The next time he saw Daniel was at church. Both men attended, as the law demanded, but what little faith Christopher had salvaged from his past was of no use to him. God would not help him in his struggle to free himself of the Johnson clan. Sometimes during the long sermon, he glanced at his nemesis. Was the pious expression on Daniel’s face as false as his smile? Christopher didn’t relish being sent to hell, but he wished Daniel’s death far more fiercely than he had any man’s during the war. He wished him to burn in a pit, to be dangled screaming from red-hot hooks in his flesh, to be hanged, drawn and quartered – that terrible punishment reserved for far more terrible crimes than Daniel’s simple ruination of Christopher’s peace of mind and a spoilt maid.
There were some small actions he could take. He hid the cash box in his room, doling out money to William for specific items. He made sure he was there when William was obliged to explain to Daniel that he no longer held the purse strings. Christopher expected retaliation and bought a better pistol in Chineborough in order to face it, but arms were not needed. Instead of violence, Daniel countered by providing inferior goods and fewer of them for the halved amount of money. Christopher didn’t challenge him, preferring to have won a small victory of sorts, rather than invite violence on himself or his servants.
No more was said about the meals Jane provided. She continued to provide them, and Daniel continued to eat them for free. Christopher could see that this was the best way to protect Jane and William from harassment, but Sally was another matter. Daniel had injured her both physically and in her head by getting her with child. What was more, it was clear to them all that her infant was dying. It refused to feed and faded from the first, in spite of all Jane could do to drip milk into its tiny mouth. It was an ugly thing and should never have been made, but it broke Christopher’s heart to think of it being buried in a ditch or even in the garden.
‘We will have the babe baptised,’ he said to Jane. ‘It may give Sally some comfort to know her daughter will be buried in the churchyard.’
Jane shook her head. ‘I don’t know, sir. She says she hates it because it is Daniel’s.’
‘And yet she holds it so tenderly, as if she wills it to live. Her heart and her reason are at odds.’
The stones of the inn seemed to sigh with relief when the infant finally breathed her last and was laid to rest in the churchyard.
‘It’s as well,’ Jane said on their return from the burial, when Sally was in her room in the attic. ‘No child born of incest could thrive.’ She noticed Christopher’s expression. ‘Did you not know, sir? They say Sally is one of Daniel’s bastards.’
Christopher struggled to convey his feelings. Finding his command of language inadequate and his emotions violent, he resorted to a question. ‘Did the priest know?’
Jane shrugged. ‘Nothing can be proved, sir. The priest would know that.’
The following Sunday, he sat once more in church and observed his adversary again. What if he were to speak out now and denounce the man for getting his own daughter with child? But too many men were entangled, willingly or not, with the smugglers to side with him over a servant girl. Maybe even the priest was in his grasp? No. No one would take Sally’s part. They would think it dangerous to anger the Johnsons so unnecessarily.
During the prayers that gave Christopher no solace, he continued to think about Daniel. Indeed, he thought of nothing else. It occurred to him that it was not so much the evil the man did, bad though that was. It was more his attitude to his crimes that Christopher found so hard to fathom. Many men, being imperfect, did bad deeds, but most suffered remorse or guilt. Some tried to redress the evil by doing good in other ways, yet Daniel seemed to feel nothing but pleasure. Did he not understand the suffering he caused? Christopher came to the conclusion that it wasn’t that he didn’t understand, he did it because he did understand, and it gave him pleasure to cause others pain. It struck Christopher with horror that perhaps Daniel had targeted his servant simply because it amused him to see how angry, appalled and impotent Christopher would be when he discovered it.
One unresolved issue still remained between Daniel and Christopher. It was Daniel’s use of the tunnel and the inn’s cellar. Daniel and his family, on occasion, brought barrels and boxes out from the cellar, through the inn and on to Christopher knew not where. Daniel did not encourage questioning, and Christopher had, over the years, tried to persuade himself that it was not his business. But by ignoring the activity on his premises, which must surely be illicit, Christopher had put himself outside the law. He could hope that the steps he had taken might stop the smuggling, but his greatest fear was of Daniel. When Daniel found the door locked against him, he would surely demand the key. If he was denied, what would he do? As one of Christopher’s dark moods threatened to descend upon him, he struggled all his waking hours with this question.
The answer happened halfway through that week.
One evening, when the last customers were beginning to leave, William and Christopher were startled at a banging coming from the cellar door. Christopher put his fingers to his lips and they both listened in silence. After a few minutes, the noise stopped. They could hear muffled conversation and footsteps retreating back down into the cellar.
‘Don’t be afraid, William,’ whispered Christopher, trying to sound confident. ‘Whoever it was has gone now. I will speak to Daniel tomorrow. All will be well.’
In the morning, Daniel Johnson appeared at the kitchen door, the great front door being still locked. Christopher was quick enough to bar his entry and leant with affected nonchalance against the door post, trying not to look afraid. Daniel had on his most ferocious smile and was obviously ready for a fight. Christopher forestalled him with a rush of words.
‘The very man!’ he said, as if there was no enmity between them. ‘I have been meaning to speak to you for the past few days.’
Daniel was visibly thrown off balance by Christopher’s manner, but he was not about to be mollified.
‘What’s this about the cellar door being blocked?’ he said. ‘You are not the only man to have customers in this inn. I will have access or—’
Christopher interrupted with a laugh. ‘The very subject I have been meaning to raise. Of course you will.’ He took from his pocket a key to the new lock. ‘I have a key for you! Here.’
Daniel took it and was beginning a growl of a reply when Christopher spoke again.
‘You will have free access until seven every night. Unfortunately, my son has begun to sleepwalk and I am feared he may fall down the cellar steps if the door is left undone during the night. Good day.’
He slammed the door without warning in Daniel’s face and threw the bolt across. Ignoring what sounded like a hefty kick at the door, he hurried along the passage and up to his room where he sat quietly in his chair until his hands stopped shaking and his heart stopped its pounding. He listened, but the man seemed to have gone.
A loving God, if such He were, would doubtless forgive Christopher’s small lie about his son, who at four years old slept soundly every night. And it was surely a small matter to allow Daniel free rein of the inn during the day if Christopher and his household could sleep easy at night. He did not hope to curtail the smuggling. After all, it was the way of things here. A few unpaid taxes and the occasional broken head were part of life. But Christopher hoped, by denying passage during the night, he could argue, if necessary, that he had done his best to keep his inn lawful. If only Daniel would accept this partial denial of access. Christopher’s greatest fear was that he would not.
As the days passed Christopher slipped into one of his darkest moods, even while he struggled to stay vigilant against whatever Daniel might do next. After a few days he was unable to get out of bed. He slept long but badly, and his dreams were full of anguish. His only pleasure was to have his son in his arms as he read to him or told him stories of his early life. But Abel did not want to spend all his days in his father’s room, lighted only by a candle
even on the sunniest days. With Sally instructed to mind them, he and Charlie played outside and in, their voices floating up to Christopher where he lay dozing uneasily or brooding through the long hours.
By the time he managed to conquer himself and rise from his bed, nearly two weeks had passed. He found that the world still turned and the inn still functioned, although it was perhaps a little less popular than before. Daniel seemed to have accepted the small restraint put upon him. The inn was still supplied with spirits, though of an even more inferior quality. The smugglers’ barrels continued to appear in the cellar from the tunnel and out into the village. Christopher asked no questions of Daniel. In fact, neither spoke to the other or acknowledged the other’s existence, even when they met in the Rumfustian. In this way, days turned into weeks and weeks became months and then years. Because of the evil Daniel had done to Sally, Christopher could not forgive. But it seemed he could forget. At least, it eventually appeared on the surface that he and Daniel were, if not firm friends, at least on nodding terms. Life went on as it always had. Christopher, as ever, was the doting father and Abel continued a happy and contented boy, greatly loving his father. He grew like a weed and at eight years old it was obvious he was going to have his father’s rangy form. Abel was the embodiment of all that was good in Christopher’s life. Yet it was Abel who unwittingly brought his father the fuse that, once lit, would burn out of control and change their lives for ever.
5
Abel’s education was becoming a concern. The picture book Christopher had found him in Chineborough was helping with his son’s Latin, but he wished he had a book of philosophy. Abel was quick-witted and would have benefitted from a better mind than his father’s. He should go to Oxford, but there was not enough money to engage a tutor for him. Christopher did his best to impress upon the boy that he was a gentleman and that one day, when his father died, he would become Sir Abel Morgan. The boy wasn’t much interested in that. He saw that his father did not use his title, so why should it count for him? He hadn’t even wanted to learn to ride until his father coaxed him. In spite of that, he turned out to be a good rider, even though a pony would have suited him much better than the rangy old horse Christopher had bought a while ago. Unfortunately, there was no spare money for ponies to be grown out of. Seeing him perched so high, Christopher had been too concerned about Abel taking a tumble to allow him any more than to trot sedately up and down the village street, but he knew he shouldn’t cosset him too much. It was selfish to keep him too much by him, although Abel didn’t seem to resent his life. He was fond of hanging his arm about his father’s neck and teasing him, while Christopher did his best to teach his son the rudiments of mathematics, a subject he had always found trying.
Abel showed every sign of being the better mathematician and was a good and enthusiastic reader too. Even without the education he deserved, he could have made his way in the world. He was bright, lively and good, with his young life before him. They were beginning to read and discuss the poetry his father loved. Christopher would have been all contentment if their lives could have stayed this way for ever, but he knew it wouldn’t do. He must try, and soon, to help his son to a better life, if he could only discover how to do it. As always, lack of money was the problem.
Not many broadsheets found their way to the village, but on this day a traveller had stopped to break his fast. When he resumed his journey, he left the sheet behind. Abel knew how much his father liked to read the news and so he took it to him.
‘Look, Father! Here is a broadsheet for you.’
Christopher was in the garden. He had built a bench in a sunny spot and planted roses nearby. He was drawing a plan of how he would like to develop the garden but patted the seat and smiled at his son.
‘Sit with me, Abel. Tell me what you have read.’
Abel scrambled onto it and leant against his father.
‘A big crowd at a beheading in London last month and the King has built a new ship.’
Christopher raised his eyebrows. ‘All by himself?’
Abel nudged Christopher. ‘Of course not. He must have thousands of men to build a ship for him!’
‘Well, a lot, most certainly. You’re right. Is it all London news? What of Bristol? Does nothing happen there?’
Abel turned the broadsheet over and eyed the smaller articles. After a few seconds, he grinned triumphantly at his father. ‘A gentleman of the road was hanged in Bristol. He was a desperate murderer and his name was Abraham Harvey.’ He laughed. ‘It says he bowed to the ladies and kissed their hands when they gave him their jewels!’ He looked at his father for his response but got none. ‘Father? Did you hear me?’
Christopher looked at his son.
‘I heard you, Abel. I’m sorry. I knew someone of that name during the war. He was, I think, a good man.’
‘How funny! This highwayman must be a different person with the same name as your friend.’
‘Perhaps.’
For a few moments they sat together in silence. Then Abel slid off the bench and put the broadsheet next to his father.
‘I’m going to see if Sally has any leavings of pastry for me. Do you want some, Father, if she does?’
Christopher spoke gently to his son. ‘I think I’ll wait for the cooking to be done. I don’t have a taste for raw pastry like you, Abel.’
‘Very well.’
Christopher sat on after Abel had gone. He closed his eyes and lifted his face to the sun. It was warm, but his heart felt as if it had been splashed with cold water. He was sure the soldier he had known and the highwayman were one and the same. Abraham and he had met at a war-ravaged farmhouse while foraging. They had both become separated from their regiments and, with night coming on, decided to stay there overnight. The house had been burnt, but the stable remained, with straw enough to be comfortable. There they had slept with their horses, hoping to stay safe until morning. Lying in the straw, with their horses breathing calmly, surrounded by the accoutrements of war, they had exchanged histories. Abraham had spoken of the enmity between himself and his older brother, who was fighting on the other side along with their father. It had made sad telling. Abraham had been bitter about his family falling-out and at first Christopher had felt that he must hate them. But then, as Abraham fell silent and they tried to sleep, he thought over the story again. It was the silences between Abraham’s words that had said the most. Christopher realised that Abraham’s fear of the battle to come was not so much of dying, they all feared that, but of meeting the people he loved at the point of a sword.
In spite of his sad history, they had spent such a sweet night, wrapped together in something that had felt very much like love. It had been hard to part in the morning, but part they must. Although Christopher had never seen Abraham again, he could not believe him dead. There had always been a place for him in his heart. In the chaos of battle, it was hardly surprising that they had not met, and after that the whole army was scattered. But now this. He read the piece again. What had happened to bring him so low? To be hanged as a common criminal was a terrible thing. Had his family survived to continue to ostracise him? Had he been forced into stealing to put food in his mouth? Surely no family of good name would allow such a humiliating end to one of their own, unless they were powerless to prevent it? He said a prayer for Abraham’s soul, wishing things could have been different for them both.
Christopher fell to thinking of his own circumstances. What would he have done if all the buried silver had gone? If he had not had enough to buy the inn, what then? Would he have gone back across the sea to his parents-in-law, hoping to be taken into trade? He had indeed written to them, eventually, telling them of their daughter’s death. They had invited him to visit, but he had not gone. He did not have money to spare for sea voyages, and besides, it made him too melancholy to think of these things. He feared melancholy. He knew that dwelling on sad times could send him into a spiral of despair, and he strove always to avoid that, for his son’s sake.
To distract himself, he picked up the broadsheet and began to read other news. A small item caught his eye. A wreck, on the Dorset coast, off Chineborough Point. All hands lost and all passengers drowned – poor souls – including two women. The ship had been carrying French brandy, spices and silk. A gang of wreckers was blamed for luring the ship onto rocks at a cove a few miles to the west of the town. In lurid detail, the broadsheet described how the gang had brutally clubbed to death the survivors and how all but two of the bloodthirsty wreckers had escaped with much of the booty. The two had been hanged and their names were William and Thomas Johnson.
Christopher stared at the names. There could be no mistake. He had met them, coming out of his cellar with Daniel, about six months ago. They were two of Daniel’s cousins and had drunk regularly at the inn.
He got up and went into the kitchen.
‘Where is the ginger spice Daniel brought last week?’
Jane looked at him in surprise. ‘It’s here, sir, in this box, where I always keep it, when we have any.’
Christopher took the box and opened it. He threw the contents onto the fire and replaced the box on the table, ignoring Jane’s consternation. He went upstairs and into his room. He took a new silk waistcoat from his chest and bundled it under his arm. Entering his son’s room, he took a sky-blue robe he’d had made from the same bolt of silk that Daniel had sold him. It had been a birthday present from him to Abel because his son so liked the old scarlet one Christopher had. Without hesitating, he carried the clothes downstairs. Even on a summer’s day there was a small fire to keep away the damp and Daniel was, as usual, sitting next to it. Christopher went up to Daniel Johnson and shook the clothes in his face. His voice trembled with passion.
The Outrageous Fortune of Abel Morgan Page 5
