From Across the Ancient Waters
Page 5
The minister’s son realized he had best lie low for a while.
“Go upstairs to your room,” said the vicar after a moment. His voice had calmed but rang with no less authority.
Percy rose and went. To say that he obeyed would hardly be accurate. Mother and Father wondered if he had ever truly laid down his own will for the chosen purpose of doing what another commanded him. In the present case, however, the boy recognized the expediency to himself of departing his parents’ presence at the earliest possible opportunity. This he therefore did.
To be banished to his room at sixteen, like a child, was a profound humiliation. But young Percival Drummond, though he may have been a rebel, was no fool. He was enough of a realist to know that his room at home was better than any of Glasgow’s jail cells.
The parlor fell silent. Supper was by now long forgotten. Mrs. Drummond’s breathing occasionally caught on a lingering sob.
At length her husband turned from where he had been standing still as a statue. He walked slowly to the couch. He sat down beside his wife and placed an arm gently around her shoulders.
“What did we do wrong, Edward?” she said in a broken voice.
The vicar sighed deeply. How many times had they asked that question of themselves during the past year? “I don’t know, Mary,” he replied softly. “If it continues, I don’t see that I shall have any other option but to resign my vicarage.”
“Surely that cannot be God’s will.”
“Nor can it be His intent that the son of the parish minister is running through the streets of Glasgow as a common burglar. Sadly that seems exactly our situation.”
They remained silent a few minutes more.
“What would you think of our sending him to my sister?” said Drummond at length.
“In Wales—you mean … to stay?”
“I don’t know—perhaps for an extended visit. The country might do him good. School will be out in a few weeks. At the very least, we could try it for the summer. When fall comes, we can see what the situation is then. School is doing him no good anyway.”
“Do we really want to send him away from home, Edward? What if he doesn’t return? I don’t think my heart could take losing him at sixteen.”
“We have as good as lost him as it is,” rejoined her husband. “The city is trying its best to corrupt him. I fear for his soul if something is not done. The country has been known in some cases to exercise a therapeutic influence. Whether it can exorcise his spirit of foolishness and rebellion,” he added with another long sigh, “I do not know.”
His wife nodded. Her heart was breaking for her son. She was willing to consent to anything that might help. “He would never agree to it,” she said.
“I shall give him no alternative,” rejoined the father. “He is young enough that he is still dependent upon us for everything. I often wonder if he would have been better off had we been paupers. If his salvation requires it, I will cut him off without a farthing.”
“Knowing that he stands to inherit all we possess, he would bitterly resent it.”
“He is possessed with a spirit of resentment anyway. I doubt we can make it much worse. Character is the only inheritance worth giving. At present our son is in fearfully short supply. I would sooner give away my entire half of my father’s fortune than allow Percy to squander it to his own demise. Hopefully time will not make such extreme measures necessary.”
“I am in favor of anything that might help,” his wife replied. “What do you think your sister’s husband will say?”
The vicar smiled. “My brother-in-law is a man I can never predict,” he said. “Roderick might refuse our request. On the other hand, it would not surprise me if he took a liking to Percy. That Roderick makes no claim to being a man of religion and has always looked down on me for my profession, would give him and our son something in common. They might find themselves forming a friendship on the basis of their mutual antipathy toward me!” he added, chuckling at the thought. “In fact,” Drummond said, rising from the couch, “I like the idea so much, I think I will go up to my study and write Katherine straightaway.”
TEN
Evil Night
The night in Llanfryniog grew late.
Wispy elongated fingers eerily bisected a near full moon only recently risen above the silhouette of the mountains to the east. The ethereal thin horizontal clouds did not substantially reduce the light from its pale glow but did portend this night’s omens of sinister intent.
A powerful man, whose appearance might have indicated him one of the region’s slate miners but whose hands and mannerisms indicated other means of gaining his daily bread, had let the evening pass until an hour when respectable persons had taken to their beds. Leaving Madame Fleming’s, he now slunk through the deserted streets of the coastal Welsh village. The occasional lone bark of a dog was the only sound that divulged life.
He was careful that his steps were not heard. None saw him sneaking among the shadows of their abodes on his nefarious errand. It may have been unwise to talk so freely to the woman he had just left. But unless he was a poorer judge of character than he thought, she would not talk. If that changed, she could easily be bought off—or eliminated.
His own connection to the man he had come to Llanfryniog to find had come about years ago by one of those chance encounters destined to alter the course of life forever after. While most of the others in the Dolgellau pub that night dismissed the drunken man’s stories of pirate treasure with the laughter of their own whiskey-soaked brains, he had been sober enough for his ears to perk up.
For the next hour, he had listened attentively across the dingy tavern. An hour after that, he followed the man out and struck up what conversation was possible in his wobbly state.
It was enough to convince him that there existed more than a grain of truth to the man’s story.
He had carefully arranged to meet Drindod again … and again, professing friendship and standing him drinks—the surest way to an alcoholic’s heart. Gradually he learned more. He had not learned enough, however, to lay his hands on what the man claimed was the key to the location of the booty, a certain gold coin of exceedingly ancient date.
He had patiently waited all these years without success. He had tried every means of persuasion possible to loosen the old fool’s tongue. He had craftily spoken with every septuagenarian and what few octogenarians remained within fifty miles, carefully and without betraying his intent.
But years continued to pass.
One by one they went the way of all flesh. Whatever knowledge they possessed passed with them. Fewer and fewer remained from that fateful century when fortunes were made—and hidden.
He had finally discovered where the man was from. After Drindod’s retirement from the seafaring life, he had followed the old salt back to the home of his childhood.
Then came a day when he realized the time could be delayed no longer. If he did not act soon, it would be too late. He would be left with nothing. He did not intend to let this night pass without discovering more about the mysterious coin.
Pausing momentarily beside a wall of stone, the figure now hurried across a wide dirt street then along it another hundred yards. Though a conglomeration of cottages were scattered about inland, the buildings thinned northward along the shoreline beyond the harbor. With stealth he approached the seaward side of the street. Light from the moon was shielded by the low building in front of him.
The Fleming woman’s description matched the place exactly. He crept toward its corner, paused briefly, then moved around it and temporarily into the thin glow. He did not hesitate. He set hand to the door and quickly entered. No homes in this region possessed locks.
A sound of startled wakefulness from the occupant was brief. “What are … Who are you?” he said in the darkness.
“Shut up, old man,” growled a low voice at the bedside. It made no attempt to disguise itself.
“What are you doing here, Rup—”
The sleeping old man could hardly argue. Already his unwelcome visitor had rousted him from bed and was dragging him from the cottage in his bedclothes. The old man of eighty struggled feebly as he was pulled from his home. But the hand across his face prevented so much as a peep from escaping his lips.
Twenty minutes later, away from the village on a lonely expanse of shoreline and beyond the hearing of all save the waves, which never slept, at last assailant and hostage stopped.
The younger of the two released his prisoner and threw him rudely to the sand. “I’ve been patient all these years,” he said. “Now I want to know where it is.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” said the old man. He attempted to climb to his knees.
A rude kick sent him toppling over on his back. “You told me there was a coin.”
“A small thing, of no value.”
“You said it would lead to the rest.”
“I was drunk. I didn’t know what I was saying.”
“Maybe the whiskey loosened your tongue to tell the truth.”
Silence was his only answer.
“Where is it, Drindod! I want it … I want it all!” He bent to the sand and raised his hand to strike.
“I told you before. The old man was dead by the time I saw him.”
“Then how did you get the coin?”
“I never had it.”
“You said you saw it.”
“Only once. And just for a moment. I could never get my hands on it.”
“But you know who has it. Tell me and I may let you live!”
“She has it!” the old man burst out, at last divulging his secret of many decades. “She’s had it all along.”
“Who? Tell me!” cried the younger man. He grabbed Drindod with a huge fist and viciously yanked him to his feet and within six inches of his own leering face.
“Little … little Bryn,” whimpered the old man in terror. For the first time in three-quarters of a century he spoke the nickname of his childhood acquaintance of that fateful day.
“I’ve never heard that name! Who are you talking about?”
“I tell you, the girl has it. She would never give it to me. It was she who found the body. She was just a little girl.”
Enraged at what he took for another lie, the hysterical prodigal seaman clutched his prey by the throat. A loud whack sounded across the wrinkled cheeks. The blow sent the weak old man sprawling again to the ground.
A few more wrathful attempts to coerce the information from him gave way at length to the full force of the younger man’s fury. The struggle was brief. Soon all that could be heard was the rhythmic inflow of Tremadog’s waters.
Five minutes later a shadowy figure, alone now and unseen of human eye, scrambled across a few rocks and up onto the moor. It then hastened northward away from the village.
Behind him, on the very shore whose secret had possessed him in vain for seventy-six years, lay the form of him who now followed the salty old pirate to a place it might be hoped was better than this.
ELEVEN
Condemned to the Country
The first sensation to reach sixteen-year-old Percival Drummond’s ears the morning following his arrival in the Gwynedd foothills of North Wales was the sound of a bird chirping somewhere in a tree outside his window.
He and his father had reached his uncle’s home by coach after dark the night before. A round of tedious reintroductions to relatives he had not seen for five years had been punctuated by looks from his two cousins, Courtenay and Florilyn, that did not invite optimism about his prospects. Boring conversation followed on stiff chairs with tea altogether too strong for the occasion. Mercifully he had finally been allowed to retire for the night to his new quarters.
A prison cell would be a more apt description! Maybe he had been wrong—a Glasgow jail might have been better!
How would he possibly live through the summer in this country wasteland?
Perhaps after his father left, Percy thought, he could steal some money and make an escape. There might be some fun to be had out of this after all!
He turned over sleepily, stuffed his pillow over his head, and did his best to go back to sleep. But it was no use. The blasted bird was too close, too loud, too persistent. If he had a gun, he would shoot the infernal thing. If it insisted on waking him every morning, he would see about getting one! His uncle surely had a well-supplied gun cabinet somewhere about the place.
Reluctantly he climbed out of bed, dressed with the enthusiasm of one preparing for his own execution, and left the room. He descended to the main floor of the house. He heard voices coming from the breakfast room. The last thing he wanted was to see anyone.
The gnawing in his stomach, however, reminded him that such a thing as food existed and that sixteen-year-old boys consumed great quantities of it. He therefore walked along the wide corridor toward the sounds and entered. He found his aunt and uncle and father seated about the table.
“Ah Percival—good morning!” exclaimed his uncle.
“Hello, Uncle Roderick,” he replied with an imperceptible nod. He did not offer much of a smile to accompany it.
“Come, Percival,” said his aunt Katherine, beckoning him to one of the empty chairs. “The tea is just come.”
Percy approached and sat down. Somberly he took the plate offered by his aunt and helped himself to generous portions from the contents of several platters on the table.
“I see nothing to be gained by glossing over the affair,” said Edward Drummond as his sister poured tea into Percy’s cup. “I have been explaining to your uncle Roderick and your aunt Katherine exactly the nature of, shall we say, our problem with the authorities in Glasgow. Should you think to dupe them, Percy, rest assured that I have urged watchfulness. There are no false pretenses about your presence here. They know what you have done and exactly why I have requested that they take you in for the summer.”
Percy busied himself with breakfast. He saw no advantage in making a reply. His father’s words rankled, but an argument now would not help his cause.
“Don’t worry about a thing, Edward,” put in Westbrooke with blustery confidence. “We shall have an amiable time of it. Although I dare say the country life may be more dangerous than you bargained for,” he added, laughing.
“How do you mean?” asked the vicar.
“Tilman Heygate, my factor, came to the house early this morning to tell me that the body of an old man was found on the shore a mile south of the harbor just after daylight by one of the village fishermen.”
“Who, Roderick?” asked Mrs. Westbrooke in alarm.
“Old Sean Drindod.”
“The poor man!” she exclaimed as her hand came to her mouth.
“Drowned?” asked the vicar.
“No, actually. That’s the curious part,” answered Westbrooke seriously. “Seems his neck was broken.”
“What happened?” asked his brother-in-law.
“No one knows. There appears no sign he’d fallen among the rocks. I’ll ride into town later this morning and speak with the magistrate. At the moment it appears he was murdered.”
His wife gasped as her face went white. Silence fell around the table.
Lord Snowdon quickly resumed his zestful spirits. “I assure you such occurrences are most out of the ordinary.” He laughed, though his wife’s face remained pale. “As I said, Percival will be most welcome. We shall make a man of the young Scotsman! Once he has a taste of the country life, you may never get him back to Glasgow.”
“Thank you, Roderick,” replied the vicar. “You cannot know how much this means to Mary and me.”
“It is the least we can do for your brother, is it not, Katherine?” replied the viscount. He glanced briefly across the table to his wife. “If the lad proves troublesome,” he said, throwing Percy a qui
ck wink and grin, “I shall hire him out to one of my tenants to help with the sheep shearing or send him to sea on one of the fishermen’s boats. Eh, Percival, my boy? Hard work and country air—that’s what’s wanted. We shall provide both in good measure.”
Lord Snowdon’s words rang a little hollow in his wife’s ears, seeing as how he had never taken the slightest interest in making a man, as he put it, of his own son, who would sooner have jumped over the moon than soiled his hands in the matted wool of a dirty sheep. But the moment her brother’s letter had arrived from Glasgow with its request, the viscount had perceived his opportunity to reestablish himself in his wife’s good graces. Well knowing her family’s notions of spirituality and Katherine’s fondness for her older brother, Westbrooke determined to assist her side of the family in the matter of their wayward son. Secretly he hoped for the result of his wife’s loosening up her purse strings. Toward that end he would make himself everything an aristocratic country uncle should be to a Glasgow-bred youth. Thus he would win favor with the brother-in-law and his wife.
Whether eighteen-year-old Courtenay would greet the presence of his city cousin with equal jubilation was doubtful. He had behaved himself last night. Yet from the moment Percy’s eyes met those of Courtenay Westbrooke, his elder by a year and a half, it was clear that a contest for supremacy was inevitable. Courtenay’s fifteen-year-old sister, Florilyn, was every bit the equal of either boy in feisty self-centeredness. But she would gain her ends by wile rather than bluff. She possessed the face and physique of an eighteen-year-old, with cunning and coquetry in equal measure. She was already turning more heads among local old youths than either of her parents had any idea and had bewitched several to attempt foolhardy exploits to gain her notice.
That both young Westbrookes were as spoiled as money could make them was as much a grief to their mother as it was object of humorous jocularity to their father. The viscount was not a man for whom character was life’s highest ambition, either for himself or his offspring. Even now, with the evidence before his eyes every day, he yet remained oblivious to the danger he continued to perpetuate by pampering his son and daughter in their self-indulgence. Westbrooke was of the school that taught a man to get what he could and watch out for number one. His foresight, therefore, was not altogether perceptive in the matter of what he might be passing down unto the third and fourth generations of his progeny.