The Outrageous Fortune of Abel Morgan

by Cynthia Jefferies

  Christophe held my hand throughout and wept much. I think he was also thinking of his mother.

  I had been reunited with my father for such a little time. Now we were parted again. But I am a grown man of thirty years and it is in the nature of things for a son to bury his parent. Indeed, I think I had mourned him so long, my mourning was all but done by the time he came to die. I did shed some tears, but my sadness was mingled with gratitude for those few days we had together, when we learnt to love one another anew.

  A death causes a hiatus in a family. While his coffin was being made and details of his interment decided, we lived as if the world had temporarily stopped. We were all, I am sure, thinking of the man who had died. I myself was regretting something I had not felt able to ask him, something he had chosen not to tell me. When one afternoon I came upon Jane picking some herbs in the garden, I decided to unburden myself to her.

  ‘What do you know of my mother, Jane?’

  ‘He seldom mentioned her. Just now and then.’

  ‘He never spoke of her to me except to say that she was beautiful and dead. As a child I always longed to know more.’

  ‘I will tell you all I know, if you like.’ She stood upright and stretched her back. ‘He said she was always laughing. He said that to me several times over the years. And she had blonde hair with little curls on her broad forehead and a straight nose. You know she was from Holland?’

  I nodded.

  ‘From the hints he gave I think she must have been quite wilful.’ Jane smiled at me. ‘She didn’t like to obey her parents. And your father said he won her from a king! He could be very fanciful sometimes, that father of yours.’ Her mouth trembled and she rubbed at her eyes. ‘Lord, I miss him so.’

  I patted her arm, but I would not be diverted. ‘What more?’

  ‘He said her mother was always telling her off for fiddling with the lace on her dress.’

  ‘He mentioned lace while holding your hand.’

  ‘Well, yes.’ I had thought Jane too old for blushes, but she was not. ‘It was not me he was thinking of, sir! It was your mother. Of that I am sure.’

  We read the will, which was satisfactory, and indeed quite touching. It went a long way to remove the fears I had about Turlough, though I could not think that I would ever particularly approve of him and certainly would never call him ‘brother’. However, he was most anxious to be allowed to make my father’s memorial tablet. His work on the church seemed of fair enough quality and so I saw no harm in granting his desire. We buried my father with all the gravity he deserved and I told Turlough he could do the work. I wanted no mawkish poem on the tablet, simply the dates of his birth and death, and his name. I told Turlough to also carve the name and dates of my mother, as far as we knew them. As she had no known resting place, it would be fitting to remember her with him. Turlough wanted to pay for the stone but I overrode him in that. I did not wish to be obligated to that extent. It would be my memorial to my father, not his. He acquiesced with a good enough grace and so I shook his hand over the business and we parted in a proper manner.

  IN MEDIAS RES

  36

  Back on the day Christopher and Abel were reunited, in the midst of that joyful time, the whiff of destruction had ridden by. And yet, almost at the point of death, both Christophe and Christopher were spared. But what of James Bramble, that man who knew how to gentle a horse, while having little mercy for his own kind? After a lifetime of meddling in the affairs of others, he was like a great, water-soaked tree, rolling half hidden in a swollen river, causing destruction to boats and bridges, while seeming impervious to hurt himself. And yet wood can be cut, and branches taken from the trunk.

  When those two innocent boys, Christophe and his new friend Richard, son of Charlie the blacksmith, hurtled out of the alley and into the path of his horse, they were within a second of losing their lives. Having led Christophe past pigsties and wicket gates, chickens and washing lines, Richard’s shortcut had cleverly brought them out directly opposite Rumfustian House. Like bullets they had exploded from the alley, careless in their enjoyment of the run. If their fond parents had known, both boys might have had a beating for it, but Richard would have borne the greater blame. For them, their escape was simple luck, but by fortune or whatever orders this world, that day innocence did evil to an evil man by setting his horse to bolt. He had known, this lover of horseflesh, that his life depended on him staying in his seat. The boys and village had vanished in a minute as the horse flew from the terror it felt. No man could have controlled it. Somewhere in that vast moor, nestling in a shallow valley, was the house that could have brought both horse and rider comfort, but the horse was too new to know his stable. He had no sense of direction, nor would he allow himself to be directed. He plunged into tangled gorse and heather, which slowed his pace. But each gorse slash at his belly maddened him more. He could not see where to put his feet and imagined that monsters assailed him on every side.

  James Bramble considered that his life was now more in danger with the horse than without it. It was a gamble which course to take, and it grieved him sorely to abandon his fine horse, but off the hard road the heather would cushion him if he threw himself clear, and there was always a chance that, suddenly unladen, the horse might come to his senses. But the beast was heading for one of the small quarries that lay hidden in those parts. If he fell over the brink, James Bramble would have a much more dangerous landing, and would risk being trampled or rolled upon.

  But to be free of the horse, he needed to reach the levers to release his metal fingers. Could his tired legs alone hold him in balance while his good hand did it? He had been meaning to oil the levers but had been too busy. There was a knack to releasing them, simple while still, impossible on the plunging horse. Leaning over its neck to keep his seat he reached instead under his coat, to the straps around his shoulder. Unfastening one was easy, but then his metal hand became unstable, his wrapped stump shifting in its metal arm. And then the worst happened. The horse stumbled. James Bramble fell and could not roll clear. He could not stand up, safe but bereft to watch his investment plunge on without him, for he was still attached by those metal fingers to the reins.

  He had been in danger before, but of the swift, knifing kind or threat of poison, not the long, agonising journey to death by degrees, as this would be. So, having cheated death that day, Christophe and Christopher felt the joy of being alive, while James Bramble felt death stalking ever closer with his scythe to cut him down. He tried to keep pace with the horse, but the tangled roots and branches did not allow it. With one part of his mind he bitterly regretted the spoiling of his horse’s mouth as the animal dragged him on, trying to rid himself of the weight on his jaw. It was a very slow progress. Both horse and man were in terrible pain. Both were lacerated by the golden gorse, and their legs were battered by hidden rocks. At length, exhausted, the animal stood at bay. Blood dripped from his mouth, onto the blood of the man. And then, as the horse trembled, James Bramble felt sure he could lose the remaining strap.

  His legs would hardly hold him any more, but while the horse remained still he managed to free his shoulder of the second strap, speaking gently all the time to the ruined horse. When he gave one sharp tug the horse screamed in pain and reared, but James Bramble’s stump was pulled free. He tried to roll clear, but the horse’s hooves struck his shoulder before it cantered away, flecked with foam and blood, the metal hand still dragging at the rein.

  If this had happened to another man, James Bramble would have found it funny. He would have been amused to think how some yeoman might have been terrified at seeing the riderless horse with fiendish, dangling arm, and it would have given him pleasure to think how the unlucky owner would never be reunited with either horse or limb. He might even have imagined the hand and hollow arm being given to the church or bought by some earl, to hang upon his wall as a curiosity. No doubt, the talk in the inns would have been of witches, demons and monsters, but none of this had bee
n the misfortune of another man for him to enjoy. His two most treasured possessions were gone. The third, his life, was still his, but it dangled, like the metal limb.

  And then, James Bramble, still living, was obliged to creep upon the ground like a beetle. How long could he survive? He was not so very far from his house, perhaps four miles, but how far could he go with his shoulder broken, his arm and hand in agony, while the other ended in a stump? His legs had been bruised black and one ankle was cracked.

  The first day he was indomitable. Needing to crawl, not having a stick to lean upon, his rage carried him through his pain. The second, he sucked dew greedily from the purple moor, missing by half a mile the bog that would have answered his thirst, though it might also have drowned him in its peaty water. If he could only have reached the track that was but a few yards away a pedlar, or other travelling man might have come across him and seen it as his Christian duty to save him, little knowing who he was.

  Perhaps, on the third day, while Christopher and Abel were happily getting used to being together again, James Bramble’s legs might have held him up to look about him, although he was weak with thirst, and hunger and pain. If he could have stood, as a man should, he would have seen the track and the shallow valley where succour lay. Surely, even with his swollen tongue and fevered eyes, he would have been able to save himself? If he did send death away, he would have had to do it alone, for no one passed by for over a week. And if he did live, would he renounce all his evil past, dedicating himself to helping others in thanks for his deliverance? Only God knew. Only God would know if he lived or died and only God ever saw truly into the devil’s heart.

  ABEL MORGAN

  37

  After my father’s funeral I collected all the documents I could find pertaining to my father’s life. The journal I remembered him writing in was in his large travelling box, along with others I had not seen before. I added all the papers connected with his nursery business, which I would take to my lawyer in London. There was also a letter to me from my father, which his lawyer handed to me privately and which I was very glad to have. I packed everything into the box and the following day I took it and Christophe back to London.

  There had been a little trouble over the will because I had changed my name in Jamaica and could not prove myself, but both William and Turlough vouched for me to my father’s lawyer, allowing him to recognise me as the heir and allowing me to inherit. Back in London I spoke at length to my lawyer. I told him my change of name had been necessary in that lawless place, having been, against my will, surgeon on a privateer. I kept secret my life on board the Revenge and there were none to gainsay me. He drew up fresh documents restoring to me my proper name, which was a great relief. My friends found my story most diverting. Hans, once he knew my proper name, discovered that my father had been a member of the Royal Society, respected in past years for his experiments with plant breeding. It gave me much pleasure, as a member also, to know it.

  I did not need to practise medicine for the sake of an income as I had more than enough without, so I chose to take very few patients, reserving most of my time for my friends at the Society, where we discussed all manner of interesting topics.

  Christophe was soon at Oxford with his tutor and in his letters to me it sounded as if he was applying himself well. Letters from his tutor mentioned several exploits that Christophe had not, but I remained well pleased with him and amused at his small transgressions. However, in October, I learnt of the death of his mother and that grieved him badly. He came home for a while. I paid for prayers to be said and we went to church to hear them together. We also went to see the progress on the building of the new St Paul’s. It had not yet been consecrated, but I promised my son that as soon as it was I would pay for prayers to be said there for his mother, every year, on the anniversary of her death.

  Before he returned to his studies, he spent much time talking to me about our time in Jamaica and his love for his mother, as well as for the children who had been lost. I had not thought much about our island life since returning to England, but he needed to relive his childhood and I listened patiently.

  The night after he had gone back to Oxford I had a terrible dream. I had, I thought, successfully buried the memory of the day when Rowan Mantle and Black Tom had died, but now out it came to haunt me anew. Again, I saw Rowan splayed on the ground, his sightless eyes an accusation. Again, I saw Tom step past me into oblivion; however, this time it was not Rowan’s corpse he took with him, but me. I woke shuddering. I went to my father’s box and took up the letter he had written to me. It gave me such comfort to read his wisdom within it. I thought of my own son and his sadness. He needed a mother and a house full of siblings to cheer him. Of course, I could never replace his lost playmates, but perhaps I should look about me for a new wife. I would do my best to choose wisely and try to be a more loving and understanding husband than I ever had before.

  The year turned and spring came again. On a warm May afternoon, with bees busy in the apple blossom and lambs bleating in the pastures, Christophe and I travelled from London to Dario and went to church to say prayers for the soul of Christopher Morgan. It was our first visit since his death.

  It is small, St Mary’s, though charming and full of boyhood memories for me. Imagine my surprise when we went into the church to see a new tomb in the little side aisle where I had expected a tablet on the wall. Covering it was a cloth of dark velvet and next to it stood Turlough. I was confused and a little angry. He had not said he was building a tomb. Had he thought a simple tablet not good enough for the man he liked to call ‘Father’? I felt bested by him in some competition, which was unworthy of me on this solemn day. I struggled hard to let the feeling go.

  Prayers were said and then Turlough stood forward at the head of the tomb. He took one edge of the velvet in his stone-roughened hand and asked me to take the other. Together we pulled back the cloth to reveal his work.

  My breath caught in my throat. This was most unexpected, and I was quite unmanned. Next to me, at the height of my shoulder as if on a bier lay the carved figure of my father. It was unmistakable. He was dressed as he had been when we met in the arbour and his face was as recently remembered, with all its lines and creases. One hand held a single rose. The hand was on his heart, as so often it had been, and his eyes were closed. The stone was so beautifully carved he looked almost as if he might wake. It was the very image of my father at rest.

  I looked across at Turlough to thank him. I wanted to compliment him, but I found I couldn’t speak with my heart so full. I could see, in the delicate strokes of his chisel, how much love had guided his hand. It expressed a greater love for my father than I had felt for many years, thinking him already dead.

  I looked again at the tomb through blurring eyes. It was broad, with room for another figure to lie beside him. I pushed my way around to the other side, so I could observe it. I cannot convey, even now, how much the sight affected me. She was beautiful, an exquisitely carved young woman in a delicate dress with embroidered roses at the hem, waist and sleeves, and lace at the top. Her hair fell in ringlets, with curls at her broad forehead. One elegant hand was at her breast, her long, graceful fingers entwined playfully in the marble lace. Her other hand was at her side, and when I stretched to look I could see that our father’s hand was clasping hers.

  I had dreamt so many dreams as a child of being rocked in my mother’s arms. And now, for the first time since I had been a newborn babe, I saw her face. I felt a grief far greater than any I had felt at my father’s death. Never had I sat on that lap, nor clung to her skirts as a little boy. She had never healed my hurts, nor had I ever slept with the scent of her near me. Seeing her marble image made me grateful to my foster brother for thinking of making it, and indeed I thanked him through my tears, but looking on her this way I seemed to feel the pain of her loss for the very first time, as if she had been taken from me only yesterday and I a helpless babe.

  How curious are we h
umans and how wayward life can be. I had mourned my father years ago, when he was still alive. Seeing my mother over thirty years after her death, I only now was able to grieve instead of simply regretting her absence. And yet, looking on those images of my parents I felt a lifting of my heart. For they had both been lost to me and each other for so many years and now, at last, they were found.

  APPENDIX

  Letter found with the last will of

  Sir Christopher Bardolph Morgan

  My dearest boy Abel,

  You will discover, if you ever return, that Rumfustian House, along with my garden and the extensive nursery is yours. My will specifies that Jane and William will remain there with enough money to support them until such time as they die. After that, if you are still not returned, the house will be let, the nursery sold and the income invested in the upkeep of the house and outbuildings. My lawyer in Chineborough, Mr Davies, insists I should enter an end date to this curious arrangement and so I have set the last day of December 1762, when you would have reached the age of one hundred. In case fire or other disaster should befall the house after my demise, I have directed that at my death various small items should be lodged at Mr Davies’ chambers for you. My books and journals, my notes about my beloved roses and my old silk dressing gown, along with the peacock feathers you so loved as a child. They will all be there. Forgive the sentimentality of an old man. I also leave you my pruning knife, which I had made to my design and carry everywhere with me. It is a very useful little item. Who would have thought that I would finally become a gardener! I often think of our early endeavours with amusement, overlaid with much sadness.