Morgan's Run Read online

  How to tell him that he would always be noticed? Interesting that the father, so like him in the face, lacked the son’s vital spark. Richard Morgan would never turn heads, never stop the world spinning. Whereas William Henry Morgan did the first every day of his life, and might possibly manage to do the second one day. His conversation was typical of his age, though it did indicate a careful upbringing—until, that is, he got onto tavern doings and betrayed that there were few of the baser human passions he had not witnessed, from flashing knives to lust to manic furores. Yet none of it had tainted him; not the faintest whiff of corruption emanated from him.

  So when they walked together out of the Hotwells House it seemed perfectly natural to turn their footsteps in the direction of the place where William Henry had picnicked with his father, and George Parfrey had watched them from above. Not a large spot, nor contiguous with the long stretch of the Avon bank on the Bristol side of the Hotwells House. A mere twenty feet of grassy verge between St. Vincent’s Rocks and another, lower outcrop. Inside a forest, it would have been a dell.

  Though nine months had gone by since the day the two Morgans had picnicked there, the scene was curiously static; the Avon was at exactly the same level, flooding in toward its full, the grass was exactly the same shade of green, the cliffs reflected exactly the same intensity of light. Time out of mind. A chance to put one foot into the future and keep the other in the past. As if today were plucked from existence, time out of mind.

  William Henry sat while George Parfrey produced his sketchbook and a piece of charcoal.

  “May I watch you, Uncle George?”

  “No, because I am taking your likeness. That means you must keep still and forget that I am looking at you. Count the daisies. When I am done, you may see yourself.”

  So William Henry sat and George Parfrey looked.

  At first the charcoal moved swiftly and surely, but as the minutes passed the strokes on the paper grew fewer, and finally ceased to be made. All Parfrey could do was look. Not only at so much beauty, but at the shape of his fate.

  The timing is wrong—utterly wrong. I am fathoms deep in love with a complete innocent who is over thirty-five years my junior. By the time that I could awaken him to love, he would find nothing in me to love. Now that, Bill Shakespeare, is a tragedy worth the writing. When he is Hamlet, I will be Lear.

  The hair ribbon had long fluttered away, so the dark mass of curls fell around the face with the same drama as dense coal smoke taken in a high wind. The skin was satin—peach—ivory—the thin blade of aquiline nose as patrician as the bones of the cheeks, and the mouth, full and sensuous, creased in its corners as if on the verge of a secret smile. But all that was as nothing compared to the eyes!

  As if sensing Parfrey’s change in mood, William Henry looked up and directly at him, the enigmatic smile suddenly seeming to the dazzled Parfrey an invitation offered from some part of himself that William Henry did not know existed. The eyes filled with light and the dark flecks danced amid the gold because the sun, glancing off a water-slicked rock, was caught up in them too.

  He could not help himself. It was done before a thought could flicker into his mind. George Parfrey crossed the distance between himself and his nemesis and kissed William Henry on the mouth. After that he had to hold the boy—could not bear to let him go—had to sample the skin of brow and cheek and neck with his lips—caress the small body which vibrated as a cat purred.

  “Beautiful! Beautiful!” he was whispering. “Beautiful!”

  The boy tore himself away frantically, leaped to his feet and hovered, eyes rolling in shock, uncertain which way to run. Terror was not yet a part of it; all of him was concentrated upon flight.

  As his madness lifted Parfrey rose to stand with one hand outstretched, not understanding that he was blocking the route William Henry saw as his only avenue of escape.

  “William Henry, I am so sorry! I did not mean to harm you, I would never harm you! I am so sorry!” Parfrey gasped, spreading his arms wide in an appeal for forgiveness.

  Terror came. William Henry saw hands reaching for him, not the appeal, and turned to flee another way. There at his feet lay the Avon, the color of blued steel, coiling and twisting as it poured out of the gorge in a sinuous torrent. Mr. Parfrey was edging closer, his arms wanting to grab and imprison, a smile on his mouth that was no smile. The Cooper’s Arms had taught him what such smiles meant, for while Father and Grandfather were not looking other men had smiled so, whispered invitations. William Henry knew the smile was false, yet he mistook the reason for its falseness.

  His head came up, he gazed into the sun blindly.

  “Daddaaaaa!” he wailed, and jumped into the river.

  The Avon in this place was not swimmable, nor could Parfrey swim. Even so, as he ran madly up and down the short piece of bank between the rocks looking for anything in that tide, he would have leaped into the water at the glimpse of a hand, an arm—anything! But nothing appeared. Not leaf, not twig, not branch, let alone William Henry. He had sunk like a stone, unresisting.

  What had the child thought? What had he seen as he stood on the brink of the river? Why so much horror? Had he actually preferred the river? Did he know what he was doing when he jumped? Or was he incapable of reason? He had cried out for his dadda, that was all. And jumped. Not stumbled. Not fallen. Jumped.

  At the end of half an hour Parfrey turned away. William Henry Morgan was not going to bob gasping to the surface. He was dead.

  Dead, and I have killed him. I thought of self and self alone, I wanted an invitation and I deluded myself into believing he was giving me an invitation. But he was nine years old. Nine. I am cast out. I am anathema. I have murdered a child.

  He found his horse, mounted it slackly and rode toward Bristol, oblivious to the interested regard of one old lady and two crippled women. How extraordinary! There went the man, but where was the dear little boy?

  The horse he abandoned outside Colston’s gates and passed into the mourning institution without seeing a soul, though some saw him, and looked startled. In his cubicle he put the sketchbook on his table where he could see William Henry’s face from every corner, then took a small key from his fob and unlocked the wooden box which held those objects he did not want the likes of snooping Reverend Prichard to see. Inside among an untidy collection of memorabilia—a lock or two of hair, a polished agate stone, a tattered book, a painted miniature—lay another box. Inside it reposed a tiny gun and all the paraphernalia necessary to keep the gun in working order. A lady’s muff pistol.

  Ready, he went to the table, sat upon the narrow chair, dipped his quill in the inkwell, automatically wiped its tip free of excess ink, and wrote across the bottom of the sketch.

  “I have caused the death of William Henry Morgan.”

  He signed his name and shot himself in the temple.

  Consternation began at the Cooper’s Arms well before William Henry was due home from school at a quarter past two; news of the Head’s death had twinkled around the city at the speed of sunlight on water. The school was closed for the day, but William Henry had not come home. When Richard, tired and discouraged, walked through the door at three o’clock, he was greeted by two agitated grandparents and the news that his son was missing.

  A crawling march of numbness paralyzed his mouth and jaw, but his physical exhaustion fled immediately. He tried to speak, open—close—open—close, and finally managed to mumble that he would start looking for William Henry.

  “You go in the direction of Colston’s,” said Dick, untying his apron. “I will go toward Redcliff. Mag, shut up shop.”

  Words were a little easier. “He will have gone to Clifton, Father. I will go across Brandon Hill, you go along the rope walk. We will meet at the Hotwells House.”

  His heart was pounding at twice its normal speed, his mouth was so dry that he could find no spit to swallow, but Richard hurried as much as pausing to question everybody he saw allowed; by the time he reached the Bra
ndon Hill footpath there were few to inquire of, but he stopped to knock on the doors of the apartment houses around Jacob’s Well—no, no one had seen an errant little boy.

  At Boyce’s Buildings he had his first success; Richard the groom was still pottering around the stable yard.

  “Aye, sir, I saw him early this morning—devilish fine young chap! Helped me hay and water the horses, and I gave him a bit to eat and drink. Then he went on up Clifton Hill, free as a bird.”

  There was nothing in face or eyes to lead Richard to suspect that the man lied; Richard the groom was exactly what he purported to be, a friendly fellow who enjoyed the company of errant little boys without stopping to think that his first duty ought to have been a box on the ears and a boot up William Henry’s backside to push him in the direction of home.

  With a muttered thank you, Richard toiled at an accelerated pace up Clifton Hill until he was high enough to see for miles. But the downs were deserted save for grazing sheep, and though he probed the eaves of every grove of trees, no William Henry emerged from their shelter.

  At six o’clock he walked into the Hotwells House to find Dick already waiting there, and big with news.

  “Richard, he was here for dinner! Came on horseback with a man in his forties—good-looking fellow, according to Mrs. Harris—an old lady who was here at the time. And they stood on very good terms. Laughed and joked as if they knew each other real well. They walked off toward St. Vincent’s Rocks. About an hour later, Mrs. Harris and two other women saw the man ride off alone, looking sick. William Henry was not with him.”

  The lessee was hovering, very alarmed at developments. All he needed at this moment was a scandal, so he thrust a big glass of the Hotwells water into Richard’s hand free of charge and slunk off a little way to watch.

  Without tasting its bitterness or smelling its odor of rotten eggs, Richard drained it at a gulp. His whole body was trembling, his clothes soaked with sweat; the eyes he turned to his father were horrified. “Come,” he said curtly, and walked out.

  There was evidence that William Henry and his companion had been in the spot Richard knew from that previous visit; the grass was trampled and daisies had been picked, lay in a wilting heap. They called and called, but no one answered, then they climbed the rocks to inspect every crevice, ledge, hollow. No one was anywhere. The Avon, ebbing now, was shrinking backward into its gorge.

  Dick made no attempt to persuade Richard to cease searching until twilight came, then he put a hand on his son’s arm and shook it gently. “Time to go back to the Cooper’s Arms,” he said. “In the morning we will mount a full party and look again.”

  “Father, he is here, he did not leave here!” said Richard on a sobbing breath.

  Do not mention the river! Do not put that thought into his poor head! “If he is here, we will find him in the morning. Now come home, Richard. Come home.”

  They plodded toward Bristol, neither man vouchsafing a word—Richard in a fever of anguish, Dick cold to his marrow.

  Though the door to the Cooper’s Arms bore a sign that it was closed, three men sat around the table near the counter, looking at their hands until the door opened. Cousin James-of-the-clergy, Cousin James-the-druggist, and the Reverend Mr. Prichard. Between them on the table was a sketchbook, face down.

  “William Henry!” Richard cried. “Where is William Henry?”

  “Sit down, Richard,” said Cousin James-the-druggist, who, as senior member of the clan, was always the one delegated to break bad news. Cousin James-of-the-clergy served as his assistant, ready to take over once the bad news had been given.

  “Tell me!” said Richard through his teeth.

  “William Henry’s Latin master is a man named George Parfrey,” said Cousin James-the-druggist in even tones, and managing to meet those half-crazed eyes. “This afternoon Parfrey shot himself. He left this.” He turned the sketchbook over.

  The identity of the subject was unmistakable, even through the spatters of blood. “I have caused the death of William Henry Morgan.”

  His knees gave. Richard fell upon them, his face whiter than the paper. “It cannot be,” he said. “It cannot be.”

  “It must be, Richard. The man shot himself dead.” Cousin James-the-druggist crouched down beside Richard and smoothed his matted hair.

  “He imagined it! Perhaps William Henry ran away.”

  “I doubt that very much. Parfrey’s words indicate that he—he killed William Henry. If ye have not found the child, then he must have thrown William Henry into the Avon.”

  “No, no, no!” Hands over his face, Richard rocked back and forth.

  “What have you to say?” Dick asked Mr. Prichard aggressively.

  Prichard wet his lips, turned grey. “We heard the shot and found Parfrey with his brains blown out. The drawing was near him. I went straight to the Reverend Morgan”—he indicated Cousin James-of-the-clergy—“and then we came here. I am—I do not know—words cannot say—oh, Mr. Morgan, if you knew my sorrow and regret! But Parfrey had been at Colston’s for ten years, he seemed a decent man, and his pupils thought him wonderful. What lies at the base of this is a mystery I cannot even begin to solve.”

  Still on his knees, Richard heard as if in the far, far distance the voices rising and falling; Dick was recounting today’s expedition to Clifton, the events at the Hotwells House, the trodden grass and the plucked daisies in the little cove along the Avon.

  “William Henry must have fallen into the river and drowned,” said Mr. Prichard. “We wondered at the way Parfrey phrased it—as if he witnessed the death, rather than committed murder.”

  “Though he caused the death,” said Cousin James-of-the-clergy, in tones harder than a minister’s had any right to be. “May he rot!”

  The voices continued to come and go, accompanied by the sobs of Mag in a corner, her apron thrown over her head, Hecuba mourning.

  “He is not dead,” said Richard what seemed like hours later. “I know William Henry is not dead.”

  “Tomorrow we will have half of Bristol looking, Richard, that I promise you,” said Cousin James-the-druggist. What he did not say was that most of the looking would be done along the banks of the Avon and the Froom, especially at low tide. Bodies did wash up—cats, dogs, horses, sheep and cows in the main, but occasionally some drowned man or woman or child would be found lying on the mud, one more piece of wreckage vomited up by the rivers.

  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 thousands flocked 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 had not 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.