The End of the World and Beyond Page 6

  “Please, sir, how long will I stay? Will I be fed? Will anyone come and fetch me?”

  “No insolent questions,” returned the man. “Get.”

  Having no choice, I did as I was told, and stepped into the small room. Well squared, it had some old straw heaped upon the hard dirt floor. There was a little, barred window and a foul-smelling wooden bucket; nothing else. All was dull and getting darker.

  Even as I, quite dispirited, stood there and looked about, the Annapolis man took my leash and affixed it with a lock to a ring that was attached to a stone wall.

  Without so much as a farewell, the man left, slamming the door behind him. The sprightly snap of a closing lock followed.

  Once again, I was in a jail.

  Chapter Twenty

  The Joys of Being in America.

  If you have read the first part of my memoirs, you know that, although young, I had already been confined multiple times. Did that mean that I, accustomed to such places, enjoyed a sense of ease? Not to the smallest degree. Rather, I bestirred myself by trying to discover yet once again if I could escape.

  I began by trying to undo my leash, first from my neck, then from the wall. No success. I attempted to take off my iron collar. I could not. I also struggled with the door. It held tight. I even applied myself to the window, pulling upon each of the six rusty bars in turn. They proved unmovable. In such light as remained and my leash allowed, I went round the perimeter of the cell, kicking the foundation stones, now and again feeling one, in hopes it might be loose. None were.

  In short, all my efforts proved useless. At least the rope was long enough so that I had some freedom of movement, though no true freedom.

  Feeling altogether mumpish, I gathered some of the rotten straw into a pile, so as to make a softer spot on the solid earth floor, and sat down, the leash slack, my back pressed against the cold and jagged stone wall. I drew up my knees, draped arms and hands over them, and worked hard to convince myself I was better off than I had been on the convict ship; I was alive, I told myself, and that having life meant hope remained.

  Nonetheless, it was all too clear to me that I had no way of absconding, nor did I have any idea how long I would be confined. Would I even be remembered? Or would I be forgotten, left to languish and die in this small, barren place, which already felt like a tomb? Would I, in Captain Krets’s vivid words, which grew in my thoughts, be left to rot?

  I had been in a London jail. Now I was in an American one. They were thousands of miles apart. How much the same. Misery has no geography.

  I scratched myself. I mussed my hair. Rubbed my face. I let my mind wander over all that had led me to such a place and predicament. Now and again I fingered Charity’s lace.

  There was this difference: I had been imprisoned before, but this was the first time I was alone. I wanted to cry, but discovered that I was empty of emotions. My ordeal had drained me of tears. I, who had been accused of robbery, had been robbed of my heart.

  Those who haven’t had the horror of being imprisoned cannot understand. To protect oneself against the gross experience, a convict imprisons his or her own emotions; seals them away like an oyster uses an impenetrable shell to protect its soft innards. Thus, I sat in a state of rigid numbness, such that it might well be called that appalling word—bedeaded.

  A thief steals but coins. A prison steals hope.

  How long I remained there with such an empty, desolate spirit, I cannot say. At some point, the darkness deepening along with my despair, my mind blank, my heart drained of courage, my stomach arumble with emptiness, I heard the fall of steps without. Startled, I looked and beheld light beneath the door’s lower edge.

  Someone was approaching.

  As the door swung open I jumped up.

  A man stepped forward. In one hand, he held a lit lantern. In his other was a lifted pistol. My instant thought was, I am about to be murdered.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  In Which I Greet an Astonishing Visitor.

  The light from this man’s lantern threw shadows on his dirty and ill-shaved face, so as to give him an evil cast. No wig was on his head. Rather, his jumbled, dark hair was long enough so that it dangled below his shoulders. Around his neck was a stained cloth, and his tawdry jacket was partly torn with buttons missing. Boots were patched. And of course, there was that cocked pistol.

  If ever anyone looked to be an assassin, it was this man.

  He took three steps into the cell, and with a booted foot, crudely kicked the door shut behind him. Not that he ever took his eyes from me. On the contrary: Holding up his lantern, while pointing his pistol at my chest, he studied me with such hostile eyes that I felt obliged to retreat into a corner. My heart throbbed at a frantic rate.

  The man said nothing. Instead, he continued to consider me for long, wordless moments, as if making up his mind whether to shoot me or not. Or—I thought—he was praying for forgiveness for the dastardly deed he was about to do.

  Next I heard a puff of breath, as if to register surprise. When he spoke, he said, “You’re just a boy.”

  Most peculiar, his words and voice sounded oddly familiar, and brought forward an indefinable memory of something similar said to me some time ago, which in the moment, I was powerless to recall.

  This man, however, persisted in studying me with a deep, ruminating silence as if I were some ghost or spirit, even as I tried to grasp what seemed so familiar about him. Then his mouth took the shape of a near-perfect O. He started back, as if he had reason to fear me. What’s more, he lowered his pistol and demanded, “What are you doing here? Have you come to hound me? Have you been sent by Mr. Wild?”

  “Whom?”

  “Jonathan Wild. England’s infamous thief-taker.”

  I was mazed to hear the name. Mr. Wild was the principal criminal with whom I’d become ensnared in England. Indeed, it would be fair to say that it was Mr. Wild who brought about my transportation. Just to hear his name instilled fear.

  “He has long arms,” said the man. “Did he send you after me?”

  Altogether baffled, I said, “Please, sir, I’m an unsold convict. Just transported from England. On my ship, I was the only one not purchased and therefore brought here.”

  My words instantly reduced the man’s visible fright, but he continued to study me with something that suggested wonder. “You don’t know me,” he said. “Do you?”

  “Should I?” I said.

  “Melcombe Regis,” said the man. “The old fort at the Narrows.” Then he offered up an unexpected if somewhat toothless smile, shoved his pistol into his belt, and presented a kind of bow, his leg extended as if to present a satire on a gentleman.

  It was as if light flooded into that small room: I did know him. “Mr. Sandys,” I cried.

  It was thus: When fleeing my English home—Melcombe Regis—so as to escape my father’s enemies, I sought refuge in the old Narrows Fort. There I came upon this same Mr. Sandys who was hiding from the notorious Jonathan Wild.

  What I learned then was that Mr. Sandys was a violent man, a self-confessed highwayman. He had done me (and others, no doubt) considerable harm. But—it is curious—a familiar face, far from home, is oft given a welcome whether deserved or not. Thus, to come upon him at such a place and time—in Annapolis—made me look upon him as a friend.

  “But . . . but why are you here?” I cried.

  “I trust you can recall my circumstance,” he said, as if we were old friends sharing new gossip. “Being dogged by that hellhound Jonathan Wild, I was obliged to remove myself from England as fast as possible to get beyond his grasp. I searched for an agent, signed a bond—indentures. I trust you understand what that means: In exchange for passage to America I sold my labor. In my haste to flee, I boarded the first ship to depart.

  “A fast voyage of six weeks brought me to this wretched place. Servants being
scarce, I was purchased by this town, so now I’m a bonded servant to Annapolis. And will be so for four years.

  “I’ve no end of chores. Night watchman for the town, sweeper at the court, and prison turnkey. I also feed prisoners and empty the bucket. It’s a small town, but has two prisons, for this is a country swarming with villains and rogues.”

  He smirked as if all this was amusing.

  “The gentry here, though they have no real knowledge of the law, become magistrates and justices of the peace. Protection of property is their prime concern. Let a man come onshore that displays the smallest knowledge of English law and he becomes a judge, with no qualms about ruling people guilty. Since I’m the one who puts offenders into the pillory and serves as town hangman, I’m kept busy.” He paused and looked at me as if he were surprised all over again to discover me here.

  “But how did you become a convict?” he inquired. “Did Mr. Wild impeach you?” He chuckled. “Did I not warn you about him?”

  I provided a quick summary of all that had happened to me, leaving out my sister’s tale.

  Mr. Sandys listened, nodding now and again, sometimes laughing as if my history was highly entertaining. At other points, he frowned or shook his head at my plight.

  At first I thought it was extraordinary that we should even meet again. But when I thought on it, there were ample reasons for such a reunion: Many ships from Melcombe Regis came direct to Annapolis, from where Sandys set off. The local population was scant. The list of his tasks fit his character all too well. How could I not come upon him?

  When I had told my tale, he said, “You may consider yourself lucky to be alive. And you seem to have learned that for such as us, mercy and money, in the government’s dictionary, are the same word.”

  “Then are you going to show me mercy and let me go?” I blurted. Thinking of him as my companion in hard treatment and worse luck, I spoke with an expectation that he would say yes.

  “Let you go?” he echoed.

  “Aren’t we good friends?” I asked.

  Sandys shook his head. “Nay, lad. I fear I’m duty-bound to my tasks. It would be worth my life to go against what I’m supposed to do with you. If I break the law—which is designed to keep you here—my own years in bondage would be much extended. I won’t take the chance. I grant you, we are friends of misfortune, but we share more misfortune than friendship.”

  “Then why did you come to this place?” I asked.

  “I was informed there was a new prisoner. I’ve brought food. It’s my task.”

  “What will happen to me?” I cried.

  He shrugged. “You’ll stay till someone buys you.”

  “How long will that be?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “But what if no one buys me?”

  “They have a pauper’s cemetery nearby. It won’t cost you anything to be buried. Since grave-master is another of my tasks, I’ll let you down easy.”

  As if to rehearse that moment, I slumped to the floor, my new-sprouted hopes squashed as quickly as they had grown.

  Mr. Sandys contemplated me in silence. After some moments passed, he said, “I might do one thing for such a good friend.” He grinned at the jest.

  I looked up.

  “Maryland wants laborers, which means there are always men about town in need of field hands. Instead of having you wait and suffer, I could seek out someone who might buy you.”

  “Would he?”

  “I’m afraid boys your age are of sad use. You’ve little strength and tend to die quickly. But I could provide a good word for you, say you had prodigious power while always meek and obedient. If the price was low enough you might be bought.”

  I suppose I could have been more appreciative, but all I said was, “What would such a man require of me?”

  “May I remind you, boy, that when a man is going to be hanged, the quality of rope that does the deed matters little. Shall I search out a buyer or no?”

  “I’m willing,” I allowed myself to say, uncertain if I was choosing wisely. I wondered, too, why was he being sympathetic to me? Was it the air in America? Because he had escaped from Mr. Wild? Regretful as to how he had once used me?

  Mr. Sandys, as if construing my thoughts, said, “You treated me well in England, so I feel obliged to return the favor. I assure you, boy, better to be sold than to remain here. But let me get you the bread I brought.”

  He briefly stepped out of the cell and returned with a loaf. He handed it to me with a smile. “Indian corn bread. Not as good as my mother’s.”

  Though the bread was heavy and stale, I ate with hungry passion.

  “Now then,” said Sandys, “I have my other prison to look after.”

  “Will you truly seek out a man to purchase me?”

  “You have my word that I’ll try. Trust between thieves.” He laughed. “Do you know I don’t believe I ever learned your name.”

  “Oliver Cromwell Pitts.”

  “My honor, Master Pitts.” He made his sardonic bow again, smiling as if he was amused by the absurdity of the situation. Then he was gone, the door locked behind him.

  Only after he left did I realize I’d forgotten to request freedom from my rope. I remained little more than a tethered bird in a locked cage.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  In Which I Seek (Once Again) to Escape.

  I slept but poorly.

  In the morning when I shook my head free of frowsiness and realized where I was, I woke poorly, too. My sole liberty was that I was able to use the wooden bucket to relieve myself. But to free one’s bowels is not freedom, merely relief. Beyond that, I remained locked and chained. Full of despair, I waited, I knew not for whom.

  But how do you wait for someone you don’t know? Far worse, how do you wait when you are not even certain you wish to encounter the person who might come? And . . . what if, in the end, he doesn’t come at all?

  I shall tell you with conviction, that of all labors, waiting for the unknown—unable to guess if good or bad will happen—is surely one of the most exhausting things one can do.

  Alas, I had no choice, none, so I remained in place half the day, long enough to despair of anyone coming. At times, I was certain no one would come and I thought I would starve to death. Other times, I went back to thinking of Mr. Sandys as a scoundrel. Or, feeling Charity’s lace bit in hand, which was becoming ever more soiled and worn between my fingers, I wondered where she was and would I ever see her again. To be alone is to be crowded with thoughts.

  At length, I told myself I really must make efforts to escape.

  To that end, I first attacked the embedded wall knob to which my tether was attached. Since the knob stuck out from the wall I was able to grasp and wiggle it back and forth. After considerable time, the mortar began to loosen and eventually I managed to pull the knob from the wall, lock and all.

  The leash, however, was still attached to my neck collar, which I could not remove. Still, I had made progress: I had gained the complete freedom of my cell.

  Encouraged, I began to prod anew the stones with which the prison walls were built, testing to see if any were loose. Since I had all the time in the world, with nothing to lose and my freedom to gain, I worked diligently, trying stone after stone, ceiling to floor.

  After considerable poking, prying, and pulling, I found one stone—perhaps two feet above the ground—that wobbled slightly. My powers, dilapidated as they were, now came further alive and my fingers dug about, prying and pulling away at the stone.

  To my great gratification, I was able to free the stone—at the price of bleeding fingertips—so that it fell into my cell. A small hole was left behind, through which I could observe liberty.

  Elated, I immediately began to work upon an adjacent stone, and had the satisfaction—notwithstanding considerable more finger pain—of tumbling a
second stone. Convinced I could make an even bigger hole, one that would allow me to wiggle out, I saw freedom within reach.

  By that time, it must have been late afternoon. Though famished and thirsty, I worked hard upon the next stone until I heard footfalls beyond the prison door.

  People were coming.

  I leaped to shove the tumbled stones back into place and then flung some of the rotten hay over the debris I had made. I poked the leash knob back into the wall, where, to my relief, it stayed.

  The door opened, and Mr. Sandys was there. This time, however, another man was with him, a scrawny, potbellied man of but modest height. With his thin fuzz of grizzled gray hair, something like the balls of dust that gather in corners, I took him to be old, ’tween fifty and sixty years of age. He also carried a strong stench of rum, sweat, and general uncleanliness. In short, at first sight, he was a most ill-favored fellow.

  “Well, boy,” exclaimed Mr. Sandys. “Here is a gentleman who will consider buying you.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  In Which Mr. Sandys Does Me a Questionable Favor.

  This newcomer barely entered the room, when he paused, peered about, and put a dirty hand to the knife stuck in his belt. It was as if he feared an attack, or perhaps it was he who would attack, because there was a pistol in his belt as well. Nor did he relax when he must have seen it was only me in the jail, but kept his hand on his weapon.

  His face was unclean and ill shaved, with a small, round, and altogether purplish nose. His chin was hardly there, his flabby neck much like a turkey’s wattle. As for his half-lidded and bleary eyes, they appraised me as if I were something contemptible, as suggested by the curl of disgust that showed upon his thin lips.

  As for clothing, his shirt was stained, his waistcoat filthy. In one dirty hand, he held a battered black hat. Scruffy leather boots shod his feet. He appeared to have no fashion at all, save being sloberly.