Wilberforce (17 page)

He had instructed them in nothing of the sort, but John supposed the announcement was itself a form of memorandum.

—There will be no afternoon break. There will be no after-tea break. You will report to prayers at nine o'clock, directly from Prep. Any boy who trespasses today will be beaten. There are to be no warnings, no leniency whatsoever. Have I made myself clear?

A subdued
Yes, sir
from the room.

—In that case, luncheon is over. Proceed directly to lessons.

John looked to the Headmaster, wondering how to remind him of the runners.

—Stand for grace.

They stood. S-K pronounced it. As they moved to dismiss, he held up a hand:

—The Fourth Form and the Remove will stay as they are.

The guilty parties (or so they appeared) froze while the rest of the school exited sharply, but when S-K announced extra rations for the runners, their mood lifted as if they'd won any number of raffles. Several even thanked the Headmaster spontaneously. John wasn't sure whether to be impressed with S-K's legerdemain or unnerved by his volatility. It occurred to him that Burton and the Eagle might have sought other posts not from ambition, but to escape a mad captain's vessel. Burton in particular would never leave S-K's side, John realized, unless he considered the Headmaster beyond help and hope. That John had got away with the Wilberforce business on the night of the worst prank in the school's history did not inspire confidence in S-K's powers, and if the Academy were to labor under more days as unhinged as this one, John might actually have to consider other employment, not that anyone would entertain a pacifist such as him—but
one thing at a time
. For now, the Headmaster had, with only a few extra slices of bread and cheese, won this awkward segment of the school to his side. Give us this day …

And as it happened, the Fourth were due in John's history class for their first lesson of the day. They would repair there together, then, once they had finished eating, buoyed by nutrition, favor, and reprieve. Perhaps there would be a way to let them discover that John had petitioned for the extra rations. If they could realize this, it would go a way towards improving his relationship with this tiresome and lackluster group. It could go a way, perhaps, towards weakening their allegiance to the Third. Perhaps there would even be a way for John to suggest such a thing through historical parallel. If he could think of one, he could substitute it for the planned discussion of the Saracens and use the lesson covertly to assist the Headmaster's agenda. And if he could shift public opinion sufficiently from the tearaways, the vandals, and the anarchists, then he might be able to shore up S-K's government and persuade the Eagle and Burton—

He was becoming overexcited. Over the past twelve hours, not only had he provided clandestine midnight assistance to Morgan Wilberforce, diagnosed the Headmaster's ire towards same as classic distraction, rescued seventy-odd boys from starvation—not to mention discovering unseemly relations between two boys in Burton-Lee's House!—but presently he would command the attention of Fourth Formers, who could, if approached correctly, sway the balance of rebellion in the school. S-K had no notion, not an inkling, that an opportunity had presented itself. He was oblivious to the nymph of possibility undressing before him. But John saw things as they really were, and he could see his hour had come!

*   *   *

—Matron, please, I'm not messing about, I promise, Morgan said. I feel fine now. It was only the smell of the what-do-you-call-it.

He tapped his chin.

—And the excitement of it all. Please, Matron?

He searched for another way to explain to her his urgent need to depart the Tower.

You don't look, you don't see, you don't hear, and you don't understand.
What was he failing to see? That Alex had chosen him to smash his head into a desk, to haul him about, to admire his feats, to sit with him behind a curtain? When Morgan had discovered the Hermes Balcony, when he was Alex's age, he had found the wish slips and made a wish to be free of Silk. He'd always thought the wish answered, but was Alex asking him to…?

—Now you listen to me, young man.

Morgan understood one thing clearly: he needed to be anywhere but the Tower, anywhere Alex wasn't.

—Get dressed.

A weight lifted as he realized Matron was discharging him. Even now she was opening a drawer for a piece of fresh fabric and tying it into a sling to replace the elaborate bandages. This would suffice, she told him, but he was on no account to contemplate football, fives, or any other sport besides light jogging for the remainder of term.

Morgan left elated with gratitude. He had learned something about the Fags' Rebellion without succumbing to the chasm; he had been reassured of Mr. Grieves's allegiance; he had escaped magnesia. He was free! And as he inhaled the clammy air, he realized he was hungry. He headed to the refectory, but even as his tongue began to water, thoughts of the meal summoned thoughts of the Headmaster, which summoned thoughts of their interview, harrowing in the extreme. That interview didn't bear recollection, and he certainly wasn't going to recount it to Nathan or Laurie, but he couldn't deny the sinister atmosphere that had accompanied a relatively unthreatening salvo:

—I'm bound to ask, Wilberforce, what you know of this dastardly business, but I feel sure you will tell me nothing.

Morgan had been relieved that he wasn't being forced to fabricate, but the Headmaster had quickly turned to a vague and unsettling line of interrogation touching upon Morgan's view of the Academy (more precisely, just what he imagined St. Stephen's was for), his self-opinion (just who he thought he was), his ambitions (just what he proposed to do with himself, now and in future), and his wherewithal (just how he imagined he could accomplish anything at all given the feeble moral and intellectual foundation he had built for himself in defiance of every effort from the Academy and indeed from S-K himself). Eventually Morgan had cottoned on to the thrust of the conversation. It was to be another harangue about his refusal—three years previous!—to go through with his confirmation. S-K had nearly expelled him at the time and would have, Morgan felt sure, if he could have justified expulsion on such grounds. However, Morgan's father had explained Morgan's decision as a matter of conscience, so S-K could only subject him to verbal pillory. Ever since that day, S-K had ignored him during theology lessons, which permitted Morgan to nap or daydream in the back of the room. During monthly celebrations of the Eucharist, Morgan remained in the pews with the unconfirmed juniors and stray Roman Catholics the Academy tolerated. His brushes with the law had been handled by prefects or masters, so Morgan had never come before the Head on disciplinary grounds. Today's interview was Morgan's first with the Headmaster since S-K's hour-long entreaty-cum-excoriation three years ago.

Why the Headmaster felt it necessary to raise the past at this exact juncture, Morgan could not fathom. Nor could he understand why such unwarranted harassment should have left him unnerved. He was entirely within his rights to have refused confirmation, and he was within his rights to persist in his refusal until the day he died. It didn't make Morgan an Insidious Moral Acid. It didn't have any bearing upon a group of arrogant fags rampaging through the school and taking a vow of silence stronger than the Headmaster's powers of intimidation. And it certainly didn't, as S-K claimed, tear up the roots of civilization, reaping irreparable damage, taking the Academy, a product of England's greatness (doubtful), and stomping it into the mud, like so many brilliant, eager, much-loved lives wasted—and for what?—in a tragedy Morgan and his generation would never comprehend no matter how long their shallow lives continued. The present ills, in short, were the inescapable consequence of profligacy in the young, and it was the Headmaster's well-considered opinion that Morgan was not merely an example of such degradation (
Was
twice a day any different from once?) but an actual magnet for the forces of dissolution. (He was no magnet, though he did seem to have attracted…)

People were streaming out of the refectory. He fought against the throng but quickly found himself in S-K's line of sight. The Headmaster threw him a murderous glare. He fled.

He let the crowd carry him to lessons and discovered his friends outside the Latin room. There was no time to address their barrage of questions before Burton-Lee swept down the passage, demanding silence and receiving it. Morgan whispered a bare-bones précis as they filed into the classroom: yes, Alex was in the Tower; no, he wasn't burnt; yes, he possessed valuable information—

—Wilberforce!

The Flea's voice froze them as a body.

—Sir?

—That doesn't sound like silence.

—Sorry, sir, I—

—Here.

The Flea pointed with a flourish to a spot beside his desk. Nathan and Laurie took their seats. From the chalk ledge Burton produced a stick, one Morgan had never seen, but plainly some species of cut switch.

—Sir, Morgan stammered, I—

—You heard the Headmaster. Needs must have. Here, please.

He gestured again. Morgan did not dare try to explain himself. He went where bid and bent over. Half a dozen fiery cuts followed. He gasped in surprise and pain but felt, as he stood up …

—Thank you, sir.

 … that he had committed so many beatable offenses in the past forty-eight hours, he could hardly begrudge the Flea a quick sixer from an improvised weapon.

—Sit down, the Flea commanded. What is it, Pearl?

—Please, sir, Wilberforce wasn't there when the Head said what he said. He's only just got back from the Tower.

The Flea revealed no remorse. Morgan hovered by the desk, feeling light-headed. The Flea opened his mouth to scold but then ordered him into the corridor.

—Did Matron give you anything to eat? he asked, closing the door behind them.

Morgan shook his head.

—What were you doing in the Tower?

Morgan indicated the stitches on his chin.

—Accident, sir. And then I was queasy.

—Are you queasy now?

—No, sir.

—So that ashen complexion is an empty stomach?

—I—I suppose so, sir.

The Flea sighed and bustled back into the form room. He scribbled something on a piece of imposition paper and handed it to Morgan.

—Return to the refectory and give this to the Headmaster from me, please.

Crossing the cloisters, Morgan eyed the missive:
Give this boy lunch immediately. RBL.
Although he wished no further contact with S-K, he was almost beyond caring. His chin stung. The Flea's stick burned. Hunger-induced apathy had him in its clutches. He drifted into the refectory and by the hand of a loving god—Hermes, trickster, messenger, friend—encountered Mr. Grieves near the entrance and gave the note to him.

Grieves read it and then placed a bowl in front of him:

—Don't tell me you've been fainting at Horace.

—Ashen under the rod, sir.

Grieves frowned. He was wise about so many things; why couldn't he have a bit of humor about the stick? Morgan attacked the broth and bread.

—You, Mr. Grieves said sternly, are an ambulatory disaster.

—Sir?

—You get into trouble at least six times an hour.

—Only on a good day, sir.

Again, Grieves seemed incapable of humor. He left Morgan to eat, but just as Morgan had finished, he returned, removed the empty bowl, and took hold of Morgan's wrist as if he would wrench him to his feet.

—Listen here, Wilberforce. This is not a game. I have had quite enough tidying up after you these past twenty-four hours.

The remark hurt.

—Stop kicking up trouble.

—Sir, I—

—You're like an elephant in a crystal factory.

Morgan wanted to argue, but a string of blundered maneuvers paraded before him. Had he learned nothing in his seventeen years? Nothing from Silk, nothing from Laurie, nothing even from Alex?

Grieves continued to clutch Morgan's wrist harder than necessary. He felt like a child under rebuke.

—I don't mean it, sir.

—Precisely, Mr. Grieves said. You don't mean, you don't realize, you don't think.

He pulled harder.

—You must think, Wilberforce. You must.

Morgan felt feeble.

—I know, sir.

—Let me ask you something, in strictest confidence.

—Sir?

—What do you know of Rees?

Morgan blinked.

—Rees, sir?

Grieves let go of his wrist as if he'd just remembered he was holding it.

—Well?

—Nothing much, sir. Only that his pater is in the City.

—That isn't what I meant.

Morgan wondered at him. Mr. Grieves spoke as if in code:

—Who are his particular friends in his House?

—I don't think he has any friends, has he, sir?

—Do you trust him?

Morgan could not imagine where the conversation was heading.

—In what sense, sir?

—Do you think he is as he seems?

—I can't see him managing deception, sir.

Mr. Grieves grimaced:

—That is what I thought.

—Why do you ask, sir?

Mr. Grieves appeared to struggle with temptation and then give in to it.

—I've reason to believe … let's just say you were lucky last night not to encounter company on the road.

Morgan flushed.

—I'm afraid I don't follow, sir.

—Never mind. If you've finished there, cut along before you find yourself entangled in another interview with S-K.

Dazed by Mr. Grieves's bizarre about-face, Morgan decamped to the toilets. There he cupped water to his cheeks and waited for his heart to stop hurling itself around. What under Zeus's milky sky did Mr. Grieves mean? And what was he playing at? It was one thing to inquire discreetly about Morgan's exploits when encountering him in the Tower, but to initiate parley in an occupied refectory, and then to make unpalatable and astonishing suggestions about other boys—it was untoward. Masters always had favorites, and certain Housemasters had been known to conduct maneuvers hand in hand with trusted cadres, but Grieves had taken their alliance entirely overboard.