‘Nay, sir.’
‘Deaf, are you?’
‘Nay, sir. The waves make hearing hard.’
He expected the man – his father, he should get used to thinking of him as such – to order him up, grab him by his scruff when he was tardy, perhaps even strike him as he had that first day but not since. So he ground himself into the sand to make it harder. Yet instead of a blow, there was an exhalation as a body dropped down beside him. Jack would not look at first, just kept staring out. As the silence continued, he glanced quickly. Sir James Absolute sat beside him, staring straight out, too.
‘A fine morning,’ his father said at last.
‘Tis,’ replied Jack.
The silence returned. A cloud of terns changed shape over the water, diving and rising as one, from fan to flask to arrow. Thus formed, they shot away, their bodies skimming the whitecaps.
‘You know, tis time, boy. If we’re to make Truro by nightfall, we must away.’ James had picked up a line of seaweed and was engaged in pressing the rubbery balls, bursting one after another. ‘Your mother and cousin are packed, the horses in the traces.’
This turned Jack. ‘Craster does not come with us, do ’ee?’
‘Aye. Can’t leave him here, an orphan now.’
Jack, feeling the colour rush to his face, turned it angrily back to the water. They’d left him there! He’d waited for these people for ever and now he was going to share them as Craster had never shared Duncan? It was not fair, yet another knot in the string of unfairness that was his life.
Yet his father, as if sensing the broil within him, went on. ‘But he’ll not bide with us in London. He’ll go to school, like you. But not with you. He’s for Harrow and he’ll be a boarder there. It’s far from us in the town and you’ll only see him on holidays, and mayhap not even then.’
This was better, but it raised another question. ‘And where am I to?’
His father dropped the seaweed. ‘You’ll attend Westminster School, where I went.’ He smiled. ‘Once you learn some ABCs and suchlike. You’re a powerful way behind other boys of your age.’
And whose wrong is that? Jack thought, anger arriving again. It was amazing how easy it came to him. Craster had had some learning from the curate. But since the cousins could never bide in the same room for long without blows, Jack was usually expelled. Such knowledge he’d gleaned came from Morwenna. Half of that was Cornish and her little English learning was little indeed.
It was as if his father was still reading his thoughts. ‘Three weeks ago, before Lutie Tregonning got word to us about Duncan’s … tragedy, we couldn’t have bought you the grammar you’ll study from nor the cap for your head. Not with the earnings of a half-pay officer and an actress without a season’s contract. And now,’ he laughed, a rich sound, as rolling as the waves, ‘now we can hire a carriage to take us back to London, put two boys into school … and much more besides. Oh yes, much more.’ He chuckled again.
Jack had wondered about that. All he’d ever heard about James was from Duncan, the elder brother accusing the younger of being a wastrel who lived with his whore.
‘Is it so very rich, sir, the mine?’
‘So they say. I became soldier just so I would know little of these things and care to know little more now. So long as the profits come my way. But I’ve made Lutie Tregonning into my cap’n and he’ll see me right. He’ll move into Absolute Hall, with money to do her up. There’ll be gold enough for that. Tis like alchemy, boy, as rich a seam as they say this is, pure alchemy. For it turns tin into gold.’
Jack couldn’t help himself. It was the question that had harried him since the moment he’d heard of the riches to be dug from the earth. ‘And who will get it after you, sir? I know Craster’s a bastard again so … ?’
‘Craster?’ James interrupted, puzzled. ‘Craster’s not my son, anyway. For better or worse, and may God help us both, you are my only offspring.’
‘But a bastard’s a bastard and, I’m told, cannot inherit. T’was what my uncle was trying to change.’
‘Aye, and I soon put a stop to that cozenry.’ James’s puzzlement had not left his face. ‘But who says you are a bastard, boy?’
‘Tis known. Tis a fact.’
‘Tis?’ James smiled. ‘Well, I know you was there, boy, but I don’t recall you taking in much except great gulps of air to deafen us with. Or you’d perhaps recall that I was there too, despite the outrage of the midwife. I was there because I’d come back from the war in Germany the very morning that you decided to kick your way into the world. I knew naught of you or your coming, so when I found out I came to the attic where your mother bided and I dragged a clergyman with me. There was he and me at your mother’s head, taking the vows at a gallop between screams and there was the midwife at your mother’s legs, sliding you fast into the world. Vicar’d only just pronounced us man and wife when he added the title of parents.’
This was impossible! He’d lived all his life as one thing, held this title of shame. ‘So …’
‘So you’re an Absolute true, Jack, and heir to the family fortunes. If I leave you any to inherit. Which is far from a certain thing.’ He winked.
Jack turned back to the sea to hide the saltwater that ran from his eyes. He didn’t know if he’d been in time. Beside him, his father rose, scraping sand from his breeches and coat-tails. Jack rose too. Looking up at his father, he saw that he was staring out to the water again.
‘You know, when I was about your age, boy,’ he said, after a long pause, ‘before I was sent off to school, Lutie Tregonning and I would come down to this beach and we’d climb atop of waves like that and ride ’em.’ He looked down at Jack. ‘Don’t suppose you do anything like that?’
His father’s voice, so refined in all the talk so far, had suddenly taken on a very Cornish tone.
‘Might do,’ sniffed Jack, ‘now and again.’
James looked to the cliff top so Jack did too. Someone was waving a cloth up there, summoning them. It looked like Morwenna. They turned back to the sea.
‘Bollocks,’ said James suddenly. ‘Redruth’s got inns too and changes of horses. If we only make it that far tonight, that’d be proper.’
His father was suddenly pulling at his clothes, dropping each beautifully tailored item with no ceremony to the ground.
‘C’mon, boy,’ he said, hopping as he tried to pull off one boot, ‘bet you a gold guinea piece I ride one further than ’ee.’
‘You never will, so done!’ yelled Jack. His few clothes came off fast, and together and naked the Absolutes rushed into the sea. His father’s cursing at the cold taught Jack several useful new words whose meaning he could only guess at. For an old man of nigh on forty, he wasn’t too bad, if a little unused to the trick of catching the wave just so. A few pointers from his son and he was managing fine. Not enough to win the bet, mind.
Later, with the feeling gone from his feet and barely able to stretch out his arms, with his father waiting for him on the beach, Jack launched himself ahead of what he knew would be his last wave. He didn’t begrudge it, now. Endings were beginnings, too, he reckoned and, as he steered himself down that final enfolding tunnel, he thought that even if Time had ended and they’d stolen eleven days from his young life, he still had a few of them ahead.
– THREE –
The Challenge
London, April 1759
The situation was as perilous as any Jack had faced. One by one, his comrades had been brought down. Any weakness was swiftly exposed, then exploited, any defence soon overcome. Jack, watching them crumble, had come tardy to the field where usually he would have led. His shoulder was still sore from a tumble he’d taken in a chase the week before. Still, he had halted the rout for a time, even regained some of the ground lost, he and Abraham Marks, the Jew able to best most of his Christian tormentors in this ancient combat. Yet finally, even he fell, not noticing that the most deadly of their enemies had positioned himself just where he could dive and catch th
e ball before it struck the ground. Marks’s bulky figure had joined his white-clad team-mates amongst the gathering, dark-suited crowd. Word had spread of the rally and nearly all of Westminster School was now crowding the edges of Tothill Fields where Westminster and Harrow were playing their annual cricket match.
For a while, it was beyond Jack’s control. He struck when he could, notching up a reasonable Hand; but his companions made only the odd run before falling. Even Theophilus Ede could add only a little. A worthy ten and he was gone, to be replaced by Nicholas Fenby. And by his own admission Fenby was no batsman, his skill in the delivery of the ball rather than its receiving.
Still, somehow the partnership held, the notches rising up the board, stationary when Fenby patted the ball away, steady when Jack faced it. He had a Hand of 47 now to Fenby’s 7, and had restrained his usual tendency to batter and smash. He knew that if that was partly due to his shoulder, it was mainly because of his opponent, Harrow’s best player, who’d caught Abraham so spectacularly, bowled out Ede and taken six of the other seven wickets with deliveries that had both pace and twist.
He’d been swiftly dubbed, in whispers, ‘The Man’ and it was an appropriate term. For if he’s a Harrovian, I’m from Mesopotamia, Jack thought, scowling at the fellow. He stood a good six inches taller than most of his team-mates, as many inches more around his chest. A shadow of beard thoroughly darkened his chin and cheek. Harrow had lost this match four years in a row and they’d taken measures not to lose an unprecedented fifth. Though it was more than common in matches between counties and dukes, Jack hadn’t heard of such a fellow – one paid well for his skills – being deployed by a school before. And it wasn’t the thought of losing the gold they’d all inevitably wagered on the outcome that most rankled with Jack. It was about honour. Yet that same honour dictated that Westminster could not challenge this hulk’s credentials.
All they could do was win. And despite how impossible that had seemed when Ede had fallen and Fenby staggered in, Westminster had steadily advanced ever closer to Harrow’s total. One ball was left in the over. All Fenby had to do was hold steady, leaving Jack his end to deal with The Man.
He’s good, thought Jack. But so am I.
The other Harrow bowler delivered a straight ball, a grubber and easy to pat away, which Fenby, with a nervous shuffle, duly did.
‘Over,’ declared the umpire.
‘Score, sir?’ Jack called to the scorer crouched over the wooden block, his chisel in hand. The schoolboy looked up. ‘Harrow have 112, Westminster stand at 108.’
‘Play up, Westminster,’ came a deep voice from the edge of the field and Jack recognized it as the headmaster’s, Dr Markham. He affected to despise all games, believing solely in the virtues of Virgil, Homer and the birch rod. But the annual match against Harrow was different and an unprecedented fifth victory in a row had lured even this learned man from his study. His voice, penetrating the hitherto respectful silence, broke the dam.
‘Forward, Westminster.’
‘Up, Harrow, up!’
To the cries now coming from all corners of the field, Jack strode up the wicket to Fenby who met him halfway. ‘That’s four for a draw, five to win it.’
‘D … d … d’ye think you can do it in this o … over, Absolute?’ Fenby was squinting up at him over his spectacles. His stutter always became more pronounced under pressure and the last thing Jack or Westminster needed now was for him to crack. He had done well, defended doughtily for his seven notches. But he was no batsman and Jack knew he must not let him face the bowler again.
‘Aye, I think I can. You’ve set me up, lad.’
‘Even …’ his friend glanced nervously back, ‘… against him?’
Jack looked. The Man stood there, casually throwing the ball up in the air and catching it behind his shoulder without a look.
‘Oh, I think I must, don’t you?’ he said with a confidence he did not quite feel. ‘Just follow up smartly, eh?’
Fenby nodded, began to walk back to his stumps, passing The Man, who came forward, ostensibly directing the placement of his fielders. Jack decided to wait for him. When The Man drew level he stopped and for a moment it was as if they were quite alone. Hitherto, he had been silent as a Benedictine through all his triumphs but now, leaning in, he whispered, ‘Ay’s goin’ to spread ye, ye bastard.’
The stretched vowels confirmed Jack’s suspicions. The voice was western, but not as far in that direction as Cornwall. He undoubtedly did not attend Harrow. He probably attended upon one of his team-mates’ estates.
Jack let his tone and level match the other’s. But he also let the accent, the one he’d been forced to restrain at Westminster in order to survive, come again into his voice.
‘You’m goin’ to try, ye downser. And you’m goin’ to fail.’
The Man’s eyes narrowed, puzzled for a moment, then the scowl returned. He grunted and walked back to position. Jack waited until he turned, until he had the man’s gaze again. Then he deliberately went to his crease and put his legs square before the stumps. They would protect his wicket; but such protection came at a price. He would not be out if the ball struck his leg. But if the ball struck his leg with the force that this man could bowl, it would hurt.
It was a challenge and it was taken up, the underarm chuck making the hard leather come fast and straight. Jack’s bat defence was mistimed and the ball thumped into his shin.
Probably the only two people who did not groan at the crack it made were the bowler and Jack. He walked away, restraining both limp and yelp. And when he took up position again, he called down the wicket. ‘The midges are out early this year.’
The next ball came, if anything, even harder, just as straight. Again it missed Jack’s bat, to crack again into the shin, almost in the same place. Jack made sure his voice had shed his agony before he looked up and smiled. ‘No, seems I was mistaken. They’ve passed away.’
‘Less talk, young man, if you please,’ the umpire growled.
They had disdained the fashion for playing six in an over, had stayed with the legal four. So he had two balls to face, two to finish it. Yet the next one went wide, too tempting to flay at it and yield up a catch. He left it. Jack looked at the bowler again and wondered if his provocations had worked. The Man had, after all, been chucking them down all afternoon and, with these three fast deliveries, he was tiring. The ball would come fast again but perhaps not as fast, straight … but maybe not quite so straight.
To encourage him, Jack stepped deliberately one pace to the side. Once more the twin stumps, their bail perched atop them, were temptingly exposed. The challenge was given.
Taken. Unfurling those heavy shoulders, The Man let the ball fly, and Jack was wrong both about the speed and its accuracy. It pitched once, short, which Jack wanted, but it came on perfectly hard, perfectly straight, which he didn’t. It demanded safety, a patting away, a wait for something less deadly. And Jack couldn’t wait, wouldn’t let Fenby face the bowler again. He needed five runs, five times his battered legs must carry him up and down that wicket. And the short outfield where the spectators encroached was usually only worth the four. Yet Jack had played this field for years, knew all its little secrets –unlike the bowler. There was one place where the ground dipped and ran into a clump of scrub bush, a place where fives could sometimes be found. It was off Jack’s right shoulder, forty-five degrees behind him. So now, as the ball came straight, hard but short, he angled his bat toward that place. A miss and he was out, and he and Westminster had lost.
The ball hit the tilted bat with all the ferocity The Man had put into it and took off, Harrovians in pursuit. Jack didn’t even look. ‘Run,’ he roared, and Fenby, backing up well, passed him before mid-wicket. His legs felt stiff but as he turned at the opposite crease, the sight at the field’s perimeter gave him impetus. The ball was disappearing into the shrubbery, two white-clad boys in close pursuit.
‘Again,’ he cried, striding to meet and pass his partner
. The crowd was hallooing both chaser and chased. ‘Two!’ came the universal cry. All knew what was required.
‘And again,’ Jack yelled above the tumult, making his third run. Turning, he saw the boys still rooting frantically, others rushing to their aid. So they took the penultimate run required, leaving just the one more to win. But at the very moment that his bat touched down in the crease, even as his breath came in gasps and his legs became as stiff as the stumps before them, even as he was turning to go for that last wild sprint, a boy emerged from the bush, ball in hand.
He could stop, let his team-mate face another over. That was the safe and sensible thing to do. The scores were level now so even if Fenby got out, as was most likely, the match was a draw.
‘Again,’ Jack bellowed instead and, as the Harrovian bent to throw, Jack began to run.
With ten paces to go, Jack sensed, rather than saw, the ball above his head, sensed it in the tensing of the receiving fielder, none other than The Man who’d sprinted down, anticipating this final play, shoving aside the boy whose job it should have been. His eyes were up, he took a step back as Jack closed the distance to five yards. A leap, a hand shot high, one moment a bare palm, the next it filled with dark leather. Three yards and Jack began to dive, but stretched ahead of him as his arm had stretched ahead to take a wave in Cornwall. No watery softness to cushion him here, just hard ground from a dry spring. His eyes were on that ball as The Man brought it from on high, flashed down. As the tip of the willow bat reached the crease, the bail was struck from the stumps.
‘Out! Out, by God!’ cried all of Harrow.
‘In! In, by God, and safe!’ rejoined Westminster.
And all there looked at the umpire, crouched low and intent a few yards away. He was a neutral, an usher brought in from St Paul’s School due to some rather unfortunate rioting at a close and disputedly biased decision a few years previously. In a sudden silence that seemed eternal, under the prone Jack’s desperate appeal, beneath the threatening, outstretched hand of The Man, the umpire slowly straightened.
The Blooding of Jack Absolute Page 4