by John Boyne
‘As sure as eggs is eggs,’ I confirmed.
She shook her head then and reached forward with a laugh, feeling the quality of the material in my outfit. ‘John Jacob Turnstile,’ she said. ‘I thought you were dead.’
‘I am very much alive.’
‘And in the peak of good health, by the looks of it,’ she said, smiling a little as she did so. ‘You ran away to sea. That’s what I was told. You took passage with a trading ship.’
‘It was no trading ship,’ I replied. ‘It was one of King George’s frigates. But, yes, I set sail. I have only just returned.’
‘Go on,’ she said, smiling and looking me up and down. ‘And how you’ve grown too! All tall and handsome and dark-skinned. I wouldn’t have known you. Where was it, then?’
‘An island called Otaheite,’ I told her. ‘In the Pacific Ocean.’
‘I’ve not heard of it, duck,’ she said. ‘But it’s done you the world of good. You were right to get out of here – nothing for the likes of you here. You were made for something more than picking pockets, if I’m not very much mistaken.’
‘That was a long time ago,’ I said, nodding, already ashamed by my past. ‘It’s not something I am planning for my future.’
‘Oh no? Too good for it now, are you?’ she asked, a trace of bitterness creeping into her voice. ‘And what are you made for, then? Here! There was a great commotion after you went, you know. That man of yours was looking for you everywhere.’
‘Mr Lewis?’ I asked nervously.
‘Yes, him whose house you resided in.’
‘That’s him.’
‘I remember there was a din with a blue about it; he heard that you’d gone and they’d had something to do with it. He wanted compensation for the loss of you. But they said that he had no rights over you, it wasn’t as if he was your father or nothing, and so he had to be on his way. He wasn’t happy about it, I can tell you. He spoke about nothing else for months. He forgot about it after a time, of course: you’re not as special as you might think you are, John Jacob Turnstile . . .’
‘I never thought that—’
‘But he was fierce angry. I’d stay away from him if I was you.’
‘He lives, then?’ I asked.
‘Very much so.’
‘I’m only here to reacquaint myself with Portsmouth,’ I said quickly. ‘I don’t intend staying.’
She offered a few casual insults at this, her suggestion being that I thought myself too good for Portsmouth now, but she was wrong on that. I didn’t think anything of the sort. I simply had other plans in mind. I had had an idea regarding my future.
Later that afternoon, I was in a different area of the town, eating lunch in a hostelry paid for with my own money, and I watched as a young lad, perhaps nine or ten years old, hovered outside a milliner’s store opposite me. He was a pretty fellow, blond hair and blue eyes, if a trifle skinny, and I was on to his game immediately, for he had that air that I knew only too well of one who is waiting for the moment to pounce.
A gentleman and lady were at the store, and she was trying on hats, and even from my vantage point I could see a wallet peeping out of the pocket of his greatcoat. I could have swiped it in an instant and no one would have been any the wiser, but the lad was not dextrous and the way he was behaving I thought that he would be captured in a moment and the blues would be called. I was about to rise and make my way towards him to prevent him from making a terrible mistake, but another reached him first.
A man had approached from the opposite side of the street – he must have been standing out of sight, to the left of the window where I was seated – and he marched across and grabbed the lad by the wrist, then pulled him away into a dark corner beneath an awning, where he proceeded to remonstrate with the boy, not because he was a young thief, but rather because he was not doing a good job of it.
I felt the food turn in my belly as I watched the scene play out before me. Much as I wanted to turn away and run as fast as my pins could carry me, I was transfixed.
And perhaps something in my gaze was so intense that it made him stop chastising the lad for a moment and hesitate, as if he knew he was being watched.
Then he turned his head in my direction and narrowed his eyes and our gaze met.
And for the first time in two and a half years, I was staring directly into the eyes of Mr Lewis. And he was staring directly back at me.
Times had changed. Had we met within a few months of my original disappearance, then maybe he would have marched straight across to me, grabbed me roughly by the arms and dragged me to a dark alley somewhere to beat me until the blood poured from my ears. He might even have killed me. Or perhaps he would have locked me upstairs in his establishment and made me work for him every minute of the day until my debt was cleared. It is impossible to know. What I do know is that we had both changed sufficiently – or, rather, I had changed in size and confidence – that he did none of those things. Instead, he whispered into the young lad’s ear while keeping a close eye on me at all times and sent him on his way, then leaned back against the wall as if he had not a care in the world and, with a half-smile on his face, waited for me to finish my lunch and emerge.
He looked much as I remembered him – I would have known him immediately anywhere – but perhaps he was a little more grey around the temples than he had been in 1787 and a little darker around the eyes. He was still the same uncivilized brute that he ever was, though, giving no thought to scratching his nether regions in the middle of the street, where ladies might be walking past him at any moment.
I looked down at the remains of my lunch and knew there was no point in continuing it. My appetite was far away. I hesitated, unsure what to do next, but I had little choice. There was nowhere for me to go other than through the door, and no possibility of escape. I would have to face him.
He offered a deep bow when I finally emerged, twirling his hand before me as if I was visiting royalty. ‘Why, Master Turnstile,’ said he, ‘as I live and breathe. I had more hope of running into King George as I came out to work today than into your good self. But I am certainly glad to see you again.’
‘Good afternoon, sir,’ I replied, swallowing a little and not approaching him too closely. ‘I’m pleased that my appearance is gratifying to you, although to suggest that the activities you are engaged upon constitute work is a nasty subversion of meaning, is it not?’
‘Oh, hark at you!’ He laughed, shaking his head. ‘What kind of language is this you are using, might I ask? I heard that you were gone to sea to make your fortune, not sent to the ‘varsity to make a nance of yourself.’
‘Whatever I am,’ I said quietly, ‘I am what you made me.’
‘Aye, lad,’ he replied, stepping closer now and leading me forward towards a harbour seat, where fewer people were gathered and we could speak with more privacy. ‘I made you, that’s for sure. I was your creator. But then you abandoned me, thankless child.’
‘I thought it was my parents who made me, Mr Lewis,’ I answered. ‘And that you merely collected me off the street.’
‘I remember your parents,’ he said, sitting down, and I sat beside him, although keeping such a distance between us that a third man might have taken a place there. ‘Your father was a drunkard and your mother a whore. Have I never told you that?’
‘No, sir,’ I said, looking down for a moment and sighing. I should have simply left him there alone but I did not have it within me. There were things that needed saying.
‘Well, that’s what they were,’ he continued. ‘And being as they were, I would think you only too happy to have been brought up by one such as I. Did I not give you food in your belly?’
‘Aye, sir, and plenty besides.’
‘Did I not give you a bed at night?’
‘Aye, sir, and plenty besides.’
He narrowed his eyes a little and cocked his head to one side. ‘And did you have no gratitude for that, boy? Did you not feel there was a debt of h
onour between us?’
‘I recall spending my days walking these streets, gathering up possessions that I had no business taking, and bringing them back for your coffers,’ I said sharply. ‘And I remember earning you much more through those other pastimes in which you were so active.’
‘In which I was active, boy?’ he asked with a laugh. ‘Now, that’s fine and rich, that is. Why, there were never a lad so active in that as thyself, that is my recollection.’
I set my jaw harshly and felt my hands curl into fists; he saw it too but seemed nonplussed.
‘And what is that for, boy?’ he asked. ‘Do you mean to hit me? Do you mean to start a commotion? There are blues all over here: do you not think that they will haul you off to the gaol if you attack me? Perhaps that would be the best for all concerned. Were you not destined for there, after all, when you were stolen from me?’
‘One cannot be robbed of that which one does not own,’ I countered, and something in that line made him see red, for he leaned forward suddenly and took the top of my chemise in his hand.
‘I did own you, boy,’ he said. ‘I owned you body and soul. You have cost me these last two and a half years and I will see recompense.’
‘You will not,’ I answered, pulling away from him now but feeling less confident than before. The hold he had over me was reasserting itself.
‘You will come back with me and pay your debt or I swear that you will live to regret it. You’re a bonny lad yet: you have a few years work left in you.’
I leapt out of my seat and swallowed hard, trying to keep the emotion out of my voice.
‘I am leaving Portsmouth,’ I said. ‘I intend to—’
‘You are going nowhere,’ he replied, standing too and taking my arm. ‘You are coming with me.’
His grip on my arm was pincer-like and I let out a howl, but as he would not release me I had no choice but to stamp on his foot, and this I did, before taking off at a pace.
‘You cannot escape me, boy,’ he called after me, laughing. ‘I own Portsmouth and everyone in it. Do you not know that by now?’
I ran until I could no longer hear his laughter and found myself on a strange street – perhaps things had changed since I had last been here – and stopped, gasping for breath. I knew not what it was: the familiarity of the situation, the knowledge of how cruel Mr Lewis could be, the servitude I had felt towards him all my life. I found that, despite everything that had happened to me, my feet were taking me back towards his establishment, and for a moment I believed it was the only place where I could possibly live, that it was – for want of a better word – home.
I wasn’t quite looking where I was going, however, for who did I run into only a blue emerging from the station.
‘Watch where you’re going, lad,’ he said roughly but not unkindly, and I apologized to him and he stopped before going on his way. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked me. ‘You look distraught.’
‘I believe I am,’ I replied. ‘I find myself with a difficulty.’
‘And you find yourself outside a police station. Is that by chance or design?’
I looked up at the symbol of authority that hung outside and I knew what I had to do. Perhaps it was too late to save myself, perhaps my soul was lost for ever, but there were others, like the blond lad I had seen outside the milliner’s. There were others I could help.
‘Might I step inside, sir?’ I asked, my confidence growing again, knowing there was only one way through this matter. ‘There is a crime that I think bears reporting.’
‘Then, you must follow me, lad,’ he replied, turning back and leading the way.
And I did. I followed him inside and I sat down and spent the afternoon telling him all. I held nothing back, despite my shame, despite how he looked at me. I told him the truth of who I was and what I had done, and when I was finished he sat back with another blue and shook his head.
‘You are to be commended for coming to see us,’ he said finally. ‘I know not what to say to you other than that. And now, if you please, I believe this Mr Lewis of yours deserves a visit, don’t you?’
I watched from the end of the street that evening when the blues broke down the door of Mr Lewis’s establishment, charged upstairs and took the men who were there into their broughams and the boys into their care. The whole event took no more than a half-hour and the street was in chaos as men and women came out of their doors, fire-torches in hand, to witness the commotion. None of the lads seemed sorry to go; I recognized one or two of the younger ones, who had been even younger still when I had lived there. I did not know where the blues might be taking them but felt sure that, wherever it was, they would have a better existence than they did at Mr Lewis’s.
All the adults on the premises were arrested. However, there was one person missing: Mr Lewis himself. The blues made their way from house to house, enquiring of the neighbours whether they had seen him, but answer came there none, and soon they boarded up the front door so that no man might enter and then they took their leave.
A few hours later, close to midnight, I left the small room I was staying in and wandered down towards the harbour and looked out into the distance at the ships anchored in distant Spithead. I was sure I could see movement on some of them and wondered where they might be headed towards, and in whose company, with what mission. To my surprise, I felt a curious longing for it and finally understood how the captain had felt when we were anchored on Otaheite and he would look out towards the Bounty with yearning in his heart. It surprised me to feel this way, but I felt it nonetheless, and wondered what to do with such a strong emotion.
I turned to make my way back to my bed and walked along a street that was surprisingly busy with carriages for that time of night; the gentlemen who were coming from their clubs cared naught for the speed at which they travelled and one or two of them nearly crushed me, which would have been a cruel end to my tale after so much adventure.
‘Turnstile.’
I swung round at the name and there he was behind me, Mr Lewis, a look of venom in his eyes.
‘You,’ I said, startled.
‘Aye, me,’ he said, advancing towards me. ‘Thought you’d seen the last of me, did you?’
‘No, sir,’ I cried, stepping back.
‘First you abscond, boy, when you are my chattel. Then you return to set the blues on me? Rob me of my business, would you? Steal my lads away from me?’
‘They are not your lads,’ I insisted, feeling bold enough to answer him back now. ‘They belong to no man.’
‘They belong to me, just like you do,’ he said, and the hatred in his voice was more than I had ever heard before. ‘You’re no more than a thief, John Jacob Turnstile, and I’ll have you for it.’
He looked around for a moment – the street was empty – and took a long blade from within his jacket. My eyes opened wide at the sight of the knife.
‘Mr Lewis,’ I began, imploring him, but he took a lunge at me and it was all that I could do to escape a stabbing. ‘Mr Lewis, please!’
‘This is your last night on earth, boy,’ he snarled, changing direction now, and I jumped back, facing the road, and he stepped into the gap between me and it. ‘Aye, and this your last moment.’
He lifted the knife and, aware that I had no more than a second or two before it descended into my body, I jumped towards him, causing him a moment of sudden surprise, and he took a couple of steps back into the road.
‘What the—?’ he began. They were his last words.
Could I have warned him? Or did I mean it to happen? I do not know. The carriage came round the corner and ran him over before he even knew what was taking place; I dare say he felt a moment’s terror and then nothing. I watched in horror as the carriage drove on and then pulled to a stop, and the voice of the driver called back, but I slipped into the shadows as he reached the broken body on the cobbles and checked pointlessly for signs of life.
As he ran down the street in search of a blue, I turned rou
nd and went home.
That business was over now.
91
IT WAS LATE OCTOBER BEFORE we thirteen survivors of the Bounty’s launch were called before Admiral Barrington to witness the court martial of Lieutenant William Bligh on charges connected with the loss of His Majesty’s frigate Bounty.
When I received word that I was to attend, I was immediately taken with a great consternation, for it seemed to me that the captain was being unduly charged, but I was reassured by the officers at the Admiralty that this was the typical way in which such matters were resolved. The argument that had taken place between the captain and Mr Fryer appeared to have ended as well, for the two men seemed to be in support of each other and did not contradict each other on any matter of evidence.
Like the other survivors, I was called to the stand, and took it nervously, for I feared I could become trapped into saying something I did not mean. However, my questioners appeared to think me of little importance and I was up and down those steps within the space of a half-hour of the clock. The judges considered matters for a very short time, the captain was acquitted and he walked from the courtroom a hero.
In the months since our return, the English people appeared to have become fascinated by the story of the mutiny on the Bounty and, in those early days at least, Captain Bligh was highly thought of by the populace for his success in steering our tiny tub back to safety. The king himself commended him and Mr Bligh was finally awarded that one title which had evaded him prior to our adventures – that of captain – and his further advance through the naval ranks was assured.
Later that year another frigate, the Pandora, under the command of a Captain Edward Edwards, was sent to Otaheite in search of the mutineers and I was astonished to read the names in the newspaper of those who had been captured: Michael Byrn, the fiddle-player; James Morrison, the bo’sun; the carpenter’s mates Charles Norman and Thomas McIntosh; the ABs Thomas Ellison, John Millward, Richard Skinner, John Sumner, and Thomas Burkett; the midshipman George Stewart; the cook’s assistant, William Muspratt; the armourer Joseph Coleman; and the cooper Henry Hilbrant.