by Paul Butler
Killigrew lowers his mug.
“I do not fear your loyalty, Admiral. But we have an enemy in the city. So do you. One who might pose a threat, albeit slight, to Easton’s plans.”
“Indeed?”
“An old comrade of yours.”
Whitbourne searches the cavern of his mind for a clue. Killigrew clearly wants him to guess. Perhaps this is some trick to test his loyalty. What old comrade of his could there be in London who knows about Easton’s depravity, unless by some chance?
“To whom do you refer?” he asks at last.
“A certain former Captain Dawson.”
“What?”Whitbourne laughs and almost spills his drink. “Captain Dawson is long gone from England. Easton left him in a cave in Hispaniola. It is quite impossible.”
“I assure you he is here with the black woman he stole from Easton and her young half-caste child. She is posing as Dawson’s slave.”
Richard sighs slowly. “I had not considered this.” He leans back and cradles the back of his neck in his hands. “The young fool!”
“We are relying on you to deal with it. He has certainly come to speak against Easton if he gets the chance.”
“But he would surely not get admittance to the Court.”
“He has not so far. We are hoping he never will and would have used the garotte long since had we not been uncertain of his connections. Does he have friends you know of?”
Whitbourne keeps his hands on his head. The pendulum from the corner clock ticks through his thoughts.
“The only friends Dawson has of any note are now quite beyond his reach. He was engaged to marry Rosalind Grantham, daughter of Maximillian. They now believe he is dead.”
“Then we can perhaps silence him without fear of reprisal.”
“No,” says Richard quickly, leaning forward. “It is too dangerous. The presence of the slave and child would cause questions.”
Killigrew’s eyes sharpen with distrust. Richard has clearly seemed too eager to save Dawson.
“I take it,” says Killigrew with an edge creeping into his voice, “you have no fondness for this young man. We must allow no sentiment to fog our plan.”
“Indeed it will not,” says Richard, meeting Killigrew’s hard stare with his own. “But I can stop him from using any connection that might harm Easton. It will be easy enough in the circumstances. And far safer than the garotte. I will make him simply disappear as a threat. All I require from you is his address.”
Killigrew’s stare remains on him for a moment. Then just when Richard believes more persuading might be necessary, Killigrew nods, apparently satisfied. “Good,” he says. “If you are sure you can get Captain Dawson and his chattels out of our way, we will move forward and secure Easton’s pardon.”
When Richard takes to the street once more he finds his thoughts spiraling into darkness. He walks slowly toward his lodgings near the Temple. He thinks of young Dawson huddled within London’s poisonous lanes with the black witch, pretending that she is his slave. It’s a miracle he has managed to slip between starvation and the gallows for so long, a miracle he has kept up the pretense. If the residents of this city were to suspect their relationship they would tear both them and the child apart in an instant. And to think he once had the makings of a quality officer—diligence, courage and patience. All that was missing was the knowledge of the workings of power, and he would perhaps have gained that in time had Easton not arrived off their coast. Perhaps he should have prepared the boy better in the first months under his charge. Perhaps he should have drummed it into him, the pressures faced by men when they are taken prisoner, how the rules become more important as the trappings of civilization disappear, not less so. He should have explained that if you let go of order and custom for a second, if you disobey a single command or let yourself be tempted, then you let slip forever that thread which connects your life to all that is decent and sane, and you fall into the pit of the most despised and wretched. He should have drawn a clear picture for the young man of the bestial sins into which disobedience and indiscretion could lead him, although Richard himself could not have guessed how far he could have fallen.
Richard’s footsteps echo again, that particular London echo which is slower and more hollow than the original sound which produced it. With an effort he keeps himself from turning to look behind him—he knows he is reaching the age when men begin to imagine ghosts pursuing them. The echo continues, but he shuts it out.
Killigrew’s fear over Dawson still weighs on Richard. He doesn’t want the young man killed, and he knows it is only good fortune that Killigrew has held off this long. In one sense Richard doesn’t know why he should be so worried about it. Death is surely preferable to the life Dawson is living at present. But, then again, there is one chance, something that crept into his brain while he talked to Killigrew—a chance that caused him to make that somewhat rash promise that he could deal with it in a way that would ensure no trouble.
Dawson has in all probability experienced no contact with civilized society since escaping Easton’s ship. That is a full year without the company of any gentleman or lady. Months scraping a precarious existence upon Hispaniola, perhaps. Then further weeks stowed away in some hold or maybe working or begging a passage through his own labour. And now he is here in London, in whatever filthy hole would accept this ghastly parody of a family, in whatever den would be incurious enough not to wonder about the child.
Assuming Dawson has not turned quite feral, he must be desperate for his old life. The gaze of a respectable lady would surely scald his eyes and senses as a vision of paradise now out of reach. And yet, Richard ponders, is it quite out of Dawson’s reach? It was this question that caused him to make his promise to Killigrew. He might indeed remove Dawson as a threat, but not in the way Killigrew suspects. If a man is dangerous to the order of things, one sure way to eliminate the danger is to draw him back into that order.
And it just might be possible. Rosalind Grantham is still in mourning for Dawson. Richard has heard as much. If Dawson is re-established in his old life he will not be the first explorer to have returned from the dead. And he will not be the first to have returned with little in the way of explanation to account for himself. Men have been struck with brain fever in the tropics before. They have turned up in the civilized world again with all memory burned clean yet have picked up each rein of their former lives. Is this not really the sum of all that has happened to Dawson?
Richard has held back contacting Miss Grantham about Dawson, thinking to spare her. He believed there to be only two options: that she continue to believe in his death or that she be told some version of the truth. But this is not the case. If Dawson can be made to relinquish the past, then there is no need to tell her anything other than absence and illness. And Dawson surely will disown his present sorry situation. Indeed, the very sight of Rosalind will make Dawson feel as though he is at last emerging from a nightmare. Dawson’s rehabilitation, unlikely as it has seemed up to now, might be the very thing to solve everything.
Richard’s pace increases as he approaches his lodging. All Dawson needs, he realizes, is Richard’s own good report—and he has so far said nothing to anyone, other than the plain fact that he disappeared one night. All Dawson has to do himself is promise not to talk about Easton and throw off all vicious attachments. Richard reaches his door and lifts the latch. A strategy falls into place the moment he opens the door into the warm and brightly lit interior. The Granthams happen to be in London for the winter. He is sure Rosalind is with them.
“I’ll have a cup of ale, Ellen,” he says to the housekeeper as she takes his coat. He notices her slightly harried air. “Has anyone called?”
“A young man, poorly dressed, sir,” she replies. “A beggar, I thought. He would not give his name but said he would catch you up.”
“Indeed? How strange,” he answers and walks toward the main fire which blazes and crackles happily. He stretches his fingers over the he
at and warms them. “I shall be at my writing desk.”
He goes into his study, which is already well lit. He opens the top right hand drawer of his writing desk and takes out some paper and an envelope. Ellen comes in with his ale.
“I would like you to go out early tomorrow morning, Ellen, and deliver the following message.”
“Yes, sir,” Ellen replies, placing his ale on his writing desk and peeking with tired eyes at the name and address he scratches upon the envelope.
“It is not far,” he assures her. “Could you see it gets straight into the hands of the recipient, a Miss Rosalind Grantham.”
“Yes, sir,” she says, and leaves.
George enters. The room is bare and the fire has long since burned itself out. A bone-nibbling cold wafts through the walls and the wind sings in the rafters: Where is she? Where is she?
George takes the sack off his back and lays it on the floor. He throws the timber he has collected, some of it dry, some soggy, into the fire. He underlays it with some dry sawdust and paper he found in The Blind Beggar. Then he takes out his tinderbox. He’s lucky this time. It lights the paper first time. He bundles up the sack and feels the last of its contents, a penny loaf, with his hands. He lays the sack close to the fire as though it were a Christmas offering.
He wonders how long she has been gone and where she is. The room he is in is in one of the maze of buildings perched above and overhanging London Bridge. The Thames rolls dark under them, its waters dank and cold. There is the constant scurry of rats from the ceiling, from under the floor and in the walls. They gnaw away at the precarious foundations day and night. One day the whole building will groan and creak and slide into the Thames without warning, he is sure. Their only hope of survival is to escape somehow.
He thinks of going out to look for Jemma and the child. The bridge itself—let alone the rest of London beyond—houses a hundred rogues. She does not worry as she should. And her stoicism regarding her safety aggravates him.
George listens. The outside stairs creak. They might be returning. He goes to the front door and the noise repeats, this time corresponding to a rising in the wind. He shivers and goes to the room’s only chair—all other furniture has been used for firewood. He sits again in front of the fire, allowing the warmth to seep into him. He closes his eyes.
A moment later he is on their tropical beach, the sun pulsing down, palm trees shimmering in the breeze. Jemma is laughing and splashing through the waves, the water dripping like honey from her fingertips. The sea is warm and healing—clearer than any glass. The baby is bundled up safe under a tree, but they never leave him long.
“I’m glad we didn’t go back to London,” she says with a laugh.
The door swings open and there is a cold wind. George opens his eyes; his dream and the tropics slip away. Jemma stands, the baby huddled over her shoulder. She closes the door.
“You’re back,” she says. The child starts to cry and she begins massaging his back.
Someone in an adjacent room bangs on the wall. “Shuttup!” comes a muffled shout, the neighbour’s usual response to the baby’s crying.
George ignores it, but something inside him flares up.
“Where did you go?” he says, his eyes burning with anger.
Jemma does not answer at first but brings the child over to the fire. She kneels down and places the baby on his feet. He stands for a second, wobbles slightly, then drops to his knees and reaches with tiny hands toward the dying flames.
“I had to go out, George,” she says at last. “I couldn’t stay here all evening.”
George feels his chest and shoulders tighten. He leans forward in the chair. “You can’t go out on your own. I told you. We agreed!”
Jemma strokes the baby’s hair as he continues to reach for the flames. He even gives a little laugh. The sight almost melts through the layers of George’s anger. He finds something warm rising up, trying to break through. Jemma looks at the child and laughs. Then she looks at George, trying to draw him in.
George shuns her and gazes down into the last of the bobbing flames. “Jemma, you can’t go out on your own. Your life is worth nothing out there and you’re endangering the baby.”
Jemma sighs and turns slightly. “It’s your country, George,” she says, “your country I’m in. Why is my life worth nothing?”
George stands up, knocking away her hand that has come to rest upon his knee. “You agreed to come here,” he whispers harshly, “you agreed. I didn’t force you. But you must live by the rules.”
“Maybe I am your slave,” she says, turning fully toward him now and away from the fire. Her hands rest upon the chair, her jaw resting upon her hands. “Maybe we’re not pretending!”
“Stop that! Stop it!” George says, pacing around her in a circle.
The child, who has been staring at him with his finger in his mouth, suddenly breaks into tears.
The knocking comes on the wall immediately, as though the occupant is lying in wait for a reason to complain. “Shuttup!” the voice bellows again.
“I was a captain in His Majesty’s navy before I met you,” he whispers, seething. “Look what you’ve brought me to!”
Jemma’s gaze stays on him for a moment longer then she moves away from the chair and turns once more to face the fire.
Rats continue scurrying somewhere in the walls and under their feet. The child moans and dribbles. George goes toward him. Jemma pulls away and stands as he approaches. She moves off into the opposite corner. George reaches for the sack with the loaf and half-heartedly pulls it close to him. He strokes the child’s curly head with his other hand.
“Jemma,” he says, not looking around at her. “I’m sorry. I have something for all of us.”
There is no answer. George looks around. Her gaze is on him, wounded. Tears run silently down her cheeks.
Chapter Fifteen
The sun struggles through the cloth nailed to the narrow window. Yellow light scatters over the floor, with its remnants of sawdust and rat droppings. George, Jemma and the baby are huddled together, all their clothes providing a sea of linen and wool. Jemma’s head rests upon George’s shoulder and the baby is nestled at their feet. The sounds of the morning vibrate through their little room—footsteps clattering in the thoroughfare below, people running up and down the rickety steps, residents sloughing effluent into the Thames. The ill and the dying retch and spit in their rooms; consumption is rife. Jemma has been coughing and throwing up almost every morning recently and George has been worried about her. But this morning she seems well and they rest contentedly.
“We should name him,” says George.
“An English name?” Jemma asks.
George thinks about it for a moment.
“I don’t know,” he replies. “I just know we can’t keep calling him the baby. He’s a year old.”
“A year,” she repeats softly. “How long will we be here, do you think?”
“Until we can get away,” George replies. He reaches out and touches Jemma’s warm cheek with his palm. He thinks of them both in the tropics and wonders how they could have been so foolish as to leave.
“What about your mission?” she asks, lifting her head from his shoulder to look into his eyes.
“There’s no mission anymore,” George says, his face burning.
It takes something out of him—perhaps his dignity—to admit they have come to London to endure cold, hunger and danger for nothing. It hurts because he remembers how the reasons had seemed so clear when they arrived four months ago.
“Why?” she says, after a silence. She continues to gaze at him.
“Because I was a fool to think I could break into the circle. They’re planning Easton’s pardon already. The King will be on their side.”
Jemma is silent. Her foot stirs near the baby under the makeshift blanket. She frowns, exhausted, but doesn’t ask any more questions.
George wonders if this pessimism is just another spell or really t
he end. He asks himself why he has suddenly accepted what he has been at such pains to deny for so long—that Easton’s barbarity will never be exposed, that Whitbourne will be welcomed back into court as a faithful servant and that his own good name will never be reclaimed; he will disappear from the records and remain one among thousands of English seaman who disappeared, deserted or died.
He would like to explain the unexplainable to Jemma. He would like to relate to her how the revelation occurred amidst the fog and woodsmoke of Devil’s Lane, along with the sound of a bottle being smashed and the smell of escaping spirits.
He had come into the vile place in pursuit of Whitbourne and had been following the admiral’s dark striding figure all evening. There was something fateful about the journey and the destination. The smoke and the strange echoes seemed to close in on him and everything became oddly hushed. If you stay in London, George, a voice whispered into his soul, this will be your home. How could he explain this to Jemma when it contradicted all that had gone before about truth and honour, about how his country expects him, as a faithful servant, to bear witness to the highest principles? How could he explain it when he has told Jemma that his country rewards those who tell the truth?
He could explain it all only by admitting that he had been mistaken. His country expects no such thing. And there is no reward for truthfulness. This would be too painful to relate to Jemma and he wouldn’t know how to frame it anyway; the thought is still too new, even to himself.
There was one last part of the revelation. It came to him principally in an image—the black feather in Whitbourne’s hat disappearing into the doorway of The Blind Beggar. Somehow the proud plume brought all George’s experience of the navy full circle. It carried him back to just over a year ago and the sight of Easton’s flag dancing in the wind, so arrogant and defiant. Suddenly he knew how untouchable such confidence really was. It was as if, in the bounce of Whitbourne’s feather, he at last read a secret message, a message that had remained obscured all through his schooling and his first months in the navy. It doesn’t matter how sordid the action, the unknown text seemed to read, how immoral and depraved the perpetrator, if he has a hold on power, either through cannons or gold, he is and will remain “respectable” and will be forgiven by the society which surrounds him.