“It’s bad, isn’t it?” I said, gesturing to the chairs. “Even these are muddy.” I spoke in hopes they would not sit down and thereby shorten their stay.
The two men remained silent, frowning, looking about, as if taking inventory—or making a judgment.
Mr. Bicklet pointed to my father’s room. “Is that your father’s cabinet?”
“Yes, sir, it is,” I said, only then realizing I’d left the money-box open on the desk. Without my permission, the churchwarden took quick steps into the room and gazed about. I even saw him peer into the money-box. At the same moment, Mr. Turnsall ascended the stairs.
I placed myself near the hearth to protect the hidden money.
The two men returned to the front room. It was Mr. Turnsall, coming down from above, who said, “This house is not habitable.” He did not say this to me, but to Mr. Bicklet.
“I presume,” Mr. Bicklet said to me, “your father has seen the condition of the house.”
I thought it best to say nothing.
“Do you have food?” asked Mr. Turnsall.
“Yes, sir,” I said, but chose not to speak of the food’s condition.
Mr. Bicklet was too quick for me. “Please show it to us,” he said.
I pointed to the box larder across the room.
Mr. Turnsall lifted the lid, stared down, sniffed, frowned, and announced, “It’s unfit for consumption.”
To me, Mr. Bicklet said, “How will you purchase food?”
Trying to dodge his question, I said, “Please, sirs, I have money.”
Mr. Turnsall said, “I heard otherwise.”
To which Mr. Bicklet added, “I suppose that was your father’s money-box in his room. It was bare. Please show us the money you have.”
As you, my reader, know, I did have money. You also know how I got it and where I put it, or rather hid it. In an instant, I realized that if I retrieved the money, these men would most likely ask why the shillings were up the chimney. It would have been hard to explain. On the other hand, if I showed them nothing, they would more than likely drag me off to the poorhouse as a penniless and abandoned child.
I thought of a further problem. If I revealed the money to them and they, with their adult authority, took it, I would have no means of surviving until my father returned.
I don’t know how long it took for these thoughts to pass through my head, but an impatient Mr. Turnsall said, “Can you show us the money?”
Forced into a decision, I said, “No, sir,” at which point the two men exchanged a meaningful look.
I am of the belief that when two adults exchange a meaningful look in the presence of a child, there is little doubt that the adults will have nothing pleasing to say to that child.
“Very well, young man,” pronounced Mr. Bicklet. “It has come to our attention that your father, Mr. Pitts, took the coach for London just before the storm.”
“Did you know that?” Mr. Turnsall asked me bluntly.
“Oh yes, sir,” I said, offering my best smile, so as to suggest it was of little importance.
“Do you know why he went?”
My father’s smudged letter seemed to positively crackle in my pocket. Since I had no intention of telling the two men that my sister might be in some kind of trouble, or that Mr. Bartholomew was about to file a complaint against my father, I remained mum.
“Since your father has gone to London,” continued Mr. Turnsall, “it is more than likely that he will be gone for at least ten days, probably more.”
“Moreover,” added Mr. Bicklet, “this house is not livable.”
“And you have no food.”
“Or money.”
“Now then,” said Mr. Turnsall, “how old are you?”
“Twelve, sir.”
Mr. Bicklet cocked his head in my direction and considered me with his bird-like eyes. “I think,” he pronounced, “you are much younger.”
“Truly, sir,” I protested. “I am twelve.”
“Can you prove it?” said Mr. Turnsall.
That question was perhaps one of the most frustrating demands ever put to me. What child—any child—can provide proof of his or her age? Do we have the papers, certificates, evidence? Could you, dear reader, right now, on demand, prove your age? Oh, how I regretted not going to Mr. Buffin and getting a document that confirmed my age.
“I believe,” said Mr. Bicklet, “you are not even eight years of age.”
“But—”
“I’m sure you are right,” said Mr. Turnsall to Mr. Bicklet, not to me. “In case you didn’t know,” Mr. Turnsall went on to me, “the recent Poor Law states that any abandoned child under the age of eleven shall be sent to the parish poorhouse. When you turn eight, you will be apprenticed.”
“Please, sir, I am already apprenticed.”
“To whom?”
“My father. I’m learning the law.”
Mr. Bicklet could not suppress a pipping squeak. “Ah yes, ‘the law is king.’ Very well!” said he. “Let Mr. Pitts come forward and prove it.”
What could I say? Nothing.
Mr. Bicklet turned to Mr. Turnsall. “Do you know the father of this boy?”
“A meddlesome Nonconformist lawyer, who is forever harassing me as to what and what is not lawful,” responded Mr. Turnsall. “He has accused me of getting more than my share of fair rewards for overseeing the poorhouse.”
To which Mr. Bicklet replied, “He never stops insulting the rightful religion of England, which I represent. I’ve come to believe Mr. Pitts is one of those dreadful Levelers, a radical who will destroy property and seek to make all men equal. A stiff-rumped clink-clank. And what has he done? He has abandoned his child. Shameful!”
“Therefore,” said Mr. Turnsall to me, “as the delegated authorities of Melcombe Regis, we shall do you, Oliver Cromwell Pitts, the great kindness of bringing you to the children’s poorhouse so that we may care for you. When, and if your father returns, he can legally claim you, and do with you as he wishes. ‘The law is king.’ Until such a time it is our duty to take care of you. You may herewith consider us your legal guardians. Now then, come along.”
So there it was, these men were going to punish me as a way of striking at my father.
Knowing there was no way I could resist, I quickly made a plan. I would not resist going with them. Instead I would wait at the poorhouse for my father to return. I even supposed I could save money, for it was my understanding that one was fed in the children’s poorhouse.
It seemed a suitable, easy plan. What in fact happened, you are about to learn.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
In Which I Am Enrolled in the Children’s Poorhouse.
I had not been arrested. No one had discovered—as far as I knew—that I had taken those shillings from the wreck of The Rose in June. Nor did Mr. Bicklet or Mr. Turnsall so much as lay a finger on me. I was not forced to go with them. All of which is to say, as far as I was concerned, my going to the children’s poorhouse was my clever plan to stay in Melcombe cheaply.
The Melcombe Regis Children’s Parish Poorhouse was located at the corner of Petticoat Lane and West Street. The building stood at a right angle to what is called the Back Harborside, the bay where ships, after unloading their cargoes at the river docks, could anchor safely. It was not an elegant part of town. Nor will it surprise you when I tell you that I, who never believed I would have anything to do with the poorhouse, had never looked at it closely before.
A plain stone structure of two floors, it had small windows, five on the upper floor, four on the first floor, on either side of a central doorway. There was a chimney at either end. The building seemed not to have suffered destruction from the storm, but then it was farther away from the sea. All in all, it appeared as a stolid, dreary, and lifeless structure that most likely had been a military barrack.
Mr. Bicklet tapped on the door. It was opened shortly by a girl who could not have been more than six years of age dressed in a plain gray smock. Her
pasty pale face was not altogether clean and, despite her youth, her brow was creased with worry lines.
Seeing Mr. Bicklet, she curtsied.
“Yes, sir?” she whispered, as if afraid to talk too loudly.
“Is Master Probert at home?” inquired Mr. Bicklet. “We are bringing him an abandoned boy.”
The girl glanced at me. What passed over her face, I thought, was not so much sympathy as pity. Whether it was because I had been abandoned or because I was coming to the children’s poorhouse, or if she was asking for pity for herself, it was impossible to guess.
“Yes, please, sirs,” she said, small voiced. “Please enter.”
With a harsh prod on my shoulder, the two gentlemen and I stepped into a vestibule. The girl shut the door behind us and quickly fled through a door on the left and disappeared.
Aside from being fed in the poorhouse, I had thought that it would be a much warmer place than my own wrecked home. In fact, it was not merely gloomy, but cold and damp. Moreover, we were confronted by a high desk, and behind that desk, perched on a stool, was a tall man. It was as if he was guarding the door, but whether to keep people in or out, I could not at that moment say.
As far as I could see, the man had a narrow face and a well-shaved if small chin almost blue in hue. His eyes, under string-thin eyebrows, were small and sharp, his nose large and lengthy, whereas his mouth seemed hardly more than a lipless slit, not shaped to convey merriment.
He wore a wig that was glossy black in color, with crisp curls at his ears. The jacket he wore was equally black, high buttoned, and shiny, more shell-like than cloth. All in all he rather put me in mind of those insects one saw about the dock area, a cockroach.
He was writing in a massive book with a black-feathered quill in his right hand. His left hand, with long, narrow fingers, hung over the forward edge of the desk, and clutched a ring of keys. On his desk was a tall candlestick, its flame like a small, yellow eye. An hourglass also perched there. Near his feet was an iron pot, which glowed, suggesting it contained hot coals to provide some heat, at least for him.
As he sat there this man gently patted his wig, whether to make sure it was there or out of vanity, I had no idea. When he finally looked up at us, his narrow mouth seemed to compress even more, so that any smile might be bitten, chewed, and swallowed before it had the temerity to reveal itself.
“Ah! Mr. Bicklet,” he said in a voice that was as slow as it was raspy, rather like a dull saw. “Mr. Turnsall. You are most welcome, gentlemen.”
“Mr. Probert, sir,” said Mr. Turnsall. “Pleased to see you looking so well, sir.”
“I am very well,” returned Mr. Probert, in a manner that conveyed he truly thought excellent things of himself. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”
“Sir,” said Mr. Turnsall, “Mr. Bicklet and I have discovered an abandoned and impoverished boy in need of your care and kindness. We rescued him from the storm and worse.” He pushed me forward.
“You gentlemen have always been extremely kind and full of charity,” said Mr. Probert even as he fixed his eyes on me with a gaze that was full of hostility, as if I were at fault. “I can see that this boy is unfortunate in his life but fortunate that you have rescued him.” He patted his wig, as if to suggest that he was not unfortunate.
“To make matters worse,” said Mr. Turnsall, “he has a rascal of a father who, I fear, in the midst of last night’s storm, abandoned him.”
“And who, I must ask, is this negligent father?”
“The lawyer, Mr. Gabriel Pitts.”
“Mr. Pitts!” cried Mr. Probert. “I know him only too well.” He patted his wig again, and that time I was sure it was meant to convey his dignity in contrast to my father. “Mr. Pitts has nosed about this institution, and has been critical of our good works. He has actually accused me of mistreating the children under my care. He may be described, at best, as vicious vermin.”
Hearing these words, my heart sank. Here was yet another of my father’s adversaries.
“That’s much the man,” agreed Mr. Bicklet.
“A dangerous troublemaker,” added Mr. Turnsall. “Known for his belligerence.”
“And now,” put in Mr. Bicklet, “he has abandoned his son.”
They spoke with glee.
Mr. Probert gazed at me anew. “Then I am delighted that we can help his boy grow up so that he at least shall be a benefit to our community.”
He leaned forward over his desk. “Boy, what is your Christian name?”
“Oliver Cromwell, sir.”
Mr. Probert started back and looked at me with something akin to horror. “Not, I pray and trust, named after the unspeakable Oliver Cromwell?”
“Knowing the parent, I would suspect so,” interjected Mr. Turnsall.
Mr. Probert fairly pierced me with his small, gimlet-like eyes. “I pity you, boy. Such a name has to be an affliction. How old are you?”
“I am—” I began.
“He is seven!” cut in Mr. Turnsall.
“Seven years old, you say,” said Mr. Probert, with a sharp nod. “Very well. We shall enroll him. Thank you, gentlemen. All of Melcombe thanks you. The whole of Great Britain thanks you. King George himself, if he could speak English, would thank you profusely. I say this although I suspect this boy’s father would not thank you.”
“Just know, boy,” Mr. Bicklet said to me, “you will be better cared for here than if you were with your father.”
“No doubt about it,” agreed Mr. Turnsall.
“We absolutely agree,” said Mr. Probert and delivered what might be called a smug simper.
With no further words to me, but after many salutations and bows to Mr. Probert, the two men left. I stood where I was, not sure what was going to happen, but I had no expectations that it would be anything good.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
A Description of the Children’s Poorhouse, and How It Lovingly Cared for Melcombe’s Unfortunate Children.
Mr. Probert put down his black quill and stared at me with his hard eyes. Once, twice, he adjusted his wig. He jangled his keys.
At length, I fidgeted. That caused him to speak. “The first thing you shall learn, boy, upon entering this institution is that you must remain still. Very still. Learn to stand as straight as a pin. No moving. None.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but—”
“And no speaking,” he fairly hissed, “unless you are bidden to. You read your Bible, I presume. I sincerely hope you do. Proverbs 21:23. ‘Whoso keepeth his mouth and his tongue keepeth his soul from troubles.’ ”
He patted his wig.
“Furthermore, I want no child enrolled here to have the appalling name of Oliver Cromwell. Rather, we shall call you Charles, after the beloved martyred king who had his head detached so cruelly from his scared body by that tyrant whose name with which you have been branded.
“Now, Charles,” he said, “you must cease fidgeting. A restless body reveals a restless soul. Stand straight as a pin. Master that task. Think pin. Be pin.” He bent over his book, picked up his quill, and scratched away.
If an itch had a sound, it would have been exactly that noise. At the same time his keys dangled over the edge of his desk, occasionally clicking like an apprehensive cricket.
After a long while, Mr. Probert looked up, patted his wig, and said, “Do you have any idea what I am doing?”
“You are writing, sir.”
He nodded. “The poorhouse accounts. It costs eighteen pence per week to maintain and teach each child in this establishment. We have, including you, forty-eight children under our generous care.” The keys clinked. “Did you know that?”
“No, sir.”
“Children are expensive out of all proportion to their size. Nothing annoys ratepayers as do children. They are the locusts in Deuteronomy 28:38: ‘Thou shall carry much seed out into the field, and shall gather but little in; for the locust shall consume it.’
“That is why every child enrolled her
e works for what they receive. I trust you also know Proverbs 19:15. ‘Slothfulness casteth into a deep sleep; and an idle soul shall suffer hunger.’ I promise you that we shall endeavor to keep you from being slothful. An authority has written: ‘The sooner poor children are put to laborious, painful work the more patiently they will submit to it forever.’ Wise words.”
Mr. Probert adjusted his wig anew, bent over his desk, and went back to his pen-scratching. I remained standing, listening to his irritating pen.
Time passed. Mr. Probert ignored me. He patted his wig. His keys clicked. At one point, because of an itch, I reached to rub my ear. Without looking up he said, “No fidgeting, Charles. Every time you do so, I shall add ten minutes to your standing. Ten whole minutes. You may rely on that. Think . . . pin.” He turned his hourglass over so that the white sand trickled down in a slow, scraggy stream.
I stood there for at least an hour, my time punctuated by his “No fidgeting!” commands, resulting in his turning over the hourglass at least six times. That did not keep him from now and again touching and adjusting his wig.
At one point Mr. Probert said, “I suppose I should inform you, Charles, of our schedule. In summer, we rise at six. In winter, seven. Work commences at eight. Concludes at five. We retire during winter at seven, summer at eight. Breakfast at eight. Dinner at twelve. Supper at six. Chapel at rising. Chapel before bed. Can you read and write?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then you need not attend school lessons, but work more so as to contribute to your generous maintenance.”
As I stood there, it occurred to me that I could, if I wanted, turn about and bolt through the main door. I suspect Mr. Probert had the same thought at the very same time, because he abruptly climbed down from behind his desk, key ring in hand. I could hear him (for I dared not turn and look) scuttle down the hallway and then I heard what sounded like the locking of a door.
In other words, I was trapped.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The Poorhouse and How It Strove to Make Me, Among Other Children, a Better Person.
I need to tell you about the poorhouse.