Bruce Alexander - Watery Grave

“Hah!” he crowed.” Just as I thought! I told Kate, told her again and again, that once the lad had had a taste of salt water he would never willingly return to life on shore. But being his mother, she would see it onK-her way, talked of the advantages he would have here, supposed he might return to Westminster like a proper little schoolboy. Nonsense! The lad’s sixteen years old, near a man — more a man, by God, than any clerk or secretary in the City. What do you think of him, Jeremy?”

“Pardon, sir?”

“What do you think of Tom Durham? What sort is he? ‘

“Oh. , well, a good sort.”

“Is he manly?”

“He’s good-sized.’

“Well, yes, of course, he would be at that age, but what about his manner? His voice? His bearing?”

“He’s deep-voiced, sir.” Of that I was painfully aware, for mine was at that time still a bit unreliable; I was never quite certain which octave would sound when I opened my mouth to speak.

“Has he an attitude of command? ‘

I thought of the ease with which he ordered me to take his things to the waiting hackney.” Yes sir,” said I, “I would say he does.” Then, hesitating: “And … indeed he has the speech of a young gentleman in which is mixed all manner of seaman’s terms. He talks rough, but as a gentleman might.”

“Ah,” said Sir John, “excellent, excellent.”

He drummed his fingers on the table, thinking hard upon some matter which obviously concerned Tom Durham, his face quite animated. Had it not been for the black silk band that covered his eyes, I fancied I would have seen them shining with excitement. Clearly, he had a plan.

“You’ll be going to meet him soon? ” I asked.

“Not for some time, no. I think it proper that I let them have their talk and bring it to a close. Then perhaps Kate will be willing to listen to my plan.” Feeling about the tabletop, he found a bulky letter — sealed and ready for delivery.” What I have here is for the Lord Chief Justice. You know the way to Bloomsbury Square, of course.”

I took the letter from him. Indeed I did know the way. I made the trip to the Earl of Mansfield’s impressive Bloomsbury residence once or twice a week.” Will an answer be required?” I asked.

“No, none.” And at that point he delved into the voluminous pocket of his coat, brought up some coins, and felt them to assess their worth. He offered me the whole handful.” Take these,” said he, “and take the rest of the afternoon for yourself. Go to Grub Street and buy a book or two. Do whatever you like, Jeremy.”

He urged them toward me, and I took them.” Thankyou. Sir John,” said I.” I believe I’ll do just so.”

“We simply must get you onto some regular system of payment. Remind me, please.”

“Oh, I shall. Sir John.”

“Go now, but be back early for dinner.”

So it was that I returned not much after Five and found Mrs. Gredge quite in a state. She was running about the kitchen aimlessly, wiping her hands on her apron.

“Oh, Jeremy, where was you, boy? I needed you so!”

“But you told me to leave! Pushed me out, you did.”

She sighed. “Oh, I may have,’ said she. “Yet when I need you, I need you.”

“What is it that you want, Mrs. Gredge?”

“You must put the roast in the oven for me,” said she.” I built the fire up hot. It’s all ready to go, but I’m fearful I may not have the strength for it.”

“Just open the oven doors, Mrs. Gredge, and I shall do what needs be done.”

She scurried to the oven and, using a good, thick rag, did as I asked. The oven fire was indeed hot — I hoped not too hot to cook the roast proper. As for the roast itself, I knew it was not near so heavy as she had made it out to be. I had bought it from Mr. Tolliver myself and carried it home. I knew well she could lift it, iron pan, potatoes, and all; I had lately seen her lift heavier loads. I wondered at her game.

Yet I did not challenge her. I simply asked why she had not sought the help of Tom Durham in my absence.

Her answer struck me as queer: “Oh, I would not do that. Is the dinner tonight not in the young gentleman’s honor?”

And so, reasoning that what I had put in the oven I should also be called upon to take out, I took a place in the kitchen, opened the book I had bought at Boyer’s in Grub Street, and settled down to read. Mrs. Gredge continued to fly about in a most distracting manner, doing the many other tasks that needed to be done. Sir John came at last from below, where he had been in a long conference with Mr. Marsden, the court clerk. Offering perfunctory greetings, he made his way through the dining room to the sitting room.

The book I had got was Lord Anson’s A Voyage Roiinc) the W”orl(— a.n old edition, got at a good price. Lady Fielding had urged me to learn more of the world’s geography. Sir John seemed eager that I learn more of the sea. And the book dealt at some length with China, so perhaps it would give me something to discuss with Tom Durham; I hoped so, tor indeed we seemed to have precious little in common. I had but read through the introduction by the true author of the book, one Richard Walter, the chaplain of the Centurion, the vessel on which the voyage had been accomplished, when, much to my astonishment, Mrs. Gredge suddenly grasped the table where I sat, cried out with something like a moan, and quite collapsed into the chair next mine, breathing with difficulty in great gasps.

Was she unconscious? Was this an attack of apoplexy? I had no idea. What was I to do? Having no better thought, I brought her a cup of water. Surely that would help. I asked her to drink a bit of it. She obliged me and moaned out her desire to talk with Sir John. Having heard that, I ran on through to the sitting room. There I banged rather peremptorily on the door, threw it open, and announced that Mrs. Gredge had collapsed.

There was a great rush to follow me back to the kitchen.

“Has she fainted?”

“Did she fall to the floor?”

Then, beholding her, her head lolled over the back of the chair and her hands knotted uselessly in her lap, Lady Fielding flew to her side, exclaiming, “You poor, dear woman, what is it has failed you?”

“My strength,” said Mrs. Gredge, in a voice which proved her weakness.” Sir John?”

“I am here, Mrs. Gredge.”

“I think I should go to my bed. Could Jeremy help me up the stairs?”

“Certainly,” said he.” Jeremy and Tom will carry you up.”

We struggled up with her to the floor above and returned hurriedly to the kitchen.

There I was met by two stern, unsmiling faces.

“Jeremy,” said Sir John, “had you no earlier sign Mrs. Gredge was so near collapse?”

“None, sir,” said I.” She was fluttering and flying about the kitchen till the moment she slumped down in the chair.”

“And where were you at the time?”

“Right there at the table.”

“Doing what, if I may ask?”

“I was reading, I … thought to be nearby if she asked for further help.”

“Further help? Explain yourself, please,” said Sir John, most solemnly. It was his court voice. There was no holding out against it.

I took a deep breath and told the truth: “She had asked me to put the roast in the oven for her. She said she feared she had not the strength.”

“And did you not take that as a sign she was weakening? ” Again that solemn tone — and I so frightened and ashamed I thought I could not speak, though I knew I must.

But at last: “At the time, sir, I thought she was shamming. I … I can see now I was wrong.”

“And why did you think that, Jeremy?” asked Lady Fielding.

“Because I had often seen her lift heavier loads quite recent.”