The Outrageous Fortune of Abel Morgan

by Cynthia Jefferies

  At last I was aware of the darkness becoming thinner. It was almost dawn. The horses must have been tired, but our master hardly slackened the pace. Then, as the sun was about to rise, we left the road and took to a smaller one, a track, which wound its way between two hills. The pace slowed to a walk as the ground became more uneven and I hoped that we might soon stop. When we did, I was surprised, for around a corner we were suddenly once again at the coast.

  I had lost any sense of direction during the night and had no idea where this particular bay might be, but it was beautiful in the early morning light. The silvery water lapped at the shingle beach, which sloped gently from the wiry grass where our horses stood, cropping it hungrily. A light salty breeze refreshed my weary face. The bay was almost completely encircled by the hills and would be hardly noticeable from the sea.

  In the middle of the bay a ship lay at anchor. She had three masts and looked magical, shadow-dark as she was in the light sea mist. But the mist was dissolving, and the sun was rising behind me, painting the silver sea and the shadowy ship pale gold in the strengthening light. My heart knocked in my chest, for I was certain that this ship was going to take me far, far away. And yet something about her raised my spirits.

  As I watched, a boat set out from the ship. Its oars dripped golden sunlit water as it made its way towards us. Two men were aboard. The oarsman shipped his oars and allowed the boat to drift gently onto the shore, where the keel grated on the shingle. The other stepped ashore. He looked at me curiously before nodding to my new master in greeting. My master dismounted, took several packets from his saddlebag and gave them to the man.

  ‘You would oblige me by taking this boy,’ he said.

  The man looked at me again. ‘Should I know anything about him?’

  My master shook his head. ‘Don’t bring him back.’

  The other smiled and spoke to me kindly enough. ‘Come on then. The breeze is coming, and the tide will soon turn.’

  My master pulled me without ceremony from his packhorse. I tried to land on my feet, but my legs buckled beneath me and I fell. I stood up unsteadily, and the man, who had got back in the boat, laughed.

  ‘I’d rather ride the sea than a horse any day,’ he said. ‘Untie the boy’s hands,’ he added to my master. ‘There is nowhere here for him to run.’

  As soon as the rope was cut I cried out in agony. The man in the boat frowned. He stood up, stepped over the gunwale and onto the beach again. He took my wrists in his hands and examined them carefully.

  ‘Once the blood has filled your veins it will be better, but you will be in pain for a while.’

  ‘Put the letters only into the captain’s hands and tell him he owes me for a cabin boy,’ said my master.

  The man from the boat laughed again. ‘I will indeed.’ He put his hand under my arm to help me into the boat.

  ‘If you are a good boy, you will likely thrive with us,’ he told me. ‘But you must forget your old life and begin anew. We are going to the Americas, and no, you will not return. Given time, you will not want to. There are fortunes to be made where we are going, so take heart and be resolute.’

  No one had spoken so kindly to me since I had first been captured and I felt tears prick at the back of my eyes. I knew he was right. I had no home any more. Jane and William would work for Daniel, or whoever else might take over the inn. With the death of my father, there was no place for me. Whatever lay ahead, I wanted to face it bravely, but I was not a man. I was still only a boy and, in spite of all my efforts, as they rowed me away, I wept.

  CHRISTOPHER MORGAN

  14

  The sound of his blood was the sound of the sea. It returned him to that day in the Low Countries when he stood on the beach and, feeling so lost, feared he would never see his homeland again. The stone of the flagstones in the cellar seeped cold and damp into his core, as the icy wind had done that day. He would never see what he loved so much, ever again. He was as helpless now, with his blood leaking from his body, as he had been – a lost soul, on that shifting sand. He died and died again. His heart faltered and stopped, gathered itself, tried again and faltered once more. If he could get up, if he could take this weight off his breast, but it lay there like a hot stone, branding his flesh, feeling like heartbreak and worse. And all the while he struggled to live, the name beat with his blood through his brain. Abel, my son. Abel, Abel, Abel.

  He felt them lift him up. He could hear nothing except the ocean of his blood. He could not see, nor could he speak. He died again, and this time he lay on a battlefield with his Abraham there to raise him up, with love. When Abraham faded, there was pain, so much pain that he wanted his life to stop so he could join him again and lose the pain.

  Above the cellar, in the kitchen, Jane heard the shot. She called to William, who was working in the garden, but he had heard it too and was already on his way to find out what had happened.

  ‘Why has he his pistol with him?’

  William shook his head. ‘I didn’t know he had. He said he was going to attend to his mushrooms in the cellar.’

  ‘I hope he has not hurt himself.’

  They listened, but all was quiet. William regarded his wife. ‘Should we make sure all is well?’

  ‘Yes. But we must not fuss over him. Here. Take him some beer, husband.’

  It was not many seconds later that she heard William’s voice. ‘Jane! Help me!’

  Christopher was sprawled on his back amongst a mess of soil and tumbled sacks. His carefully planted fungi were trampled and abandoned. At first, it was not obvious to them that he was shot because there was no gun, and in the dim light his blood-soaked jacket was not obvious.

  ‘We must have mistaken the noise, Jane.’

  ‘Is the gun not here?’

  ‘I cannot see it.’

  ‘Where is he hurt? Has he hit his head?’

  ‘I cannot tell,’ said Jane. ‘We should get him up the stairs, into the light.’

  It was not until Jane tried to feel the beat of his heart that they discovered his wound.

  Christopher was heavy, and William and Jane were not young. It was not an easy task to carry their master up the cellar steps and, when they had him in the passage, they knew they would never manage to take him on up the next stairs to his bed. Instead, Jane ran for bedding to soften the floor, and they took him into the kitchen, which at least was always warm.

  There was no doctor in Dario, but William took Troubadour and managed somehow to mount and ride him to Chineborough in search of one. All that day, while Jane waited for the doctor to arrive, Christopher hovered between life and death. He groaned on occasion and muttered words she could not decipher, but mostly he lay in a swoon.

  The doctor, when he came, didn’t give much for the life of his patient. ‘His heart is very weak,’ he said. ‘He will likely die. All that can be said for the good is that the ball went right through his body, so it doesn’t need to be extracted.’ He uncorked his oil and drizzled some into the wounds. ‘And the ball seems to have entered at a fortunate angle,’ he added, ‘missing his heart and lung. Or he would be already dead.’

  ‘Will you come back again?’ asked Jane, gazing fearfully at her white-faced master on the floor.

  The doctor shook his head. ‘If he lives this night he may get a fever. If he survives that and his wounds don’t turn bad, he might survive. In any event, there is little more I can do for him. Give him brandy.’

  The doctor had gone, along with Jane’s cockerel in payment, by the time William arrived. Troubadour had insisted on ambling his way home instead of galloping, which was just as well, or doubtless William would have lost his seat. William and Jane sat on the bench, gazing at their master. He had groaned many times during the pulling, turning, prodding and poking the doctor had given him, but now he lay deathly silent, hardly breathing. His face was as white as the linen binding his wounds. Jane had tried dribbling brandy into his mouth, but little if any had found its way past his lips.

>   ‘We should take turns to sit up with him,’ said William. ‘He shouldn’t die alone.’

  ‘What will become of us?’ said Jane. ‘Where shall we go?’

  William put his arm around her. ‘Maybe he won’t die,’ he said, looking doubtfully at the still figure.

  He did not die, in spite of fever and his weak heart. But it was a long time before Christopher Morgan was properly healed. For some days he lay between life and death on the floor of the kitchen. Then, after he had seemed to improve a little and they decided to put him to bed for his comfort’s sake, he relapsed with the movement. The fragile clotting of his wounds opened and he bled again, as if freshly injured. For a few days it seemed as if they had killed him by their kindness, but if his heart was weak, his will was very strong.

  Stepping between life and death, it was as if his body could not make up its mind. Often, he was not lucid. When he was, he lay for hours, unable to communicate, but alive to the care he was given by his servants. He was aware of their fear for themselves if he should die but could say nothing to comfort them. During the long night hours, when William and Jane took it in turns to watch him, with a single candle illuminating their ageing faces, he was moved by love for them. His parents would have been appalled. He knew very well that had they been alive they would have admonished him many times over the past few years. Why had he not advanced himself with the King while in exile? Why had he not followed him to London and taken a place at court? He could have had a good position by now, instead of mouldering in the countryside on his own.

  But his parents had been dead for a long time and Christopher had punished himself enough over the years. He had not enjoyed court intrigue when the court was in exile. How would it be better at Whitehall? He could not regret denying his son false friendships and dangerous politics. And although he had temporarily lost Abel, he knew now that he lived. Seeing him there at the gate in the cellar had suggested to him something he had not known all the months of his vanishment. That Daniel Johnson, who had been assiduous in helping search for Abel, must surely be implicated in his disappearance. Why else would Abel be in the Johnsons’ tunnel? So far as he knew, none but the Johnsons knew its entrance. However, it troubled Christopher that he didn’t recognise the man who had shot him. It was unfortunate that he couldn’t accuse a Johnson of causing his injury. And he couldn’t prove the Johnsons were to blame for Abel’s disappearance. What if the militia believed that Abel had chosen to run away and join the smugglers? During his slow and painful recovery, he worried away at these thoughts. At one moment he felt optimistic and at the next he despaired at ever finding his son.

  As soon as he could make himself understood, Abel’s name was constantly on Christopher’s lips. While Jane and William wanted to discover how he had a pistol wound with no pistol in evidence, all he would say, in a weak whisper, was ‘Abel’ and point towards his jacket, which lay on his chair. Jane, having done her best to remove most of the bloodstains and patch the holes, brought it to him and laid it on the bed.

  ‘You want your jacket, sir?’

  ‘Pocket.’

  He was too weak to do it himself, so William did as his master wanted and felt in the pockets. He put the contents – a small knife, some twine and a packet – into his master’s hand and instantly Christopher stopped fretting.

  When, at last, many days later, he was able to tell them what had happened, they found it impossible to believe.

  ‘You have had a fever, sir,’ Jane told him. ‘You dreamt you saw your son.’

  ‘I tell you he was there, the wrong side of that accursed gate into the tunnel!’

  ‘Sir, you must not become agitated, for your health’s sake.’

  ‘And what must I do for my son’s sake?’

  There was silence, apart from his laboured breathing. Then he pointed at his wooden chest. ‘The key to the gate is in there, Jane. Please take it and keep it with you always. Abel may return secretly again.’ His mouth worked with emotion. ‘We must be ready.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And Jane?’

  She paused in her search for the key.

  ‘The tunnel was used by the Johnsons. Seeing Abel there made it clear to me that Daniel must surely know where he is. He must be examined and the tunnel searched. I never wanted to know where it led, but now I must.’

  Jane got up and came to the chair by his bed. She had sat in it for so many days and nights, watching over him, that it felt natural to do so now, even though she was a servant. ‘Oh, sir,’ she said sadly. ‘So much has happened in the village since you have been lying here. It was over a month ago when the militia came for the Johnsons. I don’t know who betrayed them, but Daniel, along with his sons, were all hanged with terrible speed. Even the youngest, who was a small boy. They say they hardly gave them leave to speak in their own defence. The family is quite broken up and scattered. The soldiers even pulled the thatch from their houses and the very stones from their walls. The ruins of their houses are like lost teeth in a mouth. I don’t know why it happened, and God knows the village is better without them, but it was a terrible time, for they didn’t all deserve such treatment. The women and babes were left homeless and must be living in ditches, as far as I know. At any rate, none of that family are in the village now.’

  Christopher stared at Jane and felt his heart falter. ‘All gone?’

  ‘All, sir.’

  ‘Daniel hanged?’

  She nodded.

  ‘How can it be?’

  The little blood that had returned to his cheeks drained away and his face became grey. He closed his eyes. He had taken too long to recover. He had been determined to have Daniel questioned, but he was too late. It was all too late. It felt as if he were falling from a great height, a falling without end.

  For a while, he knew nothing. When he woke, it was to despair, followed swiftly by memory.

  ‘Where is the packet?’ He felt on the bedcover but could not find it. He was alone, so he called for Jane. ‘Where is it? Abel gave it to me.’

  Jane endeavoured always to keep her master tidy, but his bedclothes were constantly disturbed as he became stronger and more restless.

  ‘Calm yourself, sir. It will be here somewhere.’ Eventually she found it, lying forgotten under the bed. ‘Here, sir.’

  ‘Fetch me a knife, Jane. I cannot undo it without one.’

  Christopher did not know what he hoped for. A letter, an explanation, even the slightest clue would be of help now Daniel was extraordinarily, so unbelievably gone. He fretted until William arrived with Jane, bringing with him the scent of cold weather into the sickroom. He slit the cords for Christopher and unfolded the document inside. He and Jane propped Christopher up to see what the packet held. It was an unexpected puzzle, a map that none of them could decipher.

  ‘It is a fortified headland with sea around it, but I do not recognise the place,’ said Christopher, struggling and failing to disguise the disappointment he felt. It was unreasonable of him to have expected the packet to contain a direct message from Abel to his father, but that was exactly what he had yearned for.

  ‘Might a sea captain in Chineborough know?’ suggested William.

  Christopher frowned. ‘Maybe. But the map is more a plan of the great castle or palace within the fortifications than the surrounding geography.’ He felt suddenly exhausted and totally disheartened. ‘Leave me to sleep. I need to recover my strength.’

  Sleeping only to wake and fret was the pattern for some time longer.

  Several times, Jane and William found their master struggling to dress himself, the wound in his shoulder freshly staining his linen red.

  ‘Why must you give us more work and risk your life into the bargain?’ Jane took to scolding him, to little effect.

  ‘You know I must get up and find Abel,’ he told them as they eased him back upon his pillows. ‘I cannot waste any more time lying in bed.’

  ‘What do you mean to do, sir?’

  ‘Wel
l, Jane,’ said Christopher. ‘I need you to launder my best linen and air my outer garments, ready for when I am well. And William, if I were to ask you to sell Troubadour, would I have your word that you would drive a hard bargain?’

  ‘I would do my best, sir.’ It was obvious both Jane and William wanted to ask about his plans but felt unable to do so.

  ‘The best place I know to ask about such a map is in London,’ Christopher explained. ‘And if I am to try it, I must have money and try not to look like a pauper.’

  ‘I think, sir,’ said William slowly, ‘if it is money you are anxious about, you should know that things have been easier since the Johnsons were driven away.’

  ‘The inn is busier, sir,’ said Jane. ‘It is not a fortune, but there is more in the cash box than for a long time.’

  ‘I had not thought of that possibility.’ Christopher sighed. ‘But it is so often true that one man’s misfortune is to another’s advantage. Well … maybe we can keep old Troubadour after all. We can have a reckoning one day soon. But I have two urgent jobs to do. I must write a letter and I must get quite well.’

  Christopher spent a lot of time composing his letter. In the end, he decided that simple honesty was the best that he could manage. He did not think a reply was very likely, so when, some weeks later, a clatter of hooves outside his window woke him during his afternoon nap, it did not occur to him that it might be a post boy.

  Jane took the letter up to him, but he refused to open it in bed. He had been dressed and downstairs several times. This, surely, was a sign that he should fully take up the reins of life again, so he resisted the temptation to read it until he was settled in front of the fire in the kitchen with some brandy at his elbow. With trembling fingers, he broke the royal seal and read the letter. When he had finished, he laid it on his lap and took up the glass. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and sipped the fiery liquid.