The Blooding of Jack Absolute (5 page)

It didn’t matter much to Jack. There’d always been two bastards at Absolute Hall and there were two still. Except one was
leaving. Him. And it now appeared the man who was taking him away had negotiated the cliff path, better than most unfamiliar
with it, and could now be heard in the squeak of boots along the sand. Still Jack stared at the perfect waves he’d left it
too late to catch. The man on the beach meant that decision was another thing beyond his power.

The boots had halted behind him. ‘Did you not hear us shouting for you, boy?’ came that gruff voice, flecked with its ready
anger.

‘Nay, sir.’

‘Deaf, are you?’

‘Nay, sir. The waves make hearing hard.’

He expected the man – his father, he should get used to thinking of him as such – to order him up, grab him by his
scruff when he was tardy, perhaps even strike him as he had that first day but not since. So he ground himself into the sand
to make it harder. Yet instead of a blow, there was an exhalation as a body dropped down beside him. Jack would not look at
first, just kept staring out. As the silence continued, he glanced quickly. Sir James Absolute sat beside him, staring straight
out, too.

‘A fine morning,’ his father said at last.

‘Tis,’ replied Jack.

The silence returned. A cloud of terns changed shape over the water, diving and rising as one, from fan to flask to arrow.
Thus formed, they shot away, their bodies skimming the whitecaps.

‘You know, tis time, boy. If we’re to make Truro by nightfall, we must away.’ James had picked up a line of seaweed and was
engaged in pressing the rubbery balls, bursting one after another. ‘Your mother and cousin are packed, the horses in the traces.’

This turned Jack. ‘Craster does not come with us, do ’ee?’

‘Aye. Can’t leave him here, an orphan now.’

Jack, feeling the colour rush to his face, turned it angrily back to the water. They’d left
him
there! He’d waited for these people for ever and now he was going to share them as Craster had never shared Duncan? It was
not fair, yet another knot in the string of unfairness that was his life.

Yet his father, as if sensing the broil within him, went on. ‘But he’ll not bide with us in London. He’ll go to school, like
you. But not with you. He’s for Harrow and he’ll be a boarder there. It’s far from us in the town and you’ll only see him
on holidays, and mayhap not even then.’

This was better, but it raised another question. ‘And where am I to?’

His father dropped the seaweed. ‘You’ll attend Westminster School, where I went.’ He smiled. ‘Once you learn some ABCs and
suchlike. You’re a powerful way behind other boys of your age.’

And whose wrong is that
?
Jack thought, anger arriving again. It was amazing how easy it came to him. Craster had had some learning from the curate.
But since the cousins could never bide in the same room for long without blows, Jack was usually expelled. Such knowledge
he’d gleaned came from Morwenna. Half of that was Cornish and her little English learning was little indeed.

It was as if his father was still reading his thoughts. ‘Three weeks ago, before Lutie Tregonning got word to us about Duncan’s
… tragedy, we couldn’t have bought you the grammar you’ll study from nor the cap for your head. Not with the earnings of a
half-pay officer and an actress without a season’s contract. And now,’ he laughed, a rich sound, as rolling as the waves,
‘now we can hire a carriage to take us back to London, put two boys into school … and much more besides. Oh yes, much more.’
He chuckled again.

Jack had wondered about that. All he’d ever heard about James was from Duncan, the elder brother accusing the younger of being
a wastrel who lived with his whore.

‘Is it so very rich, sir, the mine?’

‘So they say. I became soldier just so I would know little of these things and care to know little more now. So long as the
profits come my way. But I’ve made Lutie Tregonning into my cap’n and he’ll see me right. He’ll move into Absolute Hall, with
money to do her up. There’ll be gold enough for that. Tis like alchemy, boy, as rich a seam as they say this is, pure alchemy.
For it turns tin into gold.’

Jack couldn’t help himself. It was the question that had harried him since the moment he’d heard of the riches to be dug from
the earth. ‘And who will get it after you, sir? I know Craster’s a bastard again so … ?’

‘Craster?’ James interrupted, puzzled. ‘Craster’s not my son, anyway. For better or worse, and may God help us both, you are
my only offspring.’

‘But a bastard’s a bastard and, I’m told, cannot inherit. T’was what my uncle was trying to change.’

‘Aye, and I soon put a stop to that cozenry.’ James’s puzzlement had not left his face. ‘But who says you are a bastard, boy?’

‘Tis known. Tis a fact.’

‘Tis?’ James smiled. ‘Well, I know you was there, boy, but I don’t recall you taking in much except great gulps of air to
deafen us with. Or you’d perhaps recall that I was there too, despite the outrage of the midwife. I was there because I’d
come back from the war in Germany the very morning that you decided to kick your way into the world. I knew naught of you
or your coming, so when I found out I came to the attic where your mother bided and I dragged a clergyman with me. There was
he and me at your mother’s head, taking the vows at a gallop between screams and there was the midwife at your mother’s legs,
sliding you fast into the world. Vicar’d only just pronounced us man and wife when he added the title of parents.’

This was impossible! He’d lived all his life as one thing, held this title of shame. ‘So …’

‘So you’re an Absolute true, Jack, and heir to the family fortunes. If I leave you any to inherit. Which is far from a certain
thing.’ He winked.

Jack turned back to the sea to hide the saltwater that ran from his eyes. He didn’t know if he’d been in time. Beside him,
his father rose, scraping sand from his breeches and coat-tails. Jack rose too. Looking up at his father, he saw that he was
staring out to the water again.

‘You know, when I was about your age, boy,’ he said, after a long pause, ‘before I was sent off to school, Lutie Tregonning
and I would come down to this beach and we’d climb atop of waves like that and ride ’em.’ He looked down at Jack. ‘Don’t suppose
you do anything like that?’

His father’s voice, so refined in all the talk so far, had suddenly taken on a very Cornish tone.

‘Might do,’ sniffed Jack, ‘now and again.’

James looked to the cliff top so Jack did too. Someone was
waving a cloth up there, summoning them. It looked like Morwenna. They turned back to the sea.

‘Bollocks,’ said James suddenly. ‘Redruth’s got inns too and changes of horses. If we only make it that far tonight, that’d
be proper.’

His father was suddenly pulling at his clothes, dropping each beautifully tailored item with no ceremony to the ground.

‘C’mon, boy,’ he said, hopping as he tried to pull off one boot, ‘bet you a gold guinea piece I ride one further than ’ee.’

‘You never will, so done!’ yelled Jack. His few clothes came off fast, and together and naked the Absolutes rushed into the
sea. His father’s cursing at the cold taught Jack several useful new words whose meaning he could only guess at. For an old
man of nigh on forty, he wasn’t too bad, if a little unused to the trick of catching the wave just so. A few pointers from
his son and he was managing fine. Not enough to win the bet, mind.

Later, with the feeling gone from his feet and barely able to stretch out his arms, with his father waiting for him on the
beach, Jack launched himself ahead of what he knew would be his last wave. He didn’t begrudge it, now. Endings were beginnings,
too, he reckoned and, as he steered himself down that final enfolding tunnel, he thought that even if Time had ended and they’d
stolen eleven days from his young life, he still had a few of them ahead.

London, April 1759

The situation was as perilous as any Jack had faced. One by one, his comrades had been brought down. Any weakness was swiftly
exposed, then exploited, any defence soon overcome. Jack, watching them crumble, had come tardy to the field where usually
he would have led. His shoulder was still sore from a tumble he’d taken in a chase the week before. Still, he had halted the
rout for a time, even regained some of the ground lost, he and Abraham Marks, the Jew able to best most of his Christian tormentors
in this ancient combat. Yet finally, even he fell, not noticing that the most deadly of their enemies had positioned himself
just where he could dive and catch the ball before it struck the ground. Marks’s bulky figure had joined his white-clad team-mates
amongst the gathering, dark-suited crowd. Word had spread of the rally and nearly all of Westminster School was now crowding
the edges of Tothill Fields where Westminster and Harrow were playing their annual cricket match.

For a while, it was beyond Jack’s control. He struck when he could, notching up a reasonable Hand; but his companions made
only the odd run before falling. Even Theophilus Ede could add only a little. A worthy ten and he was gone, to be replaced
by Nicholas Fenby. And by his own admission Fenby
was no batsman, his skill in the delivery of the ball rather than its receiving.

Still, somehow the partnership held, the notches rising up the board, stationary when Fenby patted the ball away, steady when
Jack faced it. He had a Hand of 47 now to Fenby’s 7, and had restrained his usual tendency to batter and smash. He knew that
if that was partly due to his shoulder, it was mainly because of his opponent, Harrow’s best player, who’d caught Abraham
so spectacularly, bowled out Ede and taken six of the other seven wickets with deliveries that had both pace and twist.

He’d been swiftly dubbed, in whispers, ‘The Man’ and it was an appropriate term. For if he’s a Harrovian, I’m from Mesopotamia,
Jack thought, scowling at the fellow. He stood a good six inches taller than most of his team-mates, as many inches more around
his chest. A shadow of beard thoroughly darkened his chin and cheek. Harrow had lost this match four years in a row and they’d
taken measures not to lose an unprecedented fifth. Though it was more than common in matches between counties and dukes, Jack
hadn’t heard of such a fellow – one paid well for his skills – being deployed by a school before. And it wasn’t the thought
of losing the gold they’d all inevitably wagered on the outcome that most rankled with Jack. It was about honour. Yet that
same honour dictated that Westminster could not challenge this hulk’s credentials.

All they could do was win. And despite how impossible that had seemed when Ede had fallen and Fenby staggered in, Westminster
had steadily advanced ever closer to Harrow’s total. One ball was left in the over. All Fenby had to do was hold steady, leaving
Jack his end to deal with The Man.

He’s good, thought Jack. But so am I.

The other Harrow bowler delivered a straight ball, a grubber and easy to pat away, which Fenby, with a nervous shuffle, duly
did.

‘Over,’ declared the umpire.

‘Score, sir?’ Jack called to the scorer crouched over the wooden block, his chisel in hand. The schoolboy looked up. ‘Harrow
have 112, Westminster stand at 108.’

‘Play up, Westminster,’ came a deep voice from the edge of the field and Jack recognized it as the headmaster’s, Dr Markham.
He affected to despise all games, believing solely in the virtues of Virgil, Homer and the birch rod. But the annual match
against Harrow was different and an unprecedented fifth victory in a row had lured even this learned man from his study. His
voice, penetrating the hitherto respectful silence, broke the dam.

‘Forward, Westminster.’

‘Up, Harrow, up!’

To the cries now coming from all corners of the field, Jack strode up the wicket to Fenby who met him halfway. ‘That’s four
for a draw, five to win it.’

‘D … d … d’ye think you can do it in this o … over, Absolute?’ Fenby was squinting up at him over his spectacles. His stutter
always became more pronounced under pressure and the last thing Jack or Westminster needed now was for him to crack. He had
done well, defended doughtily for his seven notches. But he was no batsman and Jack knew he must not let him face the bowler
again.

‘Aye, I think I can. You’ve set me up, lad.’

‘Even …’ his friend glanced nervously back, ‘… against him?’

Jack looked. The Man stood there, casually throwing the ball up in the air and catching it behind his shoulder without a look.

‘Oh, I think I must, don’t you?’ he said with a confidence he did not quite feel. ‘Just follow up smartly, eh?’

Fenby nodded, began to walk back to his stumps, passing The Man, who came forward, ostensibly directing the placement of his
fielders. Jack decided to wait for him. When The Man drew level he stopped and for a moment it was as if they were quite alone.
Hitherto, he had been silent as a Benedictine
through all his triumphs but now, leaning in, he whispered, ‘Ay’s goin’ to spread ye, ye bastard.’

The stretched vowels confirmed Jack’s suspicions. The voice was western, but not as far in that direction as Cornwall. He
undoubtedly did not attend Harrow. He probably attended upon one of his team-mates’ estates.

Jack let his tone and level match the other’s. But he also let the accent, the one he’d been forced to restrain at Westminster
in order to survive, come again into his voice.

‘You’m goin’ to try, ye downser. And you’m goin’ to fail.’

The Man’s eyes narrowed, puzzled for a moment, then the scowl returned. He grunted and walked back to position. Jack waited
until he turned, until he had the man’s gaze again. Then he deliberately went to his crease and put his legs square before
the stumps. They would protect his wicket; but such protection came at a price. He would not be out if the ball struck his
leg. But if the ball struck his leg with the force that this man could bowl, it would hurt.