Eliot Pattison - Bone Rattler

Sleeping again, he was awakened by the sound of his door shutting, and by dim light once more reflecting through the little hatch. A stack of folded clothes had been left inside his cell door. In the corridor, the door to the outside was open, and Duncan could see that the table held a paper and two large candle lanterns.

He dressed slowly, watching the empty table. The clothes were plain and sturdy, though not cheaply made-the austere dress of a servant to a great house. As Duncan slid on the buckled shoes, his door groaned open, and he looked out to see Lieutenant Woolford retreating toward the table, where he took a seat as Reverend Arnold stepped from the shadows, closed the door to the cell corridor behind Duncan, and settled beside the officer. A stool across from the two men awaited Duncan.

“It was not a human heart,” Duncan ventured as he lowered himself onto the stool.

Woolford frowned. “The cook eventually revived and explained that it was from a pig he had butchered the night before,” the officer confirmed in a brittle tone, stroking his square jaw as he studied Duncan. The scarlet uniform coat the officer usually wore was oddly lacking in brocade or any other adornment of rank. Never had Duncan seen Woolford wear over his chest the small brass gorget that was so treasured by other army officers. Indeed, despite the aristocratic bearing that betrayed Woolford’s origins, there was a restless, feral quality about him that Duncan had never before seen in a man in uniform.

“The ship weathered the storm,” Duncan offered.

“That particular storm, McCallum,” Woolford snapped, “is one you still have to weather. Evering died, precious time was lost fighting the weather because you failed to assure the crew with the truth, then you cut the brace for the mast just as it was needed. Most of us thought ourselves dead.”

“Half the furnishings in the captain’s cabin,” a more patient voice observed, “were heaved overboard by those trying to placate the sea demons. We have obligated the Ramsey Company to bear the expense of replacement and the repairs,” Arnold explained with a sigh. “We have given our covenant you will cause no more harm.”

“I am as powerless in the prisoner hold as I am in here,” Duncan offered in a low tone, with a troubled glance toward the corridor of mildewed cells.

“You have proven otherwise,” Woolford shot back. “If you saw the fire in the captain’s eye when your name is mentioned, you would be grateful to be locked down here.” The officer coolly studied Duncan. “He has reminded us that under our own rules you are owed forty lashes for escaping.”

The complaint that leapt to Duncan’s lips died with the officer’s last words. The still-healing flesh of his back crawled at the mention of the whip.

“The captain considers you our most dangerous criminal,” Arnold interjected in a chastising voice. “But,” he added in a softer tone, “we remain aware that while you perhaps endangered every soul on board you undoubtedly saved one life.”

Duncan’s gaze drifted to the papers in front of Arnold. The clergyman’s elbow rested on the corner of the paper, a wide parchment curved at the ends. Beside it were quills, a pewter pot of ink, and a black lump of cloth.

Arnold leaned backward, letting the silence take hold as he might from the pulpit before making a profound point. “The Company has suffered a terrible blow,” he declared. The Reverend, Duncan realized, was not wearing his stiff black waistcoat, but a stylish brown frockcoat and shirt with lace cuffs-the attire of a successful merchant. “Our Aristotle has been called to a higher temple.”

“Professor Evering will be missed,” Duncan ventured, not understanding what Arnold expected of him. He found himself watching the ladder, the skin on his back still crawling. A keeper would come soon, and the flogging they intended would leave him scarred for life-if he survived it. If the captain took the whip, Duncan would never leave the mast alive.

“But Providence has provided.”

Duncan realized Arnold was staring at him, that the words were aimed at him. “Providence?”

“I personally selected every member of the Company,” Arnold reminded him. Duncan had not understood why the stranger with the clerical collar had stood beside the judge’s bench, not until the judge had declared his sentence commuted to transportation, then had turned and shaken Arnold’s hand. “You had a European education. Before your lapse of morals, you were about to commence an honorable profession.”

“That life is gone,” Duncan said in a near-whisper, glancing at Woolford as he reminded himself of Frasier’s discovery that Arnold had not been alone in selecting the men of the Company. “I am a convict now.”

Arnold pushed the lanterns to the side of the parchment so its full text was uncovered. “The essential role of the Ramsey Company,” he said with gravity, gesturing to the document, “is reshaping the destinies of men.”

Duncan gazed at him uncertainly, then began to read. On the ship Anna Rose, out of Glasgow, it began. Printed on the first line, with large ornate letters, was his own name. He read the text, then looked up in confusion. It was an indenture, a document commuting his sentence of hard labor to seven years as indentured servant. There was a line for his signature beside that of Arnold, who had signed as agent for Lord Ramsey.

“There is no dishonor in such servitude. Many free men have signed such papers to win passage to the New World,” Arnold observed.

Duncan was beginning to remember his leap over the rail. This was how it had felt when the black waters had closed around him. “I have already won passage,” he murmured, keeping his gaze on the table, watching as Arnold’s hand clenched into a fist. Confusion still nagged him, even fear, but these emotions were overshadowed by his bitter resentment of the two men before him.

“We must replace Evering as tutor to his lordship’s children,” the vicar continued. “The king can be merciful. You were convicted for shielding an old highwayman. But your trial record mentioned he was an ailing relative. Perhaps you were simply honoring your duty to an aged family member without full knowledge of the circumstances,” Arnold added in a tentative tone, as if he had been authorized not only to rewrite Duncan’s sentence but the very record of his trial. “Sign, and the lieutenant will witness.” The vicar pushed the lump of black cloth toward Duncan. It was a cap, Duncan saw, one of the black-and-grey caps worn by scholars at colleges, probably the one Evering had worn at formal Company gatherings.

Duncan suddenly recalled that young Frasier, fresh from schooling, was sometimes used by Arnold as a secretary. Frasier had known about the parchment when he had claimed that Duncan was being favored, though Duncan still could not entirely fathom the favors being suggested. “You are offering me freedom?”

“Of a kind, once off the ship. Freedom to serve Lord Ramsey in a more meaningful capacity. It is within my power to sign for the Ramsey family. You will remain a member of the Company, bound by the terms of your transportation. You will offer lessons to the men of the Company each seventh day, after services.”

“You cause me to wonder, Reverend,” Duncan said, with studied confusion in his voice. “Do you speak for God, or the king, or Lord Ramsey?”

“A man in your position,” Woolford interjected icily, “should not consider the distinction meaningful.”

Arnold folded his hands together in front of him and leaned forward, as if grateful for the opportunity to explain. “The Ramsey family has graciously appointed Arnolds to the local rectory in Kent for nearly three centuries. It is a small flock, dependent on the Ramsey estates. My elder brother tends to the spiritual needs of the tenants who remain there. I minister to the needs of the Ramsey family elsewhere, in as many ways as I am able. I am vicar of Edentown, new home of the Ramsey Company. I have the honor of also serving as a proctor to Lord Ramsey, and am empowered to conduct business in his name. Men of vision recognize that the hand of God is never confined to spiritual matters.”