A Most Personal Property (Ganymede Quartet Book 1) (30 page)

“Sorry, Sir,” Tom said meekly, though his expression showed he wasn’t sorry at all.

Gordon yelled at Victor. “Aren’t you paying attention?”

“It was a
ball
,” Victor yelled back. “What am
I
supposed to do about it?”

“Let’s
play
!” Louis hollered. “Stop bickering!”

After two strikes and another ball, Gordon got a wild hit into right field and stayed put on first base. Albert’s double sent Gordon to third, and Joshua’s double sent both Gordon and Albert home. Charles’ hit sent Joshua home, but Charles was overconfident and was out at second. Henry made it to first and stayed put. Freddie’s hit let Henry go to third, but Freddie was out. Louis went to first, Henry went home. Wendell, known to be worst at bat amongst the masters, quickly racked up three strikes, and the inning was over without Robert even getting a chance at bat, score 10-4.

Between innings, several of the masters went to talk to Victor about his calls, or lack thereof. Henry stayed out of it—he didn’t want to beat the slaves badly enough to cheat, and certainly convincing Victor to favor his fellows was cheating. Joshua and Charles had another fight about pitching, Joshua convinced that he would do a better job and Charles arguing that he’d won the coin toss and Joshua should just go back to second where he belonged. Joshua wanted there to be a vote of no-confidence and the masters’ team broke down quickly into several factions, Henry being part of the actively disinterested set. After some heated discussion, boys calling each other babies under their breath, Charles went back to the pitcher’s mound and Joshua went back to second.

It likely wouldn’t have made any difference for Joshua to have pitched. The slaves were simply better players. They were strong and fast, natural go-getters, and accustomed to working together in groups. They continued to cheerfully and deferentially rack up home runs—all except for Tom, who did seem to be gloating a little—while their masters floundered and fought amongst themselves. Charles kept “accidentally” pitching balls into slaves’ hips and thighs which made their masters complain about property damage. There were also complicated loyalties in play. The masters wanted to win as a team, but they also wanted their own slaves to do well in the game. Henry got yelled at by Albert for not being sufficiently vigorous in pursuit of Martin’s long fly, and everyone got mad at Charles for the easy lob he threw to Simon that let him get to third and put the slaves up by another two runs.

In the third inning, the masters at bat, Gordon stepped up to the plate and Tom bowled a fast, wobbly pitch at him which Victor deemed a strike.

“That was a
ball
!” Gordon yelled angrily, turning on Victor.

“It was a strike,” Victor insisted, pinched and defensive. “It was right over the plate.”

“Some friend
you
are,” Gordon sneered, kicking at the dirt.

“There are
rules
,” Victor pointed out. “It’s got nothing to do with friends.”

Gordon swung and missed at another pitch, then hit a pop fly straight from the plate out into center field and into Julian’s glove. Gordon was halfway to first when Julian caught the ball, but instead of returning to join the rest of the masters behind the plate, he set off at an angle, toward the middle of the field and Julian.

Julian looked terrified, but he didn’t run. Gordon strode up and cracked him across the face. Julian raised a hand to his cheek and lowered his head in submission. The mark of Gordon’s hand was blood-red against Julian’s white skin.

“How
dare
you,” Gordon began. “How dare
you
put me out, you selfish little shit? I’m your fucking
master
!” He put his hands on Julian’s chest and pushed; Julian stumbled backwards and did not try to defend himself in any way. Gordon continued to berate him, arms waving, in a somewhat more moderate voice, though the others could catch the occasional phrase:
ungrateful brat…disrespectful…wait till I get you home
.

Henry froze, horrified. The rest of the masters were equally horrified, equally frozen. Joshua, who was Gordon’s closest friend amongst the assembled boys, stood up and, with a brave set to his shoulders, trotted onto the field to stand at Gordon’s side and remonstrate with him. Joshua put a hand on Gordon’s shoulder which Gordon promptly shrugged off, but he did seem to be listening to whatever Joshua was saying to him.

It didn’t seem likely that the game could continue. The boys had all been made so uncomfortable by Gordon’s display of temper that none of them wanted to spend another second in the company of the others if it could be avoided. Besides, the score was 29-12; the point of the game was to win, and they certainly weren’t going to, so why belabor the point?

Gordon was nodding, looking sheepish, and Joshua was patting his arm and speaking to him very sincerely. Joshua bade Julian take his hand away from his face, and all could see, even from across the diamond, that his cheek looked pretty bad, red and swollen, and it seemed especially shameful when Julian’s usual looks were so fine.

“How’s he going to explain
that
?” Robert asked. “If
my
slave had a big bruise on his face, I think my dad would have something to say about it.”

Henry wondered if his own father would even notice.

“He can blame it on the game. Say he got hit with a ball or something,” Freddie suggested. “Gordon shouldn’t have hit him, though.”

“Not gentlemanly,” Albert agreed. “Poor sportsmanship and all that.”

Now Joshua was talking to Gordon’s back, Gordon walking away with Julian obediently following. As the rest watched, the two of them extricated their bicycles from the tangle of cycles along the edge of the field.

“Game’s over, I guess,” Louis sighed. “We might have turned it around, you know, fellows. We still might have won.”

Henry snorted: unlikely. The rest seemed to feel the same.

The boys stood, dusting off their knickers, and the slaves came in from the field. They all congregated loosely around home plate. Martin came to stand near Henry, quiet and patient.

“Are you all right?” Henry asked. “That was pretty upsetting.”

“Yes, Sir,” Martin ducked his head “Thank you for asking. It was…startling.”

Henry stepped closer and bent his head to Martin’s ear. “
I
would never hit you,” Henry promised.

Martin drew back, shocked. “Oh, of course, Sir, I would never have imagined you would!” He leaned closer to Henry then, and touched his arm, just briefly. “You’re a very kind master, Sir. I do feel quite safe with you.”

This both surprised and pleased Henry, if it were true. He liked the idea that Martin felt protected and cared for even in the face of Henry’s standoffishness and nighttime refusals.

On the ride south, the boys divided themselves into smaller groups. Henry rode with Louis and Freddie; Martin, Peter and Tom behind them.

“I didn’t know Gordon had such a temper,” Henry said. “I don’t think Julian deserved that at all, do you?”

“No,” Louis said firmly. “He was just playing the game.”

“Julian’s a good slave,” Freddie said. “I don’t know what Gordon expected him to do. If all the slaves let their own masters win, there wouldn’t be any point in playing.”

“Even if they’d tried to let us win, we probably wouldn’t have,” Henry pointed out. “They’re really good at sports, all of them.”

“What sports does Martin do, besides baseball?” Freddie asked.

“Fencing, but I’ve never seen him do that. He was best in his House, though. Oh, and I think he boxed.”

“Huh.” Freddie turned and called out, “Tom, what sports did you do at Orpheus?”

“Boxing, Sir,” Tom said. “Roller-skating, too. And of course, baseball.” After a moment, he added, “Wrestling, also, Sir. Lots of things, really.”

The idea of boys struggling to pin Tom to the ground was a little too exciting. Henry tried to ignore the fact that he was blushing and asked, “Martin, what else do you do? I forget.”

“I can roller-skate a little, too, Sir, and I was a good swimmer. Oh, and archery—I was very good at that!”

Louis called out to Peter, “Well, how about you, old chap?”

“You know me, Sir,” Peter said cheerfully, “I played all the sports, of course, Sir, but I’m better at games, really. Billiards and bagatelle and poker, Sir. Things like that.”

“James is going to love him,” Louis said proudly, and Henry didn’t doubt this was true. It seemed very possible that James would try to hustle pool using his younger brother’s slave and get them all into trouble, which was a possibility that Henry both wanted to avoid and yet also see come to pass.

“Has Gordon hit Julian before?” Freddie asked the slaves. “Do any of you know?”

There was a brief silence, then Tom answered. “No, Sir, we don’t know. I’ve never seen bruises.”

“Even if he had hit him before,” Louis pointed out, “there’s nothing to be done about it. It’s ungentlemanly, and it’s no way to treat a slave, but it’s not as if Gordon was going to kill him. Julian will be fine.”

“Shame about his face, though,” Freddie said. Clearly, having chosen Tom, a pretty face was important to Freddie.

“He’ll be fine,” Louis insisted again. “Maybe a bruise.” He thought a minute and said, “This was all Gordon’s idea in the first place, you know. But if we do this again, I vote that he’s not invited. We could try to get David or Philip instead.”

“I agree,” Henry said. “Why give him another chance to blow up at Julian?”

“I’ll talk to some of the others,” Louis said decisively. “I like Gordon all right, but that was just really too much.”

That afternoon, while Martin played his violin and Henry lounged on his bed, he had an image stuck in his head: Julian, head bowed, reddened cheek visible between his splayed white fingers, his fearful eye on his master. Gordon’s rage had frightened Henry; it had seemed so misplaced and unfair. He couldn’t imagine ever being that mad at Martin. Gordon had acted as if Julian betrayed him, when all poor Julian had done was play by the rules that bound all of the players.

Henry went to stand in the doorway so he could see Martin play. He occasionally asked Martin questions about technical aspects of violin playing and tried to behave as if he understood the answers, but he didn’t, and he rarely retained anything of what he was told. Really, he just wanted to listen, and to watch.

Martin looked up and saw him standing there and smiled. “Hello, Sir. Do you want to come sit?” He gestured at his neatly-made bed.

Henry blushed and shook his head. “No, no. I’m fine here.”

Martin played a few more minutes, getting to the problematic part of his piece and foundering. Henry wished his father would let Martin have lessons! He needed help getting beyond this hurdle.

“Sir?” Martin asked. “Did you have a question?”

Henry started and blinked. “Er, actually.” He flashed back to Julian’s red cheek, his frightened gaze. “Not about the violin, really, but I’m curious. About Julian. Or any of the others. Is anyone treated badly?”

“Sir?”

“By their masters, I mean. Besides Sam; I know Sam has it hard. But what about the rest of your friends?”

“Well, Sir, some of the masters are kinder than others,” Martin said diplomatically. “Some treat their slaves more like people and others more like property. But of course, Sir, either is correct.”

“I feel bad,” Henry said. “I feel bad that I didn’t do anything.”

“For Julian, Sir?” Martin cocked his head to the side and blinked at Henry. “What might you have done?”

“Nothing,” Henry admitted. “But I feel like I should have said something to Gordon afterward, told him that I didn’t think what he did was right.”

“It’s nice that you feel that way, Sir.” Martin managed to give the impression that he found this conversation beside the point without being in any way insolent. “But don’t you think that it was probably best he left when he did? Mr. Lovejoy has quite a temper, Sir.”

“You knew this about him, then?”

Looking uncomfortable, Martin admitted, “Yes, Sir. Julian has mentioned it.”

Henry had a sudden glimmer of the sort of secret knowledge Martin must have about his friends and classmates, things Henry himself didn’t know and would never know. He wanted to know what Martin had said about him, what Martin felt was noteworthy about his character, but did not think he could get a straight answer on this point and felt too shy to ask in any case.

But Martin must have seen it on his face. “I don’t talk about you, Sir,” Martin said, his tone very reassuring. “You’re a very private person and I respect that. All the others know about you is that you’re kind and generous. They’re all quite envious, Sir.”

Henry blushed at the praise. “That’s my father, really, though,” he pointed out.

“But if you didn’t want me to have nice things, Sir, you could take them away. That’s generous enough for me.”

Monday before school, Henry made a point to look for Julian in the crowd. He stood at Gordon’s side, laughing, with a bruise on his cheekbone but otherwise none the worse for wear. He didn’t seem afraid of Gordon at all, and Henry was glad things seemed to be normal between them. Maybe he was making too much of it. If anyone hit Henry in the face like that, he’d be hurt and angry for ages, but maybe others didn’t care so much. A slave’s face didn’t really belong to him, anyway; maybe it didn’t hurt as much when it wasn’t your own.