to his wife when he’s away. Had ye a heart, ye’d know that.”

Hector stared at his wife without speaking. A surge of rage flooded through him. He could have broken his wife into pieces, shattering her as sharply as if she’d been the ceramic vase beneath the bed. Except clearly, she was mad. It was the only reason he didn’t destroy her at that very moment. She wouldn’t dare rut with another man. Vivianne knew he’d kill her. Her mind had gone.

Turning around, Hector left the house, mounted his horse and rode into town as fast as though the devil was at his heels.

*

After the hanging, the shrieking of the crowd faded, and people straggled away from the scene. The gallows were taken down the following day, but for weeks, people spoke of Vivianne in pubs, at the market, and in their homes. When they tired of the subject, the ordinary routine of everyday life replaced Vivianne’s hanging until it was seldom mentioned.

Neither Vivianne nor Delilah were buried on consecrated ground. Vivianne was executed for her crime, and Delilah, born out of wedlock, was unbaptized. The church turned its back on them both. Although mother and daughter hadn’t been together long in life, they were brought together again in death and buried in an unmarked grave. They lay well outside of Ramble Field in an area the townspeople never frequented. 

As the years passed, weeds and grass grew high over the grave, making it impossible to find. Vivianne and Delilah Dyer became nothing more than tragic folklore and, even then, seldom mentioned. The people of Ramble Field went about their lives, unbothered and self-absorbed.

No one ever looked for Vivianne or Delilah Dyer.