The End of the World and Beyond Page 7

If I had come upon this man on the street, observing no hint of good manners, I would have given him good distance. Once past him, which I would have done in haste, I would have looked back to make sure he was not pursuing me.

  To my eyes he was an altogether disgraceful fellow. Moreover, the impression of violence he projected caused me to immediately step back.

  Yet—I thought—here was a man who might buy me and take me from the jail. Was he the best that Mr. Sandys or Annapolis could do? I hastened to remind myself that just because the man looked distasteful did not prove he was. As the saying goes: “A rough shirt can cover a silken heart.”

  With no salutation, the man curtly asked me some of the same questions the buyers on the ship had asked: my name, age, and crime, and the length of my sentence.

  As I answered, I offered my best smile and stood in what I thought was a self-effacing posture.

  The man made no response, but proceeded to do a rough jabbing and prodding of my arms and chest. All the while, he continued to study me with his bloodshot eyes as if to observe my value, if any.

  At the end of his scrutiny, he turned to Mr. Sandys and said, “I’ll give a five-pound tobacco note for him.”

  Mr. Sandys said, “I told you, sir: He’s worth a hundred. You heard him, he can read and write.”

  The man grunted. “He’ll have no need of such with me. No, I won’t give more than five pounds.”

  Mr. Sandys considered me as if debating the point. Belatedly, I realized he was allowing me to make the decision.

  Here was a hinge upon which the door of my life might well swing. Did I allow myself to be taken up by this repulsive man, or hope that someone superior might come along? But what if no one else wanted me? Yes, I had made progress in making a hole in the jail wall. Would it not be better to free myself? As it is said, a man beholden to someone for his freedom is not entirely free.

  But while I’d made a small gap in the wall, I’d failed to divest myself from the leash, which was still attached to the iron ring round my neck. Anyone who saw me would know I was an escaped felon.

  But I also told myself that going with this man would at least get me out of jail. Deciding between now or maybe never, I gave a small nod to Mr. Sandys. But please mind, I gave it tepidly.

  “He’s yours,” pronounced Mr. Sandys, with a clear meaning of the deal is done. “Five pounds tobacco.”

  I had been sold.

  Let me confess: I felt deep shamefulness that I was a party to this transaction, the selling of myself. Among other humiliations, I was sold cheaper than any of my fellow felons. I tried to console myself by thinking I’d advanced my situation: better out of jail than in.

  All the same, there was a loud alarm bell tolling in my thoughts: Had I just committed another of my follies?

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  My New Master Takes Possession of Me.

  Mr. Sandys took a rumpled paper from a pocket as well as a stump of charcoal. I presumed the paper transferred my ownership from the town of Annapolis to this off-putting man.

  Sure enough, the man used the charcoal to mark the paper, something that looked like an X, which meant I was unable to learn his name. All the same, the signing meant I was now owned by this ill-natured character. Moreover, it was my decision, which made it happen. Let it be learned, a small nod can make a great shift.

  By way of proof, Mr. Sandys released my leash from the wall and handed the loose end to this man, saying, “He belongs to you now.

  “I wish you well, boy,” Mr. Sandys said to me in an official-sounding voice. “But I’m obliged to warn you that insofar as I am the town’s watchman, if I ever see you again without written permission from him”—a head cock toward my new owner—“I shall arrest you straightaway and things shall go badly for you.”

  To this formal warning, Mr. Sandys, in a more natural, friendly voice, added to me, “I pray we meet again in better circumstances.” He went on to oblige me with a sardonic bow, adding an impish wink, meant to acknowledge his self-satisfaction in doing me a favor, even when he probably hadn’t.

  Then Mr. Sandys left—presumably to his watchman duties—leaving the cell door open. I supposed I’d never see this curious friend anymore. Which meant, once again, I felt abandoned.

  My new master clapped his dirty hat upon his head, muttered something I didn’t understand, and gave my leash a yank. I had no choice but to follow. At least, I told myself, I am out of jail. I cannot say I felt much elation.

  The man walked on with a slow, somewhat ungainly stride. Perhaps it was from drink. Or his age. Not once did he look round at me or acknowledge my presence. Fully forlorn, I trudged along, anxious as to what might happen next.

  We passed people twice, but he said naught to them, only glaring at them, hand to knife. One of the persons even moved out of my new master’s way, whether out of fear or repugnance I could only guess.

  I beg you to consider: There I was, in a whole new world, knowing nothing of my future. I had the sparsest knowledge of my owner, not so much as his name. He said nothing about where he lived, what use he would make of me, his trade or occupation. Did he live near or far? In town or out? In what kind of dwelling? Was there a kindly wife? Were there friendly children? Other servants I might befriend?

  Yes, I was out of jail, but only to pass into a new, unknown world. Let me assure you, suspense about all these vital questions may be the spring that moves a story ticking forward like a fine clock. But to live a life in such a continually unexpected fashion is wearisome beyond belief.

  Trust me, all ye who seek adventure: better a horizontal life than one that leaps from one high crisis to another.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Which Contains Alarming Information about My Master.

  My owner led me to a nearby tavern called the Royal George, a one-story, wooden structure on the northern edge of town. Its outside walls were planked much like the hull of a ship, and of a reddish hue. Two windows. Shutters. A chimney at one end.

  We entered—me in tow—the man pausing at the threshold to look within, as if to determine who was there. Just as when he entered the jail, he put his hand to his knife.

  He seemed to distrust everyone and everything.

  The establishment we entered consisted of one room with a brick floor. Wooden pillars stood in the corners. To one side was a stone fireplace, a small fire ablaze, which soothed the evening’s edge of chill. A lit lamp was attached to one wall, which along with some beeswax candles on two of the tables diminished the room’s dullness.

  On the far wall was an enclosed area, behind which a small, gray-haired man was dispensing drinks. The smells of rum, cider, and tobacco fumed the air. Mind, it was nothing such as I experienced in London taverns, which were close, crowded, and clamorous. This was a little lake of lazy leisure.

  There were three round tables—no room for more—at which six men were sitting, talking, and drinking, two of them smoking clay pipes. When we entered, one of the men at a table called out, “Mr. Fitzhugh, sir. Good day to you.”

  My owner’s reply to such civilities was little more than a throaty grunt. In any case I learned his name. Fitzhugh.

  “Got yourself a new servant?” asked another.

  “Aye,” he said.

  “What happened to the other?”

  Fitzhugh pulled his pistol from his belt and pointed it into the air. “Dead,” he said.

  Shocked, I took his meaning to be dead by his hand. On the instant my stomach turned queasy.

  One of the men seemed to agree with me. He said, “God have mercy. How?”

  “He was about to run off,” was Fitzhugh’s sneered reply. “You know the law. I’d have to pay two hundred pounds of tobacco if someone else caught him, wouldn’t I? Got rid of him myself and bought a cheaper replacement.” Using his pistol, he gestured toward me.

  “An
d the one who ran, did you have to track him far?”

  “Never got off my land.” Fitzhugh spoke with a bully’s bravado, as if what he’d said was something altogether common, with him at least.

  “Good,” said another man. “They need to learn the lesson. It helps to keep the others down.”

  Who, I wondered, were the others that needed such a lesson? Was life and death all so casual here?

  I had been uneasy about my new master. Now I was deeply alarmed.

  Mr. Fitzhugh led me to a corner of the room. There, as if giving a command to a dog, he ordered me to sit and pointed to the floor. When I complied, he tied my leash—also doglike—to one of the wooden pillars. Then he went to the sole unoccupied table and sat down in a chair with as much grace as a frog settles himself into mud.

  Full of disquiet, I kept my eyes on him. Fitzhugh did not engage in conversation with any of the other men. All the same, he stole distrustful glances at them, as if wanting to alert himself for sudden attacks.

  Given the harsh way he had dealt with me, displayed his gun, spoke and acted toward the tavern customers, I was now convinced he was a man of frothing anger.

  Dear Lord, I thought, I should never have allowed myself to be bought by this man. Oliver, I added, you have committed yet another gross folly.

  This self-reproach was followed by the self-warning: But willy-nilly, you are owned by him. Be watchful.

  A young woman approached him. At first glance she appeared to be the same age as Charity, about eighteen. Indeed, for a heart-stopping moment, I thought the lass might be my sister. Of course, I was wrong.

  Fitzhugh spoke gruffly to her.

  She went off and came back with a full pewter tankard. It smelled like rum. When she came up behind Mr. Fitzhugh and tapped him on the shoulder, he sprang up and around, his knife instantly in hand. Much frightened, she jumped back, so that the drink sloshed on the floor.

  “Stupid girl,” Fitzhugh roared. “Don’t come on me like that. Get another.”

  The other patrons were equally startled.

  The servant girl, jaw clenched, face pale, wiped the liquid from the floor with her apron then scooted off and returned, this time cautiously approaching the old man from the front.

  He snatched the tankard, gave no thanks, but drank, and continued to do so, adrenching himself, as it were, in his liquor. As I watched, I added another trait to his character: I was tethered, nay, owned, by a sodden, dead-hearted person.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  What the Servant Girl Told Me.

  As time passed, Fitzhugh continued to drink, though now and again he glanced at me, wanting to make sure, it seemed, that I remained where he’d put me. I worked to keep my face blank.

  Some of the other men left the tavern, others entered, but Fitzhugh no more engaged with the new ones—except for quick nods—than with those who had been there before. The old man was clearly known, and just as clearly avoided. My disgust grew apace.

  After a while, Fitzhugh tipped his filthy slouch hat forward, laid his arms down on the table, lowered his head, and, to all appearances, fell asleep. His noisome breathing consisted of grunts and clogged throat clearings.

  As the old man continued to sleep, I considered unfastening my leash from round the wooden pillar and bolting, but feared what the other men in the tavern would do. Might they not want to teach me a gross lesson?

  Or what might happen if Fitzhugh woke and discovered me in flight? Would he shoot me? The truth is, though acquainted with him for but a short time, I already feared him.

  I therefore stayed where I was, full of unease, while Fitzhugh slept on, until the servant girl approached me.

  “Boy,” she said in a whispered voice. “Are you hungry?”

  I offered up a smile. “Yes, please,” I said. “And thirsty. But I have no money.”

  She glanced at Fitzhugh, with some fear. “I have some old bread,” she said, and went off.

  I did muse if I would ever eat anything besides bread.

  Within moments, she returned with a coarse loaf and a pewter cup of apple cider. I took both with fulsome—if quiet—thanks, gulping the cider and devouring the bread as fast as possible, lest my master rebuke me.

  She stole a quick, watchful glance at Fitzhugh and then said, “Why are you with him?” Her voice was low.

  “Do you know him?” I asked.

  “Enough to know I don’t wish to know him more.”

  “Why? What is he?”

  Another quick look. More whispering. “He’s a vicious, offending man. He trusts no one, affronts all.”

  “Why?”

  “He thinks the whole world wishes to steal from him.”

  “Has he anything to steal?”

  “It’s said he has only a little and is much given to drink. You’re wearing the iron collar. Does he own you?”

  Here I was confronted with a problem I’d failed to consider: How—now that I was asked directly—was I to describe my condition? I hesitated, fearful that the plight of a transported felon might repel the girl. The truth is, I had as deep a hunger for kindliness as food.

  Before I could speak, she, in a forgiving voice, told me, “You need say no more.”

  Her sympathy moved me to blurt out—albeit in a whisper—“Please, mistress, I’m a transported felon, just arrived. Fitzhugh bought me for my seven years of labor.”

  The look of sympathy on her face was sweet, but equally alarming.

  “How old are you?” she said in a gentle voice.

  “Twelve.”

  She sighed, gazed at my iron collar, and then, with a face full of pity, whispered, “Be warned. Mr. Fitzhugh is a violent man.”

  “Please, miss,” I said in haste, “I have a sister. Older than me. She was also transported. She looks somewhat like you. Her name is Charity. Charity Pitts. I need to find her.” I held up the lace bit. “Have you heard the name spoken?”

  She shook her head. “But you have my miseration, boy, and I wish you God’s good blessing.”

  I thought of asking her to untie me but too late, she hastened away.

  Though touched by this young woman’s compassion, I could only be further distressed by her words about Fitzhugh. Everything was foretelling that I would be in great need of kindness. But where I might find it, I had no idea. As for her knowing nothing of Charity, it was, alas, only what I expected.

  Since my new master remained asleep I had little choice but to stay in place. Yet the girl’s words about my master, plus my own observation as to his ferocity, his drinking, and that he had appeared to have murdered his previous servant, convinced me that escape was urgent.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  In Which I Spend My First Night in the New World.

  Given what the serving girl said, I thought she might help me flee, but before she returned, Fitzhugh woke. Without warning, he sat up and looked about, his small nose a deeper shade of purple than before, his cheeks ruddy, his face collapsed. For a moment, he affixed his dull eyes on me as if it were a struggle for him to recall who I was. Indeed, he continued to stare, rub his face with the heel of his hand, and chew his lower lip as if in a quandary.

  I waited anxiously. What was he about to do?

  At last, he stood, made his wobbly way to the tapster, and marked his bill. Then he untied my leash from the pillar, gave it a pull, and led me outside. The fact that it had grown completely dark seemed to confound him. Still, no words were exchanged. He tugged my leash and led me behind the tavern. There was an open stable where a big brown horse was tied near a box of grass. Mr. Fitzhugh approached the horse and patted his neck, and muttered some words into his ear, which suggested the horse belonged to him. In all this time I had been with him, we’d had nothing that might have been called a conversation. As far as I was aware he didn’t know my name.

  At
least he talked to his horse.

  My master gathered up some grass from the box and dumped it on the ground. Then he turned to me and abruptly pushed me down. “Hands together,” he commanded.

  Having no choice, I did as bid, at which point he bound my hands and feet. He also attached my leash to a wall—out of reach.

  That done, he lay down, scooped more grass to form a kind of pillow for himself, put his dirty hat over his eyes, and went back to his sodden, noisy sleep.

  Given the opportunity, I grappled with my bindings, trying to pull my hands and feet free, but it proved impossible. I could not even stand. In the end, I had little choice but to try to make myself comfortable by propping my back against a wall.

  As I remained there, altogether miserable, have no doubts; all my thoughts were given over to the notion that I must set myself free as soon as possible. How mind-numbing the thought. How many times had I struggled to free myself?

  Yet the painful, mournful reality was, all my efforts had failed.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  In Which I Put My Reading Skills to Use.

  It was early next morning, still chilly, when Fitzhugh woke me with a hard foot to my ribs. I had slept ill and was stiff and sore. Though Fitzhugh untied my numb hands and feet, I needed help to stand, which he gave but roughly.

  “All right now, boy,” he demanded as he hauled me to my feet, “what’s your name?”

  My hands prickly with pain, I stood there and replied, “Oliver Cromwell Pitts.”

  “Oliver will do.” He tapped my chest with a hard-nailed finger. “Call me Master.”

  How repulsive the term. But what choice did I have? “Yes, Master,” I said.

  “Do as you’re told, and we’ll get on. Otherwise . . .” He put hands to pistol and blade and let the unspoken threat hover before me. Clearly, he liked to menace people. I was afraid to reply.

  Then he announced, “I need food.”