Hugh Kenrick

by Edward Cline

  Hugh drew his own sword and charged. He could see neither the faces of the four men, nor the details of their clothes. They were all mere dark gray silhouettes against a black background.

  The first man’s back was turned to him. Hugh did not subscribe to the code of fair play when dealing with his mortal enemies. The tip of his sword swept passed his shoulder and then back in an arc to cut the hind of the back-stretched leg, on the white hose beneath the end of the man’s breeches, and then into the skin and sinews beneath the hose. The man squeaked in surprise, then howled in pain as he turned to see the cause of it. But he collapsed in the turn because the hamstring of his left leg had been severed.

  Hugh did not give the second assailant a chance to grasp the new situation. That man crouched, his blade ready, and squinted his eyes to better see his assailant. But before he could reach a conclusion, Hugh leaped over the figure of the victim, lunged with his sword, and pierced the wrist of the man’s weapon hand. Then his blade flashed up and down and sliced off a portion of the Mohock’s left ear.

  This man merely gasped in the knowledge of what had been done to him, and his sword dropped to the ground. Then he, too, howled in pain and, one hand pressed to his gushing ear and the other to his stomach, he turned and ran into the darkness in the direction of the Strand.

  Hugh whirled around to find the third Mohock ready for him. A kernel of Signor Albertoli’s lessons seized his mind: “In a tight circumstance, do not pause to appraise your opponent, for you will only give him time to appraise you. Beat, attack on the blade, and feint, and judge his quality by how he replies”—and this advice Hugh heeded. His purpose had been to eliminate as many opponents as possible in the shortest time, aware of the odds that at least one of these men would put up some kind of fight.

  This the third Mohock did. He was the biggest of the three assailants, and skillful enough to parry Hugh’s feint in answer. Hugh did not give him enough time to recover, but attacked and lunged repeatedly, driving the man back in the direction of the lamppost, allowing the man no time or opportunity to develop a counterattack. And as they moved closer to the light, Hugh could see the man’s frightened but angry face and the teeth clenched in desperation. The man had not assumed the fencing position that Hugh had—torso angled to the side to present a difficult target, free hand in the air at arm’s length behind him for balance and torque—and Hugh reminded him of these things with a quick twist of his wrist to flick the man’s free hand that was clawing the air almost parallel with his sword hand. His blade did not touch skin, but brushed over a silken glove. The man grunted once, and removed the hand from danger.

  And then there was enough light from the lamppost to see the Mohock’s face. Hugh recognized the Marquis of Bilbury, his tormentor from Eton years ago.

  The shock caused him to pause in surprise, and gave the Mohock a chance to counterattack. Hugh parried every ruse the Marquis tried, and refused to be driven back into the darkness. He did not think that the Marquis recognized him; the man continued to duel from pride, or simply to teach the intruder a lesson.

  Hugh kept up his defense with a series of croises, derobements, and counter-parries. He knew that the Marquis was exhausting his knowledge of ruses, and was waiting for the moment when the Marquis left him an opening. The stalemate began to enrage the man, who tried to circle Hugh to throw him off balance. Hugh answered each movement to his right or left with an advance of his forward foot and a lunge that made the Marquis stop to parry. During one of these lunges, he allowed himself to glance at the Marquis’s weapon hand; it, too, was encased in silk, the better to hide the palms and fingers disfigured by the hot poker.

  The Marquis’s lips pursed in concentration, and Hugh recognized the sign that his opponent was growing weary in mind and body. The man was nearing the limit of his skill and endurance.

  “Damn you to hell!” shouted the Marquis, who launched a brutal but sloppy attack. He tried to maintain his composure, but his emotions were guiding his actions now. Hugh almost expected the man to toss his sword aside and rush him with his open hands or even try to tackle him. The Marquis grimly began a badly executed compound attack. Hugh answered it with a deft riposte, a glide along the length of the man’s sword, then with a liément that connected with the guard on the opposing sword and yanked the weapon from the Marquis’s hand.

  As the man’s sword flew through the air to fall to the ground, Hugh placed the tip of his sword over the Marquis’s heart. “You are beaten,” he said. “Now—go!”

  The Marquis’s chest heaved in anger and exhaustion. “Who are you?” he snarled.

  Hugh smiled, more to himself than to the Marquis. He felt that now he had a right to feel as he did. He said, “Drury Trantham, champion of these parts and of any others which you may pollute with your presence!” he pointed his sword in the direction of Exeter Street. “Now—be gone!”

  “you’re but a younker!” sneered the Marquis. “A barber has yet to scrape your phiz! Yet you beat me! Who was your blade master?”

  “A famous Gascon swordsman!” answered Hugh, pressing the tip of his sword harder against the man’s waistcoat. “And you are dawdling!”

  The Marquis nodded to the gleaming shaft that lay in the mud a few feet away. “And my sword?”

  “You have forfeited it,” said Hugh. “Collect your injured friend, who may need you as a crutch, and make haste.” He nodded once to a dark mass of spectators who had gathered in the alley to watch the fight. “Make haste, sir, because I believe many of those gentlemen put their money on the wrong sword. They may want to take their losses from your own pockets.”

  The Marquis glanced warily around him at the crowd, then with a last sneer at Hugh scrambled over to help his moaning companion stand on his one good leg. This man also left his sword behind on the ground. The pair hobbled away. The Marquis threw one last look at Hugh over his shoulder, then with a curse urged his companion to move more quickly, and they vanished into the darkness.

  Hugh picked up the Marquis’s sword. It was a beautifully made weapon, of Spanish steel, light yet strong, unlike so many English swords. The pommel was inlaid with fine silver wire filigree, together with the Bilbury coat of arms, which was also of silver. He would keep this sword as a memento of this night—this night in his city. He sheathed his own sword, then looked for the fourth man. The man had risen, and stood watching him from the shadows.

  Hugh strode over to him and stopped. “Will you share an ale with me, sir?” he asked. “I believe we have both earned a gill each.”

  “More than a gill, good sir!” answered the man. “And the invitation should be mine! Will be mine, and I will brook no argument from you, sir!”

  Hugh smiled and picked up the weapons abandoned by the fleeing Mohocks. He stood in the near darkness opposite the man. He could perceive only that the stranger was tall and thin. He offered the figure a choice of the swords.

  The stranger shook his head. “No, thank you, sir. I have no talent for them, and no patience.”

  “Are you injured?”

  “Not fatally,” chuckled the stranger. “Merely a cut here, a welt there, and bruises everywhere. In a week, they will be gone.”

  “Are you certain?” insisted Hugh. “I can take you to a surgeon.”

  “Thank you, sir—but, no.”

  “And your pride, sir: Is it not injured?”

  “It has never known a wound, sir, and I have been intimate with more humiliating situations than the one from which you have just rescued me.”

  “They might have killed you.”

  “True,” said the stranger thoughtfully. “And I believe they planned to. There is a method to that kind of hectoring.”

  “Do you live here?” asked Hugh, indicating their surroundings with one of the swords.

  “No, sir. I was on my way to an appointment, and Burleigh Street, my usual detour, was blocked. Otherwise, I would not have ventured down this lane. And you?”

  “No, sir. I had gone to t
he theater, and was making my way home.”

  Then both Hugh and the stranger noticed that some of this alley’s denizens were standing a few steps away, listening to their conversation. Hugh planted the abandoned swords upright in the ground. “These I do not want,” he said. He gestured with an arm to the Strand. “Let us have that ale, sir. Do you know of a congenial place?”

  The pair turned and strode away from the scene. “My own destination, sir. The Fruit Wench, on the boulevard ahead, near where Villiers Street meets it.”

  “I’ve seen the sign. Is it a good tavern?”

  “Good enough that tradesmen frequent it. And in the rear, a comfortable coffeehouse. The proprietress likes to see half her patrons sober.” The stranger paused. “I have been rude, sir. May I congratulate you on your superb knifery? It was almost worth being ambuscaded by those ruffians to see such a display of skill.”

  “Thank you, sir. But it has left me tired.”

  “You did not fight tiredly.”

  “No. I was fighting for my life. I had committed myself, and if I had slipped, I might have shared your likely fate.”

  “You might have suffered more, for having interfered,” remarked the stranger.

  They were nearing the Strand, and walked quietly in lockstep. Then the stranger asked, “May I know the true name of my savior, sir?”

  Hugh laughed. “You don’t believe it is Drury Trantham?”

  The stranger grunted once in humor. “Forgive me the doubt, sir, but I am acquainted with that man’s marvelous adventures. I did not believe he came to life and jumped from his pages to rescue me.”

  Hugh almost gasped with delight. Never before had he met another person who had read Hyperborea. He glanced at the indistinct face of his companion and offered his hand. “Hugh Kenrick, of Danvers and Windridge Court.”

  “Ah!” exclaimed the stranger, shaking Hugh’s hand, and as though some question had been answered in his mind.

  “And yours?” asked Hugh, eager to know the identity of someone whom he was certain to be a friend.

  They had entered the Strand. The light from a lamppost bathed them in a flickering glow. The stranger stopped resolutely beneath the lamppost. “I am Glorious Swain,” said the stranger.

  Hugh could see the man’s face now, and gazed up at a countenance as black as the alley from which they had just emerged.

  Chapter 15: The Fruit Wench

  GLORIOUS SWAIN WAS A LANKY BUT ELEGANT MAN, A HEAD AND A HALF taller than Hugh. He was dressed in a neat blue frock coat and waistcoat, from which he had already brushed the mud and dirt it had acquired from his encounter with the Mohocks. He sported a fine brown tricorn and a combed and powdered peruke. His face was severe, reflective, sedate. It had the flat, angular contours of a lump of coal.

  Hugh was stunned. He had never before spoken with a black man; had never even met one. He had only seen black men from a distance, working as porters, or carpenters, or liveried servants. The neighboring Pumphretts had one. He had seen one or two black women near the Lawful Keys, acting as laundresses, and one or two who were maidservants of fashionable women shopping on the Strand. Black people were exotic human beings to Hugh, as exotic as kilted Scotsmen. He knew that most were slaves, but that some were freemen. He brazenly studied the face of Glorious Swain, noting with fascination all the hues and valleys of black and how they worked together to form a sum of character and intelligence. The frank brown eyes returned this survey with patience and humor.

  “What a name!” exclaimed Hugh at length. “‘Glorious!’ How did you come by it? Did you adopt it, or were you baptized with it?”

  Glorious Swain did not answer these questions. Instead, he asked, “You are not disappointed with my ebon hue, sir?”

  Hugh frowned. “No, sir.”

  “You do not regret having risked your life to save mere me from those rogues?”

  “No! Especially not now!”

  “And—why not?”

  “You look like an interesting man. And you have read Hyperborea.”

  “Is there something…special about my color that piques your curiosity?”

  Hugh shrugged. “I am sure that your pallor is but a superficial aspect of your character, sir.”

  Swain barked once in irony. “Hardly superficial, sir! But you are right. It is not integral to my manliness.” He paused. “Would you regard me, sir, as an exceptional exemplar of my race?”

  “I believe you would be exceptional in any society.”

  “That is begging the question.”

  Hugh shrugged again. “I have not met others of your race, sir, so I cannot honestly answer your question.”

  “That is a better answer,” said Swain. “But it is true: I would be exceptional in any society.” He smiled at the look of disappointment on Hugh’s face. “And as I am certain that we both believe that boasting is a sign of vanity, I will add that my self-estimate is merely an honest but dispassionate conclusion, drawn from a lifetime of encounters with a numberless multitude of incogitant yahoos.”

  Hugh grinned. He liked this man. “Let us repair to the Fruit Wench. We have much to talk about.”

  “I agree, sir,” replied Swain. “We may talk for a while, until my friends arrive.”

  The pair strode along the Strand on the footpath that was separated from the street by lampposts and stone stanchions. A light fog had descended over the city, blurring passing figures and carriages and helping the man and boy focus on the discovery of each other.

  “Now, sir, to your name,” said Hugh. “It is not a Christian name.”

  Swain laughed. “Indeed, it is not. But the simple explanation for it is that I was born on a ‘glorious’ day. And on London Bridge, in fact, on the Surrey side, to the roar of the tide-drawn rapids below.”

  “Explain that, please.”

  “My parents, you see, were owned by a Mr. Swain, a pin maker, who lived above his shop on the Bridge. He dubbed my parents Timothy and Dimity. How he came to own them, I never learned. My parents helped him make pins. My mother also took in sewing, and was allowed to earn money that way. My father worked occasionally in a ropeworks near Chamberlain’s Wharf. When I was christened ‘Glorious’ the ritual should have made me a freeman, but that matter has never been resolved. I am not certain of my legal status, whether I am a slave at large or a freeman at liberty, for the courts do not know how to rule in principle on the issue. But I regard myself as an Englishman, and go where I please and do what I do. My only true nemesis is a press gang—and Mohocks, of course.”

  “Did those men know you were black?”

  “I do not know. I don’t think it mattered to them what my color was. No doubt, like other of their victims, I was a lone man, defenseless, ready to be ruffled and plucked.”

  “Where are your parents now?”

  “In heaven, I suppose,” answered Swain. “They and Mr. Swain died of a pox when I was three or four, all within a week. I was subsequently adopted—or possessed—by a fashionable courtesan who had been a regular customer of my mother’s. For her, I acted as pageboy until I was six or seven. She died of the malady usually associated with her trade—blind, covered with sores, and not very fashionable to look at. One of her gentleman friends took me in as his own page, but not for long, for soon I was the page for another courtesan, I believe as part payment for a night of extraordinary licentiousness. She, one night, drank herself into an unconscious state, and never awoke from it. Her parish advertised and sold my status. By this time, I was twelve.”

  “What an adventure!” laughed Hugh.

  “An adventure? Not quite, my young friend.” Swain sighed. “Another gentleman indentured me to work as his cook and servant. He even paid me a pittance, until he gambled away his means, including an annuity left him by an uncle, for which he had signed a promissory note at the faro table. From Queer Street he went to a sponger, and I with him. He was sentenced in turn as an indenture and sent to the colonies. I was sent to Bridewell to learn another trade.
I have had brief careers as a wainwright, a draper’s assistant, and a glove maker’s assistant. Drapery and gloves are still my trades, though I have resorted to duffing, a more lucrative trade.”

  “Duffing?” asked Hugh.

  “Donning four or five stone of untaxed Dutch tea beneath a greatcoat and selling it to hawkers in this great metropolis. It sells especially well in the plumb neighborhoods.” Swain paused to sigh again. “And I also work at a charity school, run by Quakers, teaching poor children how to read and cipher. It is on Rope Street. That is not so lucrative a pastime, but I do enjoy it and the company of the gentle and pacific Quakers.”

  Hugh glanced up at his companion. “Such a life! Yet you have fashioned a pride impervious to pain!”

  Swain shook his head. “It was not without effort, sir. And error.”

  “I believe you. But it is no mystery to me why you feel kin to Drury Trantham.”

  “Do I, sir?”

  “How could you not?”

  Swain laughed and put a hand on Hugh’s shoulder. “You are a warmly presumptuous young hellion, sir, and I think we will become fast friends! Ah, here we are!”

  They had stopped beneath the sign of the Fruit Wench. A lamppost and links on either side of the sign lit the face of a smiling, comely young woman, her hand balancing a basket of grapes, lemons, oranges, and pippins on her head. “That is Mabel Petty,” said Swain, “nominal owner of this establishment. She once worked as a fruit wench out of Covent Garden. She married the former (and late) owner of this place. Then it was called The Tattered Wig. He lived long enough to sire four children by Mabel, of whom only one, a daughter, survived to lend a hand. Agnes Petty, whom that phiz more closely resembles than it does Mabel, had trod the boards here since the age of five as a serving wench. I do believe the sign painter has emulated the style of Mr. Hogarth’s worthier portraits.”

  “I’ve seen some of his work, and I concur,” said Hugh.

  The tavern inside was a large room, smoky from innumerable pipes and churchwardens, crowded with tradesmen, watermen, sailors, and their women, raucous from dozens of conversations, and melodic from contesting choruses of “Marlborough Goes to War” and “The Anacreontic Song.” Many freshly commissioned army officers were also present, sitting in groups of bright scarlet coats, boasting of the various ways they meant to deal with the French and Indians in North America.