Osgood had continued to study the pages of The Mystery of Edwin Drood he had brought with him. The book was different from the usual Dickens work and his most artistic endeavor since A Tale of Two Cities. It was the work of a ripe genius, restrained and taut, and would have been his masterpiece when finished, Osgood was convinced, and like any masterpiece equally beloved and misunderstood. Morbid and dark, it had a divided family of the fictionally named Cloisterham village and only a bleak hope for happiness for them. The characters were infused with such life that one could almost feel that they would step out of the pages and act out the remainder of the story without Dickens's pen to help. The looming question lurked at the end of the existing pages: Was Edwin Drood, the young hero, murdered? Or was he in hiding, waiting to return triumphantly?
Of course, there was no thinking of Drood's disappearance without thinking of Dickens's death. The two were welded together for all time now. Would learning more about one ease the sad reality of the other? This was the momentum of Osgood's thoughts as he roamed the deck when he lost his balance on a slippery board and, before he could grab the railing, fell down hard on his back.
After a moment of confusion, he realized he was being offered a hand. Or a head, to be precise-the gold head of a heavy walking cane. Osgood reached hesitantly for the ugly, fanged monster carving and started to pull himself to his feet. Osgood had seen this man, with the wide mustache and brown turban, who kept mostly to himself, grumbling occasional demands to a waiter or steward, waving this queer cane around. Osgood had heard him referred to as Herman, and thought he appeared to be Parsee, but knew nothing else of him.
“All right?” Herman asked in his gravelly voice.
Osgood lowered himself back down, feeling a pain run through his back.
“I'll send for the ship's surgeon,” Herman said, with a cold but polite tone.
By this point, a small circle of passengers from all steerages and several crew members had gathered at the spot of the fall. Rebecca saw the crowd forming and ran as fast as she could move her legs in her narrow dress. She had to squeeze through the other girls, who were making a show of their concern.
“Well, you are a goose!” said Christie. “We were here first, miss,” said another girl from their steerage, a gaudy redhead.
“Miss Sand,” Osgood called out with relief. “Very sorry for the spectacle. Will you help me?”
“Beg your pardon,” Rebecca said to the redhead and her freckled companion with more than a little pleasure as she pushed by them. The wind draped her plain black dress around her and showed in her simple form a beauty to rival any of the other more lavishly displayed and ribboned girls lined up behind her. She gave Osgood her arm. “Mr. Osgood, how very unlucky!” she said sympathetically. “Are you hurt?”
“Luck-which they say in business is dispersed at random-played no part in this fraud, my dear young lady,” came a voice from the perimeter of the circle of onlookers. It was the English businessman, Wakefield. The tea merchant was elegantly dressed in a traditional cape and checked trousers. He stopped to nod courteously to Rebecca, then continued making his way forward. “My friend Osgood, victim!”
“Mr. Wakefield, you are mistaken. The spray from the ocean has been quite rough, you see, and I slipped in a puddle,” Osgood insisted.
“No. That is what this man would like you to think.” Wakefield turned sharply at the large man who had helped Osgood to his feet.
“Beg pardon?” Herman asked the impudent accuser, his hands resting on the cord tied around his tunic and knotted in four places.
“The spray has become quite vicious, it's very true,” Wakefield explained, “which is why I was out walking instead of feeling sick in my stateroom. It was thus that I witnessed this man pouring water from a bucket into that corner. He appeared to be watching for someone to appear before doing it.”
“Do you mean he did this on purpose? Why would he do such a horrid thing?” asked Rebecca, turning to look at Herman. As she met the accused's eyes and innocent smile, a sudden, almost magnetic repulsion forced her to take a step back. The dark, malicious eyes gave her a rush of inexplicable fear and hatred.
Wakefield glanced at Rebecca. “My little woman, you are very innocent! I am embarrassed to say we have sharpers in England who would target any good-natured gentleman. I travel frequently on this and other liners and have been robbed two times myself. I believe this man is what the police call a floorer, or a tripper.”
“What?” Osgood asked.
“Never mind!” Herman's face grew bright. He stuck a toothpick in his mouth and chewed restlessly. “I know not what this bloke means by this, and I suggest he retreats.”
“Just a moment, please, my dear Mr. Wakefield,” said Osgood, the natural diplomat. “This man did help me after my fall.”
“Let us consider why he would do that, what opportunity that might afford him,” Wakefield mused, squaring the lower part of his face by placing one finger on each curve of his dusty-colored mustache.
Herman swatted his hand at Wakefield's head, knocking his hat high into the air. The breeze took the hat right down to Rebecca, who caught it.
“Search this man,” ordered the captain, a hairy, square-shaped man who had joined in the circle. He pointed at Herman, and the stewards seized him. They pulled out a watch and a calfskin pocket-book from Herman's tunic pocket.
“Are these yours, sir?” the captain asked Osgood.
“They are,” Osgood admitted with dismay.
“I will knock your damned guts out, and yours, too!” Herman growled to Osgood and then Wakefield.
“Threats will do nothing,” said Wakefield, though his hands trembled as he straightened the pin in his cravat. He accepted his hat back from Rebecca, bowing courteously again as a means of suppressing his trembling.
Two stewards rapidly wrestled Herman into submission and secured the thief. Most of the women covered their faces with their handkerchiefs or cried out, but Rebecca, standing next to Osgood, kept watching him in a mesmerized stare. Herman looked across at Osgood. “You louse! I'll feed your legs to the sharks, mark that!”
The voice was grating and deep, a baritone that made one wish one had never heard it.
“Go to the devil, villain!” He turned to a steward standing near him. “Take him below deck! The police in London will know how to deal with him.”
THE SHIP'S SURGEON concluded that Osgood's injuries were superficial. The captain offered him a special tour of the ship, including the brig, where Osgood was surprised to see an array of strong cells befitting a battleship.
“The construction of all the major English liners are subsidized by the Royal Navy, you see. In return they are built so they can be converted into warships,” the captain explained. “Cannons, prison cells, and what-you-will.”
Herman, slouched on the floor in the corner of one cell, praying to the red-hot furnace outside the cell, glanced up at his visitors, then looked back at the furnace. To the evident satisfaction of the captain, the man appeared worn out. Yet Herman retained a slippery grin of the strangest type, as though everyone else aboard were in prison, and he was the one completely free. His feet were bound together by a chain, and his wrist chained to the wall, and rats ran back and forth over his legs. His turban had been removed and his head was shaved clean, except for coarse patches of hair at the temples. Osgood found-from fear or humility-that he could not look into the eye of his assailant.
As Osgood and the captain climbed up the stairs again, the prisoner began singing a children's rhyme.
In works of labor or of skill,
I would be busy too:
For Satan finds some mischief still
For idle hands to do.
Then there was a sound, like a rat squealing.
THE DAYS AFTER THE attack saw Osgood feted at the captain's table at supper and given a hero's greeting every time he met his fellow passengers. Coming onto the deck for a morning walk now attracted a procession of the single wo
men. Rebecca would sit on her deck chair and watch this grudgingly from under her hat.
Her roommate, Christie, sat down next to her. “What a picture of romance Mr. Osgood is!” She smiled at Rebecca, leaning in. “He is more admired now than ever!”
Rebecca did her best to appear occupied by the book in her lap. “I find nothing to smile about. He might have been hurt,” she said.
“Well, then just what is your idea of romance? Perhaps you haven't one, miss.”
Rebecca kept her eyes on her book and tried to ignore her. But, contrary to her own determination, she spoke. “Till the judgment that yourself arise, you live in this, and dwell in lovers’ eyes.”
Christie listened to the verse from the Shakespeare sonnet, then said, “Beg pardon?”
“Romance is not an idea, Christie, but a moment. An unspoken glance when someone looks into your eyes and knows exactly who you are, what you need.”
The other girl sat up with a mischievous energy. “Well, ain't that nice! Let us get a gentleman's opinion on the same question.”
“What?” said Rebecca, taken aback.
She turned her head and saw to her horror that Osgood was standing behind the chairs. She wondered with a slight shiver how long he had been there.
“Now, Mr. Osgood,” said the loquacious Christie, “how does a real Boston gentleman like yourself define real romance?”
“Well,” Osgood said, blushing, “self-sacrifice for one's beloved, I suppose I'd say.”
“How very endearing!” replied Christie. “You mean such sentiment on behalf of the man, I guess, Mr. Osgood? Oh, it is much more charming. Don't you think, Miss Rebecca? Oh, how dreadfully you look, dear girl.”
Rebecca stood up and straightened her dress. “The ship is shaky this morning,” she said.
“I'll walk you to your cabin, Miss Sand.” Osgood offered his arm with concern.
“Thank you, but I'll find my way, Mr. Osgood. I wanted to visit the ship library.”
Rebecca left Osgood standing, while Christie continued to gaze at him, tossing her hair. “Miss didn't need to have such a conniption fit, did she, Mr. Osgood?” Osgood gave her an awkward nod before hurrying away.
“You have become more popular with the ladies than the captain himself!” Wakefield said later as he and Osgood shared cigars in the main saloon.
“I shall fall on my head tomorrow again then,” Osgood said. His companion seeming alarmed at this proposal, Osgood recited to himself his rule not to try jokes.
“Well, I suspect with a young lady as you have singing second in your duet, the feminine attention should not turn your head too much.”
The publisher raised his eyebrows, “You mean Miss Sand?”
“Do you have another beautiful girl in your trunk?” Wakefield laughed. “I apologize, Mr. Osgood. Am I wrong to presume you have designs on the young woman? Do not tell me: she comes from another class of society than you, she is just a career woman, and so on. I am a philosophical person, as you'll learn, my American friend. It is my conviction that we make ourselves who we want to be and not chain ourselves to the notions of busybodies who wish to judge us. Neglect your friends and family, neglect your dress, go to the devil generally, but do not neglect love! Do not lose that siren to the next Tom or Dick who is not as cautious and proper!”
Osgood had a rare feeling in his throat: he was at a loss to respond appropriately. “Miss Sand is an excellent bookkeeper, Mr. Wakefield. There is not another person in the firm whom I would trust as I do her.”
Wakefield nodded thoughtfully. He had a habit of caressing his own knee-sometimes kneading, sometimes tapping to an unheard but thoughtful rhythm. “My father used to say that I can let my imagination run away. And when I do, all manners disappear. I apologize, I do.”
“To place trust in your confidence, Mr. Wakefield, she is a divorcée only in the last several years. By the laws of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, she may not have romantic ties for another full year, or her divorce grant will be revoked and she will lose privileges for future marriage.” Osgood paused. “I say this to point out that she is a most sensible person, by character and by necessity. She does not fancy excitement for its sake like many girls.”
After his time in the saloon, Osgood was surprised to notice Rebecca standing on deck looking out at the ocean.
“Is something wrong, Miss Sand?” Osgood asked, approaching her.
“Yes,” she said, turning to him with a forceful nod. “I think so, Mr. Osgood. If you were a pickpocket on a ship, would you not wait until the end of the voyage to steal?”
“What?” Osgood asked, unprepared for the subject.
“Otherwise,” Rebecca went on confidently, “yes, otherwise when someone reports the theft to the captain, the criminal would be trapped with the stolen goods.”
Osgood shrugged. “Well, I suppose so. Mr. Wakefield commented that this type of crime is not uncommon in England, nor on ships.”
“No. But this Parsee man, Herman, he hardly seems like the usual pickpocket, does he?” Rebecca asked. “Think of Charles Dickens's own descriptions of that breed of criminal. They are quite young rascals, desperate and set on quick profit, inconspicuous. Certainly not like him. I should wonder if he is any less than six feet tall!”
***
A FEW DAYS LATER, the weather was inclement, too soggy to be out on deck, while Osgood, despite his better instincts, sat in the ship's library brooding about Herman. He had found an English edition of Oliver Twist, published by Chapman & Hall, and had turned to the chapters describing Oliver's experiences with the circle of pickpockets. It was hard to return to the normal routine of shipboard life in the shadow of that strange assault and Rebecca's astute observations. Those burning orbs of the thief had remained seared in Osgood's mind.
Remembering the maze of halls from the captain's tour, he brought a candle from his stateroom and quietly retraced his steps through the dark halls to the brig. He did not fear for his safety, not with the prisoner chained and the iron bars between them. No, he feared more, perhaps, whatever it was Herman might reveal: some danger that Osgood could not yet anticipate. Prompted by Rebecca's questions, he had begun to wonder just what a man like Herman had been doing in Boston in the first place.
When he reached the lower level of the ship and found the row of jail cells, each one black with iron and metal, strewn with grime and dust, he stopped in front of Herman's. He raised the candle and gasped loudly. The cell was empty but for a dead rat, its head missing, and a set of dangling chains.
Chapter 10
OSGOOD STOOD IN PLACE FOR A MOMENT, PARALYZED BY FEAR and surprise, though he knew he must act quickly. Hesitation could put him in even greater peril-worse, it could endanger his friend Mr. Wakefield or even Rebecca! Herman might be anywhere on the ship, and if he could escape a prison cell built for war, he could also prove far more dangerous than a petty “floorer.”
Osgood dashed though the dark and climbed the stairs two at a time.
“What's the matter, sir?” asked a steward whom Osgood nearly knocked over.
Osgood rapidly conveyed the situation to the steward, and the captain and his staff soon gathered. They divided into groups to search the steamer in all quarters for Herman. Osgood and the rest of the passengers were left in the saloon with an armed sentry to ensure their safety. When the captain returned, hat in hand, rifle under his folded arm, wiping the sweat gathered from the expedition, he reported that Herman was nowhere on board.
“How is that possible, sir?” Rebecca demanded to know.
“We do not know, Miss Sand. He was seen yesterday morning when one of my stewards brought him his soup. He must have forced open the lock and escaped sometime during the night.”
“Escaped to where, Captain?” Wakefield cried, both of his hands engaging in a fierce kneading of his knees.
“I do not know, Mr. Wakefield. Perhaps he saw another ship and decided to swim for it. The winds were choppy yesterday, though: it is unlikel
y he would have survived if he tried such a mad flight. He has almost certainly perished in the depths, and will sleep soundly in Davy Jones's locker.”
Hearing this grim scenario, the passengers exhaled their excitement and by the time they returned to their staterooms were bored again. After a few days, thoughts of soon reaching England erased those of the escaped prisoner. Passengers packed up the contents of their staterooms into a few small valises and settled up surprisingly high wine bills with the stewards. Osgood likewise attempted to suppress the questions in his mind. Not Rebecca, though.
“It doesn't make sense, Mr. Osgood,” she insisted one afternoon in the library, tapping her fingers busily on the tabletop.
“What doesn't, Miss Sand?”
“The disappearance of the thief!”
Osgood, one hand locked behind his neck in his usual pose of concentration, looked up from his ledger abruptly but quickly resumed his preoccupied pose facing the window. “You mustn't think too much on that subject, Miss Sand. You heard the captain say that the man perished. If we believed otherwise, we might as well believe in sea serpents. And surely they would have devoured the thief, if we believed in them!”
“What kind of a man drowns himself to escape charges of petty theft? What if…?” Rebecca's voice trailed off there, replaced by her tapping fingers.
A few hours later, Osgood could be found pacing the deck alone as he had done the morning of Herman's trap. As they had sailed closer to England, he looked dreamily at the distant vessels with unknown destinies that sat high against the horizon. Osgood thought about the anxiety on Rebecca's face and knew what she had wanted to say earlier in the library: What if Herman were still alive, what if he comes back for you? He did his best to eject these thoughts by imagining what Fields would reply, holding his head erect and his beard thrust forward. Remember the reason for this trip. It is to end Dickens's mystery, not to create your own. Otherwise, our enterprises can become helter-skelter, our lives out of our control.
The Last Dickens Page 9