The Making of a Lord

Afraid that he may be sent away Peter declares Alex to be his lord, the one he will serve.

                                                                                     Chapter Six

                                The Making of A Lord

 

Alex slept for almost twenty-four hours. Two things woke him, the familiar dull pain in the pit of his stomach, and the unfamiliar aroma of soup simmering on the stove. He opened his eyes to see the boy standing in front of the stove, his back to him, stirring the soup.  Surprised to see that he was still there, Alex remembered that the boy had called himself Peter, using the name that Alex had given him. His tired mind told him that he would have to find out the boy’s true name.  The pain in his stomach told him that questions should wait.  He saw his coat lying, folded on the back of his armchair.   He began to reach out for it when he noticed his pills on the washstand, beside a half-filled cup of water. Had Peter known that he would want them when he woke? He took two of the tablets and swallowed the half-cup of water. He leaned back against the pillow to wait for the pain to subside.

The boy, hearing his movement, looked at him and frowned. He turned back to the soup. “We have no bread,” he said, his voice directed at the pot. “We need it, for the soup.”

Alex nodded. The boy must have finished the quarter loaf they had yesterday. Then he shook his mind free from the lack of bread.  “Why are you still here?” he asked in a hoarse whisper.

“You will have soup. That,” the boy declared, “is why you are ill. You do not eat.”

My God, Alex thought. He sounds just like Rebecca. As he absorbed this command, he looked about at the room. Someone, the boy he assumed, had swept the entire room and cleaned it.   He had scrubbed the floor, sorted the papers on his desk, into tidy, meaningless little piles and cleaned the dishes. His hat, now brushed, hung on the peg next to the door. When had the boy slept? “Why didn’t you leave?” Alex asked.

“You want me to?” Peter asked. The tone of his voice was that of someone who expected nothing, who questioned nothing.  Told to go, he would leave.

Taken a bit aback, Alex mumbled, “I was just wondering why you hadn’t.”

The boy’s voice firmed. “You said that I could stay for one week, yes?”

Had he? Alex tried to remember. He might have. “Aye.”

“You eat.”  Peter spooned soup into a bowl and brought it over to him.

Alex sat up, took the bowl and sniffed the contents. He tasted it. The soup, while not up to Rebecca’s standards, tasted better than anything he could make.  “Not bad,” he mumbled.

The boy lowered his eyes.  “You do not like it?”

“I mean it’s good. It’s quite good. Where did you learn to cook?”

“Somewhere,” Peter shrugged, trying not to look pleased.  He picked up the book that he had been reading, the same copy of Gulliver’s Travels that he had once thrown at Alex. He sat in Alex’s large chair. “You finish. Then, you rest. Tomorrow you will be better, yes?”

“Aye.” Alex turned back to his soup. The sound of footsteps on the stairs leading up to the room caused him to look up.  “We have a visitor,” he said putting the bowl aside.

The boy seemed too absorbed in his book to hear. 

A knocking on the door was followed by “Alex?” The speaker was Doctor McKay.

“Open the door, lad,” said Alex

Peter looked up and then dipped back down into his book.  “You need rest. You say nothing. He will go.”      Alex stared at him for a moment.  “So, I am still your prisoner, am I?”

“You are not . . . you need rest,” Peter replied without looking up from his book.

“Let him in lad or I’ll open it myself.”

Peter put down his book, stood and dragged his way to the door, half an eye on Alex, hoping that he would change his mind. Alex said nothing more, just motioning with a wave of his hand to be a bit quicker.

The door creaked open. George, a wicker basket suspended from his left arm, his medical bag in his right hand saw the boy staring up at him with sullen resentment.  George had only seen him once before when the boy had been unconscious. “Morning lad. I’m glad that you’re up. How are you feeling?”

The boy’s reply was to stare down at the doorsill. He did not try to move out of the doctor’s way.

“Morning George,” said Alex. “Come in.”

 Peter stepped back, allowing the doctor to enter. After he had done so, the boy closed the door. As he removed his coat and hat, George looked about the room.

“Anna was up to clean, was she?”  He looked down to find the boy standing by his side, still as a statue waiting for the doctor’s hat and coat. Reminded of Ridley, his father’s footman, George handed over the coat, hat and basket. Bag in his right hand, he went over to the bed where Alex lay.  

The boy hung up the hat and coat and placed the basket on the table.   He then settled in the chair in front of the desk and drew himself back into the adventures of Gulliver.  George and Alex chatted for a few minutes about Maureen and Rebecca. George waited for Alex to finish his soup before he approached the purpose of his visit.

“Anna told Maureen about your accident on the stairs.”

Alex snorted. “Woman’s an hysteric. I slipped and she’s already planning my funeral.”

“Alex.”

“She means well enough,” Alex conceded. “What’s in the basket?”

“Just something Rebecca packed. Um, fresh bread, a game pie, some apple preserves.” 

“Make a fine dinner, won’t it lad?” Alex asked the disinterested boy.

George frowned as he busied himself with opening his bag.

“He cleaned the room for me George. He’s a good housekeeper, better than I am.”

George took out his stethoscope.  “Uh, Alex.”

Alex nodded.  “Peter, would you step outside for five minutes?”

“No.”

“Peter . . . Go outside now.   Get some fresh air. It’ll do you good.”

The boy pulled his knees up and pressed his face against them.  “I will be quiet.”

Alex repeated his request. “Just for a little while. Go on now.”

Never argue, Peter remembered. What would he do outside?  Wait beside the door. What were they going to talk about? How to rid themselves of him? Not an unreasonable thing to discuss. Peter stood.

“Have a look about the town,” Alex suggested. “We shouldn’t be long.”

The boy opened the door and stepped out. He went as far as the first step and sat. As he kicked his         heels against the steps, he wondered what to do next.   Alex said that he could look about the town. He had seen very little of it, only the view from the doctor’s window, and a glance from the yard between the building and the privy. He had never ventured out onto the street.  From inside he could hear the young doctor’s voice, muffled by the door. The man seemed angry about something. Probably about him, Peter thought. The boy clumped down the stairs, each footstep reverberating against the steps, just to show the two men his disapproval of their actions.

He went as far as the front of the alley. At its edge he paused. He looked through the store window to see Anna chatting with a lady standing in front of her counter. He had refused to speak with her when she had visited Doctor MacTavish. Peter had not seen a reason for it. Now . . . sensing that the woman was about to look at him, he ran past the store.

Peter paused at the corner of the street, looking down the road to the covered bridge that marked the northern edge of the town. From the angle of the sun he could guess in which direction lay the bridge, a fact that he would have to remember. Peter watched the few people in the street. Most people would be at work, the children in the school. The thought of that gave him a little more confidence. He found it strange, not having someone standing next to him, or behind, watching. Peter had wondered what it would be like to walk down a street by himself.  Now that he was doing it, he did not like it. He felt awkward and ill at ease. Peter thought of returning to the landing when he heard the sound of iron striking iron.

Ian was busy hammering out a new hinge for Reverend Mackenzie’s manse. He was turning the reddened metal over with his tongs when Tom nudged him.

“You have a new admirer,” he grinned.

Ian looked up to see the tramp standing beside the great double door of the forge, watching him. Ian enjoyed having an audience. After school was out village boys would crowd around the front of the forge. Some men might pause to pass a few minutes, watching him work. This respectful attention was something that he savoured. What disturbed him was that it was this child that was watching him. It was the first time that he had seen him since he and McDermott had brought him to Alex’s room.  “Morning, lad.”

The boy replied to the greeting by bolting towards Anna Cleary’s.

“What did you say to him,” Tom asked.

“Didn’t say nothing.”  Ian thought no more of it and returned to his work. 

Peter returned to his spot just outside the door of MacTavish’s room. He crouched down and waited for McKay to leave. No one would notice him. If he remained quiet he would be safe. That was all that he wanted . . . to be left alone. He would stay for a week and then leave.  Peter would never have to see any of these people again. He had been a fool to think that he could stay here. Stupid. Stupid.  At the sound of the door being opened, he jumped to his feet. 

Doctor McKay stepped outside. The man was tall, neatly dressed in well-tailored clothes. From the top of his black silk hat to the soles of his new leather shoes, he was everything that a gentleman should be.

George looked down at the boy and smiled.  “Alex says that you’ve been a great help to him.  I am glad to hear that. He says that your name is Peter? Is that right?”

“Yes.” The boy stared down at the wood planking and at the ground beneath the flight of stairs. Although, he longed to jump up, run into the room and close the door, he waited. This man was a gentleman. That meant power.  One should respect power. 

“Alex . . . Doctor MacTavish says that you will be leaving in a week’s time. Is that true?”

“Yes.”

“I think that would be wise.”

The boy agreed with him.  It would be the best thing, but he remained silent, looking down at the wood, at the ground.

“Where will you go?” George asked.

Peter shrugged. “North,” he mumbled.

The man nodded and thought for a moment.  “If you’re interested, my wife and I can probably use someone to help around the house. I couldn’t offer you much, room and board, a shilling a month.”

It would be better, Peter decided, not to refuse outright. Look as if he would consider it.

George pondered the child’s silent face. “Think it over. Let me know.”

Peter watched him descend. Much to his surprise, he heard a tentative voice.   The voice was his.   “Doctor . . . why is he ill?”

George hated that question..  Each time he replied with the same  answer.   “He’s tired . . . worked himself too hard. He needs rest. He should be fine in a few days. You make certain that he takes his nourishment. Give him broth and as much solid . . . well, just make certain that he takes his meals. Will you do that, lad?”

“Yes.” The man was lying about something. That did not surprise him. Everyone lied. That was the way of things. That did not mean that he would not consider the man’s advice. The man had been angry with Alex. The boy had picked up enough of the doctor’s words to understand that Alex was ill because of caring for him. Perhaps that was what the doctor would not tell him.

“I’ve given him some . . . medication. He’ll sleep for a while.  Best not to disturb him. Do you understand?”

“Yes.” Peter understood that he had made the old doctor ill. Now he should help make him better. That was fair. He also understood that this man in his fine clothes was like all the others. Never question, and never trust. He watched Doctor McKay leave. When the man had turned down the street, Peter went back into the room locking the door behind him.

George walked down the street too lost in thought to notice the people greeting him.  Not until he felt a heavy hand patting his left shoulder did he look up to see Ian Campbell’s bronzed face.

“Excuse me, sir. I called out but you didn’t seem to hear.”

McKay glanced down at the black spot of ash on his shoulder. He brushed it away. “What can I do for you, Ian?”

“I just wanted to ask how Alex . . . Doctor MacTavish is.”

“Well enough . . . He’s just tired you know. Feeling his age.” George pulled a white handkerchief out of a coat pocket.  “I do have to be getting back to my office.”

“I’ll come along with you, if you don’t mind?”

McKay nodded, wiping at the smudge with the handkerchief.  “Of course.”

 “It’s just that I can’t help feeling somehow responsible for his condition.”

“Why would that be, Ian?”

“I did bring that boy to him. It was too much for him, I think.”

“The boy did not cause the illness.”

“No but bringing him made everything worse, didn’t it?”

                “Yes,” McKay nodded. “I suppose that it did.”

“Alex has been feeling poorly this past winter.  Bringing that boy to your home instead of to him would have been better. I was at fault.”

“You were not at fault, Ian. You only did what you thought was best. As for taking him to Kilmarnock Hill, it is Doctor MacTavish’s opinion, and mine, that the child would not have survived another two miles in that rain.  What have you got to reproach yourself for?”

For letting a sick old man go out into the rain while he sat warming his stupid arse Ian told himself.

George placed his left hand on the blacksmith’s right shoulder.  “You like the old man, don’t you?”

“Aye, I do. He’s a strange old codger, but he’s been good to me and to my family. I want to help.”

“I know,” George nodded.  “So do I.  Let him rest tonight. Visit him tomorrow if you wish. Try not to get him excited or worried. That’s the best that anyone can do for him. Can you do that?”

“Aye, but . . . shouldn’t there be more?”

“Yes.” George dropped his hand away.  “Yes, there should be. Good day, Ian.”

Ian watched as McKay plodded through the drying mud of the street. He thought about what Doctor McKay had told him. He agreed with McKay’s advice, as far as it went. It just did not seem to go very far.  There must be something more that he could do to help.  He thought about the matter while working at the forge, and during his supper.

Sarah Campbell, worried about her son’s indifference to his food, suggested a tonic. Tom recommended wandering over to Ferguson’s for a beer. Sarah, who usually would not permit her sons to go out except on a Saturday, did not object. An evening’s relaxation might bring Ian around. Had a girl caught his fancy? High time.

***

Of the village’s three taverns, the Campbells preferred Ferguson’s. Donnelley’s was out of the question. While Patrick Donnelley was not opposed to their patronage, his patrons were, as was Sarah Campbell. No son of hers was going to be found in that nest of Fenians. The Royal Arms was acceptable to her, but a touch too formal for Ian’s taste.  The Campbells as did most of the younger, Protestant working men preferred the informality of Zedekiah Ferguson. Zedekiah kept a place where a man could spit on the floor and not be shouted at or made to feel that he had done anything boorish

The low-roofed, whitewashed common room reeked of tobacco fumes, unwashed bodies and damp, woollen clothes. The brothers broached the clouds of tobacco smoke that swirled around them and found a place at a trestle table close by the fire. One advantage of being constable was that there was always a place to sit whenever he needed one. Another advantage was that Zedekiah always gave Ian his first order for free. Giving the brothers a quick wave, Zedekiah ordered his son Henry to give up two “tall ales for the Campbells.” 

As he waited for their order, Tom fell into a conversation with the two other men at the table. One was  a peddler travelling down to Kingston having spent several days in the backcountry along the Madawaska.   The other man was a farmer, George Bell. The three discussed the possible effects of the heavy spring rains on the year’s crops.

Ian sipped at his ale and leafed through the copy of the British Whig that Bell had been reading. He was about as interested in the paper as he was in the conversation, skimming over the notices of horse auctions, shipments of wines and other fancy goods.  He found the editorial to be of some interest.   It described a meeting of women in Salem Ohio. They had demanded political and social equality, including the right to vote, and the right of married women to own property. Ian noted that they had held the meeting in a Baptist church. Sounded like something the Baptists would come up with. He was about to turn the page when he saw the notice tucked in the bottom right-hand side of the page.

TEN DOLLARS REWARD

For information leading to the whereabouts of a male servant aged 12 years, missing from employer’s residence Kingston, May 14.

What followed was a brief description of the servant and a request for any concerned person to notify the office of George Chapman, attorney, Counter Street, Kingston. The notice also reminded the respondent to describe any distinguishing physical marks found on the missing servant.   A physical mark, Ian thought, could refer to the scar on the boy’s wrist.

Ian did some quick calculating. It was just over forty miles from McDermott’s to Kingston. It had rained almost continuously from the fourteenth until the eighteenth. Could a child have covered that much distance over that muddy road in such weather? It could be done. He would take the notice over to Alex tomorrow. He remembered Doctor McKay’s words, that the old man should not get excited, that he needed rest. Ian tore out the notice and slipped it into his coat pocket.

Only when Ian was certain that his mother was asleep did he light his lamp. He reread the notice until his eyes watered. Anna’s words came to him, telling him that caring for the child was too much for Alex, that if it continued it would kill him.  It was possible, Ian conceded, that the servant referred to was not the boy. There was only one way to know. He went to the front room of the house that served as his constabulary office and the sitting room for the Campbells.  Taking out a pen and a piece of paper from his desk, he wrote a reply.               

***

Alex spent most of the day in bed. He had awakened in the early afternoon. Peter gave him his medicine.  Ignoring Alex’s protestation that he was not very hungry, the boy served him the fresh bread, apple preserves, and game pie that the doctor had brought. Aware of the boy’s eyes following every mouthful, Alex swallowed it.  While Peter was washing the dishes, Alex excused himself, and staggered down the stairs to the privy. There he vomited most of his meal.  He returned to bed where he resumed his reading of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein.

He had tried reading the book before, finding himself unable to finish it. Alex attributed this failure to two things, the absurdity of the idea of artificial life, and the fact that it was a woman’s book. Too many words and not enough sense in any of them.  The knowledge of what he had to tell the boy did not help.

Having finished with the dishes, Peter was now blacking Alex’s boots. Alex sighed, closed the book, removed his spectacles and rubbed his eyes. George was right. The boy had to go. It was a question of how to tell him. The lad had only been planning to stay a week. How much could it mean, his having to leave?

“Peter.”

Peter looked up from his polishing.

“Would you put that down lad, and come here? I have something to tell you.”

Peter knew what Alex wanted. He was going to send him away. He could not blame the man. He had hoped that by showing that he could work hard Doctor MacTavish would be prepared to overlook his earlier behaviour, but it had all come too late. The doctor had promised a week. There was no reason to expect more. Peter placed the boot on the floor and on it the rag, careful to keep the dirty side from smudging the floor. He went over to the bed, perching himself on the edge of the large chair.  Peter focused his eyes on the knob of the bedpost behind Alex’s head.   He assumed a look of stolid indifference, but the fingers of his right hand could not keep from plucking at the frayed leather of the chair.

“That man who was here, Doctor McKay, he’s a good man, you know.”

“Yes.” The boy’s voice was noncommittal. It was not argumentative, merely disinterested.

“Have you been giving any thought to what you will be doing after you leave here?”

He had been so stupid to ever think that . . . Anyway, he had expected it. He should say something.  “No.”

“Doctor McKay mentioned that he might be looking for a lad to help about his house. Perhaps he . . . said something about this to you?”

“No.”

“Oh?” Odd thought Alex. George had promised to speak to the boy. Perhaps he had forgotten. “Anyway I spoke to him and I promised that I would ask you. Are you interested?”

“No . . . thank you. May I go back to my work now?”

Alex tried to keep from sounding exasperated.  “Don’t you understand, lad? You can’t stay here beyond next week.”

The boy nodded.  “Yes . . . I understand.”  Peter rose and returned to his chair. He picked up the rag and Alex’s boot and continued with the polishing, though he could now see his face in the shining leather.

“I’m only thinking of your future, lad. It’s the best thing. What else can you do?”

“I could stay here.”

“Damn it. Haven’t you been listening? You can’t stay.”

Peter looked up from his polishing.  “Then send me away.”

“What?”

“I will leave if that is what you want.   You do not like me, I know, but I can help you.  I can try.  You are my lord. Tell me what you want. I will do it.”  He resumed the polishing.

Alex sank back against the pillow. This would be absurd if it were not for the boy’s eyes. He had been watching those brown eyes for the past week. They had shown him hate, suspicion and fear.  In the past few hours, he had seen something new, concern and the first tentative glimmering of hope. That had now faded into studied indifference, a look that he knew so well; an indifference he had seen on the faces of those awaiting the inevitable encroaching of death. What had he stumbled into?   “Lad.”

It was too late. The man knew what he was, unless . . .   “Would you like me to be someone else?”

“What?”

“It does not matter, the name.”  A tone of pleading coloured his words. “I will be anyone that you want.”

Alex had never cared for beggars. “How about being yourself?” he muttered. “Is that too much trouble?”

The boy bowed his head, looking as if the man had struck him.

“Peter . . ..” Alex thought of all the reasons why he should send the boy away. To keep him here in this room, knowing what he knew about himself, was insane, even more than taking him in that first night.  He would persuade Peter that George was the practical choice. “Why don’t you want to go to Doctor McKay’s?”

“He is not my lord.”

Alex blinked. Did the boy believe this rubbish? Behind the boy’s head he could see the picture of the death of Sir John Moore that he had purchased in Glasgow just before leaving for Canada.  The old man looked back at the child and through him. Through the years he looked at another child and then back further, through thirty-seven winters, to a dirty square, crowded with lice-ridden, half-starved men. Alex wondered what Sir John would have done, but Sir John had been dead for over forty years.

Peter waited for Alex to speak. After a while he thought that the old man had fallen asleep. He lifted his eyes to see the old man still looking at him.  “Do you want me to go?”

Alex coughed, bringing himself back to the present. “No.”

Peter struggled to keep the relief out of his voice, making it flat and controlled, the voice of a servant, addressing his lord.  “Would you like me to be Peter?”

          “Be any damn thing that you want.”  Alex turned his head, closed his eyes, and slept.

When he was certain that the jezenky was asleep, the boy stood. He went over to the bed and looked down at the haggard, unshaven face. Alex needed a shave. He would have to learn how to do that, someday, when he was older. He pulled the quilt up over the man’s shoulders. Peter settled himself into the large chair.  He thought about the others.   It must be two weeks since he had left. By now they must have given up looking for him. They would have gone back. He was nothing to them.  If he remained quiet they would leave him alone. He would live here and become Alex’s servant.  Soon the old man would be well again.  Katrina had been right. Even for something like him this could be a land of hope, if no one ever knew what it was that he had done.   Peter returned to polishing the boot.

Alex  Amazon Press

Author's Note

Canadian English