The Turnbulls

by Taylor Caldwell

  John’s expression darkened into complete sombreness. “No,” he answered, shortly. “I’m on my own. I’ve got to make my own way.”

  Thrown out, with a clout, Mr. Wilkins reflected. A marriage against the Old Boy’s wishes, like. Cut off with a shilling.

  John pursued hurriedly, as if he wished to change the subject: “You spoke of Dutchmen. I thought, perhaps, of not stopping in America, but of going to the Indies. I knew something of trade. I—I had intended to go into the business with my father. Do, you know anything about that?”

  Mr. Wilkins was silent a moment. He wet his fat pink lips and scrutinized John with unusual intensity. Was there a conscience there? Or had it been obliterated by bitterness and resentment? He judged that John had little money. Men like this, violent and turbulent, never reconciled themselves to poverty, could forgive anything which alleviated that unendurable condition. Still, there might be a conscience. He proceeded to answer John very cautiously, watching him closely:

  “Trade? Well, now, I’m not one as actually engages in trade, not direct, like. I’m what they call in Ameriky a go-between. I arranges things. I make plans, and brings the proper chaps together, so they can do business. When everything’s done to satisfaction, I collects a fee. Very discreet. From both. They trusts me. They knows as I’m a chap who’s got his finger in every pie. Nothing’s too strange or pecooliar for Bob Wilkins. I’ll take a go at anythin’. For a fee. ‘Wot’s your proposition?’ I asks. Then they tells me. I says, even if I’m still in the bloody dark, ‘I’m the one for you, sir, just.’ Then I scurries abaht and learns what I can. I’ve got a nose, sir.” And he grinned at John cunningly, with high good humour. But John was regarding him impatiently.

  Mr. Wilkins leaned towards him and spoke in a soft and confidential voice, leaning his fat little hands on his fat broad thighs:

  “Now, I’ll tell you sir, just between us two, wot I did a few years ago. In a way, it don’t sit well in me belly. But a chap’s got to live, and if there’s others as makes a livin’ in a way I don’t approve of, well, that’s not my business. You understands, sir?”

  John said nothing. But his black eyes narrowed and glinted as they fixed themselves intently on Mr. Wilkins.

  Mr. Wilkins saw that look, and was content. He proceeded with more confidence, his head on one side, his glassy hazel eyes noting every expression on the other’s face, as a physician watches every faint shadow of pain which might give him a clue:

  “Well, now, sir, as I said, there’s chaps in rum businesses. You knows your history, sir? Well, seems like a hundred years ago a yeller chap in China, the Emperor Yung Chen, got ’is wind up abaht his people taking opium. A sour-faced chap, I’ll wager. There’s some allus sniffin’ abaht doin’ good and interferin’ with the innercent pleasures of the miserable. Not that I’m one as thinks opium’s innercent,” and he chuckled amiably, still watching John with that hidden shrewdness. “But if the yeller chaps wants their opium, says Bob Wilkins, let ’em have their opium. But the Emperor thinks it’s ’is bloody business. So he ups and slaps on a law as says his lads can’t have the bloomin’ stuff.”

  John did not speak. But the rigid folds about his big heavy lips grew thicker. Mr. Wilkins, perceiving this, was more and more pleased.

  He continued, sitting on the edge of his chair and leaning towards John, and reducing his affable voice to a confidential whisper:

  “I don’t know why I’m tellin’ you this, sir, except you looks as if you can keep your lip still. I’m not one as goes abaht spillin’ his guts to every Tom, Dick, and Harry. But there’s somethin’ abaht you, sir—

  “Well, now. There’s English and Dutch gentlemen who looks at China, and says to themselves: ‘Here, here, there’s a chance for business down there in the bally place!” I’m speakin’ of the East India Company, sir. So, what does they do? Easy, sir! They starts to ship chests of opium into China. Twenty thousand chests a year! Who gives ’em the idea, sir? Why, Bob Wilkins! I says to ’em in plain words: ‘If the bloody yeller fellers wants their opium, against the sour laws of their Emperors, why not let ’em ’ave it?’ It was Bob Wilkins as brought the proper English and Dutch chaps together. Of course, there was a little bribery at the China ports to get the bloody stuff in—” And now Mr. Wilkins chuckled hugely, slapping his thighs, and throwing back his head, but not so vigorously as to leave one instant during which he was not watching John.

  John’s face became inscrutable, but the desperate defiance increased in his eyes. Mr. Wilkins read that look with subtle completeness. A year, a month, even a week ago, he thought to himself, that young dark face would have expressed loathing and disgust of Mr. Wilkins. Perhaps, even yet, those sentiments struggled in that furious young heart. But, if they did, the bitter defiance, so desperate, so bewildered, had already begun to shout them down with contempt. Ah, good. There was nothing that became so completely relentless in the end, so completely implacable, as an originally good man turned, by some circumstance, into enraged resentment against the world.

  Mr. Wilkins took out a silk kerchief, and wiped his forehead and his eyes, as if his mirth had exhausted him. He shook his head over and over. Then he regarded John with gentle affection, and winked.

  “It was Bob Wilkins, sir, as arranged the bribery. Nothin’ piddlin’ about the East India Company! Pounds flowed through me hands like water. And into me banks. I turned a neat profit, sir.”

  John’s eyes quickened. “And then came the Opium War,” he said, disdainfully. “What did you do then?”

  Mr. Wilkins burst into rolling mirth. He slapped his thighs over and over. He let his tongue hang over his lips, and even his three chins became encardined. He coughed, and choked.

  “Wot did Bob Wilkins do then, you asks, sir?” His voice came, muffled and stifled with his mirth. He winked over and over so rapidly that his right eye shed tears. “Ah, didn’t I tell you as Bob Wilkins was a foxy chap? I seen the writin’ on the wall, sir. I seed the War comin’. Was the Emperor goin’ to stand by and see the East India Company a-pushin’ its chests of opium in and not open his mouth? No sir! Bob Wilkins sees this. He’s got a nose and an eye, if I says so myself. So, Mr. Wilkins goes to the Emperor, and says: ‘Now, see here, my yeller friend, wot’re ye goin’ to do? It’s war, sir. Are ye goin’ to fight the English and the Dutch with bows and arrers? No, ye’ve got to ’ave guns!’ And the Emperor sees me point.”

  He paused, wiped his face and forehead again, with vigorous flourishes. He beamed with delighted modesty.

  “So, I rushes back to Ameriky with a secret letter from the Emperor. To a certain lot of chaps, English and Frenchmen, who’ve got a new armaments business in a place called Pennsylvania. Barbour and Bouchard. A new little business, full of ginger, run by a young un with an eye. Ernest Barbour. And I says to Mr. Ernest Barbour: ‘Now, then, me hearty, there’s goin’ to be a war between the Old Country and China. The yeller chaps ain’t got the guns and the powder. I’ll put you into a fine little business, for a fee. But ye’ve got to button up your breeches and move fast.’ I’ve said Mr. Ernest had an eye? A bad un! He see me point at once. A bad devil to do business with, and a cool un. But Mr. Wilkins is a match for him, sir! So, Mr. Ernest says: ‘But wot abaht the bloody ships? Who’ll ship the guns and powder to China?’ So, I goes to a chap as runs a cargo business in Californy, and arranges for the shipment. For a fee. Bob’s a good lad for a fee! So, off goes the guns and powder to China. And, in the meantime, Bob’s been busy. ‘E’s gone to the East India Company, and confidential like tells ’em abaht the guns and powder goin’ off to China. Was they upset! So I soothes ’em, and tells ’em ’ow I knows a little concern in Pennsylvania as can give ’em the best in arms, for a moderate price, and Mr. Ernest does more business through Bob Wilkins. First shipment’s gone off to China, and damn me if it ain’t followed by another to the East India Company! Then off I goes to England, and see Robsons and Strong, the big armaments concern, and I tells ’em about the East India C
ompany and China, and I says: ‘Are ye goin’ to let the bloody Chinks murder Englishmen?’ So, smellin’ the wind, off they goes to some lords in the Government, and the military chaps, and the Robsons and Strong shops begin to hum like hell!

  “So,” concluded Mr. Wilkins with intense satisfaction, and holding up the fingers of his left hand as he checked them off with the index finger of the other, “Bob Wilkins collects ’is little fee from China, from the East India Company, from Barbour and Bouchard, and from the shippin’ company, and from Robsons and Strong. Grateful they all is to Bob Wilkins. ‘A proper chap, Wilkins,’ they says to themselves. ‘A good chap to keep us in the wind. One as ’as a nose. A proper one to remember.’ And they remember. Nice little bits of business comes my way regular like from all of ’em.”

  John had listened with absorbed attention, his expression becoming more and more inscrutable. But a dark and bitter smile played about his mouth. He regarded Mr. Wilkins with a strange glitter in his eyes.

  “Conscience, of course, Mr. Wilkins, doesn’t enter into your little—negotiations?”

  Mr. Wilkins stared at him in tender affront. “Conscience, sir? Wot’s conscience got to do with it? ‘Ere’s China wantin’ to keep out the bloody opium, and the East India wantin’ to get it in, and hell waitin’ to pop, and chaps like Barbour and Robsons and Strong waitin’ to make a bit of money! So Mr. Wilkins sees a way to satisfy everybody and keep everybody happy. ‘Give ’em wot they want, Bob,’ says I to myself. For a fee. If I don’t do it, some other clever chap will. Wot’s wrong with a bit of business, gotten honest like?”

  John did not answer. But the dark unpleasant glitter brightened in his eyes.

  “If I’d tell you, sir, the bits of business Bob Wilkins turns over regular like, you wouldn’t believe ’im! And all up and above board. Give ’em wot they want, is me motto.”

  John turned away and stared at the floor. The cynical smile remained on his lips.

  “I keeps me accounts in me head,” said Mr. Wilkins, tapping that organ significantly. “No bits of paper lyin’ around just beggin’ to incriminate me clients. I forgets nothin’. Relies on me nose. Just like tonight.”

  John looked up quickly, scowling.

  Mr. Wilkins nodded fondly. “Just like tonight, I repeats, Mr. Turnbull. When I spoke to you up there on deck, I says to myself: ‘Bob Wilkins, there’s a chap for your money! ’E’s got wot you’re lookin’ for.’”

  John’s face expressed his complete incredulity and disdain. He raised himself from his elbow and fixed his eyes on Mr. Wilkins, who nodded over and over, beaming, tapping his nose.

  “I’ve got a nose, sir, as knows. I smelled ye out. Right up there on deck. As a matter of fact, I’ve been lookin’ for ye for days. Not that I knowed who’d you be. But I knowed as there was a chap on board for my money!”

  John burst into wild laughter, shaking his head, still astounded.

  “You’re wrong, Mr. Wilkins! I haven’t a penny in the world beyond one hundred pounds, and my passage, for me and my—wife. Look again, somewhere else, Mr. Wilkins. If you think you can turn a ‘bit of money’ in any connection with me, through my father, you’ve made a serious mistake. You see, Mr. Wilkins, my father kicked me out. For my own good, it appears. I’m little better than a pauper, Mr. Wilkins, going to America without the slightest idea of where I’ll land or what I’ll do.”

  Still laughing wildly, John stood up.

  “So, Mr. Wilkins, it’s good night, and thank you for a drink and an interesting story.”

  He held out his hand. Mr. Wilkins, remaining on his chair, looked at that hand, then slowly took it. He did not release it. His warm moist fingers closed strongly about the other fingers. He felt their texture, harsh and strong and unshaken. A good hand.

  He smiled up into John’s face. He put into that smile all his true affability and affection and understanding. That big cherubic countenance, so rosy, so engaging and candid, glowed like a full moon. The little round eyes twinkled, taking on the appearance of sparkling agates, pale gray shot with streaks of brown and yellow, and his thick tufts and sandy eyebrows raised themselves with quizzical fondness. In spite of himself, the hard iron core which was John’s desperate heart began to dissolve.

  “Did I ask you for money, Mr. Turnbull? Did Bob Wilkins speak of money? Far be it. Mr. Turnbull, sir, I’ve spoken only, in a way, of making your fortun. Yes, Mr. Turnbull, it’s your fortun as wot I was speakin’ of. Throw your lot in with Bob Wilkins, and your fortun’s as good as made.”

  John stared, and then his brows knotted darkly.

  “Why should you want to make my fortune for me, Mr. Wilkins? What am I to you?”

  Mr. Wilkins tightened his grip on the restless hand he held. He spoke with solemn earnestness: “Mr. Turnbull, didn’t I tell you I’ve got a nose? And me nose never deceives me. Am I a bloody philanthropist, out doin’ good for every bounder in sight? Not Mr. Wilkins! I’m a one as is frank, Mr. Turnbull. I want to help you make your fortun. For a fee. I thought as that was understood.”

  “I’m no opium smuggler,” said John, with a faint smile. But his fingers ceased their restless movements to release themselves.

  Mr. Wilkins shook his head sadly. “Did I say anythin’ abaht opium smugglin’? You does me a wrong, Mr. Turnbull. I knowed you at once as a chap that’d put up with no humbug. ‘There’s an honest man, Bob Wilkins,’ I said to meself. ‘It’ll be honest business for you when you work together, and no humbug.’”

  John was silent. His young eyes, so unused to duplicity, and, in fact, so unused to human nature, tried, in bewilderment, to read Mr. Wilkins’ open countenance. But he could read nothing there but the utmost sincerity and affection.

  “Now, it’s not like I’m satisfied,” said Mr. Wilkins, with moving candour. “I’ve done a bit of a job in England just now for a chap. Cotton patents—y’know, mills. My client is one who’s lookin’ for himself, and he thinks as ’e’s payin’ too bloody much for the weavin’. So, he sends Bob Wilkins to do a little research abaht gettin’ around the patents. The job’s done. That’ll be two thousand pounds in Bob Wilkins’ pocket. But I don’t stomach this client. A bad un, in a foxy fashion. Stab ’is own brother in the back. So, it’s out for Bob Wilkins. I’m lookin’ abaht. I’m a free man, Mr. Turnbull. I’m done with Dick Gorth.”

  “Gorth!” exclaimed John, visibly starting.

  “Ah, you know the name?” asked Mr. Wilkins, quickly. A deep and violent flush passed over John’s face, and he bit his lip. He slowly sat down again. “Tell me,” he said.

  CHAPTER 12

  Had any one spoken to Mr. Wilkins of the strange dark grandeur inherent in a human soul, he would have stared and thought the speaker mad. For Mr. Wilkins had never met that grandeur, had not even suspected its existence. The world was a jungle to Mr. Wilkins, filled with distorted animal shapes, predatory and ferocious, where a chap needed his wits about him if he was not to be devoured. Mr. Wilkins indulged in no philosophical meditations upon this ancient fact. He accepted it and lived accordingly, never once condemning or complaining or indulging in epigrams. He even found the world a pleasant and amiable place, where a clever chap could come to a temporary armistice with the animal shapes and even drink happily with them, keeping a wary eye out in the meantime. He had not made the world. But he was convinced also, that no god had made it, so, no one was to blame. Blame was the last thing Mr. Wilkins would have entertained.

  But for those who by reason of youth or innocence or vulnerability of heart were made to endure torment, he had the strangest and tenderest of compassions. Not only would he attempt to console or alleviate, but would set himself out to avenge them. He never questioned this strangeness in himself. It was there, like all other facts. In avenging the helpless, Mr. Wilkins felt a high frenzy in his heart, and nothing could have exceeded the virulence and the relentlessness of his attack. He rejoiced in the most cruel of plots. Perhaps he was a sadist. Perhaps, in the depths of his hidden soul, he was
a kind of reformer. He had never conjectured that at the end the two were the same.

  He had no sooner entered the dark and narrow cabin of John Turnbull, and given one glance at its cold disorder and wretchedness and the face on the tumbled pillow in one of the bunks, than he smelled the deep and uncomplaining misery of the helpless once more. The lone lantern was swinging on the streaked and wooden wall, filling the cabin with a wan dim light. There was no curtain over the bleak porthole, washed with spray. The bare floor was littered with garments, boots and other pieces of baggage and apparel. There was an ashen chill in the air, reeking with suffering.

  Mr. Wilkins thought it was a child’s face on that pillow. It was so young and so bewildered, so channelled with tears. It was such a pretty little face, too, and Mr. Wilkins had a soft spot for prettiness, especially in children. The rich auburn curls spilled on the dirty pillow, framing wet cheeks, a trembling pale mouth and stricken round blue eyes. Its very stupidity enhanced that look of helpless sadness, that childish look of undeserved pain and bewilderment. He had seen that look in the eyes of beaten horses and dogs, in foul English orphan asylums, and in the eyes of beggars’ children shivering in rain and snow. It was a look that did not implore or demand or cry out against life. It was its dumb and hopeless acceptance that set hot things stirring in Mr. Wilkins’ heart.

  He gazed in silence at the child in her bunk, and felt behind him the sullen and tempestuous presence of his new friend. The child did not speak. Her big coarse hands lap emptily on the dirty coverlet, palm up. She gazed back at Mr. Wilkins, her eyes expressed no surprise, no question, nothing but pain, blank and dark.

  Mr. Wilkins felt, rather than saw, so many things. And John Turnbull, waiting in gloomy silence behind him, did not know that at that instant he had been presented with a most terrible enemy. He had afflicted the helpless. For that, he had admitted Lucifer.