The Traitors' Gate

by Avi

  From what I could see, she was dressed in a gray sleeping gown, with a profusion of white lace and a high collar round her many-layered neck. Her head was crowned by an ill-fitting sleeping bonnet, which allowed thick strands of gingery hair—not unlike my father’s in color—to hang about her face like slack snakes. Her hands—assuming she had them—were beneath the sea green blankets.

  As she lay there, I was reminded of a landed whale depicted in the Illustrated London News: immense and helpless.

  Standing to one side of the bed was a servant woman, dressed very much like the woman I had seen below. In one hand she held a little brown bottle.

  The butler guided me to the foot of the bed, where I stood, my hands clutching each other, overwhelmed by the sight of this prostrate figure.

  The woman on the bed—who I assumed was my father’s greataunt Euphemia Huffam—shifted her head slightly that she might scrutinize me. Her eyes, sunk within her bulging face, were cold blue and glared at me with an icy severity.

  “My Lady Euphemia,” the butler announced in a whisper, “may I present Master John Horatio Huffam.”

  Some long moments passed while the woman—breathing deeply, all but wheezing—appraised me. Slowly, she withdrew a hand—flipperlike—from under the blankets. It was a very fat hand with many a jeweled finger, the jewels throwing sparkling light about the otherwise dull room.

  Ponderously, she reached toward the servant woman. The servant, in response, handed her the bottle she was holding. My great-great-aunt put the bottle to each nostril in turn, inhaled, and shuddered—twice. I could have sworn the blankets—like the surface of the sea—trembled at the disturbance.

  She returned the bottle, settled herself, and only then spoke. “Boy,” she said in a voice that startled me—for it was deep and breathy, as if echoing from deep within. “Boy, are you diseased to any degree?”

  Hardly able to find my own voice, I answered, “No, my lady.”

  “Touched by dyscrasia, dysentery, or dyspepsia?”

  “No, my lady.”

  “Are you prone to any disease?”

  “No, my lady.”

  “I’m prone to the ‘dys,’” she said. “And the medical men find more of them each passing day.”

  “I wish you better health, my lady.”

  “I should hope you do. I suffer much. And constantly. Far more than most. My doctors inform me that in all probability I shall, at some point, die”

  “I’m sure I should be very much grieved to hear it.”

  “I appreciate your sympathy. There is so little compassion in the modern age. Generally, I must buy it.” The thought seemed to remind her. She turned toward the butler. “You may go, William,” she said.

  “Yes, madam,” said the man. He withdrew in silence.

  Aunt Euphemia focused her deep, cold eyes on me. “I have been reliably informed,” she said at last, her voice all but rumbling, “that you are the son of Wesley Huffam. Are you his youngest son?”

  “His only son, my lady.”

  “Then you must be the last Huffam.”

  “I have a sister.”

  “She does not signify. You are the last male Huffam, the bearer of the name.”

  “I suppose I am,” I murmured.

  The room was filled with the sound of her heavy breathing.

  “You look very much like a Huffam. Repeat your name.”

  “John. John Horatio Huffam.”

  “Named after my brother. Your father’s great-uncle. Christened, I presume, to insinuate you into my good graces.”

  “I don’t know that, my lady.”

  “I do,” she said, breathing noisily and staring at me with what I took to be such disgust that it was all I could do not to bolt from her presence. “Your father,” she intoned, “is singularly improvident.”

  Not knowing the word—save that it sounded like an insult—I said nothing.

  “A wastrel,” she chose to inform me. “A spendthrift. A squanderer. In short, a knave.” Her face quivered with such indignation, my cheeks burned.

  I hung my head.

  “Your shame speaks well of you,” she said.

  “Yes, my lady,” I returned, hardly knowing what else to say.

  “Was it he who sent you to me?”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “Why did he not come himself?”

  “He … he is … indisposed.”

  “Ill?” she cried in alarm. “With what disease?” The jeweled hand reached toward the servant.

  “Not … physically,” I hastened to say.

  “Ah! That’s to the good.” She returned her hand beneath the blankets. “Then I presume he’s indisposed with embarrassment!”

  “I can’t say, my lady.”

  “I have no doubt,” she went on, “he sent you because he desires something of me.”

  My mortification growing, I could only nod.

  “Now then, if your father sent you to me, he must be in exceedingly difficult straits. He knows I hold him in unrelentingly low esteem. Tell me what he wants.”

  I hardly knew where to begin.

  “Young man,” she prompted, “you would be wise to speak the truth about your father. And quickly, too. Since I am so often ill and likely to die at any moment, I’m compelled to speak only the truth. Now, tell me what has happened.”

  “My lady,” I began hesitantly. “My lady, my father is … in debt. If he does not pay what he owes, he will go to debtors’prison.”

  Her lips puckered as if she had just sucked upon a lemon. “I have no doubt he deserves to be there,” she said. “Where is he now?”

  “At the Halfmoon Inn. It’s a … sponging house.”

  “A Huffam … in a sponging house! When does he go to court?”

  “In two days’ time.”

  “I had been informed,” she said, “that he was employed and drawing … wages.” She uttered the last with distaste. “Is that correct?”

  “He works,” I said, “at the Naval Ordinance Office.”

  “To whom does he owe the money?”

  “A Mr. O’Doul.”

  “An Irishman?”

  I shrugged.

  “Who is he?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “So your father—in this acute difficulty—sends you to plead his case. How old are you?”

  “Fourteen.”

  “Are you employed?”

  I shook my head.

  “Do you go to school?”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “Where?”

  “Muldspoon’s Militantly Motivated Academy.”

  “It sounds as if your father should attend. And the rest of your family? Aside from your sister. Who might they be?”

  “My mother.”

  “Yet, it is you who have been sent to me.”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “Why?”

  “The … family … seems to think it best.”

  “Which is to say, you are the best of a sorry lot.”

  Though it was all I could do to keep from bursting into tears, I managed to whisper, “I don’t know that.”

  “I do.”

  I said nothing.

  “So far,” she pressed on, “we have avoided the most distasteful question of all.” She breathed deeply. “How much money does your father wish me to give him?”

  I lifted my head with effort. “My lady, he said to tell you it would only be a loan.”

  “A subterfuge. A trick. He will never repay it. Not in my life. Still, tell me, how much has he asked you to request?”

  Unable to speak, I was acutely aware that the only sound in the room was her labored breathing. Then came a slight noise at the door. As if someone was listening. The butler, I decided. The thought magnified my shame. Knowing I had to speak, I took a deep breath and replied, “Three hundred pounds.”

  “Three hundred!” Like a whale leaping from the sea—breaching—Lady Euphemia sat up and fairly lunged toward the servant woman, w
ho again handed her the bottle. She put the bottle to her nose, inhaled at each nostril, gave the bottle back, and then sank again beneath her ocean of blankets, visibly shuddering.

  “It is a joke,” she rasped between deep breaths. “A monstrous presumption. Master John, your father is a greater idiot than even I had imagined.”

  Though my eyes were brimming with tears, I made myself look at her. “He is … my father, my lady.”

  She stared at me. The eyes seemed to harden. “Do you love him?”

  Unable to speak, I nodded.

  “Your loyalty is commendable,” she said. “Your judgment is not.”

  I could not bear it any longer. “Please, my lady,” I whispered in a choked voice, “I must … excuse myself.”

  “Why?”

  “You are … insulting my father.”

  “But I have yet to give my answer.”

  “I … I think I know what it will be.”

  “Do you?”

  I nodded.

  “Never presume to know what I might think,” she declared in her rumbling voice. “Where will you go now?”

  “To the Naval Ordinance Office.”

  “Why?”

  “To say my father cannot report for work.”

  She stared at me. “Since you are a Huffam,” she rumbled, “the last of a noble breed, I wish you to return … tomorrow,” she said. For the first time she spoke to the servant woman. “Peggy, what time will my doctors be arriving?”

  “Doctor Fitzwillow at nine. Young Doctor Watson at ten. Doctor Ferguson at eleven.”

  “You shall come tomorrow at twelve thirty,” she said to me. “Promptly. Any later and I shall be exhausted. Of course, if, in the interval, you fall ill, do not return. And, if I should die before your return, do not expect one penny. Now go. I have an appointment with Mr. Nottingham, my solicitor. He is already waiting. Since I usually defer to his judgment, I shall consult with him as to what to do about you.” That said, she closed her eyes and seemed to sink even deeper into her bed.

  I didn’t know how to react, until the woman servant touched my shoulder. “This way,” she whispered into my ear, and led me—eyes foggy with welling tears—out of the room.

  Just outside the door there was, I thought, the same tall man I’d seen in the downstairs hall. Presuming it was Lady Euphemia’s solicitor, I hastily averted my clouded eyes—for I could not bear to have anyone look at me—and allowed myself to be guided to the head of the steps. I went down alone.

  The butler was waiting for me at the foot. Assuming it was he who had been listening at the door, I wondered how much he had heard. He said nothing, though he did lift his eyebrow as if to say, I told you so.

  When he finally closed the door behind me, I ran down the steps and round the corner of the court. There, leaning against a brick wall, I burst into tears.

  CHAPTER 12

  I Gaze Upon the Traitors’ Gate

  I required considerable time to recover from the misery and shame brought on by my visit to Lady Euphemia. It was not her great bulk that had so belittled me: It was her harsh words about Father. I hated them. Found them to be cruel. Was certain they were wrong. Yet (I could hear myself say), what if they were true? The possibility burned my heart. But then, can a son desire anything more than that his father be better than other people say?

  As I stood there, miserable, I chanced to look up. To my surprise, I saw blue sky and a clear sun, rare sights for late November in London. Not only did I take much pleasure in it, I wanted to believe it was an omen of good things to come. I reminded myself that, after all, Lady Euphemia had not said no. To the contrary: She had asked me to come back tomorrow. Perhaps I would then receive good tidings—and she would provide the money my father needed—so our calamity could be over. Oh, how I wanted to believe that!

  Bolstered in my spirits, I dried my eyes and took a deep breath. I had one more chore to accomplish—to report Father’s absence from his work. Certain it would not be nearly so painful a business as I had just survived, I started off.

  The Admiralty, where most of the naval affairs of our nation are conducted and where the First Lord of the Admiralty resides, is near the new Parliament building, in Whitehall. My father once took me there to show me the spot where England’s great hero, Lord Admiral Horatio Nelson, had lain in state. He had told me my middle name was to honor this man who sacrificed his life to defend us from the French, our old enemy.

  But Father, though he worked for the Admiralty, worked in the Naval Ordinance Office, a different place altogether. For, as my father once informed me with considerable pride, his office had secret business to conduct and it was thought best to give it a separate location. Just what secret business that might be, he never had divulged.

  On my way there I used Mr. Farquatt’s last penny to purchase a baked potato from a vendor with an oven cart. I ate it slowly, letting its warmth fill me with a makeshift sense of well-being. Then off I went—a long walk.

  My father’s place of work was to be found in Black Swan Court, close behind the Church of All Hallows, very near the Tower of London. In fact, as I drew close to my destination, I could not help but catch glimpses of the Tower itself.

  I knew some of its menacing history. Built by King William to overawe Londoners after he conquered England in 1066, the central Tower had ever since served as a royal castle. It filled many a purpose, but I knew it best, as did most Englishmen, as the spot where numerous highborn traitors or falsely accused subjects had been put in jail—passing through the Traitors’ Gate—to await beheading.

  Some claimed the place was haunted by a few of those poor souls, so that whenever I saw the Tower, I had the shivers. I sometimes thought my reaction explained why the Naval Ordinance Office was situated so close by. If, as my father told me, there were state secrets to be found there, a view of the forbidding Tower must give pause to would-be traitors or spies.

  Yet, since the office was also close to All Hallows Church, that proximity, I presumed, served as a reminder of all that religion called morally right. It was as if the choice between right and wrong—and their consequences—were both close to hand.

  Restless, yet not quite settled enough to go to my father’s office, I crossed the open space between the church and the Tower’s outer walls. I peered down. The moat had been drained for some time, the space currently being used for military exercises. None were going on.

  I continued downhill, passing the outer, middle tower, where people, for a few pennies, were allowed to enter the Tower precincts and walk about. Some years back there had been a fire within, and not all had been restored. Still, a few soldiers lived there, as well as the guards who protected the Crown jewels. A lone Beefeater, as the Tower’s red-coated guards are called, stood in position, musket in hand, before the entryway.

  From the wharf, which fronted the Tower complex, the smell of the river was quite foul. Any number of ships, mostly sailing ships but a few small steamers, were anchored or tethered here.

  Farther on, I found myself looking down upon the infamous Traitors’ Gate. I say “down” because it is an arched entryway to the Tower at water level, strongly gated so no one can enter. There was, however, another archway built through the wharf upon which I had stopped. This provided access to the gate, since the only way one could reach it was by water, and then only at high tide. But I did see a wooden ladder, which might allow one to go down from the wharf to water level, presumably to a small boat.

  It was all fascinating to me, bringing to mind the tales I knew of famous and infamous people who had passed in and out of the Traitors’ Gate. I would have stayed and let my imagination roam, but I reminded myself of my errand and went on.

  Besides, I thought, what had I to do with traitors?

  I was soon to learn.

  CHAPTER 13

  I Go to the Naval Ordinance Office

  The Naval Ordinance Office was a modest three-story stone building with little to distinguish it from the adja
cent structures—merely a small brass plaque next to its blue door.

  When I approached the building that morning, however, there was a difference. Standing next to the door, as if on guard, was a blue-coated constable. I immediately recognized him as one of those in attendance when we were removed from our home to the sponging house. He was, in fact, the very one who had informed me as to what a sponging house was.

  I hesitated. I was not so dull-witted as to believe his presence was happenstance—any more than were the sudden but regular appearances of the ragged girl with the large cap. That is to say, it was impossible for me not to consider that this constable was connected to my father’s affairs. But how? And why?

  Though I was determined to do my errand, I did so with a feeling of dread, wondering if, when the Peeler saw me, he would summon other police.

  I started for the door. Sure enough, the constable looked up, saw me, and called out, “’Ere there, lad!”

  I stopped on the instant, my stomach churning.

  “Fancy meetin’ you again so soon,” he said in a pleasant enough voice. “And where might you be goin’?”

  “To the naval office.”

  “And why might you be goin’ there?”

  “I have to deliver a message for my father.”

  “And ’e is …?”

  “Wesley Huffam.”

  “Ah, yes, ’im. I ’ad forgotten the name. And what kind of message might ’e ’ave asked you to bring ’ere?”

  I considered. While I thought the questions reasonable in themselves, I could not imagine why the constable might ask them at all.

  “It’s because my father works in the naval office. A clerk. As you know, he’s … he’s indisposed. He asked me to report his absence.”

  The policeman grinned. “I figure ’e is indisposed, ain’t ’e? But don’t you worry none, lad. I’m duty bound to keep yer secret—and ’is. But would you like to know why I’m ’ere?”

  “Yes, sir. If you’d be so kind.”

  “’Appy to oblige,” he said, touching his hat with a finger in an easy salute. “When a man is sent to a sponging ’ouse, the law says—ask Mr. Tuckum—’e’s expected to stay put. Knowing this ’ere is yer father’s place of employment, I was asked to make sure ’e didn’t come.”