Tidetown, page 22
‘As always you have acquitted yourselves with honour. An escort in protection of our people’s life and health is as purposeful a mission as a cavalry charge in the heat of battle. My great pride is confidence in the knowledge that I can rely on you all whenever, wherever, whatever, duty calls. Tonight you will rest well and tomorrow we will continue on our journey as if we were heading into battle. Our tradition is noble, our calling unbroken. To the hussars!’ he says, lifting his glass.
The men stand as one and repeat the call.
‘The hussars!’ they chorus, lifting, then drinking from their glasses.
Jeremiah watches all this, the camaraderie, the unity of purpose, wishing his life had thread a different course. To be an adventurer, a voyager, anything but a man who herds and slaughters sheep and frets over ducats at market. He deeply envys their easy complicity, the adventures that await them. He slumps forward and lays his head on the bar, overcome, not by the drink, but by sadness and a familiar pang of loneliness and longing.
Joshua Barnum, bugle in hand, is standing in the vestibule when Angelica comes down the stairs for supper.
‘Miss Angelica,’ he says, somewhat breathless. ‘I descended the stairs, after my bugling … the last post, at dusk, as newly requested by the mayor … to find Hoppy in a terrible dilemma. At the gate. Locked, as it was, of course. And a messenger, a hussar no less, waiting to convey a most urgent message to the mayor. He waits outside,’ stresses Joshua, with a sweep of his arm towards the gate.
Hoppy shifts from bad foot to good foot, unsure of what to do, the key dangling on the string around his neck, hidden under his shirt.
‘So,’ continues Joshua, as Angelica stares blankly back at him, ‘is the mayor, your father, disposed or …’ he pauses, knowing the mayor’s new habit of sleeping the afternoon away, with or without the merry widow (now a willing member of the incarcerated household), ‘… or is he indisposed?’
At which the mayor, his hunger for meaty soup superseding his drowsiness and lust, appears at the top of the stairs.
‘Excuse my presence in this part of the building, at this hour, that is,’ says Joshua with a bow, ‘but pressing business of state has prompted my seemingly impudent actions. In short, Your Honour, an officer of the Provincial Cavalry, indeed of the hussars, awaits yonder for an audience.’
The mayor stumbles down the stairs, then brushes past his deputy.
‘Hoppy, you clown of a boy, unlock the gate and let the man in. Lock it once he’s inside, then take his horse to the stable.’
He watches through the open door as Hoppy sets off to do his bidding.
‘Come inside, come inside,’ he calls, as the young man makes his way up the gravel drive. He is ushered into the dining room, where Angelica, intrigued by the drama, has taken her place at the table.
‘Anna,’ says the mayor to the maid, ‘lay a place for the hussar. Please sit down,’ he adds, guiding him to a chair.
Joshua is lingering in the doorway, awaiting instruction, hoping for inclusion.
‘Thank you, Mr Barnum,’ says the mayor, ‘that will be all.’
A somewhat dejected Joshua turns and heads off down the corridor, where he will descend by the servants’ staircase to the kitchen and the solace of Mrs M’s pumpkin and coriander soup.
‘So, sir,’ says the mayor to the stranger, ‘please fill your plate and tell us what has brought you to Tidetown with such urgency.’
Angelica chews on an apricot and waits for the story to unfold.
‘Anna,’ says Spider, standing in the kitchen doorway, ‘the mayor has said that the hussar will sleep the night, so please prepare a guest room.’
Mrs M is busy baking bread, the secret ingredients of which, in these trying times of great scarcity, include sawdust and ground woodchips left over from the log cutting. She wipes the sweat from her cheeks.
‘The fires, the fires,’ she laments, ‘heating this house like a cauldron. Is it not hot as hell enough in this kitchen as it is?’
Spider ignores her plea, eager to put his freshly hatched plan into action.
‘Mrs M,’ he says, as Anna scuttles past him to fulfil her duties, ‘the mayor has asked for a jug of cider to be brought to his study.’
She tuts and rubs her hands. ‘A woman’s work …’ she says, then scurries off to the cellar, jug in hand.
As soon as she is gone Spider pulls a chair over to the shelf, steps up on it and reaches for the laudanum jar and fills his pocket with the powder.
He enters the study, with two tankards and the jug of cider (spiced with laudanum) on a tray.
‘… always wanted to be a soldier, a warrior,’ mumbles the mayor, sitting on one side of the ever-roaring fire, ‘but the gout, don’t you know.’
He slaps his leg to emphasise the point. The soldier sitting opposite looks visibly overheated.
‘Let me take your cloak, sir, and maybe your boots,’ says Spider, as he lays the tray on the table, ‘seeing as you are staying the night.’
‘Good idea, young Spider,’ enthuses the mayor. ‘More comfortable, eh? The boy can take them to your room and you can relax.’
The hussar, glad of the opportunity to divest himself of clothing, hands over the cloak and pulls off his boots.
‘Away with you, boy. We men should be left alone for men’s business. We have drinking to do and stories to share of ships and shoes and sealing wax, of cabbages and kings,’ he says, roaring with laughter at his own conceit.
Spider leaves the room, the hussar’s boots and cloak in hand, his plan in train.
Half an hour later, the good companions in the study are slumped in a dreamy stupor by the fire. Spider, the hussar’s boots on his feet and the cloak wrapped around his body, puts the hussar’s helmet on his head and pulls down the visor to disguise his face. Having ten minutes earlier rushed to the stable, shaken Hoppy awake and told him that the plan had changed and the hussar had been summoned urgently to return to his troop, he stands by the door and listens for the sound of hooves. When he hears the neighing of the horse, he bursts open the door and leaps onto the saddle, almost knocking Hoppy to the ground.
‘The gate!’ he bellows in his deepest hussar-like voice, the horse rearing up and turning a full circle.
Hoppy rushes ahead as best he can, fumbles with the key and pulls open the heavy gate.
Spider digs his heels in to the flanks of the horse and they are through the gates and away.
Even in the dark Spider knows his way. After seeing the letter about the three brothers, and pretending to be pleased about their ‘progress’, he asked innocent questions of Mrs M about Mr Rodwell’s establishment. Whatever she might have known of its reputation, she kept to herself, but his careful probing provided a description of its location that helps him, this night, to arrive at its gateway just as the boys, hungry and exhausted from another day’s ‘progress’, are being locked in their dormitory until morning.
Spider tethers the horse out of sight and waits for the lights to go out in the upstairs rooms. Then, he seeks out the garden shed, where his intuition tells him he will find a ladder and some tools. Having a good guess as to the first-floor room where the boys will be sleeping, he places the ladder against the wall and quietly climbs up to the window. There, dimly lit by the moon, are rows of boys on beds. The window is barred, but presents no impediment to a boy of Spider’s prowess. Using a chisel he found in the shed, he sets about the business of prising the bars from the wooden frame, keeping his eyes on the prone figures in the beds, knowing full well that his activity will disturb one or two of the more restless. Sure enough, before too long, an inquiring face appears. It is Pious.
‘Shhh …’ gestures Spider, as his good friend, who’d always believed Spider would one day rescue them, smiles through the glass. He turns to wake his two brothers, urging them to silence. With the bars prised apart there is soon enough space for the three boys to squeeze through the open window and then scurry down the ladder.
Looking back up, Spider sees the haggard faces of other small boys peering out of the window.
‘We can’t leave them,’ he says, even though he’d only thought of freeing the three brothers.
‘The horse and cart!’ says Pious.
‘It’ll be noisy,’ says Humble. ‘The masters’ll hear.’
‘We can lock the buggers in, like they do to us when they all go to the inn.’
Pious runs around to the front of the house and puts in place the heavy wooden plank that bars the front door from the outside. His two brothers have run to the stable. Spider beckons the other boys, all dressed in identical grubby nightshirts, to descend the ladder. One by one they come to ground, a sad and skinny bunch, worn out by long hours of labour and little nourishment.
‘How many?’ asks Spider of Pious.
‘Twenty-three, plus us three and you,’
‘It’ll be a squeeze,’ he says as Humble comes around the corner with the horse and cart, ‘but they’ll keep each other good and warm.’
Once all the boys are aboard and Spider is back on the hussar’s horse, a general at the fore of his army, his visor in place and his cloak flowing, the motley crew set off into the night on their pilgrimage to the Island of Good Hope.
It is deep into the early hours when both Zakora and Brother Moses hear the clunk of cartwheels and the braying of the horse. Both rise from their beds and head to the corridor to investigate, bump into each other in the dark, and laugh.
‘You heard?’
‘Indeed.’
They find others have been woken by the commotion and the excited sounds of boys’ voices. Brother Saviour is there opening the heavy front doors, a huge candelabra lighting up the scene.
He reveals a peculiar a sight as has ever graced the vestibule. A soldier stands at the head of a gaggle of scabby-faced urchins dressed in rags that flap in the wind about their skinny bones.
The monks look to one another.
‘Sanctuary,’ says the voice behind the visor. ‘We claim sanctuary.’
‘And it will be yours,’ says Brother Saviour, his kindly face and welcoming expression aglow in the light of the candles. ‘Those seeking sanctuary have washed up on these shores for centuries and never have we turned a single soul away. We will never forget that our founding abbot was an itinerant himself, in search of a new home. He came by boat; you, it seems, have come by other means. Either way, come in, you are welcome and this is your home as long as you choose to stay. Sanctuary is gladly given.’
The monks move out towards the boys and take each by the hand, guiding them towards the Great Hall and a midnight feast yet to be prepared.
‘You heard this yourself?’ asks Perch.
‘Yes,’ says Angelica excitedly, happy to be the conveyor of information so eagerly received. ‘I came as soon as I woke this morning. I took the horse and trap direct and came to you as fast as I could muster. The hussar said the coach was carrying the vaccine and he had ridden ahead to let the mayor know. So that the town could be prepared.’
‘Angelica, you are the messenger and we must seek the meaning behind the message. Wait outside until I summon you,’ says Perch.
‘Oh, yes, of course,’ replies Angelica, ‘I’ll wait.’
Today there is little sign of the sun. The plants in the garden appear forlorn, realising that there will no warmth this day. Angelica walks around the back of the house to the beehives. All is quiet: no buzz, no sign of honey making. A veiled hood is draped over one of the hives and a smoke gun has been left by the water tap. She looks around to be sure she is alone. Guiltily, her heart beginning to pound, she takes the hood and pulls it over her head, letting the veil drop down over her face. She feels a thrill, exhilarated at the thought and smell of such intimacy with Perch. Sucking in the veil she holds the laced material between her lips, tasting the breath of her mistress, seeing the world as she does, through her eyes. Turning around she hears the sound of a steady humming, but it is not from the hives. Following the sound, she walks along a paved pathway to the side of the house and a shuttered window. Peering through a crack in the slats she can see Perch, prostrate on the floor, emitting a guttural chant, rhythmically slapping her hands on the ground. Hanging on the wall, just visible to Angelica, is the object of her adoration. It is a collection of birch wood, branches and long twigs, trimmed and trussed together to form a skeletal frame some five feet high. Angelica can make out various bird feathers and animal pelts tied onto many of the branches. At the base of the icon are lit candles and offerings of fruit and vegetables. Scrawled on the wall are strange and mysterious signs, symbols and spiralled patterns. The humming stops. Perch claps her hands together and then rises to her feet. Angelica retreats from the window, breathing deeply, aware that she has been party to something secret.
‘Angelica, come back now,’ shouts Perch, ‘I am ready to give you instructions. There is no time to waste. Call Simone to a meeting.’
This is what Angelica was dreading, prompting a message she had hoped she would not be forced to deliver.
‘She won’t be coming,’ she says under her breath, head bowed.
‘Who? Who won’t be coming?’
‘Simone’s parents found out about our meetings and said if they hear any more about it she will be locked indoors and her subscription to the pony club withdrawn.’
‘The pony club!’ shrieks Perch. ‘And Simone? What does she say?’
‘She wants to win at the gymkhana more than be a Special One.’
‘Judas! Judas! Judas!’ shouts Perch, kicking imaginary foes from her path as she stomps around the room. Then she grabs Angelica by the arm, hard enough to make her squeak.
‘Then it is just you and I. You and I. That’s the message.’
Rains have swelled the river to a torrent. Waiting on the bridge, the Trader is mesmerised by the power and volume of water colliding over the rocks, carrying whole trees in its wake, tossing and upending them as if they were kindling. In spite of the noise and rush of the river, he senses the unmistakable aura and presence of Perch well before he sees her. She taints and teases the air. When he turns, she is standing on the bridge. The black hood of her cape hides her face.
‘I have been told,’ says Perch, ‘that you can provide me with the men I need. Men skilled in the art of combat who will execute my plans.’
The man, dressed in a ragged bearskin coat, feels a tingle at the back of his neck. Is it fear? he wonders, he who fears no one and nothing.
‘I can get you whatever you desire, so long as you are prepared to match your desire with the price I expect.’
Down below on the banks of the river a mother otter is fighting for the lives of her pups. The tumultuous flow has washed away her nest and already four of her pups have disappeared into the rapids. Putting her life before all else, she fights with all her strength to save the remaining two. When the last twigs of her nest are dislodged and the pups are sucked into the swell and swept away, she stands on the muddy bank waiting for her instinct to tell her what to do next.
The Trader watches as Perch heads back down the path, the rain falling heavily once more. He weighs the bag of gold coins in his hand, pleased with the bargain he has struck, amazed at the calculation and cold-bloodedness of his newest paymistress.
FIFTEEN
‘I do not fear … It was for this that I was born.’ – Joan of Arc
Carp hurries along the passageway to the chapel. She surprises herself with her eagerness to be there in time for the monks to assemble before the morning service begins. She’s come to love the incense, the ritual. She walks deep in thought. Most of all she can hear Perch’s voice inside her head, questioning her, admonishing her. You desert me, it says, for why? for who? It’s then she hears footsteps behind her. She turns, then gasps: in surprise, in quiet elation.
‘Hello,’ says Spider. ‘I wondered if you would be here.’
She feels her heart beating, her neck and face reddening. Then she hears the sound of prayer, smells sweet incense.
‘The chapel,’ she says as she turns away from him, ‘the service.’
He watches her as she dashes off, her footsteps resounding on the flagstones.
Happily ensconced in the monastery, the twenty-six Rodwell boys spend much of their time together, bonded as they are by their special shared experience. They are learning to be children again, some for the first time, freed from the shackles of fear and drudgery. Mrs April watches them tumble among the sand dunes, laughing and jostling as they run into the surf, no matter the cold. All except for the three brothers, who sit apart in a seagrass pit of their own making. She walks over to them, noticing their sad expressions, the hints of tears, and the way they recoil and huddle close together when they see her.
‘Why so sad?’ she asks, squatting down to their level.
The youngest wipes his eyes, the older coughs, the eldest digs his hands into the sand.
‘Cat got your tongues?’ says Mrs April to break the silence.
‘We were talking about our little sister,’ whispers the youngest.
‘Shut up! Shut up!’ screams the eldest, leaping on his brother and pushing him into a bush.
‘Not to tell. Never to tell, we said,’ shouts the older.
Carp and Spider are walking along the edge of the sand with Zakora. The tide is out and an army of tiny crabs have emerged from their holes to hunt for food. The scurrying, scampering sound rattles in sharp bursts.‘It is no mistake to say the eye is a window,’ says Zakora. ‘It sees nothing itself. The eye does not see. All we see is interpreted. By our memories. Our experiences. Our histories and the way we understand the world.’
He turns to Carp and Spider.
‘When I look at this scene I see what my ancestors taught me to see. I see connection with other creatures. Messengers from one realm to another. One time to another. My faith tells me that all animals pray.’
