Supper was taken in the great hall watched over by the preposters, or so Spencer called the bigger boys who sat at each table and ensured no mischief was afoot. They were just finishing their meal, mouths still sticky with meat juices and butter, when a cheery voice called out, “Spencer, ya daft beggar. I’ve been looking for you all day.”
The newcomer wedged his way between Spencer and William and slung his arms around their shoulders. William took one breath and very nearly choked, the boy stank of spirits.
“Moore,” Spencer said, his voice cool. “What do you want?”
“It’s about that money I owe ya.”
A combination of thick accent and obvious drunkenness meant William struggled to understand a word he said. Spencer seemed to have no such difficulty.
“Five shillings and tuppence due on Friday. I suppose it is too much to hope for that you have come to repay it.”
“Well, ya see, that there’s the rub. There’s a bout. Tonight. Round the back of The Peacock, and the word on the inside is-”
“No,” Spencer cut in. “No more. There is no more. And if you don’t repay what you already owe, I will spread word you welched on the deal.”
Moore rocked back as though he’d been punched, his face the picture of hurt innocence. “You’d not do that to a pal, now would ya boy? That’d be downright dastardly of ya.”
William, fascinated by the lilt and cadence of Moore’s accent, listened avidly to their argument as Spencer repeatedly refused to lend any money for ‘the bout’. Eventually he had to ask: “I say, what is a bout?”
“And who would you be?” Moore slurred turning his attentions on William.
William wiggled round in his seat and offered his hand, “Bartlett, William. I’m new.”
“Ya don’t say,” the boy grinned. “Allen Daniel Moore, at yer service. If there’s ever anything you be wanting-”
“Leave him be, Moore,” Spencer snapped and then added for William’s benefit. “If he offers you a wager, do not under any circumstances take him up on it. I can guarantee you will never see your money again. And ‘the bout’ is a dogfight, something of an Achilles’ heel for our Irish friend here.”
“Ack,” Moore waved his hand wildly in the air, “could give it up any time I liked, so I could.”
Spencer shook his head sadly and leant back out of the way when Elijah piped up from the other side of him, “The Lord does not approve of dog fighting, which is why Parliament forbad it.”
“Ptooey,” Moore answered, swaying forward so he could speak to Elijah around Spencer. “The Lord didn’t say nay to the beasts fighting, t’was the damned English Lordlings and Proddy Bishops with their high-falutin’ ways.”
A collective gasp came from the boys around the table and the preposter cast a disapproving frown in Moore’s direction. Moore ducked down and swung his legs back over the bench. “Anyways, I’d better be off. See you all in chapel in the mornin’?”
“Not I,” Elijah said and then blushed when every eye turned on him. “I-I,” he stuttered, “Father does not approve of the high church, and so I am to study the bible for the time you are gone.”
“If only me own father had been so kind, but even a godless Catholic such as meself has to attend chapel when the family’ll not declare against it,” Moore joshed and, with a backwards wave, took himself off from the hall leaving a miasma of stale alcohol behind him.
“He’s…” William started the words trailing off as he found nothing complimentary to say.
“He’s a good egg,” Spencer declared. “Unless the business concerns dogs or money. And you couldn’t wish for a better man at your back in a set-to.”
A rustle running around the room followed by the screech of plates being shoved away put a stop to any further conversation and onto the podium strode a huge fellow with shoulders the width of a five bar gate, or so it seemed to William.
“Craven,” Spencer whispered, “Captain of the first fifteen and head of Wellington House. They say he’ll be head boy within six months.”
“Good evening, to y’all,” Craven boomed out across the hall and William immediately sat up and took notice; not only was there yet another strange twang to be heard, but this boy’s presence demanded everyone’s attention.
Seeing the bemused expression on William’s face, Spencer nudged him in the ribs and mouthed, “American,” before turning towards Craven himself.
“It’s a real pleasure to welcome our new boys. Can’t say as I rightly know any of you as of now, but I’ll be sure to track down and shake your hand as soon as time allows. Now, if y’all join me in bowing your heads for grace…”
***
Being new, William and Elijah were excused fagging duties that evening, though they hung around the corridors chatting to Spencer and Bonny – or at least in the presence of the latter. He still hadn’t said a word since the ruckus in the close. Spencer took up the slack, his chatter full of school gossip and rumour, filling the time between supper and bed. Most evenings, he explained, there was prep between six and seven, but tomorrow being Sunday, they had the evening mostly to themselves unless they pulled duty.
“Spencer!” a sixth former bellowed down the corridor. “Fetch butter. Move boy, the toast is getting cold.”
“I’ll go,” William volunteered when Spencer’s shoulders slumped at the prospect of walking, yet again, all the way to Jake’s Hole, the small pantry where vittals were left out overnight.
“Gosh, you are a good sort, Barty,” Spencer said perking up. “Better make it smartish; Baggy Clement is the very devil himself if his toast isn’t hot.”
William shot off down the corridors, keeping a watchful eye out for lurking preposters, whom, he was certain, would have his hide for running inside the school. He made it downstairs without incident and was just rounding the final corner when he ran smack bang into someone.
Looking up and up again, William’s mouth dropped open. The face of the man he’d run into was brown. Not brown like the farm workers got in the fields in the summer, but brown like coffee. His eyes were black, the whites tinged with yellow, and his head was completely bald.
The sudden thought that this was a devil skittered across William’s mind, until the man smiled showing a full set of completely human – if very white – teeth and said, “Careful where you is, young sir. Nearly fell over yo feet.”
“I-I,” William stuttered and then, suddenly remembering his mother showing him a picture of a man who looked just like this, blurted, “Are you the African Roscius?”
The man’s eyes widened until William could see white all around them and his smile got even broader. “No, I isn’t. But I isn’t unhappy bein’ mistaken for ‘im. Proper gentleman, Mister Aldrige is.”
Somewhat deflated, William wasn’t sure what to say. If this had been the Roscius he could at least have told him he’d seen his picture, as it was, he found himself at a complete loss.
“I’m sorry,” he said sidling past the huge form, “I would stay and talk but I need to get butter for Baggy Clement before his toast gets cold.”
Having found the butter, William sprinted back to Spencer his mind in a wild buzz. He was jumping up and down by the time the stuff was properly delivered and couldn’t wait to share his news.
“I saw a brown man,” he gasped. “Like coffee or mahogany, but real, I swear it, truly.”
Elijah appeared suitably impressed, nodding slowly as he did when some matter arose that piqued his interest. “An African,” he said, “Father told me all about them. I wonder why one should be at the school?”
Spencer and Bonny exchanged amused glances at the new boys’ excitement and Spencer explained with all the glee of one possessing prior knowledge, “That’s just Samson, Craven’s man. Travelled with him from the Carolinas. He’s often about, seeing to his clothing and such.”
“A servant?” William’s hopes of romantic adventure at his discovery floundered on reality’s rocks and the great coffee-coloured giant shrunk to more human proportions in his mind’s eye leaving him bereft.
The odd mood stayed with him until bed, and for the first time since arriving
at the school William felt alone, surrounded by strangeness and very, very homesick.