Read The Unexpected Life of Oliver Cromwell Pitts Page 4


  Thus my dilemma: If I did not take the money, I might well be sent to the poorhouse. If I did take it and my theft was discovered, I might be hanged.

  The question was therefore stark: Should I, or should I not, take the shillings?

  CHAPTER TEN

  The Decision I Made and the Consequences That Followed.

  Because I feared being sent to the poorhouse, I took the money but not all—only twenty-three shillings. That amount, I decided, would allow me to stay in our house until my father’s return.

  Why not all? I guessed how much I would need to feed myself and would take no more than necessity required. Such was my sense of virtue.

  So resolved, it required considerable twisting and turning upon that narrow berth before I managed to gather all the coins. Contorting myself further, I managed to put what I was taking into my trouser pocket.

  I left the rest.

  What followed was the laborious process of getting out of the narrow berth. That too required strength and agility. Next, I climbed out of the ship’s hold onto the main deck. From there it was easy—one hand thrust into my pocket so as not to lose the taken shillings, to step off the ship and return to the beach.

  Excited by newfound security, anxious to get home, I set out with high vigor. Happily, the shore still appeared deserted. As it happened, it didn’t remain that way. As I moved closer to town, I saw someone coming along the sands, moving in my direction.

  Regrettably, it did not take long for me to realize that the person advancing was none other than Mr. Bartholomew, Melcombe Regis and Weymouth’s customs master. He was followed close on by a servant.

  Let it be said that out of all the people whom I might have met at such a time and place, the worst was Mr. Bartholomew, my father’s principal enemy and antagonist. Yet it must also be said, he was most logically there, for as customs master, he had the Crown’s responsibility to protect dead wrecks by making a government claim to The Rose in June.

  According to my father, Mr. Bartholomew had paid—as was common—a goodly price to get this post, but made a grasping-handed use of it. Father insisted that the customs master was no better than the smugglers he arrested and voiced this opinion publicly. You may be sure Mr. Bartholomew reacted with indignation to these accusations.

  Whether my father was right or not, if Mr. Bartholomew discovered that I—or anyone—had stolen anything from the wrecked ship—so much as a rusty nail—his considerable legal powers were such that he could arrest me without delay, fine me—pocketing the fine—and have me hanged. Thus, though I had gotten off the ship just in time, I had money in my pocket—taken from the ship—which put me in jeopardy.

  That was not all. You will recall that my father was in the habit of playing backgammon at the Golden Lion Inn, betting large sums. One of his principal opponents was this same Mr. Bartholomew. As I had been informed, they had played the night Father disappeared. Whereas my father won far more often than he lost, Mr. Bartholomew was in the habit of losing, which made him dislike my father with great intensity. To lose at games to someone you detest is a gross mortification. Father often said that a man should be known not by his friends but by his enemies. And I was about to meet his biggest enemy in the most compromising situation.

  Since it is quite common for young people to believe adults have almost uncanny powers, I feared Mr. Bartholomew would know what I had done. I therefore thrust a hand deep into the pocket where I had put the coins, in hopes he would think it was my hand that caused the lump.

  In short, if ever there was a moment for false smiles that was it. Do not act guilty, I told myself.

  Mr. Bartholomew was a large man with a rough and rosy face, with thick black eyebrows—swept up and oiled—so as to give him a look of animosity. Old-fashioned in appearance, he was wearing a shoulder-length white gooseberry wig and a large three-cornered hat, the blue brim turned up on three sides.

  He had on a blue waistcoat with silver buttons and lace trim, yellow breeches, and white stockings; over all, a dark cloak. His shoes were black, fastened by big silver buckles. In his right hand was an elegant walking stick capped with ivory. From his waistcoat hung a short sword, the kind called a hanger. As I hope to suggest, he was a man who liked to dress so as to proclaim his great self-esteem and office.

  His regular facial features were severe, ever ready to judge the world. When he recognized me, he stopped short and those features became infused with considerable anger. Even as he lifted his stick, suggesting he might strike me down, he lowered his eyebrows to increase his look of ferocity.

  His servant was a young man dressed like a Jack-a-dandy, that is, in an elegant uniform, with a haughty face that bore an imposing mustache—curled-up ends—such as I had rarely seen. It added to the look of contempt he bestowed on me.

  “Good morning, Master Pitts,” Mr. Bartholomew greeted me loudly, but speaking slowly, as if I was an underwit and he needed to pronounce something of importance. He even lowered his stick and leaned on it, so that he might stand a little taller. His bulk was such that the stick bowed.

  “Good morning, sir,” I said, with a bob of a bend while I struggled to keep a smiley face.

  “Have you been out to see the dead wreck?” he asked, his eyes charged with allegation.

  I saw no harm in admitting to seeing it, so I said, “Yes, sir, I’ve seen it.”

  “You did not get on her, I trust.”

  “Oh, no, sir,” I said. “I wouldn’t do that. I know better.”

  “Under the Wrecking Offences,” he nonetheless informed me, “merely entering a dead wreck without permission means twelve months in gaol. Should you carry off any goods, you would forfeit triple their value. Or,” he scowled, “be hanged. Let it be understood”—he lifted his stick and poked my chest, as if to skewer me—“it does not matter how young you are.”

  “Yes, sir. I know.” Impulsively, I pulled my hand from my pocket and held out two empty palms.

  “I have been informed,” said Mr. Bartholomew, “that the ship has already been looted.”

  “I wouldn’t know, sir,” I said, struggling to present myself as innocent as a minnow, all the while smiling in what I hoped was a guileless way. “I was only looking at her from the beach.” Even as I spoke it was not merely the shillings in my pocket that grew warm, but my face.

  The mustachioed servant snorted in contempt.

  As for Mr. Bartholomew, he continued to look at me with a condemnatory stare as if to catch me out. “I sincerely hope you are not given to telling lies—like your father.”

  “Sir?”

  “We were playing backgammon last night at the Golden Lion. In two words, your father is a liar and a cheat. I should add a third word: a cackling cheat.”

  “I don’t wish to think so, sir.”

  “When I left the tables,” continued Mr. Bartholomew, “I sent him a note telling him that I considered him a scoundrel and that I intend to bring legal charges against him.”

  I guessed that must have been one of the letters my father had been given.

  “But now,” Mr. Bartholomew went on, “I have been informed that the whereabouts of your father is unknown.”

  That Mr. Bartholomew was already aware that my father had disappeared meant that many people knew it. As the saying goes, “A small town has large eyes.”

  “I suspect,” suggested Mr. Bartholomew, “he fled out of shame and cowardice thereby acknowledging his crime.”

  “Sir,” I returned, “I believe my father is an honest man.”

  “Your face suggests that you may be honest,” replied Mr. Bartholomew. “But as it is oft said, ‘Like father, like son.’ As for his disappearance, would you prefer to think he met with some misfortune in the storm?”

  “Oh, no, sir! I believe he’ll return home very soon,” I said, only wishing it was so.

  “I sincerely hope your father has survived,” said the customs master. “Because as soon as I locate him I intend to drag him to the magistrate
at the guild hall and charge him with fraud. I shall not be happy until I see your father in prison.”

  “Will you really do that, sir?” I asked, trying to keep my smile though my distress increased.

  “I shall. I will enjoy exposing him as the scoundrel he is. Do you know the penalty for his crime?”

  “No, sir.”

  For the first time the servant spoke: “Transportation to the colonies. Hard labor for at least seven years.” It was as if he was reading the law for his master.

  Mr. Bartholomew said, “I am determined to remove your father from England. When he returns be so good as to tell him that.” Then, sarcastically quoting my father, he added, “ ‘The law is king.’ Now, step aside; I must go on to my official duties.”

  Mr. Bartholomew strode by me in the direction of the ship. His servant did not even deign to look at me.

  I watched them go. Was this not more distressing news? I had learned the content of one of those letters my father had received: He had been accused of cheating! Threatened with arrest! And transportation!

  I knew Father gambled and that he won far more often than he lost. In that regard, I kept in mind something he once told me: “When those who lose at life suffer defeat at cards or other games, they would rather accuse the winner of cheating than acknowledge their own weak play.”

  But what if Father was guilty and, under the threat of terrible punishment he had fled, as Mr. Bartholomew claimed?

  What came into my head was that it was urgent for me to find a way to warn Father that he should not come home. But how could I? I had no idea where in London he might be. Did not my father tell me that London was a “monstrous” city?

  No, I should not go there, but must remain home so that the moment he stepped through our door I could alert him to his danger.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Which Concerns a Letter I Could Not Read.

  I fled home. Once there the first thing I did was to pull the front door shut, so as not to be observed. Next, I cast about trying to decide where I could hide the money.

  As I searched, I noticed that piece of paper, the one that I had discovered under the lantern when I first awoke in the morning and came down the steps. It had been sodden wet and impossible to read but in the time I had been gone from the house it had dried.

  I picked it up and now saw it was in my father’s hand and that it was a letter to me. He must have come home the night before, found me asleep, written the missive, and left in haste. That said, at first glance the writing made no sense.

  I herewith present his note just as I saw it with XXXs where I could not understand the words because the writing was smeared during the storm.

  OlivXX,

  I XXXXXXXd X XXXXXX which informed me that Charity XX XXXXX XX be mXXXXXd!! This is XXXXXXXX XXXs. I intend to XXXX XX. I leave XXX XXXXXn immediately. I will XXXXX mXXXX for XXX with XX WXXXXX at the XXXXXX LXXX XXXXX X XXXX XXX XXXXX. You XXX apply XX XXX for such XXXXX as you XXXX.

  I shall XXXXXX when X XXX.

  Your XXXXXX,

  GXXXXXX PXXXX

  I cannot tell you how many times I reread the letter trying to gain some understanding, attempting to fill in the smudged parts with letters and words. I could make out some; OlivXX meant Oliver; GXXXXXX PXXXX meant Gabriel Pitts. But what did mXXXXXd mean as it pertained to Charity? Mistreated? Maligned? Murdered?

  Though it troubled me greatly, I could not fathom it.

  The most I could surmise was that my father had learned some dreadful news about Charity that required him to go immediately to London on her behalf. Nothing, as far as I could tell, about being accused of cheating, the charge that Mr. Bartholomew had leveled against him.

  As for what he meant by the sentence that contained the words “I intend to . . .” I had no idea.

  While it was extremely distressing to learn that Charity was in difficulty—“mXXXXXd!!”—it was a comfort to know Father had gone to her aid. I was even prepared to forgive him for not letting me know aforehand. In a sense his letter suggested he had informed me. In any case, I folded the letter and put it in my pocket, intending to untangle its message later.

  Since I had gained no knowledge as to when my father might return, there remained the question of what I should do. I was convinced that having money meant I would not be taken to the poorhouse. That said, I was equally sure I must not display my newfound wealth too quickly. People would wonder how I got it, the more so if Mrs. Grady repeated what I had said, that I had no money.

  Thinking that way, it was not hard to decide where to put the shillings: in my father’s money-box. I dragged the box out from under the bed, and deposited the coins there.

  No sooner did I do that than I worried in my state of disquiet that if anyone searched for my money—which in my current circumstances, I considered possible—I would need a safer place. Besides, the money-box padlock was gone.

  After considerable shilly-shallying, I chose the hearth as a hiding place, knowing that with our chimney gone, there would be no fires lit there. It seemed, moreover, an unlikely place for anyone to look.

  I retrieved the shillings from the money-box, located a flint box, lit a candle, and stepped inside the hearth. Since I was much smaller than the hearth, I was able to stand inside the flue.

  Holding the candle up, I studied the stones by which the flue had been constructed a long time ago. At a higher level than my head, I discovered where a stone had fallen out, leaving a niche, like a shelf.

  I placed the candle on the ground, so as to have some light, and put the money in my pocket. It proved a simple matter for me to climb up the flue—using the jagged interior stones as steps—and perch myself on high. Then I stacked the coins in the niche. Having done that, and emerging from the fireplace, I had a sense of relief and safety.

  I was also exhausted. Since breakfasting at the Golden Lion Inn, I had eaten nothing. When I returned to the larder there was that bread, but it was in no better condition. I tried the cheese, and while barely eatable, I consumed it anyway. I was too tired to go out and purchase food.

  Instead, I wandered through the house, trying to find a place I might rest. The driest spot was my sister’s room and bed. I flopped down and lay there, letter in hand, trying to make sense of “mXXXXXd.” Had Charity been misunderstood, muddled, misplaced? At some point I fell asleep and slept through the night and did not waken till morning when I heard a pounding on the front door.

  Stuffing my father’s letter into my pocket, I hurried down and opened the door. Two men were standing there, Mr. Ebenezer Bicklet and Mr. Jeremiah Turnsall. Mr. Bicklet was a churchwarden. Mr. Turnsall was the town’s overseer of the poor.

  Which is to say, I was being visited by the two men in charge of Melcombe’s children’s poorhouse.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  In Which I Experience the Kindness of Adults Toward Children.

  Mr. Bicklet was a churchwarden connected to Christchurch, the primary Church of England institution in Melcombe. He was a rather small, dainty man, his movements forever rapid and jerky, like a blackbird that constantly shifts his head to make sure he sees and hears all. Mr. Bicklet’s small hands seemed to flutter, wing-like. He did not stride so much as he took small, delicate, almost hopping steps. Even his pointy nose was beak-like, forever pecking into things and people.

  My father, being a Nonconformist in matters of faith—among many other things—disputed religion with Mr. Bicklet, and did so loudly, hotly, and publicly. The truth is he liked to mock the man.

  As for Mr. Turnsall, though equally short, he was thick and puffy, with sagging cheeks, rather thick lips, and bulging eyes. His short brown wig was like a cork on a jug, being too small for his globose head. His bulksome hands dangled from the sleeves of his too small jacket. With knees like lumpy potatoes and ankles like turnips, he put in mind too many knobby vegetables stuffed into a small sack.

  What is more, my father had brought Mr. Turnsall to court, claiming he had made excessive pr
ofits from his role as overseer of Melcombe’s children’s poorhouse.

  My encounter with Mr. Bartholomew on the beach made it clear that the town knew my father was gone and that I had been left alone. I had the kindly, if gossipy Mrs. Grady to thank for that, though ’twas my fault to have spoken.

  In other words, the two men at my door were among my father’s many foes, and they had come, I was sure, to do me mischief. I felt, as I had not before, the reason Charity wanted to leave home.

  Mr. Bicklet spoke first. “Good morning, Master Pitts, is your father at home?”

  Sure he knew the answer, I put on my cheerful, smiley face so as to suggest all was well and said, “No, sir.”

  “Will he be back soon?” asked Mr. Turnsall.

  “I expect him, yes, sir,” said I. This was not entirely a lie, since I did not say when I expected him back. At some point surely my father would return. I just did not know when.

  “Would you be kind enough to allow us to enter and wait for him?” said Mr. Bicklet.

  Groping for a way to deal with the situation, I said, “Please, sirs, I would invite you in, but I fear the house is in a great disorder because of the recent storm. Even our chimney has tumbled.”

  “Many a house has been affected,” said Mr. Turnsall. “It’s sad how much has been destroyed.” He didn’t sound sad.

  “Consider it the judgment of the Lord,” said Mr. Bicklet. “Therefore, you may be sure that your home will not be an embarrassment to us since we are charitable men. So, may we come in and wait for your father’s return?”

  It is hard for a boy to resist two grown men; men, moreover, of considerable authority. Not knowing how to keep them out, I stepped aside.

  When they entered the house Mr. Turnsall stood and stared at the general chaos, while Mr. Bicklet hopped about prying into every little thing, his fingers lifting, shifting, and examining all that lay about. I will admit, seeing the house with their eyes, so to speak, it was very messy.