Jamestown (The Keepers of the Ring) (16 page)

Crompton
’s eyes swept again over the young man’s slender form, then he drew in his breath in an audible gasp as an anomaly caught his eye. “What is that?” he cried, spitting the words. He lifted a thick finger to a row of dark dotted lines on the boy’s forearms. “Who hath marked this child, and for what reason?”

The captain and the boy exchanged a quick glance, and the boy hastily rolled down his sleeves.
“The boy hath been with me for several weeks on a voyage,” Newport answered. “He was tattooed by natives in a foreign port. ‘Tis of no consequence, and I pray you not to hold it against him.”

“‘
Tis devilish,” Crompton snapped. “Doth not the very Word of God forbid us to cut our bodies as the heathen do? Let me remind you, sir, that the blessed children in this house rely upon the charity and goodness of the people of God. We worship God here, and do not allow evil or devilish practices in this place—”

“
I worship God, too,” the boy said, daring to interrupt. “I have been taught of God and his holy son since my birth. I am a Christian.”

“
Yet y’are tattooed like a devil worshipper?”

The boy flushed to the roots of his hair.
“I do not worship the devil. My markings have naught to do with whom I worship.”

Crompton clapped his mouth shut.
The boy of certain answered well, and in a small way ‘twas good to know of these markings. Every boy had a chink in his armor, a weakness that could be exploited if necessary, and this boy’s Achilles heel was so obvious. ‘Twould help keep him in line in the days to come.

“
You will wear long sleeves over your arms at all times,” Crompton said, standing behind his desk. “And since you have had no formal education, you will take your lessons with the very youngest boys. I am happy to hear that you call yourself a Christian, but be forewarned, young Fallon Bailie. I will watch you even more closely than I do the others, for I am responsible for your immortal soul, and I hope to give a good account of it on judgment day.”

He nodded stiffly toward the sober-faced captain.
“Captain Newport, take him to the dining hall and leave him there. You may rest in confidence, knowing that he will be educated and regarded as highly as any boy in this place.” He sank into his chair and picked up a sheaf of papers, a clear sign that he was done with his visitors.

Newport
’s hand went to the boy’s shoulder as they turned to leave, and Crompton allowed himself a smug smile. The man’s affection for the boy was obvious; undoubtedly the child was his son, no orphan, and therefore a liar.

Crompton quietly clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, mentally filing the scrap of information away for future reference.

eleven

I
n the huge, cold lobby of the academy, Captain Newport rocked nervously on his heels, then thrust a hand toward Fallon. “I’ll be leaving then,” he said, his eyes telling Fallon to take care. “And if I see Smith when I return to Virginia, I’ll be certain to give him your regards.”

“
Godspeed,” Fallon whispered, feeling at that moment more abandoned than he had in all the days since he had taken the children from the slaughter at Ocanahonan. “I pray you will remind Captain smith of his promise to me. And if he returns to England—”

“
I’ll tell him where to find you, never worry,” Newport answered. After shaking Fallon’s hand, the captain turned on his heel and opened the dark wooden doors.

Fallon turned away, unwilling for Captain Newport to see the tears that had risen in his eyes.
‘Twas surely God’s will, this parting, for he was in the land of his mother and father, and as an English boy ‘twould be good for him to know things of England. And John Smith had promised to bring Gilda and Noshi once he found them, so all would be accounted for, in time, all would be as it should be.

But a lump rose in his throat, and Fallon wanted nothing more than to run into the woods and throw himself upon the earth where soft moss would catch his tears and the murmur of forest life would remind him that he was not alone.

But there was no forest in London.
He stood in a cold brick building, and Fallon turned from the lobby and followed the worn path in the carpet to the dining hall where he would meet his fellow students.

The dining room lay wreathed in shadows even at noontime, and the atmosphere was musty, as if the air had been breathed too many times by too many boys.
The sun-bleached curtains at the gray windows hung damp and lifeless in the humidity of the rain, and a faded portrait of some grand man hung on the far wall as if to impress upon the diners the difference between their poverty and his aristocracy.

There were six tables in the room
—five were of simple wood and design and plainly outfitted, but the sixth sat in the middle of the room where all might look upon its grandeur. The center table dripped in linen and lace; silver goblets sat at each of the two places, and candles gleamed from pewter stands at the midpoint of the table. Handsome carved chairs, rich with brocaded upholstery, crouched at attention at opposite ends of the table.

Like poor relations, the other tables hugged the walls.
Long benches served as seats, and upon each bench five boys waited, their eyes fastened to the plain wooden bowls before them. Rough linen runners lay horizontally across the common tables, and each boy tucked the end into his collar so the runners served as a combined placemat and napkin. Fallon thought the effect strangely comic—each boy was joined both to his supper and to the lad across from him.

An older boy stationed at the door pointed Fallon to a vacant place where a bowl of dark pottage waited, and Fallon clumped across the uncarpeted floor in the heavy shoes to which he was still unaccustomed.
He slid into the spot at the bench while the company of students swiveled their eyes to study him.

His new comrades were a scrawny-looking lot with thin, pale faces and blank, unexpressive eyes.
The oldest Fallon judged to be about sixteen, while the youngest was not much older than Noshi. There were no girls present, and not a single happy expression.

A carved door in the far corner of the hall swung open on its hinges and Master Delbert Crompton entered in the company of a man in sober dark leggings and a black doublet.
Both men walked with their heads lifted and backs stiffly arched, and two boys sprang to pull the heavy chairs away from the table so the men could be seated.

When Master Crompton had unfolded his lace napkin and placed it in his lap, the other gentleman rose to his feet and began a lengthy prayer of thanks.
Fallon opened one eye to keep from dozing as the minister—for such he surely was—intoned grace over the meal that congealed in their bowls.

When the minister had finally finished, he sat down and Fallon noticed that every boy
’s eye trained on Master Crompton’s right hand. The assembled students drew in an audible breath as the headmaster picked up his knife, speared a slice of mutton, and slowly raised it to his thin lips. The instant the mutton had safely arrived in the master’s mouth, the boys scooped up their spoons and set to work on the pottage in the bowls before them.

Fallon crinkled his nose at the taste of the stuff.
‘Twas cold and bland, a curdled mixture of flour and lard and vegetables that had spent too many days in the larder. But he imitated his fellows and ate without conversation or complaint.

When Delbert Crompton put down his spoon and stood up, the boys did the same, whether they were finished or not, and filed in a single line through an open door and into several classrooms.
Fallon lingered behind, not sure where to go, until the headmaster appeared in the hallway and pointed Fallon to a small chamber. “In here,” he said, his thick finger pointing to a room where five very small boys waited in chairs. “You will begin with the ignorant ones until you have caught up with what our fine older lads know.”

Smarting in his humiliation, Fallon obeyed.

After afternoon classes in reading, writing, and Bible catechism, the boys lined up in the dining hall for a slice of bread garnished by a thin strip of cheese. This they stuffed into their mouths without ceremony, then exited the dining hall and climbed a creaking staircase to a long, narrow room known as the dormitory.

The chamber smelled of dust, mildew, and fifty sweaty boys.
A single row of high windows along the western wall lit the room with the fading beams of sunset, and Fallon could see that scores of wooden cots were stacked one upon the other in orderly rows on both sides of the room. At the furthest point of the shadowed space was the water closet.

The boys stood motionless in the narrow chamber until the headmaster
’s sharp face peered around the room. After nodding in satisfaction, Crompton closed the door and Fallon heard the distinct click of an iron key in the lock. The sound was a signal—upon hearing it, his new companions broke the mold of rigid conformity and yelped in joyful release as straw-stuffed pillows flew through the air.

Fallon ducked the soaring bags of straw and moved toward a lower bunk that appeared to be unoccupied.
A dirty, rumpled pillow lay upon a thin, sweat-stained mattress, and he paused before sitting down. “Is this bed taken?” he asked, looking toward a slender blond boy who lounged on the upper cot.

The boy turned onto his stomach and rested his chin on his hands.
“‘Twas Michael O’Hara’s place,” he said, curiosity shining in his eyes. “But Michael’s no longer here.”

“
Is he—dead?” Fallon asked, knowing all too well how death could steal souls from the land of the living.

But the blond boy laughed.
“Nay, he’s been apprenticed to a blacksmith over in Newham. Could you be thinking that the pox had taken him?”

Fallon shrugged, unsure of what the boy meant, and gingerly sat upon the bed.
The ropes supporting the mattress creaked under his slight weight as he lay down, but after weeks of sleeping with naught but the planks of the ship and canvas beneath his bones, the thin mattress felt wonderfully comforting.

Fallon ignored the commotion of the boys around him and closed his eyes, but the boy above him had other ideas.
“Faith, don’t go to sleep,” he said, lowering his head over the side of his bed and peering upside-down at Fallon. “‘Tis our only time to talk. If you but open your mouth in class or the dining hall, old Master Crompton will cane you across the hand—or worse.”

“
Cane you?” Fallon asked, propping himself up with his elbows. “What’s a cane?”

The boy rolled his eyes and snickered.
“Och, and what ship of amadons and eejits brought you in?”

“
The
Susan Constant
,” Fallon answered, not understanding the boy’s tone. “From Virginia. We only arrived yesternoon.”

The boy
’s mocking smile flattened. “In sooth?” he whispered, lowering his voice. “You came all the way from Virginia? But where were you afore that?”

Fallon shook his head.
“I was born there. John Smith sent me to England so that I might come to know the land of my father.”

“
Your father’s dead then?”

“
Aye. Killed by sickness right after I was born. But my mother married again, an Indian called Rowtag.” Fallon felt himself glowing with pride, but he couldn’t help it. “He was a chief of the Mangoak tribe, and he taught me all that a chief’s son should know.”

“
Go on!” For a moment Fallon feared that the boy thought him a liar, but sincere trust shone from the lad’s eyes. He
wanted
to believe.

“
My name is Fallon Bailie,” he said, sitting up and thrusting his hand toward the boy.

“
Brody McRyan,” the blond answered, grasping Fallon’s hand. “How old are you, Fallon?”

“
Thirteen.”

“
I’m eleven. Born on Christmas Day, I was, and killed me mother just by being born.” The boy’s voice was light, but darkness stirred in his green eyes as he spoke. “Me father died when I was five, and I’ve lived here ever since. But I’m pleased to meet you, Fallon Bailie.”

Fallon nodded soberly.
“Have you brothers or sisters?”

Brody shook his head.
“None I know of. Nor aunts nor uncles nor cousins. Once y’are in this place, y’are cut off from the world and no one comes for you. No one leaves unless they get sick and die or are apprenticed out. Michael O’Hara, who used to sleep in that bed, went out last week and I heard the scullery maid tell the laundress that Master Crompton got ten pounds of gold for him.”

“
He
sold
him?” The unwelcome image of Noshi being sold into slavery flitted across Fallon’s mind, and he shuddered.

Brody smiled again. “Nay, he apprenticed him. You really don’t know much, do you now?”