Jack Frake

by Edward Cline

  “Who are they?” he exclaimed, his astonishment bursting through his usual reserve.

  “Lost souls,” replied Trott. “Orphans. Paupers. Thieves. Some, I’ve heard, have even killed. They get rounded up and put in there — and many places like it in our fair land.”

  “What do they do?”

  Trott shrugged. “They work. They sort and cut firewood. They fashion the stocks of our army’s muskets. They carve buttons. They sew canvas. For a while, they even poured lead for musket balls in a little building, but the fire got away from them and the shop burned down with twelve mites in it about six years ago. And they’re sent out to work in mines and shopworks and fields. They do everything. Anybody that needs hands to do something cheap but got none to do it, gets them, and nearly free. Army contractors, mostly. And navy. The grown-ups’ quarters are just beyond. Can’t see it from here.”

  “Do they ever leave?”

  “When they’re big and shrewd enough, they climb the wall. Or if somebody takes a liking to some of them and hires them. Mostly they become criminals, and get transported to the colonies, or hanged.”

  Jack Frake could reach no conclusion about the justice of the workhouse. On one hand, the children he saw in the yard might have starved to death, or died of disease or exposure, had they not been apprehended and made to live there. On the other hand, their chains and fetters and the guard with the cudgel were elements that did not fit his concept of benevolent salvation. After all, he himself was an orphan and a pauper, in a manner of speaking, yet here he was, free and determined to make his way on his own resources. He now understood his mother’s and Parmley’s abhorrence of the workhouse, and his late father’s shame. There was something cruel in such charity.

  The Sea Siren had four lodging rooms, tended to exclusively by Clarissa. Two rooms were let to a major and two captains; they were gentlemen and their purses seemed always filled with silver. But one lodger earned the special deference of Trott and his progeny, a brusque, dark, ugly little man who invariably appeared in a black tricorn and a gray coat. His frock, waistcoat, trousers and boots were always immaculate. He had come three weeks ago, shortly before the soldiers. He said little, and chatted with no one. After he finished his meals, he would sit for hours at his corner table with his pipe, and listen. When darkness fell, he vanished. From Bob, who was now on speaking terms with him, Jack Frake learned that this was Henoch Pannell, Commissioner Extraordinary of His Majesty’s Revenue. “He’s here to trap Skelly,” whispered Bob. “He’s got men lodged in all the other inns and they’re all ears for news of smugglers. They got mounts and they ride the coast at night, lookin’ for Skelly.” Three times during his first week, Jack Frake had been awakened in the middle of the night by Pannell pounding on the front door to be let back in.

  There was another silent man, who lodged in the fourth room alone. He wore a brown tricorn and a brown cape. Hiram Trott knew only that his name was Mr. Blair, a merchant’s agent who seemed to have much time on his hands, and that he was mute, though not deaf. He communicated with Trott and his staff with slips of paper, on which he wrote with a sliver of black chalk. He was a tall, lean man who often spent his hours, also with a pipe, at a corner table across the room from Pannell, reading books, the only ones Jack Frake saw in Gwynnford. They were small books, most of them written by someone named Shakespeare. Bob and Clarissa could barely read, did not like serving the man, and so it fell to Jack Frake to bring him his meals and drink. He seemed pleased to learn that the boy could read his notes, and gave him generous gratuities. His mien differed from Parson Parmley’s; as the rector’s smile had been kindly and wistful, Mr. Blair’s was hearty and contagious. Once in a while, Jack Frake noticed Blair studying him with a curious intensity.

  By the end of his first week, Jack Frake was enamored of the smoky hubbub of the Sea Siren, and even proud of his contribution to it. To him it represented a microcosm of the world beyond. But in the beginning of his second week an overheard conversation checked his almost monomaniacal devotion to his job. “Imagine that! Snuffin’ a parson!” “What some men won’t do! Took all the silver, even the church chest!” “Books and vestments and papers were throwed all over, and a window broken for malice! It’s sacrilege, I say!” “It was the vestry-clerk who found ’im, lyin’ in a pool of ’is own blood, on Sunday mornin’, with people waitin’ at the church door for services!” “The last one to see ’im alive was the widow who cooked for ’im that morning, just before ’e ’ad the boys over for lessons.” “Fool! It were the boys who seen ’im last!” “Fool again! It were the killers!” “Justice wasn’t long in coming. The scoundrels who did it had a falling-out over their gains, and killed each other.” “The one stabbed the other, and the other shot the one.” “Oyston and Lapworth? Seems I heard they was in a spirits ring in Devon that the sheriff there smashed some Easters ago.” “They was found near Trelowe, close by the constable’s place, by the constable himself!” “He was out shootin’ bird with his cousin, and there they was, in a clump of trees. They was lodgin’ in the public up there.” “That’s the Leith brothers’ place. It was the older one who was with the constable, weren’t it?” “That’s right. Isham. He’s a nervy bloke.” “All the loot was there, in the parson’s own valise, even the candlestick the constable says they did him with.” “No, no, not all of the loot was found, I hear. Some of the plate hasn’t been accounted for, and they never found the chest. This Jasper Dent says they lost it from the cart fleeing the rectory, or a pauper found the bodies first and made off with what he could carry.” “Vicar Heskett here sent Sexton Cullis up to St. Gwynn when they got the news. Neighbors say he was in tears when he saw the carnage.” “Old Parmley? Didn’t he lodge here once? I recollect some salts havin’ merry with him one night.” “Well, I says the Lord works mighty fast when he’s avengin’ one of his own.”

  Leith, thought Jack Frake. Isham Leith killed Parmley — or all three of them had a hand in it — and then Leith killed them. He was at first tempted to upbraid himself for not having stayed with Parmley that afternoon. Only now did the words, “He’s come and gone, sir,” surface in his memory, spoken a moment before he took the globe and hurled it at the window. But if he had stayed — if the parson had not so impressed him with his reluctant devotion to the letter of the law — what then? He would have had to go with Leith and submit to an unknown fate.

  But as he went about his chores, another thought — and it was not so much a thought as it was the stamina of a past one — reminded him that in that moment, hurling the globe was an act of resolve to govern his own life and never to leave it to the mercies or vagaries of others’ purposes, benign or otherwise.

  Still, he felt enough affection for the parson to want to do something about his murder. Yet there was nothing he could do that would not jeopardize his freedom. The mere suggestion of his knowledge of Leith and the two men would link him to Parmley; it would be his word against Leith’s. The memory of the workhouse yard sat in his mind.

  It took him two days to sort out these matters in his own mind. Hiram Trott noticed the difference in the energy of his scullion. He decided that the boy had proved himself, and he would give him the afternoon off, rather than admonish him for slacking. Before he went, Trott took him into the kitchen, out of his son’s sight. He said, “Hold out your hand, lad.”

  Jack Frake obeyed.

  Trott dropped two pennies into the open palm. “Buy yourself some sweets, or whatever you fancy, and be back before dusk. We’ll be getting busy again then.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Trott then reached behind some parcels on a shelf and produced a weather-beaten black tricorn. He slapped it on the boy’s head. “Not quite a fit,” he remarked, “but you’ll grow into it.”

  Jack Frake took it off and examined it as though it were made of gold. He glanced up at Trott, his eyes questioning the motive behind the gift.

  Trott wanted to, but could not quite make himself explain that the hat on
ce belonged to a second, younger son, who would now be Jack Frake’s age. Two years ago the boy was fishing on the furthermost point of the jetty when he was washed away by a wave in a sudden squall. The hat, which the boy had taken off and weighted under a rock, was all that Trott was able to find. Instead, he said, “Respectable boys wear hats in this town, lad. You’re an asset here, and I don’t want the constable or the vicar hauling you off to the workhouse because the rest of you looks unrespectable. Get along, now.”

  And so, on that cold, blustery afternoon he wandered through the town he had not had time to explore. He watched the soldiers drill on a field, and exchanged wary glances with the drummer boy. He saw other children filing into the church for schooling. He stopped beneath the window of one of Gwynnford’s more prosperous-looking houses when he heard a forte-piano being played, and listened to a melody that fascinated him with the pure harmony of its contemplative logic. He went into the shops and saw a dazzling assortment of things for sale. He watched lighters loaded with bundles and crates ply between the anchored merchantmen and the embankment, taking from one pile for the trip out, and adding to another from the trip back. And far out on the horizon he saw a warship, its great red ensign and pennants broadcasting its approach. Jack Frake turned and squinted to read the names on the sterns of the merchantmen. None were named Sparrowhawk.

  And on his way back to the Sea Siren, he had an idea of what he could do for Parson Parmley.

  Chapter 7: The Impostor

  HIRAM TROTT SOON REGRETTED HAVING GIVEN HIS SCULLION A FEW hours’ leisure, for half an hour after the boy left, business increased threefold and his cook and his offspring could barely keep up with it. The crews of two of the anchored merchantmen had finished their shipping and unshipping chores and had been released for shore time. Three carriages of gentlemen and ladies on a tour of the coast had stopped in town; he had to send Clarissa for some sheets to spread over their tables, for the gentlemen refused to allow their companions to soil their elbows on the stained planks. The paymaster of the Midlands regiment had arrived, and so more soldiers were filling up his tables. Henoch Pannell had gathered his men from the other inns and sat with them at one large table for dinner.

  And then a tidesman had rushed in an hour ago and whispered to him the news that a battleship had been sighted and appeared to be making straight for Gwynnford. This news made Trott jittery. It could mean extra business; or it could mean press-gangs.

  Jack Frake, when he returned, grinned and tipped his hat to Mr. Blair at his corner table, then ran to the kitchen to remove his hat and coat and don an apron. He had never before seen the Sea Siren so jammed with patrons, but even though every second of his time and attention seemed to be consumed by his job, he managed at some point to stop at Blair’s table.

  “Sir, would you write a note for me?”

  Blair frowned, closed the book he was reading, put it down, and nodded.

  Jack Frake rapidly explained his problem and its solution. Blair listened, and the nature of his frown changed from one of curiosity to one of concern and understanding. “If you’d just write something short, I can give it to the vicar here, tonight, after we’ve closed.”

  Blair smiled and nodded again, but Jack Frake did not think that the man had given him his full attention. His eyes had wandered now and then to glance at other patrons across the room — at Henoch Pannell, and at a tall, older gentleman and his two companions, whose coach-and-four stood just outside the inn’s doors.

  Blair took out his flat brass box and opened it to remove a slip of paper. With his black chalk he wrote: Come back in ten minutes. Bring a bowl of pudding. Jack Frake bent and read it.

  “Thank you, sir,” he said, and darted away to resume his duties.

  In ten minutes he returned with the pudding and a new tankard of ale. Blair gave him another slip of paper, which read: Sir: Isham Leith of Trelowe murdered Parmley. Capt. Venable of the dragoons asked him for directions on the Trelowe road by the old chapel on the 16th. The two men with him were Oyston and Lapworth. May justice be done. Yours, One Who Knows the Truth.

  Jack Frake breathed a sigh of relief. It said more than he had expected it to say. Blair even knew the captain’s name. He smiled in thanks at Blair, then folded the paper up and tucked it inside his shirt. “The ale’s on the house, sir.” Hiram Trott called for him and again he rushed away.

  Two hours later, the Sea Siren had grown even more crowded. Hiram Trott had sent for the tailor and his wife, who had a lute and could sing songs, and promised them a half-guinea if they could keep the place packed until midnight. Neither he nor his staff could stop to listen to the pair, who sang love songs, sea songs, bawdy songs and ballads. The patrons often joined in, and two tables were moved aside for those who wished to dance. The crowd was in a good mood. The officers and gentlemen drank toasts to their ladies. The soldiers cried “God save the King!” with every new round of drinks, alternating between that, “God sit on the shoulders of the great Duke of Cumberland!” and other toasts of a more suggestive nature. Hiram Trott unconsciously wrung his hands, pleased with the windfall business and hoping that no trouble would erupt.

  Jack Frake was at the fireplace, shoveling exploded embers back into the roaring fire, when it happened. The front doors opened, and a navy lieutenant and a press-gang stood on the threshold.

  All noise, singing and conversation ended, and everyone turned to glare at the newcomers. They knew that the lieutenant and his men were not here to eat or drink. Trott laid his cudgel and knife aside, for if he were tempted to use them, he could just as easily be impressed or jailed as anyone collared by the gang. Tradesmen were not immune to the appetite of His Majesty’s navy.

  The lieutenant, a slim young man of twenty-two, returned the hostile glare with an imperious gaze. In addition to his sword, he carried a mahogany cane. In back of him were seven men in bluejackets. Each of them carried a short, crude cudgel. The lieutenant’s was not the only press-gang in town. Through the open door the patrons could hear the cries and running footfalls of others at work on Jetty Street and in its alleys, sounds which the hubbub had drowned out.

  Jack Frake, shovel in hand, wandered over and stood near Mr. Blair.

  The lieutenant smiled, then snorted. “Is this any way to greet His Majesty’s navy?”

  A voice in back of Jack Frake answered, “As long as it practices slavery! Your rhyme, sir!”

  The crowd shifted uneasily in its various seats, and a few chuckles were heard.

  “Who said that?” demanded the officer.

  No one volunteered a reply.

  “Very well,” said the lieutenant. “You all look legitimate — and unsuitable for service on one of His Majesty’s finest. Or most of you do. My apologies to the ladies,” he added with a brief but correct tip of his hat. “We won’t be long.” His head turned and surveyed the crowd, his glance pausing on two or three merchant sailors who cringed in their seats, and coming finally to rest on Mr. Blair. With a gesture of his cane, the lieutenant led his gang inside and approached the corner table. He smiled with wicked pleasure at the man. With a downward stroke of his cane, he tapped the book out of Blair’s hands, and with an upward stroke knocked the clay pipe out of his mouth. The pipe fell to the floor and shattered.

  “Now here’s a capable-looking fellow. Hands don’t need roughening, they’ve seen rope-work. And he seems hearty enough. Keen eyes, too, eyes that could put a round through a French gun-port every time, eh, Bosun? Gunnery will be pleased.” The lieutenant paused. “Seize him.”

  Jack Frake stepped forward. “He can’t talk, sir.”

  The lieutenant glanced down at the boy. “What was that, whelp?”

  “He can’t talk. His tongue’s dead.”

  The bosun at the officer’s side laughed. “He don’t have to say a thing, son! He just got to take orders and look sharp!”

  Another seaman said, “He won’t get no crow’s nest duty, that’s for sure!”

  “Seize him,”
repeated the lieutenant with impatience.

  The bosun stepped over and grabbed Blair’s shoulder. Jack Frake swung the shovel and struck his outstretched arm. Blood splattered from the exposed wrist. The shovel next dug into one of the man’s knees, and the man bent with a howl of pain. The gang laughed, but the lieutenant angrily pushed the injured man into the chair opposite Blair and turned to the boy.

  Instinctively, Jack Frake — with thought of nothing but that it was necessary for him to oppose the menace, and not even aware that he was emulating a stance he had seen the drilling soldiers adopt earlier in the day — threw one foot back and thrust the blade of the shovel forward with both hands, prepared to meet the assault.

  This answer to his punitive prerogative only maddened the officer, whose eyes became bright round ovals of rage and his mouth pursed in contorted, unutterable wrath. He raised his cane high in the air. Jack Frake winced at the fury he saw looming over him, but bit his lip and braced himself, determined to strike at least one blow before the officer thrashed him, as he knew the man had the power and the will to do.

  Hiram Trott shut his eyes and gritted his teeth, as though he were about to be struck himself. His son Bob stared at Jack Frake with open-mouthed astonishment, and two tankards of ale slipped from his tray to clatter unnoticed to the floor. The inn’s patrons watched in paralyzed fascination; none of them dared to interfere, not even the touring gentlemen, whose social status was at least equal to that of the officer’s and made them exempt from impressment. A few of the merchant seamen took advantage of the crisis to duck out the front door. And one red-coated sergeant watched the boy with a hint of admiration in his face.

  Before the officer could bring down his cane, Blair rose and put a hand on his forearm. He said quietly, in a thick Scots accent, his face an inch from the officer’s, “Leave off the bairn, sir, or I’ll break it!”

  The lieutenant did not know what to do or say. The man who could not speak, had spoken, and had his wrist — his sacrosanct, untouchable wrist — in a grip that seemed as strong as a wet jury mast knot. His men did not move to separate the two; he was a new officer on their ship and they wanted to see what else he could do besides give orders. Blair seemed to know that he would not be interfered with. He smiled amiably at the officer, his eyes sparkling with unmistakable challenge.