The Outrageous Fortune of Abel Morgan

by Cynthia Jefferies

  Loving Abel was not difficult. Christopher very soon found life unimaginable without him. Setting himself to be a mother as well as father to the child, he rejoiced at his first smile, encouraged his first steps and soothed him from his nightmares. Not having been familiar with babies, he soon became an expert. He would have liked to discuss the bringing up of children with his friend, but Daniel Johnson was not interested in such things. He had a wife, though never spoke of her, and a number of children who he could neither name nor seemed to care about. Finding him reluctant, Christopher turned to Jane. She had no living child of her own and was a servant, but she had a down-to-earth approach and a willingness to share it, which Christopher found pleasing. In the winter, family life revolved around the kitchen, where Abel could toddle after Sally, and where it was always warm and fragrant. In the summer, Christopher and Abel could often be found outside. Christopher had a wish to make a garden, but his efforts were irregular and his expertise fragmentary. The weeds he so laboriously cleared with his son one month grew back stronger and wilder than ever the next, but the exercise amused them both. In season, the tangled currants, gooseberries, plums and apples that had been planted long before still fruited, giving them a feeling of achievement when they delivered them, triumphant, to the kitchen.

  Time passed. Christopher could almost forget he was master of an inn, for it effortlessly provided his small but adequate income while he lived his domestic idyll. William served, Jane cooked and Daniel supplied its needs, while Christopher enjoyed his child. In this way, life went peacefully on until Abel was four years old. He and his milk brother, Charlie, the son of Coleman the blacksmith, had a close friendship and often played together. On this particular day in October, Abel was without his friend. Instead, he was in the kitchen, eating the curls of apple peel Jane was letting fall from her knife. Unusually, Christopher was at his desk, struggling with the accounts. For some time, income had been falling and all day long Christopher had been trying to discover what was wrong. He had just begun to realise that over the past months Daniel appeared to have been paid twice over for the goods he had delivered. The usual amount was recorded, but double that had been paid out. The realisation was more than uncomfortable for Christopher. His conscience troubled him. He should have kept a tighter rein on the business. Now he would have to ask questions of William, who paid Daniel from the cash box, and Daniel, who knew where the cash box was and could have easily helped himself, should he have wanted to.

  As he closed the book at last with a sigh, he heard Abel’s footsteps, running swiftly along the landing. He smiled with anticipation at the explosion of enthusiasm his young son always brought with him. Sure enough, the force of Abel’s push sent the door crashing against the wall and Christopher prepared himself to remonstrate gently with the boy. But the horror on Abel’s face didn’t invite a telling-off.

  ‘Father! Come quick! Sally is dying!’

  For a moment Christopher thought it was a game, but then he realised that whatever the truth of the situation, young Abel was completely sure the girl was at her end.

  ‘It’s not as you think,’ he said, holding his arm out ready to embrace the boy. To his surprise, Abel refused to be comforted.

  ‘She is,’ he insisted. ‘You must come and save her! Jane says she can’t do it in the kitchen and William has gone to lay some straw down for her to die in the stable.’

  The boy was in tears. Christopher got up and went to him. He would have picked him up, but Abel grabbed his hand and tugged at him.

  ‘I don’t want her to die, Father. Don’t let Jane send her to the stable to die.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. No one would do that. I’m coming. But take it steady or you’ll fall on the stairs.’

  As they reached the passage that led to the kitchen, a scream split the air and Abel tugged his father’s hand even harder. Something was wrong, but by the time they reached the kitchen all was quiet and Christopher was hard put to see what was amiss. Jane was standing over Sally, as if to scold her, and Sally was bent double, holding on to the table for support. Of William there was no sign.

  ‘What is going on here?’ Christopher felt awkward. It was not his business if Jane was beating the girl for some wrong, though it was a little out of her usual behaviour. Jane turned to face him with something close to despair on her face.

  ‘She’s sorry for the trouble, sir. But it’s too late. It’s all too late now.’

  Christopher saw blood on the girl’s skirt and felt doubly awkward. ‘What has she done wrong, Jane? Don’t beat her any more. It upset Abel.’ Sally let out the beginnings of a scream, which turned into a deep groan as she gritted her teeth and lowered her head to the table.

  ‘Don’t let her die, Father!’

  Jane pulled Sally’s pallet from a corner and threw it down by the girl. ‘Too late to move her, sir. Take the boy away. This is no place for children – or men. Go! Leave us!’

  Jane had never spoken to him like that before. The urgency spat out of her like the sting of a hornet. He backed away, suddenly aware of the truth. Abel was crying and so he picked him up and carried him, kicking and protesting, from the room and out into the garden.

  ‘It’s all right,’ he comforted Abel, though he didn’t feel it would be all right at all. Sally was only a servant, but Abel was very fond of her and Christopher wanted to spare his son any sorrow. If she died, he would be inconsolable. He walked up and down with Abel in his arms, muttering comforting words to him while feeling more and more angry. Sally was no more than a child and by no means given to flirting with the customers. Some lad in the village had obviously forced himself on her. Well, Christopher would make him pay for his pleasure. He would make the scoundrel marry her, and look after her and the child – if they lived.

  Abel grew quiet, but Christopher’s guts were churning. Of course, girls got pregnant all the time, and Sally had no mother to advise her, but surely Jane had talked to her about the ways of men? And she was his servant! How dare any man take her! No wonder they had been hiding the girl’s condition. They would know that if discovered he would put her out of her job. Indeed, how could she do her work with a babe to care for? It was not possible. Besides, the inn wasn’t profitable enough to take in some lout’s brat. But even as he fumed and inwardly cursed, Christopher knew himself. He could never throw the child out. After all, he was sure she was an orphan and would die in a ditch without work and a roof over her head. It was not just Abel who was fond of her. He had seen the way she had played with his son as a tiny babe and watched over him as he toddled precariously in the kitchen. She was part of the household. She was not family, but like Jane and William, her place was here, except that some man had ruined her. It was man’s job to fight, and woman’s to breed and die. He would not be a woman for all the world. They had by far the hardest part.

  Abel had become heavy in his arms. He realised his son had fallen asleep on his shoulder, having exhausted himself. Christopher sat on a stump and waited. It seemed a long time but couldn’t have been more than an hour when Jane came to find him. Abel had woken up and the two were tossing stones at a discarded old cast iron pot that was used to hold scraps for the chickens.

  ‘Well?’

  Jane looked at him as if ready for a scolding. ‘It’s over,’ she said. ‘The babe is very small and weak. I doubt it’ll live.’

  ‘Where are they?’

  ‘Still in the kitchen, sir. William has made a bed in the stable, if you will allow her to be there until she recovers …’

  ‘If the infant is weak it will need care. I will not be blamed for hastening its demise. Let them stay for now in the kitchen if you can manage with them there. Abel? We should go in. It’s getting late. You may say hello to Sally, but you must be a quiet boy and not run about.’ Abel looked confused. ‘Sally is very tired,’ Christopher added, and Abel seemed satisfied with that.

  Later, when Abel was in bed and William was attending to customers in the inn, Christopher went to s
peak to Sally. Jane was just about to give her a posset but set it back on the table when their master arrived.

  After a few hours’ rest the girl looked remarkably healthy. The contrast with his poor dead wife was extraordinary and he felt a huge wave of sorrow for what might have been. Then he looked at the infant, lying in its child-mother’s arms. He could only see its tiny face. It looked sallow and slack, as if living was too much effort. He remembered how Abel’s face had looked like pale pink marble, while this infant had about it the look of old parchment.

  ‘Give her the bowl, Jane. I can speak to her while she eats her food. Now, Sally.’ He pulled a stool from under the table and sat close to his servant. ‘Tell me: who is the father of this infant?’

  Sally stared into her bowl. ‘I cannot tell.’ Her voice was so quiet it was hardly more than a whisper.

  Christopher was shocked. ‘I thought you were a good girl, Sally. In fact, I was sure of it.’

  ‘He says I’m wicked. He says it’s my fault. I’m bad, sir. He says I am.’ Tears dropped from her eyes into the bowl.

  ‘Who does?’

  ‘I can’t tell, sir. I mustn’t!’

  ‘Whatever this lad has told you, Sally, is wrong. But we can put things right. Do you love him?’

  ‘No!’

  Christopher leant towards the girl, feeling sad. ‘Did he force you then? Don’t be afraid.’

  She nodded.

  ‘Then he is the wicked one, not you. Tell me who he is, Sally. You are my servant and I can protect you. He should be made to marry you, but if you do not love him I will not insist upon it.’

  She shook her head. Her sobbing woke the babe, who gave a high, thin wail.

  ‘I can only help if you tell me his name.’

  The only reply was more weeping. Christopher was ready to give up, but then Jane spoke. ‘Child, you must listen to the master and answer him truthfully.’

  ‘Jane is right,’ he said. ‘Just say his name once.’

  ‘He says bad things will happen to me if I tell.’

  Christopher’s temper was rising at this fruitless conversation.

  ‘I tell you, Sally, bad things certainly will happen if you do not tell me.’

  She glanced at him with her wet, frightened face. Then she looked away again. She mumbled a name to the floor.

  ‘Johnson.’

  Christopher strained to decipher it.

  ‘One of the Johnsons?’

  She nodded.

  ‘They are a large family, Sally. You must say a Christian name too.’

  The girl stared at the door with frightened eyes, as if she expected to see the person standing there.

  ‘Daniel,’ she said, holding the babe like a manikin, her voice a little more than a whisper, full of bitterness as well as terror. ‘It’s Daniel, sir, who’s used me so these past three years.’

  Christopher threw himself back in his chair. ‘Sally! It’s wicked to falsely accuse any man.’

  She looked at him now, wretched and hopeless. ‘You don’t believe me. He’s your friend. You’ll turn me out. I knew you would.’ She made no sound of weeping now, but tears continued to fall from her eyes, dripping onto the oblivious infant’s head like a miserable baptism.

  Christopher wanted to disregard what the child had said, but the truth seeped into him as if her tears had fallen on his own head. Sally had no reason to lie. It would bring her no advantage. He wanted to tell her that Daniel was no friend of his, but he had given his servants that impression for years. He had shown Daniel friendship because he was weakened by sadness and it had also been convenient to do so. But he had always known Daniel wasn’t the best of men. Best? He regarded Sally with horror. The orphan child was in his care. He had thought her safe, sleeping in the kitchen. He could hardly dare to ask her but ask he must. He made his voice gentle and kindly.

  ‘Tell me, Sally. Where did he do these things to you?’

  ‘Here, sir. At night, when the inn was quiet and all in bed.’

  A horrible realisation dawned over Christopher. He got to his feet and went to the cellar door. The key used to hang on a nail by the door, but it was not there, nor in the keyhole. He lifted the latch and the door opened easily, revealing the steep steps down into the dark. He closed it, feeling a chill creep over his body. How long had it been like this? Four years and he had noticed nothing amiss? They might as well have not bothered to lock any door at night if this route in was left unsecured.

  He hurried back to the kitchen and asked Jane, ‘Where is the key to the cellar door?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir. I have no reason to need it. William used to have care of it.’ She glanced at Sally, who had lain down and was now a shapeless huddle under a blanket. ‘I think Daniel Johnson has looked after such things for a good while now because he delivers much into the inn that way, as you must know.’

  Her unspoken accusation angered Christopher, but though he felt himself tremble with fury, he knew the barb to be just. ‘Will Sally be fit enough to mount the stairs by nightfall?’

  Jane nodded.

  ‘Then tonight she must be taken up to the attic with you and William. She cannot sleep in the kitchen any more.’

  Christopher didn’t wait for a reply. Instead, he went out through the back door and round the side of the inn until he reached the road. He couldn’t bear the feelings that tortured him. It was not simply the plight of that poor girl, due in part because of his neglect of duty. The smell of those birthing fluids had taken him right back to the moment when he had found his young wife dead and abandoned. He had tried so hard to put those memories behind him. He had hoped that by loving their son more than life itself he had at least partly atoned for having been absent, but here were his guts twisting again and his heart snapping in his breast. Was he doomed always to make decisions that ended with hurt to others? Was he so inadequate a person that he couldn’t even take care of his own servants?

  In his agony of self-hatred, he longed for his dead mother to be there to encourage him with her love. But he had no family to advise him. No friend, nor wife – no one to comfort him. There was no one to ease his burden. He must do it himself. He must somehow be his own support and carry on, although he would rather lie down and die.

  Four years ago, he had been in this very place, looking at the lighted windows of the inn with despair, certain the babe in his arms was dying. And yet, four years on, he had a strong, happy, growing son. He must not allow himself to despair again. It took too long to overcome it. He did not have time to wallow in self-pity. He must act now, if he were to create any sort of security for his family. And to do that he must go and see Coleman the blacksmith.

  After the inn was closed, Christopher held a lantern while John Coleman fitted a new lock to the cellar door and two large bolts, top and bottom. William had, as usual, locked the outer doors, but before he finally went to bed, Christopher checked them again.

  The next day, Christopher woke up feeling rather as he had done before the battle of Worcester. It was almost certain there would be a skirmish against Daniel Johnson, and overnight Christopher’s anger at the man had given way to fear. He knew very well that the opinion in the village was that the Johnson tribe was not a family to be crossed. No one used the word ‘smuggler’ about them, but it was common knowledge that this was their trade. Daniel had always been perfectly civil to Christopher, yet how would he react when he discovered he was to be denied not only access to the girl but also free passage to the inn, from where, perhaps, he moved goods secretly in and out of the village, as well as helping himself to Christopher’s money? Before he went downstairs, Christopher rummaged in his old travelling box and unearthed his pistol. He had won it in a game of cards in Holland and had never fired it. He feared it might blow up in his hand if he did. But it was a weapon of sorts and Daniel would not know it was more for courage than combat.

  He chose a time when the inn was quiet. As Daniel was finishing the meal that Jane provided for him every day, Ch
ristopher approached him.

  ‘I have something to say to you, Daniel.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ As always, half a smile hung around his mouth. Christopher was trembling, but the insolent smile helped him rediscover his anger.

  ‘You are to leave my servant Sally alone from now on.’

  Daniel laughed. ‘That slut! She should learn to run faster.’

  ‘You had her in her own home, where she should be safe!’

  The smile was still there. ‘Indeed, she has been failed by her master.’

  Christopher wanted to take the pistol from his belt and fire it into Daniel’s insolent face. With an effort he kept his voice matter-of-fact and his expression cold.

  ‘You will leave her alone from now on and you will pay for the food you have in this inn. You will be paid no more than is your due for the goods you bring and you will no longer intimidate my servants. If you ignore my wishes I shall terminate all my trade with you.’

  Daniel pushed away his empty pewter plate and stood up, still loosely holding the small knife he had used to cut his meat in his hand. He was still smiling.

  ‘You well know your purchases from me are irregular and a hanging offence,’ he told Christopher. ‘And if you think you can threaten me, take note that I can do far worse to you. We are in partnership, you and I. Do you only now know it? William will continue to pay me what I tell him and, as for that girl, she is no good to me now. I don’t like them when their bellies grow.’ One by one, he picked up from the table the plate, glass and bottle of brandy. He hurled them all without warning into the fireplace. The sound and sudden violence shocked Christopher into silence. After a moment, Daniel pushed insolently past him to the door. Christopher could feel the point of the blade, dragging across the fabric of his shirt. He looked down. There was no blood and the linen was not damaged, but his flesh could still feel the scraping of it.