The Outrageous Fortune of Abel Morgan

by Cynthia Jefferies

  ‘You are no longer welcome in this inn, nor are any of your evil gang. Get out.’

  He tossed the silk into the fire, turned and left without waiting for a response.

  He went along the passage, through the kitchen, without a word to anyone, and out of the back door. He saddled old Troubadour and swiftly mounted. He set a fast pace, heading along the Chineborough road. When he got to the turn that gave a view of the sea and the town far below, the horse was blowing. He pulled up and allowed him to crop the short grass. Christopher leant on the pommel and looked out to sea. It was calm, and as blue as the sky overhead. Butterflies danced over the gorse and several buzzards mewed, drifting in wide circles above him. There was a honey scent in the air and many bees went about their business. A warm breath of wind like a loving caress ruffled his hair. Peace was everywhere, except in his head and in his heart.

  There had been too much death in his life. He was repulsed at the very thought of having encouraged murder by being willing to buy the fruits of such an evil trade. He could not allow his fear of Daniel Johnson and his gang to compromise his morality. He had done that for far too long. How could he possibly hope to bring Abel up to be a good and honest man if his own example was so poor?

  The warmth of his horse beneath him, the chink of the harness and crunch as Troubadour cropped the grass were comfortable, simple sounds. He had asked for nothing more than to raise his son as well as he could, but life was not simple and never had been. Christopher thought of all the inhabitants of the village where he lived. One way or another they were mostly in Daniel’s pocket. By intimidation or manipulation, they kept their heads down and looked away. How was he any better than they? He, too, had looked away and told himself that a little smuggling was mostly harmless.

  He dismounted and looped the reins through his arm. A small vessel had left the port and was heading out to sea with sails set to catch the breeze. Would the poor souls on board be lured onto rocks and bludgeoned by men like the Johnsons?

  But doing the right thing would come at a cost. Who would care for Abel if Daniel bludgeoned him to death? Surely his son should be his first consideration? What if Daniel drove them out of their home? How would he care for his son then? Would he be driven to highway robbery and be hanged like Abraham Harvey?

  Even though his father had been dead for many years, Christopher still found himself on occasion asking himself what his parent would have said. On this question there could be no doubt. His father would have told him that he already was as guilty as that highwayman. He might be an innkeeper now, but he had been born a gentleman. Why had he allowed himself to be guilty by association with an evil gang? He couldn’t compare himself to the poor fellows who scraped a living in the village. What education did they have? What experience of life? Had they taken arms freely in defence of what they believed in, as Christopher and his father had done during the war? Had his father not died for his beliefs? Indeed, he had, and the result had been the razing of his property and the confiscation of his fortune. Was he, Christopher, prepared to die for what he felt was right? Surely to die for high ideals was something he could not afford, not with Abel to consider. And yet, he had no doubt that he was risking his life by so abruptly opposing Daniel.

  The arguments raged in Christopher’s mind like two warring brothers. Neither point of view could convince him. They both had something in their favour and something against. And then a third option struck him so hard he felt winded: why not simply leave the inn, as Mr Gazely had? Surely, he could sell it? He would need to, to be able to make a new life elsewhere. In his sudden excitement he began to walk about, causing Troubadour to leave off his grazing, but in a few moments he became despondent again, and the horse took the opportunity to resume his meal. Selling would have been a good idea if he had thought of it before, giving himself time to find a buyer and a new place to live. But he had rushed to condemn Daniel, allowing outrage to guide his behaviour. Without money to support them, he had no way of leaving abruptly. Maybe, given time, he could achieve that, but it was hard to save anything from the income the inn provided. What was more, any wise buyer would insist on seeing the accounts. How much of an asset did he own when the profit was so small? What was certain was that he was not ready to falsify the accounts as perhaps Mr Gazely had done. Christopher had not been born sly, so he would have to do the best he could with the character he had been given.

  Thoughtfully, he remounted and sat for a few more minutes, gazing out to sea. The small vessel he had seen had passed beyond his view and was hidden by a headland. The sea was as clear and empty as on the day God had made it. Christopher willed his head to a similar peacefulness and slowly turned his mount towards home.

  On his return to Dario, he passed the inn without stopping, and went on to the blacksmith’s shop. There he spoke for a while to Coleman before riding quietly home. At the inn, he unsaddled and absently groomed his horse, as if in a dream. He left him in his stable, well fed and watered. Upstairs, he took his old red robe and put it on Abel’s bed. Much later, when Abel had been mollified about the loss of his blue one and put to bed, Christopher went into the cellar and emptied onto the earth floor all but one of the bottles of inferior brandy Daniel had supplied him with. He took the last up to his bedroom and drank it down like medicine.

  The following day he struggled out of bed with an army of blacksmiths pounding their anvils in his head. His dark melancholia was deep within him, but he managed to rise and take up his pistol. He also unearthed from his box the small-sword he had acquired in London when giddy with new ownership of the inn and eager to impress his young wife. He had not had occasion to wear a sword since the war, and it felt strange to have it by his side. Fighting the pain behind his eyes, he went downstairs. Abel was in his favourite place, in the kitchen with Sally and Jane. Christopher released him from his lessons that day and told him to go and play with Charlie at the forge.

  Christopher spent the morning waiting for his nemesis. While he waited, he spent some time in the garden, reacquainting himself with the feel of the sword in his hand. Some skills are not easily forgotten and his came back quickly. He also took care to prime the pistol. Having never fired it, he did so, aiming at the trunk of the old apple tree. It was pleasing to see how far the ball was driven into the wood.

  Back in the inn, he went upstairs to his room, the better to watch the road for Daniel. He was certain he would come and come he did, flanked by one of his lads, a young boy well on his way to following in his father’s footsteps. The great door lay wide open in the summer sun and they entered at their ease.

  Christopher primed his pistol again and had it ready. He descended the stairs and entered the room where the few customers were. Usually, Jane would enter with Daniel’s usual unpaid-for meal, but Christopher had pre-empted her. Approaching Daniel and his son, he extended his arm, pointing the pistol at Daniel’s heart. The son leapt to his feet, overturning the stool he had been sitting on. He was already backing away towards the open door, but Daniel held his ground.

  ‘This is no way to treat a customer.’ He said it lightly, but the smile that was usually on his face had vanished and his skin was pale.

  ‘You are not welcome here,’ Christopher told him as before. ‘Nor will you ever be. From this day our association is ended. Get out.’

  Daniel rose slowly from his stool. ‘Why?’

  ‘I will have no goods here from wrecking. Nor will I have murderers under my roof.’ He raised the pistol until it was pointing directly at Daniel’s face. ‘Get out.’

  Daniel spread his hands wide, as if to plead his innocence, but the pistol still threatened him. Slowly, he got up and backed away.

  When at the door he paused. His smile reappeared, but it was a twisted parody of humour with fury darkening his face, in spite of his upturned mouth. ‘You will have reason to regret this,’ he said. ‘There will be many prepared to swear they saw you regularly sell illegal goods in this inn. Do you think you can take me dow
n while saving yourself?’

  ‘I have no interest in seeing you arrested,’ said Christopher. ‘Though justice would be served that way. I simply want you out. Out of my life. Out of my inn. For ever.’

  The pistol was primed and it was cocked. Christopher said no more, but took a step towards his adversary, holding his aim steady. Daniel crossed the threshold into the sunshine. Before joining his son, who was hovering a little way along the road, he spat, his spittle landing just inside the door. Then he turned his back on the gun and walked away.

  Christopher closed the great door with exaggerated care and uncocked his pistol. The several customers who had witnessed the exchange avoided his eye as he crossed the room and went back into the passage. There he met Jane, carrying Daniel’s meal.

  ‘You won’t need to cook for him any more,’ he said, taking the platter gently from her.

  ‘God save us, sir. Is he dead?’

  ‘No, Jane. He lives, but he is dead to us.’ Jane looked as frightened as he had ever seen her.

  Christopher took the plate into the garden. He sat on his bench and regarded the aromatic pie while his clamouring heart slowly regained its accustomed rhythm. The pie was delicious, but it tasted like ash in his mouth. It took him a long time to force it down. Several times he thought he could not do it. When at last it was finished he sat for a few minutes and then walked to the ditch at the end of the garden. For a moment he regarded the moorland ahead of him, and then he vomited until he was empty.

  The darkness in his head screamed at him to get to his bed and bury himself in its solitude, but he did not. For the rest of the day he waited in silence for Daniel to return with others to kill him, but no one came. As the sun finally set, not one customer had stepped over the dried, invisible spittle on the threshold.

  With the dark came Coleman’s cart, carrying Abel, sitting beside the blacksmith. Christopher sent him to Jane and on to bed while he and Coleman unloaded the cart. They worked for hours, Christopher helping the blacksmith and his assistant when he could be useful. Bars went over every shuttered window, new bolts were put on the doors and, in the cellar, Coleman put a large padlock on the gate to the tunnel. In addition, he set hoops of iron into the stonework on either side into which they slid a great wooden bar. At last it was done, and Christopher paid him what he could, promising to pay all as soon as may be.

  ‘Are you sure you are safe enough from them?’ Christopher asked Coleman. ‘Doing this work for me?’

  ‘The village needs a blacksmith,’ said Coleman. ‘And I work for all. The Johnsons need a blacksmith as much as any. Daniel’s argument is not with me.’

  That night, and for many nights afterwards, Christopher sat up with his pistol cocked, ready to defend his life. One night, very late, he heard noises that could only mean that the gate in the cellar was being attacked. He feared they would use gunpowder, but they did not, and after a while the pounding stopped and they went away. Perhaps they were afraid of bringing the tunnel down upon their heads. After that, there were no attempts on his inn or his life. Daniel kept away, and so did the rest of the village.

  6

  That year brought a wonderful summer of warm days and soft nights, but Christopher was hollow-eyed and gaunt. It had cost him dear to resist his dark mood. Having not spared himself during the early days, as time went on his exhaustion felt terminal. It was a full month before he could begin to believe that Daniel would not lay siege to the inn and murder them in their beds. Only then did he allow himself to sleep his way slowly back to health. While Abel gambolled his way happily through the dust of August and on to the fruits of September, Christopher walked like a ghost through the inn and sat like an old man on his bench, allowing his bones to receive the sun’s healing warmth.

  It was only later in the year, when wood must be bought and Coleman had still not been paid, that the precariousness of their living became undeniable. Christopher had hoped that if Daniel did not slit his throat one dark night, the business of the inn would continue and be more honest and comfortable without the influence of the Johnson gang. But Daniel did not have a forgiving nature, nor did he respond as Christopher had expected.

  Christopher could see that while Daniel burnt with humiliation at having been denied the inn, with his convenient smuggling route barred to him, life would be difficult. But he had expected an explosion of anger and violence. That had not come. Daniel was cunning as well as lazy. Why would he cause himself trouble and effort if he could with ease get back at Christopher? His influence in the village was considerable, and no one was going to set themselves against Daniel for the sake of having a drink at the Rumfustian Inn.

  On one occasion, when he and William were closing the inn for the night, having yet again sold very little, Christopher was in a despairing mood. To his surprise, William, who made a habit of saying little, spoke up.

  ‘Don’t you fret, sir,’ he said. ‘Young Abel is as happy as the day is long. Look to him and maybe contentment will follow.’

  ‘You are right,’ said Christopher in some surprise. ‘And I do look to Abel, who is so precious to me. But I worry about you and Jane, who have so much less than you deserve.’

  William smiled at his master, allowing a little of his lugubrious humour to show. ‘Jane and I are used to cabbage,’ he said. ‘You are not, and yet you are becoming skilled at growing and eating it.’

  Jane had indeed praised him earlier for the few leaves he had managed to save from the pigeons, although in truth the cabbage had been a poor thing, with very little heart. He returned William’s smile and felt an unaccustomed spark of fellowship. William had irritated him so much when he had first bought the inn. It had taken him a long time to realise that the man wasn’t simply mulish but caught between Daniel’s intimidation and his master’s naivety. William was only a servant, but Christopher was happy to find a kind of companionship with this man, whose worth he had originally doubted.

  The villagers were not all against Christopher. On the contrary, when the Johnsons were out of earshot, some men would cross the street to tell Christopher how much they admired his bravery. Yet admiration wasn’t an income. There was enough passing trade to prevent starvation; however, by the following year, Christopher Morgan and his household were all but destitute.

  Occasionally, when in a manic frame of mind, Christopher would come up with some scheme or other to bring the inn back into profit. These schemes always took more from the dwindling store of coin in his box and never brought the rewards he hoped for. It seemed everything he tried was useless. Sometimes, when he borrowed back his red silk gown while Abel was sleeping he regretted the burning of his son’s sky-blue robe. But then he remembered how so much of the fabric had been stained by salt. Then he thought of the poor drowned lost souls and couldn’t be sorry.

  There were happy moments. Sally fell in love with a shy boy in the village who worked on the farm, and soon she had a babe to love, which she often brought to the inn, to delight them all. She brought food, too, when she could. Griddle bread sometimes and once a piece of fat bacon, proudly offered.

  Jane and William stayed on at the inn. They had no other home and Christopher relied upon them. William foraged for wood, bartered for oats for the horse Christopher stubbornly refused to sell and worked in the garden with his master. Jane did what she could with the little they had. Sometimes, when his dark moods were upon him, Christopher would wrestle again with what he had done. Every time he came back to the same conclusion: he might regret not being mercurial, but he had, in the end, acted honestly. And mostly, somewhat to his surprise, they were content. If it sometimes pained him that their stockings were full of holes and his son often preferred to go barefoot, Abel’s excellent health and good humour were a cause of joy to his father. They often went hungry, but they never starved and, if Daniel had thought he would drive Christopher Morgan from his inn through penury, he was disappointed. Over time, the two men softened their enmity, at least a little. Christopher found hims
elf able eventually to at least acknowledge Daniel when they met in church or in the village. It took Daniel longer, but even he, after several years, was able to give his adversary a curt good day. Life was not easy, but it was peaceful, and the days slid past as if nothing would ever change. But it is in the nature of things to change.

  7

  One day Daniel came to Christopher with a proposal. He came with that crooked half-smile on his face that Christopher knew so well, that and his voice that coaxed, wheedled and then cursed. He spoke about Troubadour, what a fine horse he was, and how good it would it be if Daniel and Christopher should work together on a new project he had devised.

  Troubadour was not a fine horse. He wasn’t as sprightly as once he had been and he was not exactly handsome. Daniel’s proposal had made Christopher smile, and that had angered Daniel. But what a foolish thing, to think that he, Christopher Morgan, would consider riding to the turnpike to lurk there and stop passing coaches so that Daniel’s gang could relieve the passengers of their purses.

  ‘I am aware of your argument,’ said Christopher. ‘I know very well that several disaffected cavaliers have turned to this type of thieving. I know, too, that some of the broadsheets like to make it out to be a gentlemanly sort of robbery. They choose to see romance in such behaviour.’ He scowled into Daniel’s taunting, smiling face. ‘I do not and am not interested in your … proposal.’

  However poor Daniel might have made him, Christopher was not inclined to risk a hanging this way. Moreover, if he had been so inclined, he would have chosen to work alone, not become a member of Daniel’s evil gang. He surprised himself at finding it so easy to say no to Daniel. Perhaps poverty had given him less to lose, or perhaps he had just become less frightened of the man. Having defied him once, he found it was not so difficult to deny him again.

  He still sometimes dreamt of sending young Abel to study at Oxford, but knew it was only a dream. He would soon have to apprentice him in Chineborough, if he could find a way of affording it. He would need a trade of some sort, one where he could use his excellent brain and fair hand, but not yet. There was time enough. Let his son be carefree for a little longer.