Beckett hadn’t observed the child covertly eyeing the carafe and swallowing thirstily. Like most gentlemen of his class, he noticed his expensive furniture, and was much more concerned with its welfare, than he ever noticed his slaves and house servants.
Faced with the actual labor of opening boxes and unpacking his most treasured books to add them to the built-in shelves in the office, the short, slightly built EITC official silently cursed the wretched climate of his new assignment. Angrily, he yanked off his silk neckcloth, then his powdered wig with its sausage-shaped side curls.
Only then, clad in just his fine lawn shirt and elegant knee britches, his short-cropped dark head uncovered, did Beckett feel capable of the exertion of prying open the wooden carton, taking out the packing straw, then beginning to remove the books themselves, dusting the leather covers and gilt edges before he placed each book on the shelves.
Next door, in the library, he could hear the bustle and low-voiced murmur as his housekeeper, Mistress Goodwright, supervised the household staff as they unpacked the majority of his book collection. Beckett decided he’d better check on their progress.
Opening the door, he went into the library, and, as he’d expected, found his comfortably plump, widowed housekeeper busily at work, dusting each volume the male house slave handed her, then handing it up to another house slave, who stood on the ladder to place the book on a high shelf.
“Oh, Mr. Beckett,” she said, apprehensively, “did you need something?”
Without replying, Beckett walked over to the large central table, and scanned the organizational diagrams he’d drawn up for the arrangement of the library. Then he motioned the slave down from the ladder, and climbed it himself, chart in hand. After surveying the books for a moment, he swiped a finger across the top of one of the volumes, and turned to the housekeeper, pointedly holding up his finger to show the faint smudge. “A bit more care in the dusting, please, Mistress Goodwright.”
She gulped, and nodded. “Of course, Mr. Beckett. I shall be more careful, sir.”
Beckett began descending the ladder, then stopped, as a volume caught his eye on an already filled shelf. “This is misplaced,” he said, to no one in particular. “It belongs in my office.”
Mistress Goodwright nodded. “Yes, Mr. Beckett.”
Carrying the book, Beckett climbed back down the ladder, and returned to his office.
The office was a large, high-ceilinged room, whitewashed, with tan matting on the floor in lieu of carpeting. Beckett had many beautiful Oriental carpets, but he’d been advised not to place them on his floors. Africa had too many hungry insects, and the carpets were works of art. He couldn’t risk their becoming infested. So his treasured carpets, swathed in various protective layers, had perforce to remain in storage.
At least he had his desk and furniture. The desk, too, was a treasure he’d picked up while working for the East India Trade Company office in Bristol. He’d seen it unloaded from an EITC ship, special ordered for a wealthy merchant. He’d managed to convince the man to sell it to him instead, and had paid him a fair price for it. It had accompanied him to all his assignments since that time. It was made of ebony, with inlays of ivory and mother of pearl. The Oriental influence was clear, but the desk was not lacquered black—the ebony was its natural color, beautifully polished.
Cutler Beckett had been working for the East India Trading Company for almost a decade, starting at the age of eighteen. He’d begun his employment as a lowly assistant manager of shipping, and worked his way up to his present powerful—and well-paid—position. He was in charge of all EITC shipping on the West Coast of Africa…hence his being posted to the Calabar office, which was centrally located on the African Coast, on the lower part of the “bulge” of West Africa. On maps it was labeled the Bight of Benin.
Beckett was in charge of overseeing the sales inventory carried by hundreds of EITC vessels. And Calabar was rapidly becoming the main port for the most valuable African EITC cargo…which, of course, was slaves. The Bight of Benin was popularly known as “the slave coast.”
Until very recently, the Portuguese had dominated the slave trade. But lately, England had begun to challenge them for the top spot. Beckett was determined to do his part to line the EITC coffers, and since the EITC top bureaucracy was composed of Englishmen, he was pleased that he could help not only his employer, but also his country.
He would also, he felt certain, be able to help himself. Over the years, Beckett had become expert at ferreting out the desires and secrets of wealthy, important men (and occasionally, women) and making himself very useful to them. He provided needed goods and services, and he knew how to keep his mouth shut. Immune to most human vices, he lived a life dedicated to the collection of wealth and power. Accumulating those things in sufficient quantities would, he knew, ensure that he eventually achieved his most cherished ambition—a title.
Cutler Beckett had dreamed of becoming a peer since he was a youngster. At first he’d longed for it because he wanted his father to smile at him, to approve of him—a goal he’d never achieved. As he’d matured, he’d come to realize that no matter what he did, his father and his brothers were never going to like him, or care about him. Basically, they despised him because he was small, tended to be sickly, and liked to read, rather than pursue “manly” pastimes such as riding to hounds or frequenting the gambling hells or bawdy houses. He’d never be able to gain their liking, much less their love. Not that he wanted it! He despised them as much as they despised him. But if he had a title, by all that was holy, they’d respect him. Yes, and fear him too.
Not that his father had actively abused him, or beaten him. No. He’d done his duty by his unprepossessing youngest son, though he’d never understood why young Cutler wanted to read, to learn. When Cutler had, at the age of seven, asked to join the sons of the local aristocrats at their Latin lessons, conducted by an Oxford scholar who had been hired to tutor several of them, Beckett’s father had bemusedly agreed. He’d even put the tutor, an older man named Angus MacFarlin, on stipend, and built a small schoolhouse on the grounds of his estate.
Cutler Beckett’s gaze sharpened as he gazed down at the book he’d rescued from the library. It was one of his oldest, a gift from his tutor, the now long-dead MacFarlin. His mouth curved upward slightly as he remembered his old schoolmaster. The best gift anyone ever gave me…
Standing in his new African office, damp and sticky despite the spinning of the fan, memories surfaced as Beckett gazed down at the volume in his hand. For years it had been his most treasured possession. My Lyfe Amonge the Pyrates, by Capt. J. Ward. He’d read it many times, enthralled by the tales of adventure, bravery, and treasure. He recalled the day Mac-Farlin had given it to him…
Schoolmaster Angus MacFarlin finished writing the following day’s lesson on the chalkboard, and then turned back to his three restless, titled students, who were groaning openly at all the pages of Virgil he’d assigned them to read. Only Cutler Beckett, not quite eight years old, and small for his age, didn’t complain, but smiled. He’d been enjoying reading the Aeneid.
“Very well, young masters,” MacFarlin said. “Class is dismissed for today. Do not forget to complete your reading assignment for tomorrow. Each of you will be required to read aloud, and then translate a passage for the edification of your fellow students. Now, be off with you.” His Scottish burr was faint, but still detectable.
Cutler kept his head bent over his book as the sound of trampling feet and young laughter ensued. The door to the schoolyard slammed, and silence fell. Even then, he did not move. Angus MacFarlin eyed him for a moment. “Are you all right, young Master Beckett?”
“Yes, schoolmaster,” Cutler said. “I would just like to finish reading this chapter you assigned, please.”
“Of course, laddie. ’Tis a pleasure to have a student who loves his book.”
Cutler Beckett left his book open, resting his chin on his hands as if he were reading, but he wasn’t. He’d
finished the chapter last night. Instead, he let his thoughts roam free, daydreaming about how someday he’d acquire a title. If I could become Sir Cutler Beckett, he thought, my father would be impressed. He’d be so pleased. He’d smile at me, instead of always frowning…
Since the time of Cutler Beckett’s grandfather, the Beckett family had been merchants, buying and selling goods from around the world. Old Raleigh Beckett had begun his rise to wealth as a cabin boy on a trading vessel. By the time he died, he’d acquired a fleet of ships, and sired three strong sons to inherit and expand the business. Beckett’s father, Jonathan Beckett, had, in turn, sired three sons of his own. His eldest, Jonathan Jr., was his father’s right-hand assistant. His second son, Bartholomew, served as Director of Shipping for the Beckett Trading Company. These days, the Beckett company, while no threat to the EITC in wealth and power, was one of the top five shipping companies in England.
The Beckett family was very wealthy—they owned a town house in London, a huge estate—Springhaven, in Somersetshire—their own private yacht, plus many tenant farms, mills, mines, and other properties scattered over southern England and into nearby Wales. Ironically, the Becketts were far wealthier than most noble families. The one thing no Beckett had ever managed to acquire, and it wasn’t for lack of trying, was a title.
I’ll do something notable, Cutler Beckett thought, gazing unseeingly at the Aeneid in the small schoolroom. Perhaps I’ll grow tall, and become a soldier. I’ll be an officer…a general! Or maybe an admiral. Admiral Sir Cutler Beckett. If I could do that, my father would be proud of me. He’d make my brothers stop saying he should have drowned me when I was born, the way you’d drown a runt pup.…
Cutler’s elder brothers had been in their teens when he was born…a small, sickly baby that no one expected to survive. Young Cutler had surprised them all by living—and by being different. From his earliest years, he’d been fascinated by books and learning. Instead of struggling to master enough mathematics to handle accounting, and enough reading and writing to be able to write confidential business letters in a clear hand, as his older brothers had done, the youngest Beckett soon evidenced significant aptitude as a scholar. Only his sister, Jane, five years his senior, shared his love of books, and reading—though of course, being female, she hadn’t been taught the other subjects that fascinated her little brother: history, geography, and studies of the classics written in their original Greek and Latin. Proper young ladies learned French and Italian, as well as embroidery, deportment, music, and drawing.
Young Cutler only came out of his reverie when his stomach rumbled loudly. Surely enough time had passed! Glancing up at the front of the schoolroom, he saw that MacFarlin was gone. He hadn’t heard him leave.
The boy began gathering up his schoolbooks and slate, moving slowly and deliberately. He wished he could eat his lunch here, at his desk, while he read the next few pages of the Aeneid. As the boy walked toward the door, he brightened, remembering that his father had agreed that he should begin private Greek lessons with Master MacFarlin, and that they would be starting today, in two hours. Cutler was eager to read about the adventures of Hector and Achilles in the original Greek.
The boy paused in the doorway. His gaze moved left, then right, while he counted slowly to fifty. The brick-fenced school yard was deserted. Over the top of the fence, he could see the older, mellowed brick of his mother’s herb garden wall. All was quiet, serene, peaceful. It was late spring, and the warm sun, after a typical wet and chilly southern English winter, felt wonderful.
Reassured, Cutler Beckett stepped through the doorway and went down the three steps, hugging his books and slate against his thin chest. He wandered down the path, his mind’s eye filled with images of waves of Greek warriors attacking the walls of Troy.
He never saw them coming.
The first indication that his fellow students had lain in wait for him came when a hard blow smashed into his back, and a voice screamed that hated nickname into his ear. “Cuttlefish! Cuttlefish, where were you? Did you think you were too good to play with us? Come on, cuttlefish! Let’s play!”
Young Beckett fell forward onto the path, landing hard. He tried to get up, but another assailant—he thought it was Lord Wolsey’s son, ten-year-old Richmond—was holding him down. All he could see was the boy’s buckled shoes and stockings. He figured it had been the biggest of them, twelve-year-old Jeremiah, son of Sir Thomas Grahame, who had knocked him down. The third boy, also ten years old, was the young Lord Marcus Pangborne, he of the red hair, freckles, and foul mouth. Cutler could hear him, shouting curses and urging the others on.
“Hit him again! He’s a bloody cuttlefish! Damn you, you stinking, slimy cuttlefish!”
A blow slammed into his left ear, making his head ring. Dazed, Cutler tried to curl up into a defensive ball, but they were all holding him now. A brutal hand grabbed his hair, yanked his head back, and a fist smashed against his cheek.
“Teacher’s pet! Makes us all look bad!”
Cutler knew he should fight back, should, at the very least, scream for help. Master MacFarlin might still be within earshot. But something strange seemed to have happened to him. He couldn’t make himself move or react. He couldn’t even blink. It was as though he’d gone somewhere else, outside himself, somewhere unconnected with his own body, which was now lying bloody and motionless on the path. Somewhere inside young Beckett’s mind, he was screaming and terrified, but that part of him seemed distant and unreachable.
Surprised and unnerved by his victim’s lack of reaction, Lord Marcus hesitated, the foot that he’d raised to kick Cutler suspended in midair.
“Stop that! What are ye imps of Satan doing?”
The hands that had been holding him down released him abruptly as Master Richmond and Master Jeremiah jumped up. Schoolmaster MacFarlin raced around the side of the schoolhouse from the direction of the privy, a lunch pail dropping forgotten from his hand. His Scottish burr was at full force in his agitation. The boys scattered, racing away, as the tutor flung himself down beside Cutler. “What have they done to ye, lad?” he said, gently touching the boy’s bleeding cheek.
Cutler Beckett finally blinked, and the world came back into focus. He was back in his body, and he hurt. Tears started from his eyes, but he would not allow himself to sob. Instead he slowly sat up, bruised and stiff, and allowed the tutor to tend to him, fussing over his injuries.
Carefully, MacFarlin helped the boy to rise, then escorted him into his little office, the only other room in the small schoolhouse building. There he poured water from a ewer into a bowl and cleaned the blood from Cutler’s face. After making sure the injuries weren’t serious, he smeared an evil-smelling salve on the scrapes. Then, taking out a brush, he began whisking the dirt from the lad’s clothes, though nothing could be done to salvage his torn knee stockings. All the while he carried on a soothing monologue, assuring young Cutler that he’d soon be “right as rain.”
“’Tis a brave lad ye are, that’s for certain,” MacFarlin said, his burr still greatly in evidence. “I’ll have a word with your parents myself, I will.”
“No!” Cutler blurted. He grabbed MacFarlin’s arm, holding it tightly. “Please, schoolmaster. Don’t tell my parents. Please.”
“But, whyever not, laddie? You did nothing wrong!” MacFarlin was plainly astonished by his pupil’s vehemence.
“Please, you can’t tell them,” Beckett pleaded. “My mother…she’s not strong. If she heard that I’d been hurt, she might have one of her spells. I don’t want to make her worse.”
“Oh, I see.” MacFarlin thought for a moment. “I can talk to your father, then.”
“No!” Cutler didn’t realize he’d shouted until the schoolmaster flinched back. “Please, schoolmaster, it’s…very important.”
“Verra well, I won’t mention that ye were attacked, laddie,” MacFarlin said. “But from now on, it’ll be only private tutoring lessons for you, Cutler my lad. There’s no need on God’s
green earth for you to have to put up with attacks from great brutish lads like that.” He leaned back and inspected Cutler’s face intently with his faded brown eyes. “Why didn’t you defend yourself, laddie? I swear, when I first ran toward you, I feared I had been too late, and they had done for ye. You were lying there, still as a statue.”
Cutler shook his head, then wished he hadn’t, when it throbbed. “I don’t know, schoolmaster. I just seemed to…go away.”
“Aye, well. ’Tis a good thing I had some reading to do, and brought my dinner with me today. ’Tis a pity they’re all scions of noble blood, or I’d speak to their fathers, too, and demand a good thrashing for all of them. Attacking a lad years younger than themselves! Only bullies and cowards behave in such a manner.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now…do ye think ye’ll be all right to go on to Springhaven and have your lunch? I’ll have a word with Miss Perkins about what has happened. I’ll leave a note for your father about the private lessons. I canna promise to lie, ye ken, but unless he asks me direct, I’ll not tell him.”
“Thank you, schoolmaster,” Cutler Beckett whispered.
MacFarlin held the boy’s gaze with his own, clearly troubled. “Laddie, are ye sure about this? Don’t ye think your father would want to know what happened today?”
Cutler nodded. “I’m sure, schoolmaster.” He took a breath. “My dad and my brothers…they don’t like me. At all.” He gulped again. “He’d be very angry that I didn’t fight back.”
Pirates of the Caribbean: The Price of Freedom Page 12
