Westward, Tally Ho!

by Milo James Fowler

  "Blast it all!" Slamming his palm down on the desk, Clarence went to the door and shoved it closed to block out the sound of Guthrie's footfalls down the stairs. His brow a monstrosity of uneven furrows, Clarence raked a hand through his neatly combed hair and left it to stand up in all directions. "Blast it! Blast it!" He grappled at his starched collar and pinned tie. Ripping the collar buttons open, he tugged off the tie and hurled it aside. "Blast it some more!" he hollered as he tore off his tailored waistcoat and gave it a ferocious kick. Accidentally, his toe rammed into the nearby bedpost. "Blast it all to Hades!"

  Panting in the center of the room after his little fit, he stood with his attire in a bizarre state of disarray, his blond hair standing wildly on end, a crazed look flickering in his eyes. Glancing into the mirror seriously startled him. But the shock passed the longer he looked at himself, and soon a wry grin appeared. He gave himself a sly wink.

  "Maybe a bit of unrefined un-civilization is just what you need, chum."

  "Guthrie! Guthrie, old boy!" Clarence hollered down from his chamber window. He'd caught sight of the old butler boarding a coach across the street. Couples out for an evening stroll beneath the black poplar trees stopped and stared at this sudden interruption in their serene evening routine. "Guthrie!"

  Derby and topcoat on, the butler turned from the coach and looked up with a curious frown. "Yes, Master Clarence?"

  "I'm coming with you, old boy! To America!"

  Guthrie remained as stoic as ever. "What about your mother, sir?"

  "Hang my mother!" Clarence shouted with a laugh, causing the ladies on the street to gasp and turn to their startled escorts for consolation. "Hang the whole blasted family! I'm coming with you, old boy, so you'd better tell that infernal cabby to wait!"

  Clarence ducked back inside and slammed the window so hard the ladies below gasped again.

  "As you say, sir," Guthrie said with a distant look in his eyes.

  Chapter 3

  An hour later, Clarence Oliver Edwards and Guthrie the butler found themselves bobbing in a human tide surging up the gangplank of a transatlantic steamship bound for America. Clarence wore an expression of eager anticipation and excitement at having finally found something new, intriguing, and perhaps even adventurous to do. Guthrie didn't wear much of a facial expression at all, but such was his nature.

  "Rah! Rah!" Clarence cheered once aboard. Loved ones related in some way to every other passenger but him waved and cheered on the dock below, tossing their hats into the air along with bursts of confetti. "Rah!" Clarence leaned over the rail and waved enthusiastically at the strangers who smiled back and waved—but not at him. "Rah!"

  The ship's whistle blew fiercely. A bell clanged as the gangplank was raised and the anchor hoisted. The crowd on the dock grew louder and more animated in their farewells, and the passengers on board matched their volume with equal fervor.

  "I say, Master Clarence, we ought to find our cabin," Guthrie suggested as the steamship crept out of the harbor. Enormous smokestacks billowed up from its massive boilers and into the starlit sky.

  "Oh yes, quite."

  Clarence turned away from the rail, and his spot there was quickly taken by a fellow who threw his arms to and fro with a broad smile to catch the attention of a loved one down on the docks. Clarence watched him for a moment as thoughts of his own close and extended family crowded his mind. Would they miss him?

  "Come along, sir." Guthrie took him by the arm, and together they politely elbowed their way through the raucous, bustling crowd. "This way, Master Clarence."

  Guthrie led the way down the slick, gleaming deck. On their right side were the passengers at the railing, and on their left, a seemingly endless row of doors leading to the ship's numerous cabins.

  "I say, old boy, how were you able to procure a double room for us on such short notice?" Clarence panted as he hauled his luggage, hurrying to keep pace with the old butler.

  "Quite easily, sir," Guthrie called back over his shoulder. "It happens to be located below decks, near the boiler room."

  "Oh." Clarence didn't know if this was good news or bad.

  The cheers at the railing had begun to die down by the time the great steamship forged its way out to sea, meeting the oncoming swells head-on and cutting them asunder.

  "Here we are, sir."

  "What?" Clarence had to shout over the noise of the ship's innards.

  Guthrie merely pointed at the cabin door before them and inserted a key into the lock.

  "A little loud, don't you think?" Clarence hugged his luggage close and grimaced at the racket, not to mention the poor ventilation. "And a bit stuffy, don't you think?"

  "Perhaps it will be less so inside, sir."

  Such was not the case. But even so, Clarence's attention did not remain for long on the rumbling wall where picture frames jiggled on their mounts; nor did he seem to notice the low ceiling, the banged-up and chipped corner table, the cramped lavatory, nor the lack of proper lighting—just a kerosene lantern, its wavering orange glow swaying with the movement of the ship. Nor did he pay attention to the stagnant air and oily stench of the engines that somehow permeated the walls. Instead, as soon as the lopsided door had swung inward with a long creak, Clarence startled his butler by throwing down his luggage and releasing a wild whoop.

  "Oh, rah! Bunk beds!" Cheering, he charged into the room and lunged for the top bunk. "This one's mine! This one's mine!" Landing with a belabored groan from the flimsy mattress supports, he clambered up and lay prostrate, his backside mere inches from the ceiling. "Rah-ha!" He hugged the mattress and rocked side to side gleefully as the frame bemoaned his every movement. "This one's mine!"

  Guthrie stood at the door, his eyes a bit wider than usual. "Uh...yes, sir."

  Chapter 4

  Late that night, while Guthrie slept silently and soundly in the bottom bunk, Clarence sat at the corner table with his dip pen in hand. Clad in his long, striped cotton nightshirt and matching nightcap, he'd been unable to sleep due to the fluttering excitement stirring his bowels. For well over an hour, he had stared at the piece of paper before him. And the paper had done nothing more than stare back at him.

  Dear Mother, I—

  The words remained right where he'd left them.

  "Blast it all," he muttered, rubbing his hollow eyes for the hundredth time. He stared at the flickering lantern on the table beside him. "I must finish this and be done with it. I shan't be able to enjoy the adventures ahead of me while this infernal letter is still on my mind!"

  He thought about throwing it away and forcing himself to sleep, but then the ship hit a large swell and the lantern almost tipped over onto the floor. Clarence caught it in time and glanced over at Guthrie, lying there so peacefully. Could the old chap sleep through anything? Clarence envied him.

  His eyes drifted back to the letter as he recalled how Guthrie had been so rudely dismissed from the Edwards Estate.

  With a determined sigh, he brought down his pen and began to write:

  I want to apologize for my impetuous departure. I knew you would not approve of my going to America, but it is, forgive me, your fault. I am going to America because Guthrie is going, and he is going because you so rudely, and obscenely, from what I hear, dismissed him on the grounds that he would not participate in a quarrel that was not his own. The quarrel was between you and me, Mother; Guthrie had no part in it. You had no right to dismiss him, and I am angry with you for doing so. Guthrie has been a part of our household for as long as I can remember, and longer still, most likely. You owe him a sincere apology.

  Now as to another reason for my departure—

  Here Clarence paused and rubbed his eyes once more. This would be the most difficult part of the letter: explaining feelings he barely understood himself.

  I shall come directly to the point: I am tired of my life as it stands. This will more than likely come as a shock to you, but it is the truth. Here I am, Mother, fast approaching adulthood, and I ha
ven't done anything with myself! My life has become more boring than not. I loaf, and I meander, squandering the inheritance Father left to me. You could scarcely say that I have put any of my education to good use!

  Do you see what I am coming to, Mother? I want to do something entirely different from anything I have ever done before. You may despise me for leaving jolly old England all you like, but I see this as the first step I have ever taken toward becoming my own man.

  Clarence paused again. "So far, so good, I daresay," he whispered to himself as he scanned the letter. "Now for the blasted clincher." He fiddled with the pen for only a moment, then deliberately brought it down.

  I remember you once telling me of Father's exotic journeys when I was a boy, Mother: how he traveled to India and Africa, Asia and Australia. I read about his exploits last week, when I found his journal buried in the bookshelves of our dusty library. Why did you never tell me that he'd written so much about his adventures?

  Clarence set the pen aside and reached into his valise. Carefully he withdrew a tattered, tanned leather journal, its pages yellowed with age. He thumbed through it, filling his nostrils with the smell of the old book as he passed tabs marked INDIA, AFRICA, ASIA, and AUSTRALIA, each printed neatly in his father's meticulous penmanship. Clarence stopped as his thumb came to the end of the journal. The sturdy pages here remained blank, more than ten in all, and the index marker was blank as well.

  Clarence slowly drew his pen across the tab in reserved strokes.

  AMERICA

  He closed the book and slipped it back into the valise.

  I am going to finish Father's journal with accounts of my adventures in America. I don't know for certain, because I don't remember Father well, but I should like to think that he would have appreciated me doing this. He was never able to visit America, from what I've heard. Perhaps my going will please him, if he happens to look down from Heaven and see me on my journey.

  Mother, I do hope you won't worry about me. I don't know yet where we're headed, once we arrive in America, but as soon as I acquire an address, I shall send it to you. Then you can write me! Won't this be fun, sending letters back and forth across the Atlantic?

  I love you, Mother.

  Your son, Clarence

  P.S. I do hope your gout is feeling better!

  Chapter 5

  At this point in the story, it would be helpful to visualize a map of the world and to focus primarily on the expansive Atlantic Ocean with Great Britain at the upper right margin and the northeastern United States at the left. Now, as you gaze at this map with your mind's eye, you will notice a thick red line stem from the southeast end of the British Isles. It passes over the English Channel and forges out across the sea, heading toward North America. This red line, of course, represents the steamship carrying Clarence Oliver Edwards and Guthrie the butler. As it approaches the east coast of the United States, you begin to see the hands of a clock whirl around and around wildly with the passage of time, as well as the torn pages of a calendar that flutter out of sight just for effect, not for historical accuracy.

  Days pass until finally the moment arrives when the steamship enters Boston Harbor…

  "Hurrah!" Clarence stood at the railing above deck, his heels clicking in mid-air as the harbor came into view with its magnificent tall ships at port. The sun was out in full swing, shining upon the glittering water, and a salty ocean breeze tousled Clarence's hair as he turned to call, "Guthrie, old boy! Quick now, bring my glasses!"

  Guthrie appeared as reserved as ever, dressed in his pressed suit, with Clarence's field glasses in hand.

  "Here you are, sir." His dismissal from the Edwards Estate had yet to prevent him from addressing Clarence in this way.

  "Rah!" Clarence snatched the binoculars as soon as they were within reach and jammed them into his eye sockets. "I say, old boy," he mused, peering out toward the docks and scanning from left to right. "Why does everything look so small?"

  "You must turn them around, sir." Guthrie reached to flip the glasses end over end. "There you are." A hint of amusement shone in his eyes.

  "I say!" Clarence grinned, trying again. "You wouldn't believe the difference!"

  He gazed at the ships, taking in every detail, noting vessels of all kinds docked alongside one another: enormous, fully rigged sailing ships with freshly painted masts and decks gleaming, with sails tied down under thick ropes; good-sized steamships like the one carrying him that awaited their next ocean voyage; fishing vessels weathered with age, in need of paint and repairs, looking as though they had survived many a storm; and what looked to be privately owned boats, every inch of them a witness to the faithful care of their owners, names scrawled portside and starboard in various scripts and styles, honoring the memories of many fair ladies.

  The steamship's bell clanged loudly, jerking Clarence from his view.

  "We are just about to dock, Master Clarence," Guthrie explained. "The captain has sounded general quarters. We are to remain in our cabin until we reach port."

  Clarence sighed and reluctantly left the railing. "Phooey."

  Chapter 6

  As soon as every cabin door was shut with its passengers safely inside, the ship's crew came on deck and began to make preparations for docking, their boots thumping in haste as they moved to and fro. Within half an hour, the steamship had reached port, and the steam engines groaned to a halt. Once the gangplank was lowered, the bell sounded again—this time signaling the passengers to disembark.

  "Eureka!" Clarence whooped as he and Guthrie jostled along in the human tide flowing from the ship.

  "Sir?" Guthrie cringed slightly as a large man shoved his way past them without concern for anyone's elbows.

  "Eureka, old boy. I have found it!" As they stopped in line to be questioned by the stone-faced customs agents, Clarence babbled on, "America. Ah yes, I do believe I shall like it here. I'd thought it would be dirty and uncivilized, but look around you, old chap! It's quite pleasant. And look at all these ships! My goodness, I hadn't thought there would be so many outside of the Royal Navy." He chuckled to himself as the line of passengers inched forward. "Guthrie, I do believe I should like my own little boat someday—perhaps one with a name like..."

  He trailed off, finding himself suddenly without his butler. "Guthrie? Guthrie!" he shouted over the heads swarming around him. He rose up on his toes and cried, "Guthrie!" But the butler's bald dome was nowhere in sight. "Guthrie!"

  "Scuze me," came a gruff voice behind him.

  Clarence whirled to face a formidable seafaring man who carried a small puppy in his brawny, tattooed arms.

  "Yes? What do you want?" Clarence snapped.

  "Well suh," the man began tipsily with a gust of foul breath. "I heard you callin' out for a Guthery—" He chucked the bedraggled pup to call attention to it and swayed backward a step. "This yer Guthery?"

  Taken aback by the absurd suggestion, Clarence cried, "Guthrie is my butler!"

  "Your butler? Uh-who'd—what mother'd name her son Guthery?" He gave a sudden explosive belch that made the puppy grimace. "Hey, I wouldn't even name a dog Guthery." Turning away, he staggered off into the crowd slurring kindly to the little pup.

  "Good heavens." Clarence stared after him. "What an unsavory fellow!"

  Just then, the throng to his right parted for a moment, and Clarence caught sight of his butler, standing on a street corner and beckoning him to follow.

  "Guthrie!" Clarence shouted, clutching onto his luggage and charging through the gap in the crowd. Others in line looked at him quizzically as he ran, and it did not cross his mind that, given the circumstances, he appeared to be making a run for it—until the heavy hand of an immigration official on his shoulder brought him to a skidding halt.

  "An' where do you think you're goin', laddie?" the man demanded.

  "Uh—" Clarence found himself at a loss.

  "He's with me, Jack." Guthrie suddenly stood at Clarence's side, taking one of his bags and adding it to hi
s own load.

  "Problem, O'Connell?" called one of the officials at the front of the line.

  The fellow named Jack shook his head and relaxed, releasing Clarence. "My apologies, Guthrie old boy," he said quietly. He looked the butler in the eye, and some sort of unspoken understanding seemed to pass between them. "Enjoy Boston, as long as you're here."

  Guthrie nodded, and they shook hands like friends from another life. "We shall."

  With that, they were off. Clarence tried to keep up with his butler as Guthrie led the way down the street in long strides.

  "Uh—" Clarence started with a frown as he noted the way Guthrie seemed to know exactly where he was headed. "Where are we going, old chap?"

  "The station, sir. The noon train leaves in ten minutes."

  Clarence's mind lurched. We aren't staying in Boston? What is our destination? Boston is not our destination? Train? But the only question he asked out loud was, "How far is that?"

  "Twelve city blocks, sir—or so I was told." Guthrie's sure-footed pace didn't falter in the slightest. "We shall make it in time if we hurry."

  "Yes," Clarence managed, lagging in his best efforts to keep up. His luggage seemed to have gained weight all of a sudden. "Of course we will."

  Chapter 7

  They reached the train depot just as the last whistle blew. Guthrie quickly bought two one-way tickets, and before Clarence could catch up to him, he was already chasing after the locomotive's trailing coach. Clarence tried his best to pick up the pace, but it was nearly futile. He gasped, short of breath, as the train chugged out of the station, but he did not give up.