“Chief… our next book… what…?” she said, spitting shiny geysers of blood onto her chin, unable to go on.
Dickens leaned in to the woman's ear and whispered something. Tom could not hear what was said, but a strange and shrewd grin rose upon Louisa Barton's face, and as her life was slipping, she began to giggle hoarsely. Dickens, dismayed, backed away and allowed the police and a newly arrived doctor to attend her.
Tom said to the dazed Dickens, “Chief, what is it you said to her?”
Dickens nearly fell headlong into his protector's arms from exhaustion and relief, leaning on him bodily. “Never mind that. One of our devils is at peace, Branagan.”
Chapter 26
THE NEW YORK PRESS HAD ARRANGED TO GIVE A CELEBRATORY dinner to the novelist before his departure, to be held at the famed Delmonico's restaurant. He was suffering again from severe swelling in his right foot-erysipelas, according to a local doctor-and only upon application of special lotions from the best drugstore and painful bandaging, hidden by a borrowed gout stocking sewed over in black silk by Henry Scott, did the writer go out. Dickens said, as he ground his teeth, that he did not want the pressmen to telegraph England about the extent of his maladies.
“Points of difference there have been, points of difference there probably always will be, between the two great peoples,” Dickens said after the many toasts to his health at the long table. “But if I know anything of Englishmen-and they give me credit for knowing some-thing-if I know anything of my countrymen, gentlemen, the English heart is stirred by the flutter of your stars and stripes as it is stirred by no other flag that flies except its own. I beg to bid you farewell, and I shall often remember you as I see you now, equally by my winter fireside at Gadshill, and in the green English summer. In the words of Peggotty from Copperfield, ‘My future life lies over the sea.’ God bless you, and God bless the land in which I leave you”-Dickens paused there, a tear in his eye-“forevermore.”
All two hundred pressmen, having finished with their special literary menus of timbales à la Dickens, agneau farci à la Walter Scott, and côtelettes à la Fenimore Cooper, stood to cheer. The restaurant band played “God Save the Queen.”
“I feel like erecting a statue to your stamina, my dear Dickens,” Fields said into his author's ear as he shook his hand and helped him away.
“No,” the Chief said somberly, “don't. Take down one of the old ones instead.”
AFTER HEARING ABOUT his heroics in Boston, Dolby had given many hearty congratulations to Tom, very nearly apologizing to him for having doubted. He insisted Tom search for Louisa's accomplices.
“There were none,” Tom said.
“Impossible! That little lady…” Dolby replied, still flabbergasted by it all.
“Obsession of a strong-hearted woman, Mr. Dolby, can be more dangerous than ten men.”
On their final night in America, Dolby confided to Tom about a remaining worry: the threats of the tax collector who had accosted him at the hotel. Dolby asked Tom to help watch out for any trouble.
The warning of the tax agent, whether bluster or not, had stuck in the manager's mind. You will pay, or you, each one of you, Agent Pen-nock had said to him, your beloved Boz included, will be locked away as a hostage before your steamer leaves the shore. Would the novelist, in his weakening health, survive imprisonment if it came to that? A squalid place like the debtor's prison he had seen his father endure in Marshalsea in his youth?
“I shall have the letter from the Treasury chief on my person at all times, in case,” Dolby said.
“Then there shouldn't be any trouble, I'd think,” Tom responded.
“I hope not,” said Dolby. “But it seems many Americans prefer not to respect authority.”
It was only when they boarded the Russia the next morning without incident that Dolby finally smiled for the first time in what seemed weeks. The porters pulled up not only their luggage but the many gifts of portraits, bouquets, books, cigars, and wine.
While the ship was still anchored in the harbor boarding passengers, they sat down to a lunch of some hot soup in the saloon of the ship. Yet before a bit had been taken, there was a commotion on deck. Dolby found several passengers pointing out a police vessel coming in their direction.
As Dolby made his way down the stairs to investigate, the manager faced two men in dark suits and sealskin caps on board, though the police vessel had not yet reached them. They both unbuttoned their coats and revealed shiny brass Treasury Department badges. Dolby, sucking in his breath, removed the letter of protection from the commissioner of Internal Revenue.
The agent who had visited him before, Simon Pennock, emerged to take the letter and read it. He slowly looked up from it and met Dolby's eye. Then he tore the letter and ground the pieces into the floor with his boot toe. “That is what I think of that.”
“Sir!” Dolby said. “That is the official word of the chief of your department. Your superior! He assures me that neither Mr. Dickens nor myself is liable for any tax in this country.”
Pennock sneered an ugly sneer. “Let me make this case clear to your frozen British brain. We don't care a miserable damn for the opinion of the chief of my department, as you call him. With the president under impeachment, there is no government, no department. Only justice and injustice, and we stand before you now as judges.”
“Mr. Dickens would be the last man in the world to evade a claim upon him if it were just!” Dolby thought to try his last tactic. “Is it Irish blood that makes you hate Mr. Dickens, Agent Pennock?”
“I haven't a drop of it in this body, sir,” the collector said.
“Then why harass us so? Are you driven so mad by base greed?”
“You look for greed?” Pennock asked. “Look no further than your boss, sir. Who comes here for money and deification and wishes to give nothing, not even friendship, in return. Perhaps Mr. Dickens should have taken better care to be courteous to the citizens of this country!”
“Courteous? That man has exhausted himself, has made himself sick b-b-b…”-Dolby struggled with his words-“bringing joy to Americans. What do you m-m-mean?”
“Hold your tongue if it's too oily to talk, Dolby! My dear brother is a fine gentleman of Boston, one of the graybeards among the city aldermen. He has read every book by Mr. Dickens for twenty years. Yet, when he left his card at the Parker House with a letter of introduction upon Mr. Dickens's arrival, the response was a note declining-not even in Dickens's own hand, nay, he could not take the time for that- because your sultan was busy resting. I do not call that courtesy! I call it an insult! I say let the great Boz drink from the dregs of the cup he serves to others!” With that he summoned more of his men up the stairs.
“Halt,” Tom, entering from above, said to two of the men. “State your business.”
“None of yours, likely, Paddy!” said the rougher looking of the pair.
“They mean to arrest Mr. Dickens and myself,” Dolby said shakily to Tom.
Tom, without hesitation, stepped in front of Dolby and addressed the tax men. “Take me instead and let them go. I will stay behind until this is sorted out.”
The rougher sealskin pushed Tom hard in the chest, sending him tumbling down. He stopped himself from cracking his skull open at the last moment by catching the railing.
Pennock removed a pistol from his pocket. “We'll deal with Dolby-and then with Mr. Dickens.”
There had been no chance at escape-the rogue agents meant business. Suddenly, the sounds of heavy boots came from behind Dolby. Four detectives from the police boat, which had just arrived, appeared, their coats also unbuttoned on their badges. They surrounded Dolby and demanded to know the sealskin caps’ business.
“Halloa! We're the Treasury Department,” answered one of the tax agents.
“Treasury Department? Too late. New York police here and we've got him and Boz for what they owe the city of New York.” Two of the detectives took Dolby's arms. Another grabbed Tom Branagan. As a c
acophonous shouting match erupted over which arrest took priority, the bell sounded from above alerting those going ashore to return to the ferry.
“We have our police boat alongside,” one of the detectives said. “But since it appears you boarded at the dock, I'd disembark with the others before you lose your passage, unless you fellows plan to see much of Liverpool.”
Pennock and his unhappy agents yielded, rushing back to deck and jumping onto the last ferry taking away the passengers’ visitors and servants. When they were gone, the detectives said to one another, “Shall we put them in shackles now or on our boat?”
“Let's round up Dickens first, so there's no escape.”
“Get your stick ready, then.”
“Imagine! What the pressmen would have done with seeing the Inimitable Dickens in irons!”
Suddenly, the four men laughed. Dolby, amazed at this change in demeanor, stared at them.
A detective removed his hat and smiled. “Very sorry, sir. Our chief of police is quite an admirer of your Mr. Dickens. When he heard something about the tax collector's plan, he sent us to scare them off. Now we should be returning to our own boat presently and let you be on your way. But perhaps old Boz can spare an autograph or two for our boss?”
Dolby and Tom looked at each other in amazement.
Before they made their way back to the police boat, the policemen were carrying with them armfuls of autographs. Cannons from nearby tugs fired to say good-bye. After endless cheering and many farewells from the ferry and from the shore, Dickens, standing on the rail, put his hat onto the top of his cane and waved it high at the crowd.
Tom stood close behind him on deck, just in case his boot slipped. From his vantage point, he could see Dickens's eyes tearing up.
“Perhaps you will come back to America again, Chief,” Tom suggested.
“Surely,” Dickens agreed. “Maybe, though, I've left just enough of myself here already.”
Fifth Installment
***
Chapter 27
London, England, July 16, 1870
FOR FIVE DAYS AFTER OSGOOD'S ASSAULT BY THE OPIUM FIENDS, Rebecca tended to her employer at the Falstaff Inn, where he slept almost continuously. There were frequent visitations by the local Rochester doctor. Datchery had come, too, looking distraught and weepy at the sight of Osgood's condition. In his waking moments, the publisher tried to breathe but mostly coughed.
“No blood expelled when coughing,” Dr. Steele observed to Rebecca a day after the attack. “The fractures are likely on the surface of the ribs, and the lungs unhindered. I do not like to apply physic or leeches in such cases if there isn't inflammation.”
“Thank God for that,” Rebecca said.
“He must be bathed with cold water regularly. You seem to have had some experience as a nurse before, Miss.”
“Will he recover fully, Doctor?” asked Rebecca urgently.
“The chloroform and brandy should cleanse his body, I assure you that, miss. If he's one of the lucky ones.”
When Osgood's mind felt clearer, he still could hardly describe what had happened in the early morning at the opium rooms that had ended with two of the opium fiends dead and mutilated. Rebecca was sitting at a writing desk composing a letter to Fields with the latest news, and Datchery was half asleep in an armchair when Osgood woke again.
“It was Herman!” Osgood groaned as he had done when found by the sewer hunter. His ribs were wrapped in a broad bandage that went twice around his body, constraining his movements and respiration. Bites from the sewer rats had swelled around his face and neck in giant red patches.
“Are you very certain it was him, Mr. Osgood?” Rebecca asked, coming over to his bedside.
Osgood gripped his forehead with both hands. “No. I'm not certain at all, Miss Sand. We know he couldn't have survived the ocean, after all! And who would have stopped him from doing worse to me, if he was there to see me dead? It must have been a vision from the opium, like the snakes and the voices. I had fallen under its spell.”
“We shall find out what it was that happened, I promise you that!” cried Datchery. “My dear Ripley, my dear Miss Rebecca, I certainly promise you that!” He took one of Osgood's hands and reached for Rebecca's, but Rebecca stepped away distrustfully. “They say you'll be sick as a horse for a while, old fellow. Only tell me you'll live a day longer and I'll be tripping on the light fantastic!”
Though his head remained bandaged, Datchery's own injuries were more superficial than Osgood's. He had not seen anything that had happened after his own attack and had not seen any sign of Herman before he was knocked out. As they had with Osgood, someone had dragged him unconscious into the streets. Rebecca wanted nothing to do with the man who had brought Osgood to a low point and had before that caused them to argue in what was now a shameful memory.
Datchery said, “Miss Rebecca, I wish to help. I can help, you know. Let the idea ripen in your mind.”
“I think you have helped enough,” she said. “And you may refer to my employer as Mr. Osgood, if you please.”
Datchery chewed his lip in frustration, then turned to the patient in bed and then back to Rebecca. “Perhaps there are some things I must say that shall help you trust me as your employer has so quickly learned to do.”
“Ah, Mr. ‘Datchery,’ is it?” This was Dr. Steele coming into the room. “May I have a private word with you?”
Datchery, looking over the drowsy face of Osgood above the blankets, nodded and left the room. To Rebecca's great relief, the visitor did not come back that afternoon.
The next time Osgood woke, he asked for the suit of clothes he had been wearing during the attack, now hanging in the wardrobe. Searching the pockets, he removed the green pamphlet he had taken from that filthy floor.
“Edwin Drood! Look.”
There it was. The cover was a kaleidoscope of illustrated scenes from Dickens's novel. The pamphlet was in fact the fifth installment published of the serial of The Mystery of Edwin Drood. Dr. Steele, just arriving for another inspection, came over to the bed when he saw Osgood had stirred. This doctor, a lanky and studious man, had become a tyrant over Osgood's care. He commanded that light only be allowed through the window blinds at short intervals.
“I have asked that Mr. Datchery to leave Mr. Osgood in peace,” Dr. Steele explained to Rebecca. “He only seems to agitate him, I can assure you.”
“I think so too,” Rebecca said firmly.
The doctor now discouraged Osgood from studying the booklet that apparently also agitated him. Rebecca consented to remove the object from the patient, though she pondered the terrific coincidence of the item having appeared in such a place. Had Osgood's misfortunes in the low streets really been due to the region's usual dangers or somehow connected to their singular mission in England? She opened the booklet and noticed the pages looked like they had been read, perhaps multiple times. She placed the installment in a drawer.
“I do not understand,” Osgood sighed as the doctor unwrapped his dressings and applied fresh bandages. “I do not see how the opiates I breathed could have had such a strong effect on me.”
“Oh, you are quite right,” Dr. Steele said conclusively. “On their own, the fumes could not do such harm. I hope the lady present will not be too embarrassed,” he said as a caution, and waited for Rebecca to turn away. When she did not, he folded up Osgood's flannel sleeve and revealed what he had seen in his examination.
“I do not understand,” Rebecca protested.
“There,” Dr. Steele said, “a single puncture wound in Mr. Osgood's arm-from a hypodermic syringe. You see it?”
The doctor continued with detached interest. “Someone inserted into your tissue a very high dosage of the narcotic, sir. That is why it has required a long time to be ejected from your body.”
Rebecca felt herself shaking. Osgood sat bolt upright. They caught each other in a mutual moment of unreserved shock. They had come halfway around the world, in part in an effort to le
ave Daniel's tragedy behind and yet came round to face the same poisonous injection marking in Osgood's own skin as Daniel had suffered. Everything seemed to be brought into a single line of sinister action, though why and where it had all started was more of a mystery than ever.
Rebecca knew that if Dr. Steele believed any conversation overexcited the patient he would intervene to end it. So she waited, pretending to the best of her ability that the puncture wound was the least interesting sight ever witnessed. The doctor soon moved into the next room, giving long-winded instructions to a messenger boy to secure more vials of medicine from the town druggist.
“Mr. Osgood, is it the same as what you saw on… on Daniel's body?” Rebecca asked in as calm a whisper as she could manage, so the doctor could not hear them from outside the door. “You mustn't hold anything from me. It is, isn't it?”
“Yes,” Osgood whispered in return.
“What could it mean?”
“We have faced the same adversary since the morning of Daniel's death.”
“But who?”
“I don't know.” Then Osgood whispered half brokenhearted and half triumphant, “It wasn't Daniel who injected himself with opium. We know that now for certain. He was poisoned, Miss Sand, just as I was!”
“Do you believe that?”
“It must be! Dickens himself could not write such a discovery as coincidence! This knocks the wind out of the whole thing. We must seek a clearer view of everything: of Daniel, of the opium fiends, of Brood. Miss Sand,” he added with an abrupt urgency. “Miss Sand, some paper!”
Rebecca brought him hotel stationery and a lead pencil and a book to rest them on.
Osgood wrote on the stationery, crossing words out then trying again until he got it:
It is God's.
Itisgod's.
ItsOsgoods. It's Osgood's.
Daniel Sand didn't exclaim a sentiment of religious peace, but the words carried a beautiful meaning nonetheless. “Look,” he said. “Bendall was wrong. Daniel didn't leave out a final word before he died. Daniel didn't want me to be angry, even at the edge of life. He never failed the firm at all.”
The Last Dickens Page 25