The Shadow of Nisi Pote

by H C Storrer

  The coachman pulled a soiled kerchief down from his nose, revealing the inside of the cloth to be a rich royal blue. It was a stark contrast to the drab brown that covered him from head to foot. Next to him, the official postman sat like a disinterested sandstone statue. When he adjusted his grip upon his blunderbuss the dirt broke free, revealing the drab remnants of his fine red and blue cloak.

  “It’s these two and another fellow.” The postmaster popped his head out from his office door.

  “Well, get in. I hasn’t all day,” the coachman prodded.

  Jacques worked the latch on the filthy door and pulled it toward him. Nathan was already there. “Age before…. you!” Dispatching Jacques with a wave of his arm, he slid to a bench and was mid snore almost immediately.

  Jacques shook his head in disgust and climbed in. Once inside, he shuffled, straightened, and tried to get comfortable before giving up altogether. He was thick into a familiar daydream, a wheel of cheese and fresh baked bread, when a brash voice stirred his attention.

  “Take this to London and return just as quickly. There are too many thieves milling about in these port villages so do not let it out of your sight! Blasted worms!” Jacques heart began to thump wildly. Slowly peeking around the corner of the door, he caught sight of the man in burgundy; next to him, a much older, sober-looking agent dressed in black. Jacques yanked his head back behind the door just as the burgundy’s man’s eyes realized his presence. Fighting to keep his heart from his throat, his first inclination was to wake Nathan. The brute’s guttural snoring shattered that illusion. A plan of escape rushed to the forefront of his mind. After all, he would be rid of Nathan, and he was sure he could find his way back to Penzance. The image of Nathan’s bloody knife swept escape from his thoughts. ‘Them’s whales is goin to see what’s they wants to see.’ That was it, Jacques knew his only salvation would be a good disguise.

  Licking his hand, he ran it back over his greasy black hair, pulling it into a tail with a bit of ribbon he made from loose wrappings on his arm. Lesson number one, he told himself. If he looked and acted like the son of gentry, that is what he would be. Quickly, he straightened, removed his coat, and did his best to wipe his face clean, holding his gaze in a noble air of indifference. It was a disguise, maybe not a good one, but it was a disguise.

  “I’ll be back by the first of the week.” The man in the black coat pulled back the door, his arms filled with a leather satchel.

  “Would you likes me to take the bag, Sir?” A mail officer appeared from the back of the carriage.

  “No!” both the men yelled in unison.

  “No, thank you,” the man in black recovered. “I will keep it on my person.”

  “Very well.” The officer turned away.

  “We ’as a schedule to keep,” the coachman bellowed.

  “Safe travels, John.” The man in burgundy waved and closed the door. Instantly, his eye was on Jacques with a flash of recognition. Before he could blink, the crack of the whip ripped the travelers away. Half-unwilling to let the door go, the heavy man ran alongside, his copper-capped cane pumping as he gazed at the sleeping Nathan and then back at Jacques. Opening his mouth, his cry was lost as he vanished from view. Jumping to his feet, Jacques leaned out of the opening to see the man struggling to his feet, his burgundy suit covered in muck and bursting at the seams. As the mail wagon turned a corner Jacques sat back down, unable to hide his laughter at the sight. His gaunt-faced, fellow passenger, John, seemed to be oblivious to his fat confidant’s dilemma, interested only with his loud ticking pocket watch and gold chain.

  Chapter 9

  I t had been a rough ride through the night. Jacques had tried to sleep, but it steadily evaded him. The carriage had bounced and jostled violently amongst the wheel ruts embedded in the wet earth near the coast. At some point, he had caught a respite when they moved inland and Jacques was able to catch a wink. This was short lived, however, as the fine dust on the high road billowed and rolled through the carriage in white chalky clouds. It left an awful, choking taste in the mouth, and soon he and John wore kerchiefs much like the driver. Nathan continued through it all, rocking back and forth with the wheel ruts, sleeping in drunken bliss. As the night progressed, the snoring souse became veiled in the fine powder blowing in from the road until he looked as if carved in Italian marble. With the twinkle of dawn on the horizon and, just at his limit of abuse, Jacques sighed with thankful prayers as the carriage rolled to a stop.

  “We has ’alf’n-hour-wait for fresh ’orses,” the driver bellowed and tromped on the footboard. “If you wants to buy meat an’ bread there’s an ale house ’ere!”

  No sooner had Jacques pushed the door open, when Nathan shoved past. “I needs somfin’ to wet me whistle.” Putting a thumb to each nostril of his nose in turn, Nathan blew the barrels clear, the powdery white mucus slapping into the road. Removing the crick in his neck, he pushed on.

  “What about a bite to eat?” Jacques called.

  “Baa!” Nathan waved him off like a fly and continued towards the pub. “I tolds you about rule number one. If ye be ’ungry, get somefin.”

  Jacques looked around, dejected. Briefly the thought of escape flitted across his thoughts. Disappearing into the town would be easy while Nathan became lost in his drink. Like lightning, the image of William’s blood dripping off the murderer’s chin banished that line of thinking. Jacques knew instinctively that no place was far enough to be free of the brute.

  Fighting his gnawing hunger, Jacques stared off at nothing as he leaned against the coach. Watching John straighten and finish shaking the dust from his clothes, an idea slowly percolated into the start of a plan. When John strode confidently away from the coach, Jacques was sure to keep his distance as he cautiously followed the ‘whale’. For a moment fear of losing his chance forced him to run headlong across the courtyard when the man in black disappeared behind the alehouse. Jacques slid to a stop just at the corner of the white-limed wall to take a peek to the other side. Like an abused pup, the boy peeked from his cover, watching as John stopped, took another look of his surroundings, checked his pocket watch, and then prodded with his foot a mat of grass beneath an old walnut tree. Kicking a few of the black moldy pods from his bed, he laid down in the garden, feet crossed, leather satchel under his head as a pillow. Jacques chewed his lip and began to slowly pace in a circle around the edges of the courtyard like a hungry dog. Every time he passed by the white stone corner of the building, just catching a glimpse of the man below the peaceful walnut tree, his eyes hungered for John’s gold pocket watch, glimmering in the early morning sun. His mission became clear on his fourth pass, he was hungry, and it was time to eat.

  Jacques jumped when the door smacked shut behind him as his eyes tried to adjust to the gloom of the alehouse. Standing in the dank humid air of stale beer, he wasn’t entirely sure how he got there. He took a moment to gather his wits and think through his plan. His mind’s eye flashed with images of Nathan’s curved knife, the watch, and Anna’s small pot of stew. Jacques’ craving for a meal was a siren call leading him like a carrot on a stick to those three simple ideas: knife, watch, meal.

  Knife, watch, meal. Knife, watch, meal. The mantra repeated as he spied Nathan, deep into a liquid breakfast with his head slumped motionless on a table. He shuffled forward a step, then halted. Knife, watch, meal. Steeling himself, he crept across the room while rubbing nervously under his nose. Harpooning a whale was one thing, but a shark could bite back. Reaching out a timid hand he furiously smacked the stool next to Nathan, then jumped away for the sot’s reaction. When none came, he wasted no time; brushing back Nathan’s cloak until his fingers connected with the green wooden handle, he pulled free the hooked blade. Cautiously, he let the cloak fall back into place, and then backed slowly to the door.

  Thrumming with excitement, the memory of the smoky goodness of cured ham and salty cheese mingled together upon his tongue. It took all of Jacques’ effort to calm himself as he appro
ached his victim high on his toes ever so slowly. He could taste the memory but watching the sleeping man’s chest dance rhythmically up and down, he knew it would stay a dream if he alerted the ‘whale’ to his presence.

  Finally, standing just a few feet from his mark, knife in hand Jacques froze, the man’s tricorn black hat blocking the light from his eyes as he slept. He nearly shrank from the assault, a tinge of guilt cutting at his core. As if Nathan were whispering in his ear, the words tickled the back of his neck ‘If the whale didn’t want to be ’arpooned, ’ee shouldn’t have been so careless.’ Jacques nodded. The man in black had what he needed to satisfy his hunger. Like a snake, he slithered silently to his victim, making sure there was not an eye to behold his evil deed. The shimmering gold of the pocket watch lured him, but as Jacques touched the chain, he realized it was a thorny hook not worth the effort. What would he do with a watch? That would cause too many questions. Jacques’ eyes flicked to the money purse dangling from John’s waist. With a grin, he carefully knelt beside the man and pulled back the folds of his black coat. There was only a moment of hesitation at the pistol protruding from a vest pocket. However, it was the mantra, knife, coin, meal, that overrode Jacques’ heart pounding in his ears. Placing his left hand under the silken purse, he let his fingers glide along the seams until he was sure the coin was within his grasp. Taking the knife, he slowly opened a slice just big enough for the shillings to timidly tumble out, one by one.

  Oblivious to it all, John continued to sleep heavily, the terrible night’s ride like an anesthesia to the world. With the work done, Jacques cautiously slipped away, leaving two coppers in the pouch; he didn’t want to be greedy.

  Jubilant, he nearly danced away with the karambit and coin in hand. He could hear Nathan’s voice in his thoughts, ‘Atta boy, lad, them whale’s be need’n ’arpoon’n!’ Instantly, another sentence followed, ‘Now gives us the coins. I ’as needs!’

  Jacques froze in his procession. Nathan would not leave him a farthing to sup. The scoundrel would take every tanner he could lay his hands on. Chewing his lip, he knew he would need to return the knife and explain his meal, but Nathan only needed to see half or maybe even a quarter of the coin. There was no reason to tell him the whole story, just enough to appease his appetite.

  ***

  “I haven’t the foggiest, blasted all!” John argued with the postmaster, jingling the two coins in the onyx colored silk sack. “I would think that there would be security supplied to your passengers, especially at the post stops!”

  “An ’ow would we know if the coin didn’t just fall out back in Falmouth?” The postmaster cocked his head with indifference.

  “It has been cut!” The man threw the purse to the ground. Taking his coat in both hands, he stretched it out before him. “Are these the garments of a beggar?”

  Nathan tapped Jacques on the shoulder with a wink and a smile.

  John took his seat, and then quickly hurled himself back to the door. “You will hear of this from your superiors!”

  As the coach started down the road, Jacques’ conscience thumped in his ears in time with the ticking of John’s watch. “A bit of cheese,” he offered his whale. “I have a good pumpernickel, or maybe—”

  “Aye, or a nip,” Nathan offered, holding up a bottle of port. Smiling, he gave Jacques a light shove, relishing their game.

  “No. No, thank you,” the man fumed, folding his arms.Nathan continued to chuckle until the drink consumed him. Jacques sat silent, convincing himself what he had done was right.

  ***

  “London!” the coach master bellowed, stomping the floorboards underfoot. Jacques was immediately up to the window, a soft breeze licking his face and blowing dust from his hair as they crested a small rise in the road. What lay before him was a sight like no other. The city with all of its chimneys fuming into the crisp air danced under the orange morning glow. Jacques had never imagined so many people pressed into such a small space. As they approached the grand city, it seemed to swallow them whole while the carriage rounded street after street, finally coming to a stop at the post office stables.

  “This is it!” the coachman hollered. “End of the road!”

  “Finally,” John sighed.

  Nathan was stone cold asleep, his hand cradling his empty glass bottle.

  “Nathan,” Jacques prodded. “Nathan!”

  Without warning the drunken man shot up, swinging his curved blade out, nearly catching Jacques in the throat. His chest heaving, Nathan’s red eyes grasped his surroundings as he withdrew his karambit. “Sorry, me boy.”

  “My goodness, Sir!” John stared in disbelief.

  “Tis me reflexes.” Nathan belched. “Too many fieves on this road.”

  “Well you might be a man in high demand. I could have used such reflexes a day ago.” John huffed and alighted from the coach. Jacques quickly followed. Nathan took his time.

  “Could I be of assistance?” One of the postal men approached as Jacques and Nathan stood for a good while in the courtyard, trying to get some bearing.

  “We ‘as a meet’n wif an assurance company. We needs the banking district,” Nathan replied.

  The postman’s eyes darted up and down from Nathan’s oddly bandaged eye. “Well, you would want Lombard Street.” He swallowed, shifting his gaze elsewhere. “If… if it is with a big exchange. If not, they, uhm, they can point you in the right direction.”

  “Much obliged.” Nathan tipped his hat.

  Chapter 10

  “W ell it would be highly irregular for me to just release the funds,” the clerk mused. It was a smaller firm. Not on Lombard Street, but closer to the wharf. When Nathan saw it, he understood why Edwin had an account; it was a shipping assurance firm. They had probably underwritten his cargos from time to time.

  “ ’Ighly irregular or not, thems pounds belongs to me ward, young Jackie ’ere,” Nathan protested. “ ’Is mo’ver is dead, an ‘ee’s gonna needs that money to get a leg up now that ‘ee’s on ‘is own. Would you fink he’d just go ’ungry?”

  “Well, no. Of course not.” The man shuffled in his creaking oak seat, the dirty window to his left casting a shadow across his sharp nose. Adjusting his wig, he tried to explain, “It isn’t just a matter of coming in and giving a good story. There has to be, well, be provenance.”

  “Papers?” Nathan asked.

  “Well, yes. Proof. You know, proof that you are who you say you are.”

  Nathan pulled back his dusty traveling cloak with great theatre and retrieved several rolled-up bits, documents Jacques had not seen since the graveyard. “’Ere is the papers. This one is the one written in Edwin’s ’and. This here document is the one of ’is death. This ’ere one is me marriage to the late missus. An’ this ’ere one is proof of Jack’s birf.”

  The clerk looked over the manila pages, spreading them out before him, pretending to investigate with a round bit of convex glass. Looking up, he spied Jacques, who milled about in the office. “Boy?”

  Jacques pointed to his chest.

  “Yes, boy. Come here,” The man coaxed him over with his hand.

  “Yes, Sir?” Jacques stepped to him.

  “What is your name?”

  “Why, Jack. Jack Hodges.” His face instantly beamed with a smile. Looking up into Nathan’s eyes, he could see the rage building and he quickly retreated from his joke. “But I was born Jacques Peters, named by my late mother with my father’s surname, Sir.”

  “And how did your father die?” The clerk turned back to the pages.

  With Nathan’s stern hand on his neck, he decided against any other game. “In the great earthquake of Lisbon. The first of November seventeen fifty-five. I was told he was aboard his ship, the Mary May.”

  “And your mother? What of her family?” the clerk pressed.

  “My mother, Margaux Benoit Peters, died recently, Sir. She was of a great French family. Married my father August the second, seventeen forty-three. I do not know my grandf
ather on my mother’s side. She was disowned—”

  “Very good,” the clerk interrupted. “Do you have any other family?”

  Nathan’s grip tightened. “Only my dear step father, Sir.”

  “Well then. It would seem that the funds do belong to you.” The clerk stood. “I will need to get a draft and discuss this with the owner.”

  “An ’ow long would that be?” Nathan prodded.

  “But a few moments. We have the guineas here.”

  Nathan didn’t stop pacing until the money was in hand. Once outside, he could hardly contain his jubilation. “Five ’undred, in gold.”

  “We should get something to eat.” Jacques could feel his hunger creeping just like the fog rolling in off the water.

  “Shove off.” Nathan pushed him backward, the mist swirling at the motion. “You can gets somefin to eat when you’s earned it.”

  Jacques chewed his lip. He had seen that look in Nathan’s eye before. Those guineas wouldn’t last through the week. “We should save that money, then.”

  Nathan turned on the boy, gripping Jacques by the front of his coat.“I’ll tells you what will be done with me money when I ’as a chance to think it through.” With a shove, he released his ward. “Now c’mon, London be full of all kinds of whales ripe for ’arpoon’n”

  Jacques stood in the street. Of all the affronts he had suffered, this one grated almost as equal with Nathan dancing on his mother’s grave. ‘His coin,’ Jacques thought. ‘That money was my father’s, given to me!’ Every beating he suffered at Nathan’s hand came rushing to his mind. He didn’t simply loathe Nathan. He hated him. Rage bubbled to the surface. If he had the karambit he would do the man in like ol’ William. The shock of the thought brought him up short. Could he really kill a man?