The End of the World and Beyond

by Avi

  In Which I Pass through Annapolis and What I Discover.

  Whatever else Annapolis may have been—the seat of government—it was a drowsy place. Most buildings were dark, though here and there, wavering candlelight gleamed from cracks in shutters or poked out from under doors. As I hurried on I heard the cheerful tinkling of a harpsichord, much like a trilling bird. Far from soothing, it made me aware that people were close. Still, everything appeared calm, not a single soul abroad. I told myself that all were within. Moreover, my attentiveness months ago when I’d been led from the Owners Goodwill through the town to jail now served me. I had some sense as to where I was going.

  There was a distant flash of lightning against the night sky, and moments later, a toss of thunder. Indeed, the night air had grown heavy enough to burst. Like my unquiet spirits. Even as I rushed on, I glanced back and saw that Bara was following me. Annoyed, wanting to show I didn’t need him, I quickened my step.

  All but running, I moved on, the sound of my feet slight on the dirt streets, only to observe the shape of someone coming along the street in my direction, a glowing lantern in hand. On the instant, I halted and peered into the dark.

  “Who’s there?” the person cried, and lifted his lantern.

  I dashed into a near byway, a narrow mews, with houses close on either side. The path led I knew not where, save that it was away from the person who’d called. I rushed on. At some length, I stopped, my breathing coming hard. Then I peered back and listened.

  There was no suggestion that the person—whoever it was—had followed. All was hushed.

  I turned back around and made my way to the head of the mews. Once there I peeked out and saw no one. Much relieved, I continued downhill. Once, twice, I glanced back. Bara was still following me. I acted as if I hadn’t noticed.

  Annapolis streets are at all odd angles, but generally lead in the direction I wanted, toward water. I could still see the steeple of the town’s great church silhouetted against the night sky. I kept it behind me and it wasn’t long before I spied the gray bay and smelled its brine.

  Within moments, I reached the head of the town’s rectangular cove, the market space. Before me lay the wharf where ships were tied up, cargoes loaded and unloaded, where I had first stepped ashore. I paused to study the area.

  Moonlight revealed a large ship there, her bulk looming like a vast shadow. She was a three-masted vessel, with towering masts. To my disappointment no lights were on her. She appeared deserted and would have no seaman with whom I might speak. I actually had the notion that I could steal upon her, hide and sail off. Perhaps to this Philadelphia. But what if she went back to England? I’d be hanged.

  As I stood there I saw a small red light, which, as I stared, moved about up and down. After gazing for a while I realized it must be the glow of a pipe. A person was sitting on the quay next to the ship, smoking.

  Now that I saw that someone was there, my hopes rekindled. I know how mad it sounds now, but in my frenzy to find Charity, nothing was going to hold me back in that moment. I was further emboldened by telling myself that no one knew me in Annapolis.

  I moved along the wharf, and as I did so, the ship seemed to grow bigger. I could hear the small slap of water against her hull and the wharf, its isolation and deserted state serving only to encourage me.

  A few yards from the smoking man, I stopped next to a building that cast a pool of shadow. Trusting that I was completely hidden from sight, I studied the man as the glow from his pipe bowl continued to move about. A candle lamp flickered at his feet, allowing me to see that he was sitting on some kind of bench and that he was a large man, almost bull-like in size and manner.

  For a while, I stood motionless and just gazed. He was no one I knew, and accordingly, I told myself, he would not know me. I therefore stepped out from the shadows, drew nearer to the smoking man, and called out, “Sir. Please. A word.”

  The man turned, gazed in my direction, and in a booming voice said, “Come on then.”

  I drew closer. As I did, out from behind the bulk of this large man another man—a much smaller fellow—leaned forward to look at me. By the lantern light I recognized him at once: it was Mr. Sandys.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Which Contains More Unexpected Things.

  Fear sliced through me.

  At that moment, I could have run away. Instead, I stood and told myself: I must find out about Philadelphia. It’s night. I’m darker from working in the sun. I must have become taller. I am not dressed the way I was when he last saw me. Mr. Sandys will not recognize me.

  Thus, not only did I stay, I moved forward.

  Do you understand now the honest subtitle of my narrative?

  My Follies, Fortunes & Fate

  Acting as if Sandys were not there, I gave all my attention to the large man. The lantern at his feet shed enough light so I could see he was indeed a portly fellow with a great paunch. His clothing revealed a man of prosperity with fine lace at his ample sleeves and silk cloth round his neck.

  His face was round, pink with fleshy, jangling jowls, a many-layered chin, and a rosebud of a mouth. Over a big wig, he wore a three-corner hat. In one large hand, he held that clay pipe from which tobacco smoke issued forth. I went so far as to decide there was something encheering in this man’s appearance, rather like a plum pudding with a wig. What ill will could he possibly have toward me? I was sure he could do me no harm. I held my ground.

  “Now, then, my dear boy,” the fellow cried out. “What can I do for you this rain-likely evening?” He spoke slowly, articulating each word as if it was weighted—as he was in body—with large-sized importance.

  “Please, sir,” I said, “can you tell me where the place that goes by the name of Philadelphia might be?”

  “Phil-a-del-phia?” the man echoed, pronouncing each syllable distinctly after which he drew upon his clay pipe as if I had asked him a question that required intense thought. Instead of answering me, he turned to Sandys:

  “Now, sir, you are the town’s watchman.” He spoke as if he enjoyed the sound of his own voice. “Might you know why an offensively smelling boy in rags might be wandering about in the dark of night, asking a stranger about the city of . . . Philadelphia?”

  Though afraid to look directly at him, I was aware that Mr. Sandys was regarding me with what I thought was a beam of amusement. His gaze jangled me.

  “Perhaps,” said Mr. Sandys, “he wishes to go there. Pray tell, Mr. Lunbog, sir, have you ever been there?”

  Mr. Lunbog! Another stroke of fright. This man was the factor, the very man Fitzhugh had come to see in Annapolis. And would see. In short, between Mr. Sandys and this Mr. Lunbog, I was caught in the very catastrophe that Bara had warned me might occur.

  I was too confounded to move.

  “Go there?” returned Mr. Lunbog, and he puffed upon his pipe so that smoke wreathed his face, suggesting a fat angel looking out from a heavenly cloud. “But why?” he said to me. “Is not our beloved Annapolis fair enough?”

  The slowness of Mr. Lunbog’s speech agitated me. “Please, sir,” I felt myself obliged to say, “I was asked to find out where Philadelphia is; near or far?”

  “Come now. What gentleman would ask you to find out such a thing in this place and time of night?”

  Though no quick lie came to mind, I was too panicky to move away from the peril into which I had placed myself.

  The big man actually laughed, which set his heavy cheeks as well as his whole belly into jovial motion. Then he drew deeply on his pipe and let the tobacco smoke seep slowly through his ruddy lips.

  “Now then, my boy,” he continued, “I am obliged to inquire: Have you the required written permission to come here and ask such a question? Are you on a legitimate errand for your master?”

  “Le-legitimate, sir?” I stammered, and struggled to put on my most innocent fac
e, while working hard not to look at Mr. Sandys.

  “Come, come, Mr. Sandys,” said the big man. “Advise me: Are my eyes not performing properly in this muggy gloom? Is this boy not wearing a convict collar?”

  In my mad haste, I had forgotten I had the iron round my neck. My terror increased.

  Sandys only said, “I have larger news.”

  “Larger news?” said the big man. “Pray, who is this news for?”

  “This boy,” said Sandys.

  Mr. Lunbog looked from me to Mr. Sandys and back again. “Do you mean to say, sir, you actually know this boy?”

  “We have a mutual friend. Or had one. In England.”

  “Now that, sir,” proclaimed the big man, “is truly remarkable. Here we are in Maryland, but you two share a friend in distant England. I could not have imagined it. Would you elucidate this for me, sir?”

  I could only gawk at Sandys, fearful that he was about to say something that would do me great harm.

  What he said was: “It regards Mr. Jonathan Wild.”

  Surely, the last words I expected.

  The big man puffed his pipe placidly. “Begad, sir,” said Lunbog. “I know that name. England’s chief villain. The most despicable, sir, I have ever heard. Yet, you say that not only do you know this boy but you share a connection to that rogue. What could this boy have to do with the infamous Mr. Wild?”

  Sandys looked at me and smiled. “You might like to know, Master Pitts, word has come since I saw you last. In London, not long ago, Mr. Wild was arrested, convicted, taken to the triple tree at Tyburn, and hanged. Tickets were sold to witness the event. Thousands came to see it happen and cheer the scoundrel off.”

  Frozen, I hardly knew how to respond.

  “Did I hear you say this boy’s name?” said Lunbog to Sandys. “I must repeat my question. What might he have to do with Wild? Is that why he wears the iron collar?”

  “Ask him,” said Sandys, a grin upon his face.

  Lunbog turned to me. “Boy, I’d truly like to know. Were you on familiar terms with Mr. Wild?” He put a plump hand to his heart. “I am an honest fellow, but thieves have a sharpness I admire.”

  Not knowing what else to say, I fairly cried, “Please, sir, I . . . I just want to know about Philadelphia. Where is it?”

  At which point Sandys laughed as if I had said something very funny.

  “To answer your question,” said Lunbog. “Philadelphia is a city. A large one, I’ve been informed, though I never saw the place. It’s in Pennsylvania colony. To the northeast of us, a hundred and twenty odd miles. As for getting there, I cannot imagine the roads would be good, if they exist at all. No, best go by water, north upon the bay.

  “But, my dear boy,” the big man went on, “be forewarned, Pennsylvania is a country full of Quakers. Odd folk. They won’t swear allegiance to the Crown. But I must ask: Why desire to go there?”

  I was not about to say. In any case, I’d learned what I wished to know—that Philadelphia was north and east, not far. Wanting to do nothing but leave, I shifted my feet, ready to dash off.

  “Stay put,” cried Lunbog, and I, having become so habituated to taking orders, did exactly that.

  “Let us speak plainly, my dear boy, which is my preference. You”—he leveled a thick finger at me—“young as you are, must be a transported convict. Your iron collar tells me so. Your history”—he glanced at Sandys—“suggests as much.”

  I was incapable of doing anything but stand there.

  “Are you aware,” Lunbog continued loudly, “that according to Maryland law, I could be awarded two hundred true pounds of tobacco for simply apprehending you? Two hundred blessed pounds.

  “Now, boy,” he went on, “would that not be a fine profit for my pocket for just sitting here of a hot summer eve, taking my pipe while conversing with a friend? All I need do is tell this man”—he gestured to Sandys—“in his capacity, dare I say it, his obligation, as town watchman, to apprehend you, and I would become richer.” He laughed again. “What have you to say to that?”

  Too confounded to speak I remained mute.

  Sandys, however, leaned in. “Well sir,” he said to Lunbog, “without going into the particulars, which would be demeaning to all, I feel I have some responsibility for this boy. I suspect he’s unfortunate in his condition. As I once was. He served me then. I should do so for him now. Let me urge you to let the boy go—with a warning.”

  “What warning?”

  “That if I ever saw him making so free again, I would be obliged to apprehend him.”

  “Mr. Sandys, sir, I shall take your plea into my large heart. Now, then, dear boy, we shall rejoice in Mr. Sandys’s kindness by not detaining you. Be off. But heed the watchman’s words: don’t ever let us see you again.”

  Feeling great relief, I was just about to run off when the big man added, “Hold!”

  I stopped.

  “You brought a dark friend with you, did you not?” said Mr. Lunbog in his loudest voice.

  In the instant, I knew he was referring to Bara. But how?

  “He is standing some ways back, right there, wishing not to be seen. He goes by the name of Bara. Am I not correct?”

  Lunbog pointed farther up along the wharf. “You might inform him I saw him. I know him. Warn him. I know his master, the unpleasant Mr. Fitzhugh.” Mr. Lunbog guffawed as if it was all a great joke. “Now flee, boy. Dash away.”

  Appalled and altogether unnerved, I bolted off, though how I ran on my wobbly legs I cannot say. Bara, I realized, not only had followed me, no doubt trying to restrain me, but had been seen. It was the very thing he had warned me might happen. My only thought was to get back to him and give warning. But when I reached the spot where Lunbog had seen him, he was not there.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  In Which I Am Lost.

  Bara gone.

  As I grasped that what I’d done put us in grave danger, it’s impossible to say which sensation—fear, confusion, or mortification—tangled me more. In truth, my legs felt boneless. “Stupid, stupid, stupid,” I said to myself. Fearful that Bara had left me in anger, I kept turning circles, trying to find him. That included looking where I could still observe Mr. Sandys and Mr. Lunbog sitting on the wharf. The big man’s glowing pipe was stirring about. Was he watching to see what I was doing? Where I had gone? Where Bara was?

  There came a great crack as lightning burst from the sky. In my distressed state, the explosion caused me to wince. That bolt was followed by a rolling rattle of thunder that unnerved me even more. Rain began to pour. In an instant, I was soaked.

  More than wet, I was confounded. Bara, the one I needed, wanted, was nowhere in sight. Moreover, in the cascading rain, I was utterly muddled. Not knowing what to do I did nothing but remain in place.

  Given this painful reminder as to how dependent I was on Bara, the best I could speculate was that he had gone back to the Royal George, the tavern from where we had started. Accordingly, from doing nothing, I began to race up the street, going back the way I had come.

  Whether to guide or mock me, lightning continued to explode, thunder cannoned, and rain streamed. Half blind, utterly distracted, I splattered through the muddy streets, going breakneck along a narrow way from which several small streets led. I had barely passed one of these small lanes when I was abruptly snatched from behind by a powerful grip while a hand covered my mouth. Prevented from crying out, I was dragged into the side way and spun about.

  It was Bara who had taken hold of me. Hardly knowing whether I was relieved or abashed, I said, “I’m sor—”

  “You idiot,” Bara shouted into my face as the rain showered us. When more lightning exploded, I thought I saw tears coursing down his face. His anguish was awful to witness.

  “I heard him,” cried Bara. “That factor—Lunbog saw me. He knows me and my connection to
Fitzhugh. He’s the person the old man came to town to see. And that other man, the watchman, he recognized you. You heard him.”

  “But, surely, he won’t—”

  “You don’t know anything about what Lunbog will or won’t do,” cried Bara, his anger building.

  “But . . . but I have to find my sister,” I said.

  “Forget your sister,” shouted Bara with a fury such as I had never heard from him. “I’m trying to save my life.”

  That time I could have no doubt: I did see tears.

  Horrified by the consequence of my folly, filled with shame, I knew not what to say.

  “Lunbog loves the sound of his own voice,” Bara went on. “If the only thing that stood by him was a stone he’d gossip to it. Do you think he won’t tell Fitzhugh that we were on the wharf without permission? And you asking about that Philadelphia? When the old man learns of it, what do you think he’ll do?”

  When I didn’t, couldn’t answer, Bara reached out, gripped me by both shoulders, and shook me hard. “Think, Oliver,” he shouted into my face. “He’ll do to us what he did to Clark: murder us.”

  My stupidity could not be stated more clearly.

  But Bara wasn’t finished. “You were only going after what you wished to know. You gave no thought to me.”

  “I’m . . . I’m sorry,” I struggled to get out. “I truly am. I just wanted to—”

  “Use your wits, Oliver. The moment the old man discovers what we were about—what you said and did—he’ll be after us with double wrath. And I’d been waiting, planning for the right time to run off.”

  “I didn’t think.”

  “Oliver,” Bara cried with exasperation. “You’ve made my plans useless. Fitzhugh won’t wait on us. If we want to live, we must get away. Now.”

  “But how? Where?”

  “There’s only one way: the swamp.”

  “The swamp?” I echoed lamely. What I wanted to say is that I had no more chance of surviving there than would a butterfly’s shadow. All I said, however, was, “But . . . but the swamp is . . . is far north.”