Matthew Pearl - The Last Dickens

Charles Dickens would scream out a bombastic, ridiculous speech like he were sitting in the House of Commons, then interrupt himself in an entirely different voice arguing the opposite point of a more absurd and bombastic character. Frank would swear his father somehow talked over himself during these tests. Frank, trying his hardest to concentrate, would fall over laughing, and by the end of the parliamentary debate, both father and pupil were rolling on the rug in side-shaking hysteria. He resembled his father physically, more so than any of the other boys; but at those times he felt as though they were actual twins. Frank's page of shorthand, meanwhile, would end up like absurd, meaningless hieroglyphics.

Frank had heard that his diminutive younger brother, Sydney, who was in the Royal Navy, had been nicknamed by his mess mates “Little Expectations” after Great Expectations was published. Frank had never been meant to follow in his father's foot tracks, but he would not be seen to the world as a failure.

The first spot Frank had chosen in the sun-scorched ground yielded nothing, but after consulting the map again the squadron unearthed a mango wood chest sealed in pitch. After another two hours had passed, five more chests, the total promised by the thief, were discovered.

Frank climbed down from the elephant. The heavy chests were soon lined up in a row. Meanwhile, a small crowd had gathered from the nearby village to watch.

“Get the natives away from here. They have seen that the thieves will not beat us, that is enough.”

But Frank's order was not heeded fast enough. Several of the native women had begun to dance and this was sufficient to distract the opium policemen. In the meantime, more natives were slowly emerging from the edge of the jungle.

“Rifles,” Frank said, then louder: “Rifles up!”

At that moment, the band of natives charged with flaming torches and spears. Frank ordered his men to fire and, several volleys later, the raiders had fled back into the dense woods.

“They do not like white police in these districts,” offered a local policeman bemusedly.

Frank turned to his men, who were shamefaced at having been duped. “Open the chests. I want each one examined thoroughly.”

“Rocks!” one of the policemen cried. He had discovered that about one third of the lumps of opium in the chest had been replaced with stones of about equal weight. In the other chests it was the same.

Frank did not evince any surprise; he simply took one of the rocks and put it in his satchel.

Liverpool, the docks the next morning

THE TRAVELERS, NOW RESIGNED TO GOING HOME, FELT FORTUNATE to push off aboard the Samaria once again. Booking passage at such short notice would have been nearly impossible, as Osgood's passport had been held since the suspicious situation in which he'd been found after the incident at the opium rooms. Marcus Wakefield was himself embarking on one of his frequent business trips between England and America. In a matter of hours, and with great expense billed to the publishing firm, he had passage arranged for Osgood and Rebecca on the same ship. In conjunction with Tom Branagan's urgings through the police department, Wakefield employed his influence to release Osgood's passport for travel.

On the way to the harbor, Osgood and Rebecca sat with Wakefield in the merchant's coach. Tom and another police constable walked on opposite sides of the street so they could watch for Herman. Each of the two pedestrians held up an umbrella and kept his hat pulled down low on his face. There was no sign of Herman and the two Americans boarded with the tea merchant quickly and quietly.

Aboard the steamship, Wakefield was as solicitous a friend as ever, though both Osgood and Rebecca noticed a certain petulant charge to his demeanor.

“I am afraid since we last traveled my business has entered a period of great dullness,” Wakefield explained with a touch of embarrassment in the saloon to Osgood over tea. “My partners are quite circumspect about general prospects. Enough of my gloominess, though. What about you, my friend? It seems you were rather burning the candle at both ends in England.”

“Indeed, I suppose I was,” said Osgood. “What did you say this was, Mr. Wakefield?”

“Ah, it's called oswego. It's believed to have curative properties-good for the stomach and to prevent nausea. Do you like it?”

“It makes me feel plucked up already, thank you.”

“Well, I should say you are in quite better form than when I saw you in the company of the police in London, covered in rat bites!” Wakefield said, laughing. “I pray this is at least a respite for dear Miss Sand. All she endured with her brother, Daniel. Awful, senseless tragedy, by the sound of it.”

“We shall always be grateful for your assistance, Mr. Wakefield. Even though it is now over.”

“Yes, yes, absolutely.” He raised his wineglass. “To the health of us all now that this is over!” After taking a drink, he added, “Now that what is over, Mr. Osgood?”

“A great disappointment,” Osgood answered.

Wakefield nodded regretfully, as if their business disappointments were the same.

Osgood smiled, appreciating the sympathy. “Sit with me at supper, Mr. Wakefield, and I shall unburden it all to you then, if you shall hear it. I owe you that. One day I hope to be able to do you as decent a service as you have done for us,” said Osgood.

“Your trust is quite enough reward for me, dear Mr. Osgood. Quite enough!” Then Wakefield paused and seemed to have a tickle in his throat as he spoke again. “Perhaps there is one thing you could do, if you're willing. But I hesitate to ask.” Wakefield fell silent, engaging in his habitual knee-tapping.

“I insist on it.”

“Pray, Mr. Osgood, a good word from you to Miss Sand about my character… Well, she respects you very much.”

“Why, Mr. Wakefield…” Osgood seemed lost deep in a troubled thought.

“I have grown to admire her a great deal, as I think you know. Will you do me this one favor?”

“I would not deny you any favor, my friend.” Osgood was about to say more when the bell rang from the dining saloon.

“Shall we continue this over our meal?” Wakefield suggested with a hearty smile.

INSTEAD OF GOING in to dinner with the others, Osgood stood on deck at the railing, looking out at the brilliant gleam of the sea. He closed his eyes as the mist sprayed his unshaven face.

“Mr. Osgood? Are you feeling unwell?”

Osgood turned to look over his shoulder, but quickly turned back. It was Rebecca. He had not prepared what he would say to her.

“No, no,” Osgood said. “I believe I am almost fully healed with London behind us, as a matter of fact.”

“Well, I suppose we should get to our tables for dinner.”

“Mr. Wakefield is a fine man. He has been a true friend to us, as you know.”

“What?”

Osgood said, “I just wished to say that.”

“Very well,” Rebecca said, a little confused.

He wished he could explain to Rebecca. He wished he could find a way to express the feelings that had been so clear to him the night of his opium stupor when everything else had been a blur. Now, there were the rules again-his, as her employer, hers, given by the courts. Wakefield, for his part, had practically asked Osgood's permission when they had first met on this same ship. Miss Sand is an excellent bookkeeper was all Osgood had managed to say. An excellent bookkeeper! Osgood sighed. “I suppose, because he is English, the courtship of such a man as Mr. Wakefield would hold great appeal.”