Colleen McCullough - Morgan’s Run

They got Richard upstairs, put him on his bed and undressed him; he had worn holes in the bottom of his shoes, for he had walked almost thirty miles between dawn and dusk. But when Cousin James-the-druggist tried to make him swallow a dose of laudanum, he pushed the glass away.

No, William Henry was not dead. Would never have gone close enough to the river to drown. He had lectured his son on the subject, said that the Avon was hungry, and William Henry had listened, had understood the danger. Richard knew as well as Dick, the Cousins James and Mr. Prichard what must have transpired between boy and man: Parfrey had made amorous advances and William Henry had fled. But not in the direction of the river. An agile, clever little boy like William Henry? No, he would have scrambled up into the rocks and made his escape across country; even now he might be curled up asleep beneath some sheltering bank on Durdham Down, prepared to make the long walk home tomorrow. Terrified, but alive.

And so Richard comforted himself, talked himself away from the truth everybody else saw clearly, glad of one thing: that Peg had not lived to witness this. Truly God was good. He had taken Peg as if with a bolt of lightning, and closed her eyes before they could know despair.

Some thousandsflocked with the Mayor’s consent to help search for William Henry. Every sailor on watch scanned the mud in his vicinity, sometimes leaped overboard to examine a huddled, greasy grey heap amid the four-legged carcasses and the refuse of 50,000 people. To no avail. Those who could afford horses rode as far afield as the Pill, Blaize Castle, Kingswood, and every village within miles of Clifton and Durdham Down; others prowled the river-banks turning over barrels, sloppy floats of turf, anything that might catch and conceal a body. But no one found William Henry.

“ ’Tis a week,” said Dick gruffly, “and there is no sign. The Mayor says we must give it up.”

“Yes, I understand, Father,” said Richard, “but I will never give it up. Never.”

“Accept it, please! Think what it is doing to your mother.”

“I cannot and will not accept it.”

Was this blind refusal to accept better than those oceans of tears he had shed when little Mary died? At least they had been an outlet. This was awful. More awful by far than Peg or little Mary.

“Did Richard lose all hope of finding William Henry,” said Cousin James-the-druggist over a mug of rum, “he would have nothing whatsoever to live for. His whole family is gone, Dick! At least this way he can hope. I have prayed and the Reverend James has prayed that there never is a body. Then Richard will survive.”

“This ain’t survival,” said Dick. “It is a living Hell.”

“For you and Mag, yes. For Richard, it is the prolongation of hope-and life. Do not badger him.”

Richard hadnot found a job either, but that did not carry the same urgency it would have were his father not in the tavern business. Ten years had gone by since Dick took up the license of the Cooper’s Arms, which had outlived most of the other less pretentious taverns in Bristol’s center. Though it could never expect the likes of the Steadfast Society or the Union Club to darken its door, and despite those dreadful years of depression, the Cooper’s Arms still had its customers. The moment an old regular got his job back or found a new one, he returned with his family to his old watering place. So the summer of 1784 saw the Cooper’s Arms in fairly good condition-not as full as it had been in 1774, but sufficiently so to keep Dick, Mag and Richard busy. Nor was it necessary to find school fees for William Henry.

Two months went by. In September, Colston’s opened its gates to paying pupils again-though not with Mr. Prichard as the new Head. The disappearance of William Henry Morgan and the suicide of George Parfrey, Latin master, had effectively ruined his chances to succeed to that august position. As the old Head was not there to bear the blame for this nightmare, the Reverend Mr. Prichard inherited its mantle-and its odium. Questions were being asked in the Bishop’s Palace by some very important Bristolians.

At about the same moment as Colston’s reopened, Richard had a letter from Mr. Benjamin Fisher, Collector of Excise, asking to see him at once.

“Ye may wonder,” said Mr. Fisher when Richard reported in, “why we have not yet arrested William Thorne. That we will do only as a last resort-so far we have concentrated our energies upon Mr. Thomas Cave in the hope that he will produce the sixteen hundred pounds’ fine necessary to settle the matter without prosecution. However,” he went on, beginning to smile in quiet satisfaction, “evidence has come to light which puts a different complexion on the case. Do sit down, Mr. Morgan.” He cleared his throat. “I heard about your little boy, and I am very sorry.”

“Thank you,” said Richard woodenly, seating himself.

“Do the names William Insell and Robert Jones mean anything to you, Mr. Morgan?”

“No, sir,” said Richard.

“A pity. Both of them worked at Cave’s distillery during your time there.”

“As still men?”

“Yes.”

Frowning, Richard tried to remember the eight or nine faces he had seen around the gloomy cavern, regretting now that he had held himself aloof from those workmen’s parties while Thorne was away. No, he had no idea which one was Insell, or Jones. “I am sorry, I simply do not remember them.”

“No matter. Insell came to me yesterday and confessed that he had been withholding information, it seems from fear of what Thorne might do to him. At about the time that you discovered the pipes and casks, Insell overheard a conversation between Thorne, Cave and Mr. Ceely Trevillian. They were talking about the illicit rum in plain terms. Though Insell had not suspected the swindle as he went about his work, this conversation made it clear that there was collusion among the three to defraud the Excise. So I intend to prosecute Cave and Trevillian as well as Thorne, and Excise will be able to get its money by garnishing Cave’s property.”

A small shaft of feeling penetrated Richard’s numbness; he sat back and looked contented. “That is excellent news, sir.”

“Do nothing, Mr. Morgan, until the case comes to trial. We will have to investigate matters some more before we move to arrest the three, but rest assured that it is going to happen.”

Two months ago the news would have sent him whooping back to the Cooper’s Arms; today it was merely of passing interest.

“I cannot remember Insell or Jones,” he said to his father, “but my evidence is corroborated.”

“That,” said Dick, pointing into a corner, “is William Insell. He came while ye were away and asked to see you.”

One look at Insell’s face jogged Richard’s memory. A fresh young fellow, good-natured and hardworking. Unfortunately he had been Thorne’s chief butt; twice he had felt Thorne’s rope’s end, and twice he had suffered the flogging without fighting back. Not unusual. To fight back meant losing one’s job, and in hard times jobs were too precious to lose. Richard would never have suffered so much as the threat of a flogging, but Richard had never been in a situation where the rope’s end was an alternative. Like William Henry, he had the knack of avoiding corporal punishment without needing to be obsequious; he was also a qualified craftsman, not a simple workman. Insell was a perfect victim, poor fellow. Not his own fault. Just the way he was made.

Richard carried two half-pints of rum to the corner table and sat down. This was indicative of a change in his behavior that no one had thought it wise to comment upon; Richard was drinking rum these days, and increasingly so.