Death and the Arrow

by Chris Priestley

  Shepton picked up the sword, yelled in frustration, and ran at the doctor, hacking alternately at each shoulder, but Dr. Harker was too quick for him, blocking each blow effortlessly. Shepton struck again and again— so quickly that Tom could follow the strokes only by the sparks that flew as the swords met—but each time Dr. Harker parried the blows, finally striking a blow himself that cut through Shepton’s coat and on into enough flesh to make him wince.

  Shepton backed off to a safe distance and let his sword arm drop. He put his hand to the wound on his shoulder and felt the blood that had begun to leak through the cut cloth. He looked at Dr. Harker with a smile that, on a face less evil, might have passed for one of admiration. “I’ve misjudged you, sir,” he said, putting away his sword and pulling out a pistol. “Drop it!” Dr. Harker dropped the sword, which clattered across the stone steps. “Now,” Shepton went on, “let’s see if you die as well as you fence.”

  Just then, Tom saw something on the roof. A black shape on the roof ridge. A glint of metal.

  Shepton saw Tom look, so he turned and then dived to his right just as an arrow hit the steps. He fired his pistol wildly in the direction of the shot. “Come on, you devil!” he shouted, scrabbling to his feet and seeking the cover of a low wall. “Show your face!” He turned and walked toward Dr. Harker with the now-empty pistol and, without warning, struck the doctor on the side of the head with it.

  “Dr. Harker!” shouted Tom as the doctor dropped to the ground.

  Shepton put the empty pistol in his belt and pulled out another. “This one is loaded, count on that,” he said as he put it to Tom’s ribs and dragged him down the steps, back toward the frozen river and the fair.

  Ocean saw them as they came onto the ice and vaulted the table to follow them. Then Dr. Harker staggered toward him, and Tom’s father came across to see what was going on.

  “No, Ocean,” warned the doctor. “Shepton has a pistol. He’ll kill Tom for sure if we try to stop him.”

  “But we must do something!” shouted Mr. Marlowe.

  “We can only follow and see what chance we may have to free Tom,” said Dr. Harker.

  “Quickly, then,” said Ocean.

  The three men pushed their way through the crowd, looking round for any sign of Shepton and Tom, three grim faces in a sea of laughing and singing ones. A jig rang out from the beer tent as Ocean spotted Shepton heading toward London Bridge. He tapped his two friends and pointed.

  The crowd thinned as Tom and Shepton approached the bridge. Tom could feel the barrel of the flintlock pistol pressed hard against his side as Shepton shoved and tugged him along. He was about to ask where his captor was taking him when they halted under one of the arches, which was thick with icicles. Shepton turned back toward the fair.

  Tom immediately saw his father, Dr. Harker, and Ocean. They had stopped in a row about fifty yards away. Tom’s father was about to shout out when Shepton beat him to it.

  “Savage!” he shouted. “Show yourself, you devil! You’ve stalked me long enough, you filthy coward. Face me like a man, if you call yourself a man!”

  Shepton took the pistol from Tom’s ribs, pointed it in the air, and pulled the trigger. The boom of the blast shook the icicles above their heads and Tom heard them creak and crack. It also brought a crowd from the fair, eager for more entertainment.

  Shepton threw the pistol to the ground. “No guns, no arrows!” he shouted as he pulled a large knife from his belt. The crowd gasped and Tom’s father stepped forward, but Shepton put the knife to Tom’s throat. “Not one step further.”

  “Let the boy go!” The Mohawk pushed his way to the front of the crowd and between Dr. Harker and Mr. Marlowe.

  Shepton pushed the boy away. “Drop that cursed bow!”

  The Mohawk took the bow from his shoulder, passed it to Ocean, and did the same with the quiver of arrows. “Here is where it ends,” said Tonsahoten quietly. He took off his hat, his wig, and his coat and stood in his beaded jacket. Around his neck was a knife in a leather sheath. He drew it, and the blade sparkled in the torchlight.

  “Well, come on, savage!” shouted Shepton. “Or have you not the stomach for a real fight?”

  Tonsahoten lowered his head and began to run toward his enemy, but Tom noticed Shepton reach into his pocket and produce yet another pistol. Tom lunged as Shepton took aim, and rushed at him, pushing up his arm as he pulled the trigger. But the shot still hit the Mohawk, and he dropped to the ice.

  Shepton shoved Tom away and yelled out in triumph as he saw the Mohawk’s still form. He pulled out a bent and dog-eared Death and the Arrow card from his pocket and waved it at the hushed crowd. “Do you see?” he shouted, wildly arching backward, arms outstretched. “Do you see? I have beaten this card and I have beaten Death!”

  At that moment, Tom heard another cracking noise from the arch above, and both he and Shepton looked up at the sound. Tom cried out as half a dozen icicles hurtled down, two of them jabbing into the ice inches away from him.

  When he looked at Shepton, his captor was still looking up, his back to the crowd. He rocked slightly from toe to heel, then fell backward with six inches of a foot-long icicle sticking out from his chest. The Death and the Arrow card dropped from his fingers and fluttered away across the ice.

  Mr. Marlowe rushed to embrace his son. “Tom, Tom,” he said with tears in his eyes. “I thought I’d lost you for good there, lad.”

  “The Mohawk, Father,” said Tom. “Tonsahoten . . . is he...?”

  “Dr. Harker is with him, son.”

  Tom ran over to the fallen Mohawk, but Ocean blocked his path. “Leave him be, Tom. You cannot help him now.”

  Tom looked past Ocean’s outstretched arm and saw Dr. Harker leaning over the body. He turned to Tom and shook his head. Tom pushed Ocean away and strode off across the ice alone. His father called him back but he paid no heed.

  It was fifteen minutes before he wandered back again, a little ashamed of himself, having rehearsed an apology to all concerned. He pushed through the crowd to find a black wagon pulled by two black horses leaving the scene. Under-marshal Hitchin and his men were dispersing the crowd, and Hitchin tipped his hat at Tom and smiled. The bodies of both the Mohawk and Shepton were gone. Only two bloodstains on the ice remained.

  “Sorry,” said Tom after he found his father and friends.

  “There’s no need,” said his father.

  “What was that wagon?” said Tom.

  “You remember Dr. Cornelius?” said Dr. Harker.

  Tom took a half step backward, staring from face to face. “You have given the Mohawk to the surgeons?” he yelled at the doctor. “You gave him to those vultures!”

  “But, Tom—” began Dr. Harker.

  “Don’t talk to me!” shouted Tom, waving him away and walking toward the shore. “Not now, not ever!”

  A NEW CUSTOMER

  Tom refused to talk about Dr. Harker, though his father tried several times over the next few days when they were working together in the print shop. Ocean too tried his best to broach the subject, but Tom would have none of it.

  Possibly to make amends for his behavior toward Will Piggot, Tom’s father allowed Ocean to work full-time at the Lamb and Lion. In fact, Mr. Marlowe seemed to have taken quite a shine to him.

  Tom tried his best to forget about Dr. Harker and the worlds he had opened up to him, though he missed him and their talks. But the doctor had betrayed him. He knew Tom’s feelings about the surgeons, and yet he had paid no heed.

  Then one morning Mr. Marlowe turned to Ocean and told him that he needed some pamphlets delivered to an address in Mayfair. “It’s a new customer; they sent a messenger by yesterday morning. I don’t like working for people I have never met, so make sure you get paid.” Ocean could deliver them, he said, but he wanted Tom to go with him to keep him company. “It’s not that I don’t trust you, mind. But these things have to be done right, and Tom has been delivering for me for many years now and never lost me a cust
omer.”

  “That’s understood, Mr. Marlowe,” said Ocean. “Shall we go, Tom?”

  Tom washed his hands and put on his coat. They each picked up a parcel of pamphlets, wrapped in brown paper, tied with string, and stamped with an image of the Lamb and Lion.

  “Here’s the address, Ocean,” said Mr. Marlowe, handing him a piece of paper. “They’re expecting you.”

  Tom and Ocean set off for Mayfair. The Great Frost was thawing and sleet was falling on the coffee-colored slush of the city streets. They walked through the arch of Temple Bar and onto the Strand, past the pillory where an old man sobbed, his face cut and bruised, and where laughing workhouse children clutched stones in their grubby hands. They walked through Covent Garden and Leicester Fields.

  “He’s a good man, your father,” commented Ocean as the sleet began to fall more steadily.

  “I know it,” said Tom.

  “Not many would give work to such as me. I shan’t let him down.”

  “I know that too,” said Tom with a smile. “But where is this place? My boots are soaked through.”

  “Not far now,” said Ocean. “It’s the next on the left.”

  They turned onto a street lined with fine houses. Ocean consulted the piece of paper Mr. Marlowe had given him and then pointed to a house nearby. “That’s our boy,” he said.

  The door was opened by a manservant, who, when they told him they had a delivery from the Lamb and Lion print shop, said that his master had asked that they come in. He wanted to take possession of the pamphlets personally.

  Tom and Ocean took off their hats, shook their wet coats, and were led into the hall. The servant said that he would only be a moment and disappeared through a door to fetch his master. The hall was very grand. There were gold-framed paintings on the wall, and a large clock ticked away in the corner. At the foot of the staircase was a mahogany table on which were two huge silver candle-sticks and a large leather-bound book. Tom could see something peeping out from under the book and, out of curiosity, lifted the book to see what it was. He could hardly believe his eyes. It was a Death and the Arrow card.

  “Master will see you now,” said a voice behind him.

  Tom backed toward the front door. “And who is your master?” he asked as a man walking slowly down the stairs came into view.

  “It is I,” said the man. “Dr. Cornelius.”

  “You!” shouted Tom. “What kind of joke is this?”

  “There is no joke, I assure you, Master Marlowe,” said Dr. Cornelius. “I have something I wish to show you.”

  “There is nothing you could show me that I would want to see! Come on, Ocean. Let’s leave the pamphlets and quit this place.” Tom threw his parcel violently down on the table—so violently that the brown paper split and he could see the contents. “What is this?” he muttered, ripping the paper aside. Inside were sheaves of blank paper.

  “Forgive the ruse, Tom.” It was Dr. Harker, who had suddenly appeared behind Dr. Cornelius.

  Tom was furious and turned on Ocean. “You knew about this?” he asked indignantly.

  “I did. And your father did too,” said Ocean.

  “I thought you were my friend,” he said to Ocean, tears welling in his eyes.

  “That I am,” said Ocean, grabbing both Tom’s shoulders.

  Tom shrugged him away. “And yet you trick me into coming to this house, of all houses, just to see Dr. Harker—”

  “Not just to see me,” said Dr. Harker.

  A door opened behind the doctor, and Tom stepped back in amazement as Tonsahoten emerged.

  “But you’re—”

  “Dead?” asked the Mohawk. “No, I am as alive as you.”

  Tom looked around in bafflement. Everyone laughed.

  “Well, are you not pleased to see me living?” asked Tonsahoten with a grin.

  “Yes ... yes ... more than I can say.”

  The Mohawk gripped him in a bear hug, wincing slightly as he did so.

  “Will someone tell me what is happening?” asked Tom.

  “I’m sorry, Tom,” said Dr. Harker. “There had to be secrecy in this. Ocean and your father knew nothing until this morning and Ocean wanted to keep the good news as a surprise until you got here. Tonsahoten is a condemned felon. If Hitchin’s men had known he was alive, they would have taken him to be hanged.”

  “But I thought you had been shot,” said Tom to the Mohawk.

  “I was, Tom,” said Tonsahoten. “But your efforts meant that Shepton missed my heart. Dr. Cornelius pulled the shot from my shoulder. He has great skill, Tom.”

  Dr. Cornelius blushed. “The ice stopped the bleeding,” he explained, “and slowed his heart and breathing enough to fool that jackal Hitchin and his men. In fact, Dr. Harker did well to realize this man was alive at all; a weaker man might have died in any case. The doctor sent for me as soon as he could and I did my best. He had already told me of the wrongs the Mohawk had suffered, and I hoped to make amends in some small way.”

  “I was wrong about you,” said Tom, shaking the doctor’s hand. “I’m sorry for it. You saved Tonsahoten’s life.”

  “And put his own at risk,” said Ocean. “Helping a convicted felon is a hanging crime. We could all swing if this ever got out.”

  “Which is why I must leave on the next tide,” said the Mohawk. “I have put you all in enough danger. There is no homeland for me now, so I will return to the only other place I might know happiness—to the sea, to a life of roving. But I shall not forget you.”

  “Nor I you,” said Tom.

  “Nor any of us,” said Dr. Harker.

  Tom, Ocean, and Dr. Harker took Tonsahoten down to the quay that very night. There was no moon, and the back streets they walked were as dark as tunnels. Tom was nervous even with the Mohawk, Ocean, and Dr. Harker’s sword arm beside him.

  They walked in silence, each of them with much that they would have liked to say, but aware that there was no time. There was still danger in their expedition. Until Tonsahoten was safely aboard the ship, Tyburn’s gallows loomed large—and for all of them now, for the help they had given to an escaped felon.

  They had just reached the foot of a long flight of steps when they heard the sound of running feet. Quiet at first, the noise became louder and louder and wild voices could be heard above it. The four friends turned to see a group of young men rushing toward them, howling like banshees.

  The leading member of the gang signaled for the others to stop, and he himself came to a halt a yard or two in front of Tom and the others. His face might have been handsome once, but was now deathly pale. His eyes glinted like glass beads. He had fine lace at his throat and wrists, and he spoke in loud, nasal tones as he toyed absentmindedly with an enormous clasp knife. Tom felt himself shuffling backward.

  “I feel duty-bound to inform you,” said the man with all the solemnity of a Justice of the Peace, “that you have had the grave misfortune of crossing paths with the most bloodthirsty coven of cutthroats ever to tread these streets.” He made a theatrical bow and then gestured toward the rest of the gang. “You may have heard tell of the Mohocks!” he said, and the others resumed their howling.

  Tom looked at Dr. Harker, Dr. Harker at Ocean, Ocean at Tonsahoten, and then back along the line until Ocean said, “Enough of this foppish nonsense!” All at once, he pulled a pistol from each coat pocket and Dr. Harker drew his sword. All three weapons were now aimed at the startled Mohock’s head. His knife slipped from his fingers and fell to the ground. His colleagues began to melt away into the darkness.

  “You may also have heard tell of me,” said Tonsahoten. He had removed his hat and wig and had his bow raised and ready; he walked forward until the tip of his arrow rested on the young man’s nose, making a tiny dent in the pale flesh. Terrified, the Mohock turned on his heels and ran, stumbling as he went, losing a shoe but lacking the nerve to retrieve it.

  “Shall we continue on our way?” said Dr. Harker after they had managed to stop laughing.
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  “We’d better if our friend’s going to catch his ride,” said Ocean.

  “You scared the life out of that Mohock,” said Tom.

  “And it ain’t going to get any better for him, neither,” said Ocean, slapping Tom on the back. “I slipped a Death and the Arrow card into his pocket.” Everyone laughed at the thought of that—even Tonsahoten.

  But the laughter faded, for in no time at all they were standing on the quayside, listening to the mysterious clamor of sailors going about their given tasks—busy silhouettes among the rigging, knotting and loosening ropes, hauling in chains and unfurling canvas.

  The ice on the river had melted and ships were free to sail once more. Tonsahoten stood beside the gang-plank of his ship, a brig called the Dolphin, bound for the West Indies. He embraced each of the friends in turn, then took a necklace from around his throat and gave it to Tom. It was a thin strip of leather threaded through a small white shell. “Farewell, Tom,” he said.

  “Farewell,” said Tom in return, and before he had put the necklace over his head, Tonsahoten was stepping aboard the ship.

  All too soon they were ready to sail, the mooring ropes were loosed, and the tide took the Dolphin away downriver toward the sea and the rest of the world. Tom stood and waved, waiting and watching until they could see nothing but the bare horizon and the new day dawning.

  As they walked away from the river, Dr. Harker put his arm round Tom’s shoulder. “Tom, lad,” he said, “I wondered how you might feel about becoming my assistant?” Tom stopped in his tracks. “It’s high time I sorted my books and my collection of curiosities; I can think of no one I’d rather have to help me do it. I’ve neglected things lately, but these last months have given me a new lease on life. Who knows, I may even go voyaging again—with you at my side, if you’re willing. What do you say?”