“We’ll be to Coney Island in no time,” Sarah told me, and gave my thigh a pat under the blanket. She smiled at me. Her cheeks were ruddy, her eyes moist from the weather. “It’s a shame you didn’t arrive in the summer. People come from miles around. It’s just so lively and gay.” She squeezed my leg. “If you stay, you’ll see for yourself. You will stay, won’t you?”
Stay till summer? The notion stunned me. I didn’t know how to answer, and wished she hadn’t asked. By and by, I said, “I shouldn’t like to impose on your hospitality.”
“You’d be doing us a great favor. You could help with the chores and keep me company. We’d have a wonderful time.”
“It sounds splendid, really,” I told her. “If it weren’t for Mother…”
“I know. I’m sorry. You must miss her terribly.”
“I rather imagine she should like me home with her.”
“Does she have the means to pay for your return voyage?”
The question knocked me flat.
“The means?” I asked, though I knew precisely what she meant.
“Financially.”
My hesitation was all the answer Sarah needed.
“No matter,” she said. “Stay on with us, and we’ll pay you a wage. That way, you’ll be able to purchase your own ticket home, and not work any hardship at all on your mother.”
She said it kindly enough, but it let the wind out of my sails, anyhow. All along, I’d known that getting home to England would be no easy trick. Most of the time, though, I’d been so worried about getting killed by Whittle or the ocean that I hadn’t given much thought to the problem. When I’d considered what to do on the slim chance I survived, I’d always figured I’d find a way to get back, somehow, sooner or later.
Sarah’s offer seemed to be the solution. All I needed to do was stay on long enough to earn the ship’s fare. That sure seemed better than asking Mother to scrape up the funds. I reckon I should’ve felt mighty grateful. Instead, though, I had this kind of trapped feeling.
“It seems like a fine idea,” I finally said.
“Wonderful. We’ll let your mother know of your plans.”
“You don’t suppose Mable will object, do you?”
“Oh, she may whine and complain a bit. But we won’t let that bother us.”
Well, by this time we’d left behind the few houses I’d been able to spot from my bedroom window. More came along, though. They got smaller, closer together. Pretty soon, they fairly lined the road. There were some street lamps, too, and I could see a town up ahead.
This looked to be the main street. Sarah took the reins from me, and slowed Howitzer. We went gliding past a few other sleighs, and some folks on horseback. I gave all the horsemen a study, not really figuring any of them was Whittle, but checking on them just the same.
Plenty of people were on foot, going and coming from various markets and shops and public houses. A good many of the establishments appeared to be shut, but some were open.
Just on the other side of a big hotel, Sarah pulled off to the side. We climbed down, and she wrapped the reins around a hitching post. I followed her onto a boardwalk and into a shop called Western Union. Nobody in there but us and a fellow behind the counter.
“I’d like a message sent to England,” Sarah told the chap.
“That’s what I’m here for,” he said, real chipper. He slipped a form across to her and slapped a pencil down on it. “Give me the name and address of the party she goes to. Put that right there.” He pointed to a space at the top of the form. “Message goes here. And down here, I’ll need your name and whereabouts if you’ll be expecting a reply. We’ll deliver it to you the day she comes in, if you live hereabouts.”
“We reside at the Forrest house,” Sarah told him.
Hearing that, he grinned. He had an upper tooth gone, right in front, and the remainder of his choppers looked just about ripe to follow its example. “You’re the General’s granddaughter, then. And who’s this young man?”
“He’s our house guest from London,” Sarah told him.
“Trevor Bentley,” I said.
Sarah passed the paper across to me. I penciled in Mother’s name and the address of our lodging on Marylebone High Street, London Wl, England. While I puzzled over what to tell her, the fellow said, “She’s pay by the word, so you want to be brief.”
Well, they stood there waiting, so I wrote quick. “Dear Mother, shanghaied to America, safe now. Will work for General Forrest and earn my fare home. Hope you are well. Your loving son, Trevor.”
Sarah handed it over to the fellow. After she paid him, he allowed we might get an answer in two or three days if the party chose to make a prompt reply. Said he’d have a boy deliver it to the General’s house.
Then we were off. I felt mighty good about getting that cable sent to Mother, and thanked Sarah for it.
“It ought to lift a terrible burden from her heart.”
When she said that, I choked up some. My eyes watered, but I turned away so she wouldn’t notice.
We waited for a rider to pass, then hurried across the street and went into a general store. It seemed we were in there forever, Sarah picking out this and that for me. We ended up with a whole passel of things—everything from a toothbrush to boots and house slippers, socks and longjohns and trousers, shirts and sweaters and a waistcoat, a jacket, even a nightshirt and robe. The whole pile cost her a bundle of money. But she hadn’t more than got done paying for it than she hauled out her purse again and bought us each a licorice stick, a copy of the New York World for the General, and a sack of chestnuts for Mable.
We hauled our load on back to the sleigh, and it was a good thing there was only the two of us, or we never would’ve managed to fit it all in.
We boarded, and Sarah turned us around and we started heading back out of town.
She said, “I hope we’re not forgetting anything.”
I shook my head, even though I remembered we’d told the General we would stop at the constabulary and give information about Whittle. No point in reminding Sarah, though. If she’d forgotten, that suited me.
I couldn’t see how it mattered. The True D. Light had carried off Michael and Trudy, so there weren’t any bodies to account for. And Whittle, he likely hadn’t stopped riding yet and wouldn’t ever be showing up anywhere close to this town. So I didn’t see any advantage, at all, to telling on him. It might only serve to stir up trouble for me.
When we got back to the house, the General forgot to ask if we’d gone to the authorities. He was too much in a frenzy about Saber getting loose. The three of us went outside and hunted high and low for the horse, till by and by the General allowed we ought to give up. Saber’d run off before, he said, and would probably wander back in his own good time.
I knew better, of course, but didn’t set him straight.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Christmas and After
Two days before Christmas, a boy from Western Union came along with a telegram. It read, DEAREST TREVOR MY HEART IS FULL WITH NEWS THAT YOU ARE WELL STOP I LONG TO HAVE YOU HOME STOP WRITE TO ME AND STAY SAFE STOP I MISS YOU STOP ALL MY LOVE MOTHER
The message made me miss her something awful, so I sat down straight away in the General’s study and wrote a long letter to her.
I scribbled on about what had happened to me after going to fetch Uncle William, and brought her all the way up to the present, telling her what nice people Sarah and the General were, and how I’d be working here at the house until I could afford a return ticket. Of course, I made no mention of a few items. Figured she was better off not knowing about me and Sue in the alley, or how I’d stabbed the whore’s confederate, or about me hiding under Mary’s bed when Whittle killed her, or even how he’d killed everyone on the boat except me. Knowing such matters wouldn’t likely ease Mother’s mind any.
I did tell her that Jack the Ripper was Roderick Whittle, and how he’d chased me to the Thames, and how I’d been his prisoner until we reached the shores o
f America where I escaped from him. She could pass the information on to Uncle William, and he could let the news out to everyone. It’d come as a great relief to the authorities—not to mention the East End whores—that Jack the Ripper would no longer be prowling the streets.
The next day, Sarah and I rode into town again. She sent me into the store with some money to purchase tobacco for the General while she took my letter to the post office for me.
The day after that, Christmas happened. It only made me sad, mostly. I longed more than ever to be at home. It had always been a jolly time, with parties and caroling, a great feast at Uncle’s house with goose and plum pudding and such, and getting ambushed under the mistletoe by folks I’d never let kiss me otherwise. We always had a Christmas tree on the parlor table all bright with tapers and fancy doodads. I wondered if Mother had put up a tree this year without me there, and thought how lonesome she must be. She wouldn’t be getting my letter for a few weeks, but at least my cable must’ve perked her up some.
Christmas was pretty much like any other day at the Forrest place, only gloomier. We didn’t even have a tree. According to Sarah, the General and Mable were down on Christmas because they had no family except her and didn’t enjoy being reminded of the fine old times they used to have.
The General sat around morose in the parlor, smoking his pipe and drinking rum till he fell asleep at midday.
Mable, she went for a walk and disappeared. Sarah and I had to go out hunting for her. We found her about halfway to town, crouched down a ways off the road, digging in the snow. She gave us kind of a scatterbrained look and said she was aiming to pick some posies.
We loaded her onto the sleigh and took her home. Sarah told me this sort of thing had happened a few times before. Every now and again, the old lady would slip a cog and wander off. “It’s her age,” Sarah explained.
Back at the house, we tucked Mable into bed. The General was still snoring in the parlor. We hadn’t gotten any chance to eat, so Sarah set to work on making some chowder.
We ate by candlelight in the dining room, just the two of us. Sarah could see I was feeling low, and tried to cheer me up. She poured us some red wine, and we “Merry Christmased” each other and sipped at it. The wine tasted sweet and sent a warmth through me. But it put me in mind of the rum I’d drunk in Mary’s room, and that reminded me of things that didn’t improve my mood any.
After the chowder was gone, we kept sitting there and drinking the wine.
By and by, Sarah told me she’d be back in a minute and I should stay put. Feeling plain miserable, I helped myself to another glassful. Well, along she came hiding one hand behind her, and knelt beside my chair. I scooched it away from the table, and turned it toward her. “Close your eyes, Trevor,” she said. I shut them. When she told me to open, I looked and she was dangling a gold watch in front of me by its chain. “Merry Christmas,” she said.
My throat clutched and my eyes watered up. I couldn’t say a thing. She put the watch into my hand and I studied it. The timepiece was blurry, so I had to blink before I could make out the crossed revolvers engraved on its case.
“It’s…grand,” I finally managed to stammer out. “Thank you ever so much.”
“It belonged to my father,” she said. “I want you to have it.”
“I shouldn’t…really.”
“Certainly you should. You’ll never know how much joy you’ve brought into my life. You must keep it always.”
“I…I do wish I had a gift to give you.”
“You might give me a kiss.”
With that, she uncrouched some. Hands on my knees, she leaned forward and turned her cheek to me. I kissed it. Then she faced me and looked me in the eyes.
“I know you miss your mother awfully,” she said. “I do wish you could be with her, on this day especially.”
I nodded, and wished the tears would quit running down my cheeks.
“I doubt I’ll ever be blessed with a child of my own,” Sarah went on.
“Oh, certainly you…”
She touched a finger to my lips. “If I did have a son, I hope he would be as fine a young man as yourself.”
Then she took to weeping.
She sank to her knees and crossed her arms on my legs and buried her face and gasped and sobbed. I set my new watch on the table.
“Don’t cry,” I said. “It’s all right.”
She kept at it. I patted her back and stroked her hair. Finally, she stood up. She straightened her dress and sniffled a few times. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “I don’t know…” And suddenly she was bawling all over again, even harder than before.
I got to my feet and put my arms around her.
We stood there, mashing each other tight, both of us sobbing to beat the band.
It took a while, but we finally got worn out and stopped our crying. We didn’t let go of each other, though. It felt mighty comfortable to be hugging her, even though I knew she wasn’t my mother and she knew I wasn’t her son.
When we unclenched, she tried to smile. Her face was all red and slick with tears, her eyes ashimmer. She looked just lovely. “Aren’t we the silly ones, though?” she said. “Carrying on that way?”
I didn’t know what to say. Sarah brushed the tears off my cheeks with her fingertips. Then she kissed my mouth, real gentle and sweet.
Not long after that, I went on up to my room and turned in. Taken all around, it had been a mighty strange Christmas. I spent a while puzzling over things, but my head was all foggy from the wine and before I knew it I was asleep.
Sarah woke me up the next morning with a kiss. She took to doing that every morning. Each night she’d come into my room at bedtime. We’d usually chat a spell, then she’d kiss me goodnight and go on her way.
In between, we looked after the General and Mable. I helped prepare meals, clean the house, and care for the horses. About once a week, Sarah and I went into town. We took the sleigh sometimes, or a carriage when the road was clear. There in town, we always bought supplies and a copy of the World, and Sarah always fixed us up with licorice sticks. Sometimes, when the weather was good, we wandered over to the beach. A boardwalk was there, with all sorts of shops and booths and bath houses and pavilions and rides and such, but they were shut down for the winter. Sarah, she never failed to go on considerable about what a bully time we would be having there, come summer.
The way my savings were stacking up, a dollar each week, I could see I’d still be around through summer, and likely for a few summers more. I didn’t know how much a boat ticket for England might cost, but it had to be dear.
Well, my spirits sank some whenever I thought about it. Mostly, though, I was fairly happy to be where I was. Sarah treated me real good. The General, he seemed to like having me around. Even old Mable warmed up to me. She bossed me something frightful, but didn’t get snappish too often.
There were times when I went for whole days without giving a thought to Whittle. I figured I was safe, and he was far away somewhere. For all I knew, he might’ve gone and gotten himself killed. I sure hoped so.
Every time we came back from town with a new edition of the World, though, I hunted through it. I checked each story, half afraid I’d find one about a butchery and know Whittle was up to his old tricks.
There were murders aplenty reported in that newspaper. Folks were forever getting themselves shot or bludgeoned or strangled or stabbed. For a while, though, I didn’t find anything that looked like Whittle’s work.
It was the middle of January when I came across a story about a woman “of low character” named Bess who was found “unspeakably mutilated” in a place called Hell’s Kitchen. That sure set my heart to thundering. But I read on a bit, and the paper said a fellow named Argus Tate had been nabbed for it.
As the weeks went by, I found half a dozen more stories about women getting cut up. More often than not, it happened in Hell’s Kitchen or Chelsea. I didn’t tell Sarah why I was interested, but asked her about t
hose places and she said they were in Manhattan, across the East River from us. When she let out that they were only just fifteen or twenty miles from us and you could cross the river by a bridge or boat, I felt rather squirmy inside.
You could get there in a day. Whittle could get here in a day.
Of course, it might not be him that was killing those gals. That’s what I told myself. I had to tell myself that, because otherwise it’d be my duty to go after him. I allowed I’d stay where I was unless I knew for sure it had to be Whittle over there.
I kept on checking the newspaper, and always hoped nothing would turn up to make it Whittle for certain.
My studies of the World didn’t take much time. In between chores and trips to town and such, I trekked through a good many of the books in the General’s parlor. I read a heap of Shakespeare and Charles Dickens and Stevenson and Scott. I had a go at some tales by Edgar Allan Poe, but gave up quick on those, for they reminded me of when I’d tried to read one on the True D. Light and gotten woozy. I wanted no truck with anything that put me in mind of that yacht or Whittle.
The books I liked best were those about America. I read plenty of Mark Twain, and even got to finish Huckleberry Finn, which I’d left hanging the night Mother dragged Barnes home drunk and I set off to hunt for Uncle William. I read all the Leatherstocking Saga by Cooper, and bunches of stories by Bret Harte. They gave me an awful hankering to see the Mississippi and the great forests and plains and mountains, and gold fields and the like. I longed to travel and have adventures.
Every now and then, I took a notion to light out for the West. I dreamed about it, but knew I was meant to stay with the Forrests until I could earn enough money for my return to England.
Besides, I heard tales from the General that made me glad to be safe in the civilized East.
After my goodnight kiss from Sarah, I often crept downstairs to the parlor and sat for hours with the General. We’d sit in front of the fireplace, him smoking his pipe, both of us taking sips of rum, and he’d talk on and on about his times with the Army.
He told me about West Point, and about Civil War battles, but mostly he liked to talk about his experiences during the Indian Wars.
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