The Outrageous Fortune of Abel Morgan

by Cynthia Jefferies

  ‘You deserve a beating for your behaviour,’ I said.

  ‘I’m very sorry, Father.’

  I sighed. ‘There has been enough violence and sorrow in this place,’ I said. I held out my arms to him. ‘And I feel far more joy seeing you alive than anger at your behaviour.’

  ‘Will we live on the plantation now?’

  I had no stomach for it. ‘Christophe, life has utterly changed. So many friends gone, Port Royal destroyed. And that is without what has happened to our family.’

  He fell to weeping in my arms. ‘I’m afraid for Mother. And I miss my sisters and brother so!’

  I had not entirely lost hope of finding Mollie and the children, but the possibility was slight. If they had survived, they had almost certainly gone to the lawless mountains where I would not dare to follow. They had been pretty about the place, but my son had always been of more importance to me. No medicine on earth could help his mother return from the place she had gone to in her head, but the plantation did very well without me and I had money aplenty.

  ‘Listen,’ I said to Christophe. ‘Sometimes a disaster can also become an opportunity and I think I know what to do.’

  He gazed up at me through his tears, a frightened boy looking to his father to lead.

  ‘A ship is expected very soon to take timber from our plantation to England. It is time you learnt something of the world.’

  ‘Don’t send me away!’ he begged, clinging to me. I took hold of his shoulders and held him away, so I could see his face.

  ‘Do not be afraid, Christophe. We will go together.’

  Until this moment I had not considered returning to England. I had believed both Ptolemy and the man with the metal hand when they told the boy I had been that I would never return. It had been a matter of distress to me on my original voyage to the Caribbean, but I had come to terms with it and came eventually never to look back. Now, however, I had the financial means to return and a son whose education would benefit if he visited the old country. Perhaps I might send him to Oxford, as my father had wanted to do with me. I could write to Hans for advice. I had never been to London or Bristol, nor almost anywhere else in England. Christophe and I could experience these places together. It would be wonderful!

  ‘But what of Mother?’

  I sighed. ‘I think a long sea voyage might cause her even more distress,’ I said. ‘She is calm here on the plantation and I think that is because it is familiar to her. To wrench her from here would do her a disservice and maybe endanger her life.’

  He looked bewildered. ‘We cannot abandon her.’

  ‘She will not be abandoned. She will be on our estate, looked after by people she knows, even if she does not speak to them. I will ask our manager for regular reports to be sent to me, but I do not expect her to return to her senses soon, if ever.’

  ‘Maybe when we return, that will make her wake up?’

  ‘It is in God’s hands, Christophe. All we can do is make sure she is gently cared for and kept safe. He will decide.’

  I wrote to Hans that evening but expected that we would arrive in London on the same vessel as the letter. No matter. Now I had decided on this plan I was in a fever to execute it.

  Before I retired to bed, I went to Marie’s room. I had instructed a slave to be with her at all times, in case she suddenly recovered herself, or indeed tried to harm herself. Anything was possible. She had been put to bed for the night, and looked cool and comfortable, but just as remote from me as ever. I sat beside the bed and told her of my plans. She showed no reaction at all. My mind was made up. I might as well be as dead as her daughter. Even Christophe could not reach her. Staying here would simply cause Christophe constant distress, but travel would almost certainly prove diverting for him. For the sake of my son, as well as my own inclinations, we would leave her here and travel to England.

  CHRISTOPHER MORGAN

  31

  Christopher Morgan’s coach made its way to Bishopsgate in London and stopped outside Grisham College. His was not the only coach. Others were arriving, too, for what promised to be an interesting lecture. Christopher had originally been invited to join the Royal Society by Charles II, who had enjoyed the new plants he had presented to him on several occasions and especially his success in the science of breeding new roses.

  The country had gone through much turmoil since the unexpected and untimely death of Charles. To Christopher’s great relief, with the self-imposed exile of Charles’s brother James and eventual crowning of William and Mary, the country felt a little more at ease with itself, although for a while he, like many, had feared another civil war. Christopher hadn’t particularly liked James and didn’t know King William at all, although he had seen him once, long ago, in his own country.

  Christopher was happy to be away from court. For more than fifteen years he had revelled in it, loving the way his king had encouraged experimentation and ideas by the formation of his Society, as well as patronising the arts. He had been fortunate to have met and had good conversation with some great men. His years at court had helped make his business a most fashionable and profitable enterprise, but Christopher was of no significance to William or his queen, and now, in his sixty-first year, he preferred to let his agent conduct his business for him.

  He had remained interested in the Royal Society and liked to attend occasional meetings, although these days he tired easily and could not always recall what questions he wished to ask at the conclusion of a meeting. Today’s lecture was to be given by an eyewitness to last year’s earthquake in the Caribbean that had ruined Port Royal in Jamaica. It was extraordinary how the ground could open up in some countries and he was looking forward to hearing this account. As he found his seat, he could hear some discussion going on behind him.

  ‘They say the quake in Jamaica was most unlike the ones suffered from time to time in Europe.’

  ‘I hear this fellow will speculate that it was caused by excessive heat trying to escape from the earth.’

  ‘Not at all! I heard that the island is nothing but sand and from time to time the grains settle further into cracks in the rocks, causing buildings to fall.’

  Christopher was tempted to turn around and tell the two gentlemen that they would find out soon enough and so why speculate. However, he did not. His increasing tetchiness with age displeased him and he did his best to curb his tongue. Instead, he leant on his stick and waited, hoping he would not doze off. It was a warm day and he did have a habit of falling asleep unless he was exceptionally interested in what was going on.

  He did not have long to wait. Soon, the visitor from Jamaica was introduced as one Sir Jack Moore. Christopher sat straighter in his chair in order to listen.

  The man was tall and slender, and dressed in the latest fashion. Christopher’s eyesight wasn’t as good as it had been in his younger days and he was in his preferred position at the back of the room, so the man’s features were unclear, but his pleasing tenor voice was strong and Christopher had no difficulty in hearing him.

  The first part of his lecture was very interesting, especially the way he described the land melting, which was something Christopher had never heard of before. However, Christopher hadn’t realised the man was a doctor. Soon, the lecture became an account of the injuries suffered by the inhabitants and the measures taken to help them, which didn’t interest him so much. The room was warm and he began to nod. Only his stick falling with a clatter to the floor roused him just before he was about to slide from his chair and join it. He jerked upright, saving himself just in time. However, he was embarrassed to find that the speaker had interrupted his talk because of him.

  A gentleman sitting nearby leant over to address Christopher. ‘Our speaker has just asked if you are unwell,’ he said.

  Christopher waved his arm towards the speaker in what he hoped was both a reassuring and an apologetic manner. ‘Quite well, thank you. I do apologise. Please continue.’ He recovered his stick and wedged it between his k
nees, determined not to embarrass himself again. At the end of the meeting, he hastened to leave while the gentleman was surrounded by members wanting to engage in further conversation. He thought he had escaped, but a voice followed him to the door.

  ‘I hope you are recovered, sir? Is there anything I can do for you?’

  It was the gentleman from Jamaica. His voice boomed over the heads of the crowd. Christopher affected not to hear. He had already put on his hat and now he kept his head turned away, not wanting to engage in a discussion about his health with some foreign sawbones.

  In the coach, Christopher leant back and closed his eyes. As so often when he attended Royal Society meetings he wished Abel could have been there with him. He had been such a bright child and so interested in everything. His son, that lost boy, was never far from Christopher’s mind. If a day passed without some thought of him, he met him in his dreams, or discussed the day with him when resting in bed. Increasingly, over the past few months he had felt his weakness increase and knew he was not long for the world. He had never been on particularly good terms with God, but he prayed often to be reunited with his son in death.

  Death did not frighten him. His life had been full of loss. Mother, father, wife, son. And yet his life had not been all unhappy and he was thankful for much of it. It was his son’s unknown sufferings that still caused Christopher pain, even now. And so, if he could have changed anything in his life, it would have been not to have sent Abel out on his old horse that fateful day. He would still hold that regret in his heart when death took him at last.

  It was well after dark by the time he reached home, and Christopher was exhausted. Sally’s husband brought in his luggage. Christopher sat quietly in the parlour with his eyes closed while he waited for Jane to bring him her special concoction to help his heart and restore to him a little energy. When he was well and in London, he liked to speak of it to his friends at the Society.

  ‘This drink, like so much of life, is not what I expected. When Jane first brought it to me, I expected rum and there is none in it!’

  He would wait for the chuckles to cease before continuing. ‘I tried several times, as a young man, to discover how to make it, but always failed. My mistake was to insist on rum. The inestimable Jane made it on a day when I was quite unwell. It revived me and I take it now whenever my heart dictates. I would recommend it to you, gentlemen, but I fear her recipe is a secret she guards like a lioness.’

  It was well he was home at last. Christopher’s heart was behaving like a trapped butterfly in a window. He could tell by Jane’s face when she brought him the drink that he must look most unwell.

  His hand trembled so that he could not hold the cup. She took it before it could fall and held it to his mouth. As soon as he smelt the fragrance of the drink and tasted the hot, sweet mixture of egg and cinnamon he felt a little better. The brandy within it gave the drink a fire that stimulated his heart and he began to think that he might survive another night.

  ‘Get up,’ he whispered between sips as she continued to crouch before him with the drink. ‘You do your joints no good.’

  She got up and sat in the chair next to him. When she offered him another sip he took a long draught this time and smiled at her.

  ‘That’s better.’ He took the warm cup from her with almost steady hands. ‘Now, tell me,’ he said, pretending to them both that he was quite well, ‘what of my garden?’

  ‘Such roses!’ she said. ‘I swear it has been the best year yet for your roses. Tomorrow you must sit in the arbour and take in their scent before the last petals fall. I have had the boy collecting them and am drying them for the bowl in your bedchamber.’

  ‘Thank you, Jane. And how is William?’

  ‘He does well enough,’ said Jane. ‘He is in bed. He would have been up to greet you, but we didn’t expect you until tomorrow. The aches and pains in his bones trouble him, but that is nothing new.’

  Christopher smiled. ‘Ah! We old men. We are a trial to you, Jane. And yet we so depend upon you to scold us and keep us in order!’

  ABEL MORGAN

  32

  How fortunate to have known Mr Hans Sloane in Jamaica! That serendipitous friendship brought me great good fortune once in England. I had known he was well thought of, but his modesty in his letters to me had not prepared me for the society in which he moved. Thanks to his friendship, I had the great honour of being presented to Their Majesties! Very soon afterwards I was invited to give a lecture about the great tragedy at Port Royal at the Royal Society. Hans is secretary, which has been a great help for my advancement in society. After my lecture, in which I described many of the injuries and my role in ministering to the injured, I was swiftly being consulted as a physician. Hans even assured me that I would one day make bone-setting a respectable profession! It is a source of great joy to me to have access to learned society in London. Returning to the country of my birth was the best decision of my life. I add to my library every day and frequently take chocolate with Hans and his friends. He has made his concoction quite the thing to drink within his circle and it is certainly delicious. Both Christophe and I had a little difficulty adjusting to the change in temperature, but I find I now relish the seasons, and Christophe eventually came to terms with the lack of sun.

  After some months in London, we were beginning to feel quite settled. As well as familiarising ourselves with this great city’s streets, Christophe and I had visited the theatre several times, but not wishing him to grow into a rake, I took Hans’ advice and engaged a tutor for him who would take him to Oxford and see him get the education fit for a gentleman. Christophe did pine for news of his mother at first, but eventually a letter arrived. When it came, it described no change in Marie’s mood except that day by day she needed more help with her personal requirements. I called Christophe from his tutor and gave him the letter.

  ‘Much of this is about plantation business, but you should read this part about your mother.’

  He stood by me to read it. Barnstable’s writing was not easy to decipher, but I helped when Christophe got stuck.

  ‘What does it mean?’

  ‘I think it means your mother is declining in health. You should prepare yourself. We cannot tell how this may turn out.’

  He turned pale. ‘I want to return to Jamaica to see her.’

  I remonstrated with him in a kindly manner, but it was important he was not deceived. ‘You must accept that if you were there she would still be unlikely to know you,’ I said. ‘Besides, she may already have died. The best thing we can do is to pray for her.’

  My boy was inclined to be angry with me.

  ‘You don’t want me to see her again! You never loved her. You should have brought her to England with us. You are a physician. You should be caring for her!’

  ‘I did what I thought was best for her, Christophe. You know that.’

  ‘Then we should have stayed with her!’

  ‘She is not simply far from us in miles. Her mind has taken her to a place where we cannot reach her. No one can.’

  At this he sobbed, and I put my arms around him. ‘Why don’t you write to her, Christophe? Tell her all the things you have been doing and tell her too how much you love her.’

  ‘But she might already be dead!’

  ‘But your love is alive. Who knows but that the dead may hear our words even when we do not speak them aloud? And if she lives, she may take comfort from the letter, even if she shows no sign of understanding it.’

  He wept a little more, but became calmer when I told him we would, next Sunday, ask that prayers should be said for her in church. I dispatched him to his tutor then, with a message to say that lessons were to be abandoned until he had written as long a letter as he wished to his mother. I also wrote to Barnstable, demanding an immediate reply and instructing him that Marie was to have every care in her decline. I added that I had other sources of information and that it would go very hard with him if I heard her nursing had been anyth
ing but the gentlest and most caring. I did not, but it would do no harm for him to think it. I could do no more.

  Since returning to England I had meant to visit the place where I had been raised, but autumn had turned into summer and still I had not done it. Now would be a good time. It would be a distraction for Christophe and in the nature of laying ghosts for me. My violent removal from home and my father’s murder in front of my eyes had affected me for a long time during my youth, but that was far in the past and it would be amusing to show Christophe my childhood home. So, it was on a warm June morning that we took a hired coach and spent a leisurely night in Bristol. The following morning, we headed further into the West Country. The dried ruts were very jarring and with so much dust we were obliged to keep our windows up, even in the heat. I several times wondered if I had made a mistake in my calculations, but Christophe was too excited at the trip to bother about any discomfort and I found I was impatient to see the old place.

  I had wondered briefly if I should still be afraid of the Johnsons, as no doubt the family still reigned in Dario. But I reminded myself that I was a grown man of considerable wealth, not a frightened boy. Having ensured that both coachman and our servant were armed, and having with me my pistols and sword, I felt that I and my family were safe enough. The Johnsons were rural ruffians, preferring to terrorise those weaker than themselves, so I would not allow them to frighten me from my pleasure. In fact, a part of me hoped I would see Daniel Johnson. He would be an old man by now, if he lived. How good it would be to parade my wealth and success before him. He would think I had come to avenge the wrong he had done me all those years ago. Maybe he would be sitting in the inn, smoking his pipe as his father had done before him. I smiled to think how he would hurriedly scuttle home, his neck in his imagination feeling the harsh embrace of the noose. No, I had no reason to be afraid of the Johnsons.