Jamestown (The Keepers of the Ring) (28 page)

As he led his students in the catechism of the Anglican church, their youthful voices reminded him of the many occasions he had led Noshi and Gilda to repeat the same words:
I believe in God the Father, who hath made me and all the world. I believe in God the Son, who hath redeemed me and all mankind. I believe in God the Holy Ghost, who sanctifieth me and all the elect people of God . . .

One afternoon, the headmaster ushered a new student into the class while Fallon rehearsed the students in their recitations. Master Crompton seated the boy on a bench at the back of the small room, and Fallon raised a questioning brow. Small in stature and painfully thin, the boy appeared to be not more than eight years of age.

The class paused in their recitation, waiting for Fallon to say the questioner’s line. “Um,” Fallon said, searching his memory for the phrase, “You say that you should keep God’s commandments. Tell me how many there be?”

“Ten,” the class responded.

“Which be they?”

The group took a collective breath, and continued in their steady, even pace: “The same which God spake in the twentieth chapter of Exodus, saying, I am the Lord thy God, who brought thee out of the land of Egypt, out of the house of bondage . . .”

Fallon left the front of the room and knelt at the newcomer’s side. “Why are you in this room?” he asked, pitching his voice below the boys’ chant. “This is a class for boys who have reached twelve years.”

“I ‘ave,” the boy said, his eyes gleaming with a film of tears. His face showed a delicate dimension of sensitivity. “I am twelve, I’m just small, my lord.”

“There’s no need for that title,” Fallon said, patting the boy’s leg. “I’m just Fallon Bailie around here, though I suppose the headmaster would want you to call me Master Bailie.”

The boy nodded and hunched forward, shivering slightly in the chill of the room. Fallon noticed his worn clothing and frowned. “Have you not been given warmer garments?” he asked. “Surely Master Crompton hath something—”

Without warning, the boy threw back his head and released a keening wail of sorrow. His face screwed up as tears rolled from the corner of his eyes, and Fallon fell back upon the floor in surprise. The other boys turned in amazement, the catechism forgotten.

“There, there,” Fallon said, picking himself up. He patted the boy awkwardly on the shoulder. “‘Tis hard when you first come, but we’ve all had a first day, you know. You’ll get used to this place in time, and you’ll learn many things . . .”

“Me mother and father died yesterday,” the boy cried, wiping his eyes on the dirty sleeve of his shirt. “The minister came and took me away. They took me sister, too, though I know not where, and told me I have to live in this place forever—”

“Not forever,” Fallon said, lowering his head to meet the boy’s frightened eyes. “You won’t have to stay forever. And when your time is done and God moves you away from this school, you can search for your sister. Do you understand?”

The boy nodded slowly, then brushed the other sleeve across his nose.

“Good,” Fallon said, standing. “What is your name?”

“Watford Clarence,” the boy answered. He hiccupped a repressed sob. “They call me Wart.”

“Wart.” Fallon smiled. “That name is your choice, in sooth?”

“I like it,” the newcomer offered, shrugging shyly. “Me father gave me that name.”

“Then by all means, Wart it is,” Fallon said, turning toward the class. “Boys, I’d be pleased if you’d make Wart welcome in our school.”

Fallon returned to the front of the room and to the catechism, but for days afterward the eyes of Wart Clarence followed him in wordless gratitude and unabashed admiration. Wart was not the only student who treated Fallon with such respect, and one day the loving appreciation in the boy’s eyes so overwhelmed Fallon that he had to leave the room and bury his face in his hands lest the boys see his tears. He feared they would think him mad if they saw him crying over nothing, but in their grateful, happy faces Fallon had of late seen an echo of the ennobled society he had known at Ocanahonan, where men and women, English and Indian, had lived together in peace and contentment under the love of God.

One cold afternoon in March the Reverend Archer stood from his visitor’s chair at the center dining table and lifted a hand. “We must pray especially today for the soul of a dear lady I have been privileged to meet,” he said, a wounded look in his dark eyes. “All of London prays today for the Lady Rebecca Rolfe, an Indian princess. While she and her husband and son waited for favorable weather to return them to their home in Virginia, the lady hath contracted the pox and lies even now near death.”

Fallon sat as though fastened to the bench beneath him. Several truths hit him at once, each with the impact of a physical blow: a ship waited in an English harbor to return to Virginia, the lady he knew as Powhatan’s daughter lay near death, and with her might die news of Gilda and Noshi!

The minister bowed his head to pray, but Fallon could not contain his thoughts long enough to direct them heavenward. When the meal was done, Fallon ignored his waiting class and followed Master Crompton to his office.

“What the devil?” The words exploded from Crompton’s lips when he turned to see Fallon Bailie standing behind him. What did the accursed boy want this time? “You have a class. Go to it now.”

“I have a boon to ask of you, sir. The Lady Rebecca Rolfe—I believe I may know her.”

Crompton snorted and moved to the chair behind his desk. Thus far he had been fortunate that the lad kept these wild fantasies to himself, but if young Bailie’s madness proceeded to manifest itself before his students, the council would hear of it. “You know the lady in your dreams, mayhap,” he said, staring down his heavy nose. “Now get to work. I’ll hear none of this foolishness.”

“Nay,” Fallon said, stepping closer. “The Lady Rebecca was—is—a great friend of John Smith’s, and I have a responsibility to two children who were left in his care. She may know of them, she may have even brought them with her
to England—”

“I’ve had enough of you, Fallon Bailie!” Crompton roared, biting back an oath. He leaned across the desk and shook a thick finger at Fallon as his face purpled. “Get back to your class!”

The tutor did not move. “Sir, I must be granted leave to visit Mistress Rolfe.”

“Get back to your class or—” Crompton whirled to the fireplace behind him. A spasm gripped his chest and he ignored it, seizing an iron poker from the fire. Brandishing it in front of him like a sword, he pointed the sharp end toward his apprentice and studied the resolute face of Fallon Bailie. With any luck, the kid would take a swing at him, and give him justifiable cause to beat the boy so he’d not soon forget it. But Fallon Bailie remained calm. “Sir, I must respectfully ask your permission to go see Master and Mistress Rolfe. If you won’t allow me to go, I shall be forced to call upon the reverend Archer—”

Crompton winced as something nipped at his heart, then the violence in him bubbled and his eyes locked upon Fallon in open warfare. “You will obey me!” he screamed, swinging the iron poker. His rage spilled over as the young man nimbly back stepped from the blow.

Bellowing in frustration, Crompton dropped the poker and rushed toward his servant. He struck Fallon with the knuckles of his hand, a short, vicious, blow, and yet Bailie would not reciprocate or surrender. “I pray you, sir,” the apprentice said again, a hand to his reddened jaw, “Grant me leave to go!”

“When hell freezes solid!” Crompton spat the words and lunged forward, his hands intent on the boy’s slender throat. But again Fallon stepped out of the way. Delbert Crompton felt himself falling, then his chest erupted in a spasm of blinding white pain.

Trembling, Fallon stood above his prone master and nudged the body with the toe of his shoe. “Master Crompton?” he said, lifting the heavy poker from the floor. How heavy it was, and how deliberately it had been aimed at his head!

A diabolical voice whispered in his fevered imagination.
Do it
, the murmur came,
land the killing blow and all would know ‘twas self-defense. You have a bruise from his blow upon your cheek, you have borne his hatred and derision and mocking scorn long enough . . .

But then the master groaned and shuddered, and Fallon ran from the office to fetch help.

“There was naught you could do,” Reverend Stephen Archer told Fallon. The Reverend sat in the chair that had been Master Crompton’s, and for the first time in Fallon’s memory the eyes above the desk were kind and gentle. “The physician said ‘twas his heart. ‘Twas a matter of his age, and his drinking.”

Fallon said nothing, but bit his lip.

“There are some that will be glad to see him go,” the minister said, running his finger idly along the edge of the headmaster’s desk. “He was a money-grubbing miser who put his own interests above that of the boys.”

“He wasn’t entirely bad,” Fallon whispered. “He was resourceful. And though we didn’t always eat meat, we did eat every day. I’ve seen worse situations on the streets of London.”

“Indeed, you make a good point,” the minister said, smiling. “That’s why I’m prepared to offer you the job of headmaster here, Fallon Bailie. After all, you were Master Crompton’s apprentice, and your contract of indenture expires in a few months. What had you planned to do after that?”

Fallon nervously pulled the cuffs of his sleeves down to cover the thin lines of the tattoos on his wrists. Did he dare reveal his dreams to his man? So far, only Brody McRyan had heard his story and believed it.

“I had hoped to go to Virginia,” he finally said, compromising his hopes with his fears. “I have heard there is a great demand for those willing to work on the tobacco plantations.”

“Do you like tobacco so much?” the minister asked, chuckling.

Fallon laughed. “Nay. But I like Virginia—from what I’ve read of it, of course. And I firmly believe God would have me go there. In fact,” he found himself leaning forward eagerly, “I had hoped to visit Master and Mistress John Rolfe before their ship leaves for Virginia.”

“I’m so sorry, Fallon,” the minister whispered, his eyes darkening with sorrow. “Lady Rebecca died a few days ago. Her husband is in mourning. I’m afraid ‘twould be impossible for anyone to visit.”

Fallon felt his heart sink. What form of divine interference was this? Had he misunderstood God’s will? God had brought Powhatan’s daughter all the way to London, mayhap within a few miles of where Fallon lived and worked, but yet he had not been able to talk to her. What was God’s purpose in such maneuvering?

“If your heart is set upon Virginia,” Reverend Archer said, tapping his long fingers upon the desk, “will you take the job of administering our school until we can find a permanent headmaster? You will of certain do an able job, for I’ve watched you with the boys and I know you have a heart for them.”

“Thank you,” Fallon whispered, not able to look up. “And yea, I will be happy to continue here until—” Words failed him. What else was he to do?

“Good,” the minister said, standing. He extended his hand. “We will be praying for you.”

Twenty-two

T
hough Fallon had undertaken the headmaster’s position with reluctance, he soon found great joy in righting the wrongs that had galled him ever since coming to the Royal Academy for Homeless Orphans. He discovered that the school had a great wealth of funds with which to feed, clothe, and educate the boys, and only the miserly greed of Delbert Crompton had kept the place from being a comfortable, worthwhile establishment.

Fallon decided to administrate the school as if it had been founded at Ocanahonan, according to principles of equality and reverence for God and man. Upon his orders, generous and filling meals were prepared each day and the curriculum adjusted to meet the needs of boys who might wish to pursue something other than physical labor as blacksmiths, fishermen, or masons. Fallon personally saw to it that the rancid pillows and blankets from the dormitory were burned and fresh linens supplied.

The despised center table of the dining hall was eliminated, and Fallon ate at a table with his students, as did the other teachers and any guests who might choose to visit during dinner. Headmaster Bailie abolished the rule of absolute silence at meals and in the halls, and the building rang with the shouts and mischief of growing boys.

One month after assuming Master Crompton’s desk and position, Fallon found the Reverend Stephen Archer again in his office. He greeted the minister and invited him to take a seat. “Is there news from the council?” he asked, afraid that he might have already been replaced. Making changes in the school had been so gratifying, he did not want to leave and allow another master of Master Crompton’s mindset to return
the academy to dreary poverty.

“I’m afraid there is news, but whether if ‘tis of a good or evil nature remains to be seen,” the minister said, pulling a letter from a sheaf of papers in his valise. “There are two matters of business. The first concerns the council of clergymen who oversee the school. They have noticed the changes you’ve made.”