Common politeness required me to halt.
“Forgive me for not talking to you the other morning. I was much troubled. But now I have learned,” he said, “that your father has gone away, to London.”
“Yes, sir, on business,” I said, not wishing to share more information with the man. But as ever, I put on my smile.
“Lawyer business?” Mr. Tickmorton persisted in his prying way.
“He didn’t tell me, sir, but I suppose so.”
“Will he be back soon?”
“As soon as he can, sir, I’m sure.”
“No one was in your home last night,” he announced. “Where were you?” It was as if he had some right to know.
“Please, sir,” I said. “I’ve been to the other side of town. With friends.”
“Will you be cleaning up the jumble before your house?” he asked, gesturing to the pile of bricks that had been our chimney.
“Presently, sir,” I said, wanting only to get into my house, so I could escape town.
No sooner did I take a step in the direction of our door than Mr. Tickmorton announced, “I need to tell you that a short while ago a man was inquiring for you.”
That stopped me. “Who was it?”
“The customs master, Mr. Bartholomew. He’s the one that told me your father had gone to London. He also told me about a wreck along the beach. He actually had one of the crew with him. Something about a missing twenty-three shillings. I thought it was your father he wished to speak to. A legal affair. But no, it was you he needed to see. Do you know something about those shillings?”
I was stunned. Mr. Bartholomew had brought a sailor from The Rose in June to my door. Were the shillings I took his? How else could Mr. Bartholomew know the sum? At the time I took the money I told myself it belonged to a perished sailor. Now he had come to my door. His being alive meant I was a thief.
“Excuse me, sir,” I said. “I must go.”
“Mr. Bartholomew said he would return.”
That stopped me yet again. “He did?”
“Indeed,” said Mr. Tickmorton, and the way he looked at me suggested he was eager for more information.
“Excuse me, sir. I must go!” With that I fled into the house and ran up the steps to my room at the top of the house. There I opened the chest that contained my small stock of clothing. I took what I needed. Then I tore down to the back of the house where we had a barrel full of rainwater. I stripped off my old, malodorous outfit and washed my body, face, and fingers. Once clean—the fingers only partly—I dressed in dry linen and clothing. Feeling the better for it, I returned to the house.
Very hungry—I had not eaten in twenty-four hours; what people called having a wolf in my stomach—I searched diligently for some food knowing I had no idea when I’d eat again. By good chance I found an old piece of cheese on a shelf in my father’s room. I devoured it on the spot. Though it churned my belly it helped to dampen my hunger.
I cast an eye about to make sure I had whatever might prove useful. With winter approaching, I decided to take my father’s heavy coat. A hat, too, one with a fine velvet band round the crown. Though both were too big for me, I remembered how cold I’d been the night before inside the poorhouse and thought it best to prepare for November nights on my way to London.
Finally, I approached the fireplace, stripped off my father’s coat and hat, stepped into the hearth, and began to climb. I was in such a hurry I didn’t bother with a candle. In any case, with our chimney gone, there was enough light coming down the shaft to show me the way.
It was not hard to see the place where I had set the coins, and was just about to reach for them when I heard Mr. Tickmorton’s voice: “If you please, gentlemen, I just saw the boy go into the house. I’m certain he’s there. Please go in. He’s sure to welcome you and answer all your questions.”
“We shall do exactly that,” said a slow, raspy voice that I instantly recognized as belonging to Mr. Probert. “Mr. Bartholomew, Mr. Bicklet, Mr. Turnsall, please, you sirs. Do enter.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
What I Learned While in the Chimney.
I dared not move from my place in the chimney but remained where I was, holding myself up by spreading my feet wide and standing on the brick edges.
“What a disgraceful mess,” said a voice I recognized as belonging to Mr. Bartholomew.
“What one might expect from such people.” That was Mr. Turnsall.
“Charles!” shouted Mr. Probert. “You must surrender to us immediately!”
“I shall fetch him,” said Mr. Bicklet.
Thinking they knew where I had hidden, I was terrified.
Next moment I heard the tread of someone walking up the steps. They believed I was in the upper part of the house.
“Are you going to arrest him immediately?” came Mr. Turnsall’s voice.
“It’s my duty,” said Mr. Bartholomew. “I have no doubt he’s a thief. I’ve already arranged that the guild hall gaol be ready.”
“Is it a hanging offence?” asked Mr. Probert with some delight, I thought.
“Twenty-three shillings!” said Mr. Bartholomew. “I should say so.”
“I wish to lay a charge against the boy, too,” said Mr. Probert. “Can you imagine, without cause, he assaulted me.”
“Let him hang then, twice,” said Mr. Bartholomew. “I’ve been called to London this week. Crown customs matters. I shall make it my business to secure a general warrant against the boy. One way or another, gentlemen, I intend to be done with him. And by linking him to his father, we can have that unpleasant man transported out of the kingdom entirely.”
I heard the sound of someone coming down the steps. Mr. Bicklet’s voice: “He’s not here.”
“Cunning thief!” exclaimed Mr. Bartholomew. “Just like his father. I’ll wager the boy’s trying to get to London to join him.”
“Gentlemen,” said Mr. Turnsall. “I propose we inform Mr. Webber at the Bear Inn about the boy so as to stop him from getting on the London coach. Confine him to Melcombe and Melcombe’s gaol. Keeping him might even lure the father back.”
Within moments they left.
Though relieved to learn that my original plan to go to the Bear Inn would entrap me, my father’s enemies (now mine as well) left me with no way to get to London unless I walked the hundred and twenty-eight miles.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
In Which I Decide on a Course of Action.
Once I was sure my foes had truly moved on, I gathered the (now) stolen shillings from where I had placed them up the chimney and stuffed them into my trouser pocket. Money secured, I climbed down to the parlor.
It would have been easy to think of my enemies as stupid and incapable. As it turned out, they were clever, whereas it was I who had been stupid.
As I stood there, I realized I had few choices:
One: I could go back to The Rose in June, replace the money, and thereby free myself from the charge of being a thief.
But what if I was discovered doing so? I would be arrested, never reach London, and be hanged for my pains.
Second option: I could take the money, go to Mr. Bartholomew, bend my knee, admit my theft, and beg for forgiveness.
But what if he refused to forgive me, and for my honesty, threw me into gaol and then hanged me?
Third, I could make my escape from town, take to the road, and find my way to London. Once there, I would locate my sister and my father and let them solve all my difficulties.
But what if I could not find them?
I must find them!
Oh, irony: the money I had thought would keep me safe in Melcombe until my father returned was now forcing me to flee Melcombe! Unfortunately, though I had money enough, I could not simply get on the coach and go.
My solution? I would creep out of town and commence walking along the Dorchester Road, which would take me beyond Melcombe Regis. After some miles I’d wait, hail the passing stagecoach, get on, and proceed to London.
br />
I was resolved never to see Melcombe again.
I did consider holding back until night as a way of keeping out of view, but I was too unsettled to wait. Besides it was already late afternoon. There was the real possibility my adversaries might come back and apprehend me. In haste then, I put on my father’s winter coat and his hat.
Making sure the money was safe in my pocket, I peeked out the front door. Mr. Tickmorton had placed a stool before his house and was sitting there, commanding a complete view of my movements. No doubt he had been engaged as a lurker by my enemies.
I left the house through the back door, into our yard. Once there, it was a simple matter for me to climb the fence, jump down into the narrow alley, and step onto Maiden Street. Then I headed northeast, running as fast as I could.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
In Which I Hid and What Came of That.
By the time I started my escape, daylight had diminished. It was also becoming colder, the wind slicing off the bay with considerable sharpness. I was glad I had Father’s coat wrapped around me, his hat on my head, and could only hope it would not get colder. Still, I was in need of some protected place, where I could wait unnoticed through the night until the morning when I could hail the passing London stage.
As Melcombe Regis is situated on a peninsula, the adjacent land quickly becomes constricted as you travel northeast. In fact, the way is called “the Narrows.” Thus, to my right was the beach and bay. To the left was what we called the Back Sea. The road I was on obliged me to go right by the Bear Inn.
Certain that Mr. Webber—the innkeeper—had already been told to watch for me, I ran for all I was worth, making every effort not to look in the direction of the inn. By not looking where Mr. Webber might be, I thought it might keep him from looking at me. So it is we often look upon our troubles.
In any case, no one hailed me, and I continued on. The farther I got beyond the Bear Inn the more relieved I felt. Happily, though night was fast advancing, a big moon was already high in the sky and lit the way.
As I hurried north, I began to grasp that I had a major dilemma: I did not know when the stage left the inn for London, neither the time of day nor for that matter which day. For all I knew it might be every day, or every other day.
I tried to recall when Charity had gone. I knew she had departed early in the morning, but which day quite escaped me.
As I struggled with this problem, I came upon Mountjoy Fort.
Mountjoy Fort sits northeast of Melcombe Regis, at the slenderest part of the Narrows. It is so situated that its cannon had pointed toward Weymouth Bay as well as northward from which attacks upon Melcombe most likely would have come.
The fort had been important during the last century’s civil wars. Since then it had fallen into disuse and it was common knowledge there were neither cannon nor soldiers there. While not a complete ruin, some of the circular walls had tumbled. My friends and I had played there, finding it full of hiding places.
Because it was close to the only road, the Dorchester Road that led from Melcombe Regis to London, I decided it was an excellent place in which to hide, wait, and keep watch for the stagecoach. As soon as the stage showed itself—whenever that might be—I would be in a position to hail it.
The fort’s main entryway was right on the road. If there had been a defensive gate, it was long gone, which meant I was able to look right in and out. Moonlight allowed me to observe that its central area was filled with little but mounds of rubble. I’d be able to sit by the entry and have a clear view of the approaching stagecoach.
Then I noticed a small glimmering of light emanating from behind a heap of rocks off to one side. It took a moment for me to realize it was not moonlight. Curious, I went forward, climbed the mound, and peeked over. A man was sitting on the ground before a small fire.
Even as I peeked over the rubble and gazed at him, wondering who and why he was there, I accidentally caused a small stone to tumble down on the other side of the mound. The sound was slight but in an instant, the man turned and leveled a pistol right at me.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
In Which I Engage with the Man with the Pistol.
The man and I stared at each other. I did consider running away, but when I heard the click of the hammer being cocked, and understood the pistol was aimed right at me, I was persuaded to do otherwise. Besides, I was having trouble breathing.
“Who are you?” the man demanded. “Raise your hands quickly, or I’ll blow out your brains.”
I lifted my trembling hands. “Please, sir. I’m Oliver Pitts.”
“Stand up and show yourself.”
I did as I was told.
“What are you doing here?”
“I was just . . . passing by.”
“Passing by? Here? At this hour? Where do you come from?”
“Melcombe, sir.”
“Come down from behind those stones so I can see you better.” He motioned with his free hand, but kept his gun aimed at me.
Still keeping my hands up, I managed to get over the rocks, and then stumble down to the man’s level, my heart full of fright.
What I could make of him in that disconsolate place beneath the moonlight (and his fire) was that his face was haggard, weary, with wide, wild eyes. Ill-kempt, he wore no wig, but had long, dark, tangled hair that reached his shoulders. He was wearing what appeared to be a dark jacket with dull buttons (some missing) along with bits of tattered lace at the cuffs. One sleeve was torn. Around his neck was a black cloth. His riding boots were patched. All in all, there was something fierce about him, suggesting ragged violence. Moreover, his pistol, leveled at me, seemed to twitch in his hand, so that I feared it would fire all on its own. All the while he studied me as if trying to decide whether or not to shoot me.
“Take off your hat,” he commanded.
When I did, his face registered disgust. “You’re just a boy!” he exclaimed. “Your hat and coat are too big for you. Did you steal them?”
“No, sir. They belong to my father.”
“Running away?”
“Please, sir. I’m on my way to finding him in London.”
“Escaping from an apprenticeship then?”
“No, sir. I’m apprenticed to my father.”
“What’s his trade?”
“Lawyer, sir.”
“Lawyers are dogs,” he said and spat upon the ground. “How did you intend to get to London?” he asked, not for a moment lowering his pistol.
“I was going to take the stagecoach, sir.”
“The stagecoach doesn’t stop here.”
I said nothing.
“The coach costs money. Do you have some then?”
In a small show of courage, I kept my mouth closed.
“Have you money?” he demanded, and he stretched out his arm so the barrel of his pistol was that much closer to my thumping chest.
When I remained silent, he said, “Don’t be a fool! I can as easily take money from a crashed boy as a live one. You won’t be the first I’ll have slayed. Now then, do you have money?”
His violent speech, along with the elevated pistol, proved a potent persuader. “Yes, sir. I have some.”
“Give it over then.”
“Please, sir, if I do, I won’t be able to get to London.”
“You can go to the devil for all I care,” he cried. “I need money more than you do!” He extended his free hand—a dirty one—toward me, palm up, while the other hand waggled his pistol ominously.
I reached into my pocket and, choosing to let some coins remain, pulled forth a fistful of shillings. When I held out what I had, the man snatched them.
“Are you sure that’s all?” he said. “I’ll beat you to a bloody rag if I find more when I search you.”
In haste, I took out the remaining shillings and gave them over. He dropped them into his jacket pocket.
“Any more?”
“No, sir. Please, can I go now?”
“And
raise a hue and cry against me? I think not. Come here. Be fast! Sit on the other side of the fire so I can see you better.” He pointed to the spot with his pistol.
I sat as ordered. When I did, he resumed his place on the far side of the fire opposite me, the pistol still in his grip.
The light of the flames let me see him better. The more I observed him, the more I could see that he was an angersome man. His mouth was twitchy, his face flushed, and his wide eyes were bloodshot. Moreover, the way he kept fluttering his pistol suggested he was still trying to decide whether or not to use it.
“Have any food?” he asked.
“No, sir.”
Shivering from dread as much as from the cold, I pulled my coat tightly around me, squashed my hat down on my head, and leaned forward so I could absorb some of the fire’s warmth on my face. Having before never encountered such a violent man, I could not stop quaking.
“Now then,” he demanded, “I want no chimney-corner tales. You say you are going to your father.”
“It’s true, sir.”
“Then why are you here—at night?”
“I wanted to hail the stage.”
“From here?”
“Yes, sir.”
“So as to rob it?”
“To ride it,” I pleaded. “I was going to pay my way with that money I gave you.”
He studied me. “You said you’ve come from town and you had money. Why didn’t you get on the stage there?”
I stayed mute. In the silence I heard a horse whinny from somewhere in the fort. I turned toward the sound.
“My horse,” he said. “Keep your eyes on me.” After a moment he said, “Do you know who I am? Why I am here?”
His looks, way of acting, and the horse suggested to me that he was a highwayman in hiding. Yet I did not wish to say so, worried that it might provoke a deadly response. All I said was, “No, sir. I know nothing about you.”