“Here,” said George. “The key!” He held one up.
Richard raced back, took the key, and hurried to the door.
“Lock the door when you go out,” cautioned George.
I heard him unlock the door, step out. I also heard the sound of clacking as the lock closed.
Knowing that Mr. Probert was about to come, the children swung back around, bent over their wood blocks, and began to work harder than ever, hammers tripping as fast as bird hearts. The tension in the room was such that I was sure I could hear it like a vibrating string.
“Charles,” cried George. He was pleading. “You need to resume your work.”
“I won’t do it anymore.”
“Do you know what will happen to you?” said George, looking truly frightened. I will credit him; he was warning me.
“I don’t care,” I returned.
“You will,” he said. “I’m giving you a last chance. Go back to work!”
“No!”
Behind me I heard the sound of the door lock opening. All work in the room stopped. The silence was profound. Trembling, I kept my eyes forward.
The door lock shut with a snap.
Mr. Probert’s voice commenced, cold, slow, and raspy: “What . . . is . . . going . . . on . . . here?”
George, breathless, said, “It’s . . . the new boy, sir. Charles. He . . . he won’t work. He says it’s . . . stu . . . stupid.” Speaking the last word, his voice faltered, as if its use was particularly prohibited.
Mr. Probert advanced to the front of the room. For a moment he simply stood there. His only movement was to touch his wig. In one hand was a large padlock. His sharp eyes were fixed on me.
“Charles,” he said. “You . . . may . . . stand.”
I stood.
“Did you say the work was . . .‘stupid’?”
“Yes, sir. And . . . and pointless.”
Mr. Probert remained still, as if he found it difficult to grasp the full weight of my words.
Then he said, “You are here, Charles, as an act of kindness bestowed upon you by the generous ratepayers of Melcombe Regis. Your feeble mother died giving you life. Your valueless father left you homeless. Starving. He abandoned you. You are here as an act of charity.”
“My father did not abandon me!” I shouted.
“Well then, where is he? Why does he not come and fetch you? Does he not want you? No, he does not want you. You are here because no one wants you.”
Ashamed, I stood there, trying to squeeze back the tears welling in my eyes.
“Do you know what happens to those who will not work?” said Mr. Probert. “Who speak violence?” He pointed to the Proverb on the wall.
“No, sir.”
“I shall show you. George, Richard, lower the basket.”
The boys hurried to the side of the room.
As I have informed you, suspended from the ceiling was a huge net-like basket woven out of rope.
The boys untied the cord holding it in place and lowered the basket. Even as I watched, I still did not understand what it was. But as the basket came to the ground the children immediately beneath it scurried away. They seemed to know exactly what was happening.
“James! Henry! William! Edward!” cried Mr. Probert. “Take hold of Charles.”
(Only later did it occur to me that Mr. Probert had renamed all the boys after English kings.)
Four boys sprang up, and before I understood what was being done, came round and grabbed my arms, and though I tried to resist, there were too many arms holding me.
“Put him in!” cried Mr. Probert.
The four fairly flung me into the huge basket.
Then Mr. Probert drew two strands of the rope together and padlocked them. As I became entangled in the rope, the boys rushed back to the wall and began to haul on the cord. The basket went up. I tried to get out, but aside from the fact that the opening was padlocked, my feet kept slipping through the gaps in the rope, effectively entrapping me. What’s more, even as the basket was hauled high into the air, the rope weave closed round me.
The cord holding the basket was then tied to a wall peg by some of the boys. All of which meant I was suspended high in the air in what truly was a cage of rope.
“Very well, Charles,” Mr. Probert called up to me. “You will remain there for twenty-four hours. While you are there, I urge you to think about the charity that has been bestowed upon you. I trust when you come down, if you are allowed to come down, you will be ready to resume working. But only if you don’t speak such violence.”
That said, he turned to the gawking children, adjusted his wig, and said, “It is Charles who has behaved badly, but it should be a lesson for all of you. Now, back to work.”
George clanged his dulsome bell.
Below me, the now silent children bent over their oakum picking. As for me, I hung above them, hardly knowing what to do.
What I did know is that I had been sentenced to remain there until the next day—unless I could escape.
Chapter NINETEEN
In Which I Tell You of My Time in the Basket.
Living by the sea as I did, I had seen many a fish caught in a net; saw them flop about as they were drawn up, gasping for breath, altogether helpless. I admit I never bestowed much sympathy upon any fish. Now it was me who was caught.
I tried to get out, but the weave of the basket was such that one, I could get no firm footing, and two, when I pushed against the ropes in one direction, another part of the basket closed round me. Moreover, there was that padlock, which prevented me from pulling the entryway open; a cage that measured itself to me.
I did call out “Let me down! Let me out!” any number of times. Not one of the children below me budged. A few glanced up, displaying affrightment on their faces—perhaps some sympathy—but they were hastily scolded into submission by George clanging his bell.
I found it exhausting to try and stand erect. Though I attempted to hold myself up, I kept slipping through the net holes.
It didn’t take long before I became weary, stopped struggling, and simply lay back, which was the most comfortable position. But that was the position of acceptance. The posture filled me with a sense of failure; it was as if I was giving up.
Below me, the life of the poorhouse resumed in shockingly ordinary fashion. Tat-tat-tat went the hammers. Pluck-pick-pluck-pick went the children’s fingers. No one spoke. As far as I could tell, I was barely noticed. Yet I had the sensation that everyone knew where I was.
Is there anything more terrifying than the silence that knows of awfulness but speaks it not?
At what must have been five o’clock George rang the bell. The children below ceased their work, swept up, and filed obediently out of the room. I think I saw John steal a look up at me, the briefest of glances. It was as if he was too affrightened to do even that much.
I heard the door shut. Heard it lock. Was I to be left? I could not believe it.
Yes, I was left.
It grew dark. Utterly soundless. Cold, too. When I moved, the basket swung gently, rather like the pendulum of a ceaselessly ticking clock at which no one looks.
For me time seemed to stop.
I spent the entire night hanging there. To be sure I became horribly hungry, shivered mightily, and tried to recall what was being eaten for supper. I could not. Now and again I struggled. At one point I had the notion that if I swung the basket wildly, it might break and fall. The fear of falling, crashing down, seemed small compared to possible freedom.
By throwing myself this way and that I did get the basket to swing in wild, twisting arcs, but nothing happened—in regard to my freedom—except that I grew nauseous.
At length I ceased the swaying and remembered my father’s letter, which I had put in my pocket. I pulled it out and studied it. There was just enough moonlight to let me read. Once again I tried to guess the meaning of “mXXXXXd!!” Had my sister been mistreated? Misunderstood? Clearly something dreadful must have happe
ned to draw my father so. But there I was, incapable of helping.
The more I thought and fretted about it the more I realized I should not wait for Father’s return. Aside from hating the way I had been treated, I was angry at my father for all the enemies he had made, foes who were pleased to make life miserable for me.
Very well, I would leave Melcombe and never return. I would go to London. Charity had promised she would take me in. I had to find her.
Yet it must be said that too often people make the most ambitious plans when they are least capable of achieving them. A small, sensible desire is a large fantasy if it cannot be achieved. I was no exception. In my head I climbed mountains. In reality I could barely move. Instead I lay there, until I grew all too aware that I needed to use the privy. “Let me down!” I began to shout. “For a moment! I promise I’ll come back! I need the privy!” I screamed.
No one came. I wet myself, and felt nothing but shame.
Punish a child and he will be angry. Humiliate a child and he will remember forever.
The night wore on. I thought about that storm. Oh, how it had already changed my life.
At some point I slept. Not soundly. Or well. But sleep I did, dreaming of being trapped forever. Alas, it was no dream.
CHAPTER TWENTY
A Short Chapter on a Lengthy Subject.
Dawn came, bringing some little light to the room. I remained where I was, on my back, in the net, damp, smelling badly, mortified, wondering if I would truly be kept in the basket for the full twenty-four hours.
As if from a great distance I heard the bell ring, then the children moving about. I dozed. The sound of the door unlocking woke me. With George leading, the boys and girls filed into the room and took their stations. None looked up at me, but a few wrinkled their noses, so I knew they smelled me.
Once the door was locked George rang the bell, and the children sat down and commenced their oakum plucking. Shortly after, Mr. Probert came in.
“I hope you are learning your lesson, Charles,” he called out.
If ever I hated anyone in my life it was Mr. Probert.
“That, children,” he announced, pointing up, “will be your fate if you do not follow the rules. If you speak violently. Your task is to humbly learn to work. You may carry on.”
Locking the door behind him, he left the room. I began plotting, imagining terrible revenge on the man. My father had spoken of public executions in London. I fantasized how I might bring them to Melcombe. Mr. Probert had said my namesake, Oliver Cromwell, took off a king’s head. I contemplated every cruelty upon the schoolmaster, with a decided emphasis on head removal.
The day wore on with excruciating slowness. Thirst. Hunger. Stiffness. Yet there I was, hanging in the basket, incapable of going anywhere. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting to leave Melcombe Regis.
Except, I could not.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
In Which I Continue My Time in the Basket and What Happened.
I squirmed, fidgeted, and ached as I tried, vainly, to find a position of comfort. Below me, the children were fed their lunch, thin pea soup, I believe. Even though I was sure it tasted buggish, my stomach groaned with hunger.
The afternoon commenced. I continued where I was, hanging there like a solitary, rotten apple on a neglected tree.
At some point in time—I was in a kind of stupor—I heard the door unlock. I looked down. Mr. Probert entered the room. He walked forward with the slow measure of a majestic monarch. As far as I could tell, he did not look at me, not until he reached the front of the class.
Once there, he patted his wig and clasped his hands.
“Dear children,” he began, “it always gives me pain, more pain than you experience, when I have to punish you. But the sooner, and more completely, you learn obedience, the happier your life will become. Your duty is to obey. Never let the word ‘boring’ come to your lips. To complain is to be violent and violence is unlawful. As for what is and is not ‘stupid,’ children do not have the intelligence to judge anything. Let your elders teach you what is stupid. Let this boy”—he pointed to me—“be an example to you when you behave badly.
“Now, Charles has been there twenty-four hours. It is his own fault. His weakness. I shall now, with great kindness, release him in the hope he has learned his lesson.”
With that, he called upon the same boys he had used before—the kings James, Henry, William, and Edward — and told them to lower me. “Do so gently,” he said grandly. He also added, “Out of the kindness of my heart I shall help Charles out of the basket.”
The four boys got up and went to where the cord was tied to the wall. Below me, the children scrambled away, providing an open space for my return to earth. Mr. Probert moved in place, the better to receive me.
Down I came, inch by inch, but even as I dropped, my anger rose.
I hauled myself into some kind of standing position. When I touched the ground, Mr. Probert stepped forward and unlocked the padlock that kept me entrapped. Leaving the sprung lock in place, he pulled the ropes apart and reached in to help me step free.
I should be very proud of myself if I told you that what occurred next was something I had planned. Not so. Despite my fury and desire for revenge, I was as surprised as everyone else in the room as to what happened.
As Mr. Probert, in an awkward, bent position, reached in with his hand, I leaned forward and snatched his wig—that crown of smug authority—plucked it right off his head, and flung it behind me into the basket-net. This revealed that his natural hair was an astonishing red color.
Mr. Probert—I am sure it was his vanity—forgot about me and lunged for his precious wig. At that moment, I burst past him, turned about, and using two hands, shoved him into the net. He fell forward, tried to find his footing, but instantly became entangled in the ropes the way I had become.
Quickly, I took hold of the padlock and snapped it shut, so that the entryway was closed tight, Mr. Probert within.
Free of the net, I shouted, “Pull him up!”
It has always been a wonder to me that the four boys—perhaps because they were so used to doing exactly what they were told—did what I called upon them to do.
They hauled up the cord.
As they did, Mr. Probert rose up into the air, even as he flailed about. As he tried to fix his wig back on his head with one hand and open the net with the other, he dropped his keys, all the while shouting, “Let me out, you miserable mumpers! Let me down!”
“Higher!” I shouted and the boys pulled harder. Then I rushed to where they stood holding the cord, and tied it round the peg, so that Mr. Probert remained hanging high in the air in his own net.
More astonishing than all of that was the reaction of the children. Once Mr. Probert was in the air, locked in, they began to jump up and down, all the while shrieking and squealing in high, youthful voices, “He’s caught! He’s caught! Hurrah! Hurrah!” Nothing less than joyful pandemonium filled the room.
Meanwhile, George, at the front of the room, was wildly ringing his bell, but no one was paying any attention to him.
I cannot tell you the name of the child who picked up Mr. Probert’s keys. All I know is that she held them triumphantly over her head, while shouting, “The keys!”
Then she ran to the door and unlocked it. The children, yelling and shouting with thrilling excitement, poured out of the room, down the hall, me in their midst. The girl with the keys unlocked the front door and, grinning broadly, stepped aside, allowing me to burst out of the poorhouse to my freedom, the children’s shouts of encouragement filling my ears.
I expected the children would escape with me. They did not. Later, upon much sad reflection, I realized they had no place to go. This is to say, unlike me, they had no home which to return. But I had, and home is where I headed, as fast as I could go, utterly intent upon fleeing from Melcombe!
I galloped past the customs house and was fast approaching the guild hall when to my horror, I saw Mr. Ba
rtholomew step out of the building. He was with another man, no one I recognized.
I halted instantly and made a quick detour round the corner of St. Mary’s Street, then edged forward and peeked. The fellow the customs master was talking to was a young man in a stylish green jacket with buttons from neck to hem, plus fine lace at his wide cuffs. Black riding boots came above his knees. He also had a fine tricorn hat, a plumey white feather attached. He seemed to be an elegant gentleman.
The two men were in close conversation, Mr. Bartholomew doing most of the talking. At one point the customs master extended his hand, as if measuring height. They might even have been measuring my height.
Quite suddenly, the young man glanced up, perhaps seeing me, and walked off. The next moment Mr. Bicklet and Mr. Turnsall emerged from the guild hall suggesting that it was their arrival that caused the young man’s abrupt departure. It was bad enough to see the duo who had locked me up in a children’s prison. I was reminded that in the basement of the guild hall was the town gaol. After a brief, animated conversation, the three men, Messrs. Bartholomew, Turnsall, and Bicklet—my enemies as sure as they were my father’s—began to walk in the direction of the children’s poorhouse.
To be sure, I did not know for certain where they were going, but if their destination was the poorhouse, I knew only too well what they would discover. Once they did, I had no doubt that they would come straight to my home in search of me.
I had to get there before them, change out of my foul-smelling clothing, and retrieve the hidden money. I knew, too, precisely where to go next: the Bear Inn where I would catch the next flying stage to London.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
In Which I Return Home Only to Be Surprised.
I was more than happy to see my home. I was, however, not happy to see our neighbor, Mr. Tickmorton, working before his house, using a straw broom to sweep away the last storm debris from before his door.
Living alone, Mr. Tickmorton was always—save the morning of the storm—wanting to talk to us, being inquisitive about our lives, forever asking about our comings and goings. Though another of my father’s enemies, he had never been anything but kind to me so I had no reason to rebuff him. Still, I had no desire to pause and converse, and would have gone right by, but he called out, “Master Oliver! A good day to you, boy. A word with you, please.”