by F. M. Parker
Patrick didn’t return to work. Every day and into the night he wandered the streets looking for Alice. He hated the damn cruel world that had taken her from him. In the apartment where he had known such joy with Alice, he cursed the Gods for his loss that reached a level where nothing had ever reached him before. He would give all he owned or would ever own for Alice to return to him and speak her gentle words that always lifted his spirit.
He still possessed most of the money found in the luggage taken from the Hellspont Hotel. With that money, he continued to pay the rent and live at the apartment for that was the place to which she might yet return. It was a gloomy place without Alice’s presence and her grand smiles. For a time he could still catch a whiff of her scent on the bed coverings and he would recall the delightful love making she had given him. Then the time came when he could no longer detect her scent thought he would bury his face in the covers and breathe deeply. His days alone added to weeks with his loneliness a permanent weight upon his shoulders. He felt a yawning hole in his life for Alice had taken the best part of it with her. He would never find a way to fill that void.
CHAPTER 13
In the early darkness of night, Patrick walked along Chandos Street near the Thames River and looking for the Boatman’s Tavern. He had heard this was “Fight Night” at the tavern. If there was any place where Patrick might yet find Ben it would be at a tavern during fight night.
A short distance further along, Patrick came to a large wooden sign overhanging the sidewalk. In bold red letters and illuminated by an oil fired storm lantern, the sign proclaimed the establishment to be the Boatman’s Tavern. Patrick shoved open the door and entered.
The smell of ale and wine and tobacco smoke was heavy. A dense gray cloud of smoke floated near the ceiling. The bass rumble of nearly a hundred men talking, laughing, bantering filled the tavern. The men were a strong appearing lot, weathered, sun browned and wearing the coarse clothing of those who worked with their hands. Sprinkled among them were a few soft-handed men wearing town clothing and seemed much out of place here.
The room was larger than Patrick had expected, being relatively wide and quite deep. A long bar extended along the left wall, behind which a tapster, the name coming from the action of tapping a barrel to remove the spirits, went busily about drawing drinks for the men. Two young serving maids tended the tables, of which there were at least twenty and all occupied. Two tables had card games in progress in the rear of the Tavern.
Patrick moved to the side from in front of the door and stood against the wall. Two big men were seated at a table just in front of him. They were bent over a paper spread on the table before them. Patrick could see the paper was a reward notice for Claude Duvall, a “Two Pops and Galloper, a highwayman. The promised reward was eight hundred pounds.
“I tell you Thorne is this Claude Duvall,” one of the men said.
“You might be right,” said the second man. “But I want to see him and make up my own mind. We don’t want to jump the wrong man.”
Patrick realized the two men were “Thief-takers” and were planning to capture a highwayman for the bounty on his head. Highwaymen were considered the elite of thieves and somewhat romantic. He had recently read of Duvall in the newspaper. The man had robbed Squire Amos Roper, Master of the Royal Buckhounds, whom he relieved of fifty guineas and tied to a tree. Duvall was reputed never to use serious violence against his victims.
The first man tapped the poster with a finger and spoke. “Look. This describes Duvall as being above average height, slender and with black eyes. That alone doesn’t tell us much. But it goes on to say that some of the people Duvall robbed told he had badly scared knuckles. This man Thorne who’s going to fight here tonight fits every thing right down to the scarred knuckles.”
“Why would a Two Pops show himself here where he can be seen?”
“Now how in hell would I know that? Maybe he just likes to hit people. That’d go along with being a thief. I’ve heard he’s never lost a fist fight.”
“If it’s Duvall, we’ll take him sure enough.”
“Don’t be too cocky. He’s the best fist fighter on the waterfront and won’t be easy to take.”
“If he fights us, we’ll shoot him and cart his corpse in for the bounty.”
Patrick had heard something he wasn’t meant to and that could be dangerous. He moved away from the men before they detected his presence so close.
One of the serving maids, a short, dumpy girl, had observed his entrance and now wound a course among the tables to him. She rested a pair of pretty brown eyes on Patrick.
“They get younger and younger,” she said in a perky voice and gave him a brazen smile. “And I like them young. What’ll you drink darling?”
“I don’t drink. I just want to see the fight.”
“You have to buy something on fight night or the owner will toss you out. How ‘bout a small ale for half a shilling? That’s a fair price for to see the fight.”
“Sounds fair to me too.” Ben had bragged that ale was a fine drink.
“Then I’ll fetch one.”
“How long before the fight starts?”
“Any time now. Thorne always comes soon after it gets dark”
“Thorne is the main fighter?”
“That he sure enough is. And speaking of the devil, here he is.” She nodded toward the entrance. “You can save your money for the fight will start now.”
Patrick looked in the direction indicated by the serving maid. Thorne had entered quietly and stood surveying the gathering of men that had fallen silent at his appearance. He appeared to be about forty years old, on the tall side and leanly built. His face was well formed and Patrick thought women might think him handsome. He was dressed in tailored black trousers and coat over a crisp white shirt. Seemingly satisfied with what he saw, he moved off across the room with a lithe, gliding step through the crowd. With a slight lifting of his head, he acknowledged the tapster, and donated a wink and a quick smile to the serving girl standing near the bar. She dimpled prettily back at him. He continued on across the room where he halted near the rear wall and pivoted to cast a nonchalant look over the occupants.
The tapster lifted a bronze hand bell up from behind the bar and gave it three sharp clangs. He called out in a loud voice. “Gentlemen, Mr. Jason Thorne has arrived. Move all the tables and chairs back against the wall to make room for his exhibition of fisticuffs.”
With a stamp of boots and a scrape of wood on wood, the tables and chairs of the tavern were swiftly shoved against the walls to create a wide open center area. The men formed in a large circle and stood facing inward.
Patrick took a position beside the two men who planned to take Thorne captive. He wanted to learn the rest of their plan.
The tapster brought a stool out in front of the bar and climbed upon it. From his elevated perch, he began to speak to the men. “Fellows, as most of you know, Mr. Thorne,” the tapster unnecessarily pointed, “visits the Boatman’s Tavern now and again to show his skill at boxing. He challenges any man among you to step forward and try to put him on the floor. He will accept only three challenges. To encourage one of you, he will pay twenty pounds to any man who can stay on his feet for five minutes. And fifty pounds to anybody who can put him down on his knees. Or lower.” The tapster smiled at his remark. “However it’ll cost ten pounds to test your manhood against him. And as always, I’m standing as banker for Mr. Thorne and will take all bets against him.”
The tapster surveyed the room with a keen eye, obviously measuring the gathering of men. “I’ll make the odds five to one that Mr. Thorne wins each contest. Now who’ll be first?”
“I’ll give him a try,” said a huge, young man with blond hair and stepped forward and handed over ten pounds. He stripped off his shirt, folded heavy boned hands into fists, lifted his arms up level with his shoulders and flexed bulging biceps for the crowd to see.
Thorne, focusing on the challenger, leisurely removed
his coat and shirt. He folded both neatly and placed them on the nearest table. With his every movement, cords of muscle rippled like snakes beneath his white skin. His face showed no concern at the coming fight.
“Alright. Let’s have your bets for this first fight. Who bets Mr. Thorne will lose against this young giant? Who seems strong enough to knock an ox down.”
Several men handed money to the tapster and received slips of paper with their bets noted upon it.
The tapster stepped down off his stool, kicked it back against the bar, and motioned the fighters to the center of the room. “The rules are simple. Only fists are allowed. There’s to be no kicking, no gouging, no choking. I’ll ring the bell when the time is up. Are you both ready?”
Both men nodded and backed away a few steps from each other. Thorne glanced at the big-faced clock over the bar.
“Let the fight begin,” called the tapster.
The challenger shoved his left fists out and right one cocked to strike and came warily at Thorne, who simply stood with his arms down at his sides. A slight, taunting smile crept across Thorne’s lips.
The challenger rushed at Thorne. Who slid aside easily, and gave his opponent a solid right hand blow to the side of the head as he went past. The young man shook his head and came again at Thorne. The fight went on with Thorne easily avoiding the young man’s efforts to get in close. Thorne’s face held an expression that he might be bored with the fight. A few times he stood and stopped his opponent’s advance with short jabs to his nose and mouth. Blood began to flow down over the man’s chin. He spat out a spray of blood.
Patrick saw Thorne fling a look at the clock. He was saving his strength for the other fights yet to come.
The challenger charged at Thorne. Instead of his usual tactic of side stepping his opponent, Thorne stood and met him with four hard blows to the face. Every one landed squarely. Thorne stepped in closer and landed an upper cut to his adversary’s chin. The man fell heavily to the floor where he lay prostrate. After a few seconds, he struggled to his knees but was unable to rise. Two onlookers went forward and grabbed him up and sat him in a chair.
“Thorne never even got a sweat up,” the first “thief taker” said to his companion. “We should have bet some money on him.”
The second thief taker, intently studying Thorne, didn’t reply,
The tapster called for a second fighter and a man stepped forward. Money changed hands as bets were laid. The fight began with the challenger moving in on Thorne and trying to pen him against the tables. As before, Thorne’s quick footedness moved him out of harm’s way. And each time, he quickly reversed course and came at his adversary from the side and landed powerful damaging blows. The challenger gave up the fight and turned away from Thorne before the clock’s big hand touched five minutes.
As if tired of fighting, Thorne knocked his third and last opponent unconscious within the first five seconds.
Patrick heard the first thief taker speak to his comrade. “Do you agree that Thorne is Duvall?”
“It’s him alright. And he doesn’t have any pistols. Let’s wait out front and jump him before he knows what happening. Now hit him hard and keep on hitting until he falls. If he won’t go down, we’ll shoot him.”
The two thief-takers pushed through the men resetting the tables and chairs and went out through the door.
Patrick was uncertain as to whether or not to warn Thorne of the thief-takers. But suppose Thorne wasn’t Duvall, he reasoned, an innocent man would be hurt, or killed. On the other hand, if this was Duvall, then Patrick would have helped a highwayman escape. Strangely Patrick felt a kinship to the man who was possibly the thief who never used violence. For after all, Patrick a thief?
He hastened to Thorne who had donned his shirt and coat and was walking toward the door. Without preliminary, Patrick said, “Don’t go out the front. There’re two bounty hunters out there waiting for you.”
Thorne halted in mid-stride and looked at Patrick. “Why would they do that?”
“They think you’re Claude Duvall and want the reward.”
“How do you know what they think?”
“I happened to hear them talking together. And they had a reward poster.”
“What makes them think I’m this Duvall?”
“Your skinned knuckles.”
Thorne looked at his knuckles that showed old scars and fresh bruises. “Hmm. So you want me to go out the rear door?” Thorne said in a cynical voice.
Patrick didn’t like Thorne’s tone. He hadn’t been spoken to in that manner since the orphanage. He replied angrily. “I don’t care what door you use.”
He made to move away when Thorne caught him by the shoulder in a vise-like grip and stopped him. “Not so fast. You’re coming with me. If you’ve lied and part of a scheme, I’m going to wring your neck.” He propelled Patrick across the room to the tapster near the bar.
“What’d he do?” the tapster asked and gesturing at Patrick firmly held by Thorne.
“Causing me a little trouble, but nothing we can’t settle between us.”
The tapster handed Thorne a bulging purse. “Your share of tonight’s winnings. When’re you coming again?”
“I’ll let you know. We’ll go out through the storeroom so as not to cause you a problem.”
“Sure. That’s okay”
Thorne shoved Patrick past the bar and onward across the storeroom full of barrels and bottles. He cautiously opened the outside door and peered outside. He spoke to Patrick. “Make no sound now for I’ll make you a sorry lad if you do.”
They left the storeroom and went along the side of the building to the street. Here Thorne looked around the corner of the building and checked the street to the front of the tavern.
He pulled back and turned to Patrick. “Seems you told the truth, boy, for I see two men there by the front. I don’t know why you warned me. But we’ve no time to talk about that now. Come along with me.” Retaining his hold on Patrick, Thorne stepped out onto the street and headed away from the tavern.
In the middle of the first block, Thorne stopped at a horse and buggy tied to a hitching rail. A man immediately came out of the black shadows and approached them.
“What’s with him?” he asked Thorne.
“He warned me about a couple of bounty hunters. Loan me you long tailed coat and hat.”
The two men swiftly exchanged garments. Thorne went to the buggy and removed a belt with two single shot cap and ball pistols in holsters from under the front seat. He slid each pistol from it holster, cocked each weapon and pressed the firing caps down firmly on the nipples.
“Keep the boy with you. Make him stay, but don’t hurt him. I’ll figure out what to do with him later.”
Thorne strode back toward the tavern. He held the two pistols out of sight under the tails of the coat.
“What’s he going to do?” Patrick asked. He believed he already knew.
“My guess is that he’s going to send those two “thief-takers” to hell. You did tell him the truth about them?”
“Yes. But I just wanted him to get away without being captured by them. Why does he have to kill them?”
“You got to understand that now that they know who he is, he can’t allow them to live for then he would always be in danger of them finding him.”
“I don’t want to be responsible for murder.”
“Don’t fret over it. Most thief-takers are murderers themselves and worse than the men they take for the bounty. Now get in the buggy for we’ll be leaving fast.”
“Why does he want me? I wouldn’t tell anybody who he is.”
“You’ll have to wait and see.”
Patrick took a seat and faced toward the tavern. Thorne, walking at a leisurely pace, was entering the light of the storm lantern in front of the tavern. He drew close to the two men standing one on each side of the door. His hands came from under the tails of the coat. The pistol in his right hand exploded with an orange flame that speared
out to touch the chest of the nearer man. The flame drove a lead ball deeply into the man’s chest and slammed him back against the tavern wall. Thorne’s left hand pistol boomed and its flame lashed out at the second man and hurled him staggering backward along the sidewalk. He died on his feet and fell.
Thorne pivoted about and hurried along the street. He stepped up into the buggy and took a seat in the rear.
“Did you recognize them,” the driver asked.
“Yes. Taggert and Hufsmith. Best we leave now.”
He began to reload his pistols as the buggy rolled along the street.
CHAPTER 14
Patrick’s mind raced as the horse pulled the buggy along the street paralleling the river. He had gotten himself into a situation that could cost him his life. He wanted to jump out and run, but he doubted he could escape the long legged Thorne. Or Thorne might just simply shoot him. After killing two men, why would he hesitate to kill Patrick?
As if reading Patrick’s mind, Thorne spoke, “I’ve no plans to hurt you, lad. In fact I’m in your debt. So just sit easy and enjoy the buggy ride.”
Patrick mostly believed the man. By warning Thorne he had set events in motion and would now have to play the game out to some unknown end. However he didn’t enjoy the ride during the quarter hour of steady travel before the driver reined the horse to a stop in front of a building poorly seen in the darkness. The smell of horse manure told Patrick it was a livery stable.
“Come with me,” Thorne said. He tapped Patrick on the shoulder as he stepped from the buggy.
Patrick climbed down and looked both ways along the dark street. . Again he thought of running and trying to escape. However he now felt a sense of adventure and a desire to see how this would all end.
“When will we go out again and earn some money?” the buggy driver asked.
“I’ll let you know. Go home to your new wife.”
