The Road to Reckoning (11 page)

I tidied up the glass and my wet smock with a cloth that I got myself. It was true I had cried lately and had relished it as a child might but I did not understand children’s ways. No, that is not true. I understood them. I just hated them. Hated being them.

When I had gone along the road with my father and shot at imaginary Indians I had been quiet and felt guilty for enjoying it. Then I had seen my father killed and seen real Indians among the trees and been left by my only hope in the world. I did not entertain being a child ever again.

Mrs Carteret came in and the girl bounced to her side.

‘He spilled his glass, Mrs Carteret!’

She told her to hush and not to mind. ‘Now, Martha, he’s just shy, that’s all.’ She held out her arm for me, her palm down. ‘Come with me, Thomas. Come on, boy.’

I put down the cloth and went around the table. Mrs Carteret took my hand and Martha waited for Mrs Carteret to look aside and leaned in on me as I passed and kissed my cheek.

I never saw her again but I have never forgotten that sly peck, and I have forgotten hundreds of kisses. The sly ones are the best.

I have met many men since of the like that encompassed mister William Markham. They are those middle-aged, waist-spreading, no-neck types who have lost the joy and privilege of life with the loss of their hair. They have little control in the movings of the world but rule like kings over what little they do possess. I have found that they often use charities, churches, and government as good places to hide and rule; the real world would see them for what they are and they would starve. They have education and a pen and will write to you to tell you that you are dead and inform you that you are wrong when you try to correct them.

He was in black cloth and white collar and sat at Mrs Carteret’s parlor table like on a throne. He pulled down his glasses—eight dollars’ worth, I reckoned—and summed me up as a boy in a white smock.

I had gone a good hour without thinking about Henry Stands and I had thought my road home was now safe and assured without him. Mister Markham did not see that it was all so simple. He asked me my name, confirmed that I had eaten, and then began.

‘Now, Thomas, as I understand it, Mrs Carteret informs me that you have recently become an unfortunate among us. That your poor father has been taken from you in murder and you are now an orphan in our town. Is that a truism, Thomas?’ He eyed me as if I would lie about such a thing for some headcheese.

‘I know I need the law, sir. My father was killed by a murderer named Thomas Heywood, but I have a home in New York and my aunt—her name is Mary Sample—will care for me. She lives in our house.’

He shuffled his chair to show me his shiny trousers. ‘Well, can you tell me what has befallen you, Thomas, so I may have a record of it, so as we may help you, son?’

I gave it all, calmly as I could, but got flushed at times, and he saw this and was kind enough to let me cool down and he stayed his pen and asked Mrs Carteret for some water for me.

I told him all about the good Chet Baker, and the deceit of the Hoosier Henry Stands, not modifying anything about that villain’s treatment of me, including his swipe to my face and abandonment. I also stressed voraciously that it was most probable that the murderer Thomas Heywood was now set to find me to clear his mistakes.

Mister Markham took this all down with a purse of his lips and shaking of his head at my tribulations. He set his pen down the moment I had finished. I do not think he could have raced his pen fast enough to write the half of it.

‘Thomas.’ He pulled his waistcoat to fit better. Fat as he was I would have advised he do without. ‘You do know how important it is to tell the truth, now, don’t you, son?’

‘I do, sir.’

‘Is this all the truth, Thomas?’

‘It is, sir.’

‘Where do you live, Thomas?’

‘New York. The city, sir.’

‘And what is your address?’

I froze, and he saw it and smiled wickedly.

I did not know my address!

Understand that I can take you there, even today. I could guide you to that four-story redbrick house with the four stone steps off a cobbled street as sure as I can show you my son’s graves. But I was twelve then and did not know. I did not need to know. It was my home. I lived in New York. I realized on that rug that I did not know where mister Colt’s factory was neither, other than I could probably get there from the ferry.

‘I … I know where it is, sir, but … but I am schooled at home. I do not go out much. It is near the river and the piers. In Manhattan. We left from Pier 18. Just a left and straight down.’

I blurted out some names of stores and tradesmen I knew but I could see I might as well have spoke of canyons on the moon. Mrs Carteret put her hand on my shoulder and squeezed as mister Markham rubbed his chin.

‘Thomas.’ He sighed. ‘I must look more into this. I shall write to the council in New York with your father’s name and your aunt’s and we shall try to help you. I will also write to Mister Chet Baker to confirm your story as best he is able and—’

I interrupted, which I never did when adults spoke.

‘But you can ride to Mister Baker’s in little more than a day! I will take you!’

He adjusted himself again. ‘I will
write
to Mister Chet Baker to confirm. That will be the way of it, son.’ No doubt it was his pen that kept him fat.

‘In the meantime you must spend some days with the good folks at the orphan asylum in Philadelphia. Our church’s affiliation. They will care for you until we can find your proper place or—should you be imaginative in your current distress—a new family for you.’

I ran to the table and he ducked from me as if I might strike him.

‘No! I have a horse! I can find my own way home! I have seen a map! I crossed the Delaware gap with my father! The road leads there! Mister Colt owes me seventy-five dollars! I can get home!’

‘Son, you have no
money
on you to get you home! It costs coin to cross the Delaware and fare to New York city! As it is we must sell your horse to pay for your transit and support at the asylum. You have admitted to being an orphan. We cannot permit you to ride the road alone now that we have taken you into our conscience. Your aunt will be made aware, if she exists at all, and in time we will settle the matter. You are better off than some. I assure you it would only be for a month or two once my letters are responded.’

Mrs Carteret hauled me back by my shoulders, hushing me all the while, but I had more.

‘There is my book! It has Mister Colt’s details and my father’s hand. Take me to Mister Colt! Jude Brown is my mother’s horse!
He is mine!
’

Mister Markham brushed me off him although I had not come close.

‘Son, we do not wish you
harm.
But nor do we fly to the corners of the earth on a child’s whims!’

The corners of the earth?

‘We wish only to protect you. All will occur in its good time. The asylum is the safest place for you if you truly believe that a man may be out for you. You are in the arms of the Lord and, through my strength and honor, under the protection of the law. I promise that I will write a letter as soon as you are safely secured in St John’s.’

Mrs Carteret whispered to my ear, ‘It is for the best, child. The Lord preserved you and sent you to me. Praise be.’

She almost cursed at the ringing of the bell above the door and left me in the room with mister Markham. He looked at me sympathetically but I could respond only with red.

‘My horse cannot be sold, sir,’ I said. ‘I have already lost my mother’s wagon. I am not an orphan as you know it. I have a home. I only want to go home. I am despairing that no-one is willing to assist me!’

Mister Markham was not listening. He was straining his concentration to the hall. My life had been penned into his notes. The asylum door was already closing. I imagined only a great stone edifice and a door like on a castle in picture books and maybe my image was not that wrong for all that. I listened to the mumbles in the hall with him.

Mrs Carteret was insisting on someone. Their voices were muffled and polite and then stress began to rise in her feminine inflection as women of her ilk do when trying to be forceful. I heard her squeal as her own door pushed her aside and I recognized the voice that had flung her wide.

‘Move, harpy! I am coming in, damn you!’

It was Henry Stands! And he was right to call that damn woman a harpy who had spirited me away like a siren with promise of eggs and bacon.

The door of the parlor crashed and there was the long coat and old hat and the guns.

And a giant in mister Markham’s sight filled the doorframe.

Mrs Carteret shadowed but Henry slammed the door on her. I could have told her that Henry Stands had no time for women, even in their own houses. I hoped there was a mister Carteret who would come to defend his old wife. He would get his jaw broke for his trouble and regret meeting her when Henry Stands was done.

Henry Stands gave me no eye and only looked mister Markham up and down and snorted derisively through his beard as I should have done when I judged him.

‘This boy is with me,’ he said. I could smell the rum on him. ‘I have been bestowed by his father to take him home.’

‘And who are you, sir, to barge in so into a Christian home?’ mister Markham pushed himself up on his chair arms. A mouse before a bear.

‘My name is Henry Stands.’ He stiffened up right tall and so did I. ‘I am obliged that you looked after the boy whilst I had business. We will move along now.’ He took my hand and I squeezed it back until my nails bit.

Mister Markham smarmed in his seat. ‘Oh! So you be the same Henry Stands who put that red mark on the boy’s cheek? Who abandoned him last?’

‘The very same.’ He tipped his hat. ‘Thank you for looking after the boy.’

‘Are you a blood relative, Mister Stands?’

‘I gets around.’ He pulled me to leave but mister Markham had already written a sheaf of paper about me with his pen.

‘I only ask, Mister Stands, because Thomas here is now the property of the St John’s Orphan Asylum for Boys. We will ensure that his family is found, and safe passage for him back home. You may relinquish your responsibility to him.’ He pulled his waistcoat over his shirt, showing above his pants. ‘He is in my care. And I speak for the
law
.’

Henry Stands stood still as if he came to this house every day to collect his rent, and mister Markham shrank a little.

‘The law you understand is the law of advantage.’ Henry turned on him fully. ‘I would spit that these boys in your “asylum” get a dollar a month to be looked after by your church. And you get half to see to it. You get them sewing or cutting wood and making plows to make them a trade, you say, and sell on their work for profit. Each boy you take in is cents in your pocket. So you will rush to get him back to his family, will you not, man who has not introduced himself to me?’

Mister Markham flushed and spouted as if to burst: ‘I am a God-fearing man, sir! I work for a charity under God!’

Henry Stands pressed my hand and I looked at it grow white.

‘I am a man, sir, who takes back prisoners who have absconded. I have spent a time walking those men back to jail. I have heard their stories about your asylums that set them on their way.’

Mister Markham’s flush went away and he paled, his lips white with anger. ‘That boy is under my protection and is a record of the law, sir!’

I had never seen Henry Stands draw a pistol in the short time I had known him. They were there, his pistols, as ornaments on the man, and in truth I had seen him hold only one of my father’s Colts and his magnificent wind-rifle. To see him throw down, to hear the leather scabbard scrape, was fearful and final. He did not do this for show.

Henry Stands pulled on mister Markham and I guessed that for mister Markham this was the first occurrence of such a sight in his life for his eyes near outgrew his spectacles.

Henry Stands cocked his pistol.

‘So protect him.’

You did not want to hear that voice.

Mister Markham shivered under the gun. His demeanor reduced from firebrand to corpse
, his eyes wider than them eight-dollar frames. He put up his hands and it would shame me to describe the sound of his pleading whines.

Henry Stands put back his pistol. ‘Stay sat,’ he said. He leaned to the door with me still in his other hand, mister Markham gone from his mind.

‘Come, son,’ he murmured.

Son,
he had said! And I absorbed the word like sunlight in winter. He had still not used my name and until that point in our association he had only ever called me ‘boy.’

I never asked him why he came back. I have pictured often that he went on up the road in the night, in the rain, and cursed me.

He had found shelter under trees and drank his rum and cursed me.

He ate his corn dodgers and jerky and cursed me.

And then, somewhere in the dawn, he had looked back along the road and cursed me louder and came back to get me. And cursed all the way.

He pulled back the door and Mrs Carteret stood on the stair with a shotgun and cocked it to us.

‘Mister,’ she said calmly as if the steel were a rolling pin. ‘I don’t know who you are but this is my house. I have girls here. If I shoot you I am in my right. Let the boy go. The Lord has him now, you Hoosier
trash
!’

I looked up at Henry Stands and he pulled me behind him but his eyes were fixed to Mrs Carteret.

‘Ma’am.’ His voice was cleaner than I had ever heard it. No rum-and-tobacco harshness. ‘I have never shot a woman.’

I think me and Mrs Carteret expected more from him but I think Henry Stands thought that enough. She must have looked at his past down her shotgun’s twin barrels pointed at his eyes and seen the same as mister Markham. This was not the first time he had stared down a gun. She let the barrels point to the floor.

‘You
swine
!’ she hissed through her tears. ‘God help that poor boy. God save him from Hoosiers!’

I tugged his sleeve and brought down his ear. I was still in my smock and naked beneath but I would want my things. Henry nodded and threw his look back to Mrs Carteret.