Bondsman

Bondsman

A Novel by

Johnnie McDonald

Second Act Productions

2 Grove Isle Drive, #1403

Grove Isle, Florida 33133

Copyright © 2017 Johnnie McDonald

All Rights Reserved

Other Publicatons by Johnnie Mcdonald

NOVELS

The Deweyville Church Secretary Trilogy with Frankie Carroll:

Devil’s Basement, Book One

Loose LIPS, Book Two

Boilerman, Book Three

The Property

Final Test

Texans First, The New Republic

Haunted Hearts

Trail Ride

Channel Lineage Trilogy:

Bondsman, Book One

The Stablemaster, Book Two

The Stablemaster’s Son, Book Three

BIOGRAPHY

Something Special by Frank and Peg Brady with Johnnie McDonald

Disclaimer

No, the Channels of the Channel Lineage Trilogy are not the Channels with whom you may be acquainted or related in contemporary Virginia. Those Channels, as well as historical events, have inspired the author to create fictional stories and characters recounted in Bondsman. References to real people, incidents, dates, or locations are intended to provide a sense of authenticity, not to represent historical fact. Keeping to what could have been, what might have happened, is the intent.

No portion of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission.

Dedication

I am a mutt. With surnames such as McLendon, Brooks, Carroll, Forester, my relatives obviously hailed from England and Ireland. My folks settled in Oklahoma in land runs and a call to pioneering, but I never knew where they lived previously. No records of my distant ancestors are recorded leaving me without the ability to trace my family tree beyond the turn of the twentieth century when my great grandmother told me she came to Oklahoma in a covered wagon and lived in a soddie on the plains.

I like to think of myself as Irish, and when I visited there, I announced to my husband, These are my people. He said it was wishful thinking. As I contemplated my history, how and when my greats may have arrived in the United States, I delved into research and discovered the process of indenture. Perhaps as many as seventy percent of early arrivers to the colonies were bondsmen from Europe, particularly England, Ireland, and Germany. By selling their labor, they found a new home in America. I am probably a descendant of these indentured servants, and if it is true, I am proud.

I dedicate this novel to the men and women who landed in a wilderness and helped build a great nation with nothing but their hands, their backs, and their hope.

Prologue

Tis a female child, Padraig. A strong and lively lassie, the old woman announced, her apron soaked with the fluids of birthing. There’s no a mark on her wee body. Do ye want to be seein’ it?

"Briathrachan Bheag. Padraig swore in Gaelic. Naught. Why would I be wantin’ another worthless lass? One more bloody mouth to feed tis all. And how’s her ownself? Never heard her wail the likes of a hound."

Twas never a chore birthin’ before this one, Padraig. Edana was so weary I had to pull the babe out with both me hands. And bleedin’ somethin’ fearful, Edana is.

Don’t be lettin’ her die, Cori. What would I be doin’ with a squawlin’ brat without its mother’s teat? I’ll be gettin’ rid of it ‘fore the sun comes up. The man scratched at his greasy hair and walked out of the tiny shamble with its two rooms, thatched roof, and dirt floor. Scant light filtered through windows shuttered and draped with tattered rags. No glass window panes had ever been fitted in this shack. Tapirs burned even in the daytime in the dank and joyless place where Padraig and Edana Culmore lived with their three sons, one daughter, and new baby.

Cori was aunt to Edana and had been present each time her niece had given birth, live and still. This child had been an unwanted shock and a tough job from the beginning sending Edana to her bed early in the pregnancy, causing considerable hardship upon the family. As the village midwife, Cori had assisted in many births and recognized the potential for tragedy. She did not expect Edana to live until morning and she was certain Padraig would be true to his word—he would take it upon himself to drown the baby in the river as it if was a litter of unwanted pups.

When Edana exhaled her final breath at day-break on January tenth, sixteen hundred and eighty-eight, Cori bundled the infant in a shabby blanket and left the cottage. She trudged through the mud yard of the Culmore pig farm in County Kildare and onto the road leading to the village center, the wind whipping at her thin cloak and the rain pelting her lined face. It was not the first time she had rescued a babe from a fateful demise at the hands of its very own makers: unwed girls, fathers whose wives had died, wives whose husbands had disappeared or been murdered by English soldiers, parents with too many mouths to feed, parents who needed strong boys to do the backbreaking work on the unforgiving land that is eastern Ireland.

The notion of keeping the child did not occur to Cori for she could barely feed herself due to the disappearance of her menfolk during the Irish Rebellion. Her father was found dead in his fields in sixteen and fifty-two, a pitchfork in his back, put there by an English sympathizer. Cori’s young husband, conveniently charged as a political subversive, vanished five years later, and her two sons not yet nine and eight, were snatched from her arms, rounded up like cattle and sold as slaves to English settlers in the West Indies. Cori heard rumors that over three hundred thousand Irish had suffered similar fates in the wake of Cornwall’s path of bloody revenge against the Irish who dared rise-up against the Crown, leaving grieving mothers and wives with cold beds, broken hearts, and not much but the grass to eat.

Her destination was the local Church of England where children were discarded on the doorstep of the vicar who gladly took in the healthy ones and raised them as Protestants before selling them into bondage. The authorized English church was the only choice. The remaining Catholics had either been killed or converted to Protestantism to keep from being killed, and the Catholic churches had been overtaken by King William III of England in his holy war to rid the earth of pagan Catholics and the filthy Irish in general. To have survived nearly fifty years in such adversity was a constant marvel to Cori who expressed gratitude to the saints one day and cursed the devil the next.

She knocked on the door and was greeted by the housekeeper who allowed Cori to enter and stand out of the rain in the foyer of the grand cottage.

What have ya got there, Cori? Another Irish illegitimate? the housekeeper asked, her lip curled in disgust.

Cori choked back the Gaelic prickling to spill so naturally from her mouth and answered in halting English, Tis a dead mother’s orphan she is. Her lungs are hale and her eyes are clear. I named her Fionnuala Carroll. Cori would have left Fionnuala on the stoop with a note, but she could not write—another enforcement decreed by the King who wished to keep the Irish illiterate and relegated to the lowest denomination of human kind. For some reason, she wished to be the one to give the child a name and chose the one belonging to her long dead mother. Acknowledging the surname of the parentage would have heaped more trouble upon the Culmore children. The Culmores would find it near impossible to survive without their good mother, Edana, having tied her lot to a callous man who would surely beat his sons and marry off his remaining daughter before her time. The name means bright and fair, Cori whispered into the babe’s ear, "and it means shoulders, me fair one. Fionnuala, ye shall be needin’ strong shoulders if ye’re to survive in this world full of hate and hazard." The infant opened her eyes as if responding to the sound of her name.

The housekeeper pulled back the rag, peeked at the baby, and mumbled something unintelligible about the ignorant Irish. Wait here. I shall fetch the Vicar.

Instinctively, the babe’s head turned toward Cori’s breast searching for a place to suckle. The natural movement caused the rhythm of her Cori’s heart to hasten.

When the housekeeper returned with the Englishman, the door was ajar with the rain blowing through its opening. Cori was gone and with her the child.

Through the blinding storm toward her small room, she clutched the infant to her bosom and prayed aloud, Blessed Mary, Mother of God, why have ye entreated me? Ye spoke to me and not a schilling do I possess to feed this poor lass. So be it, Mother, and should the both of us die of the starvation, twill be a better fate than bequeathin’ Fionnuala to the slaugterin’ hands of the Englishmen or the murderin’ heart of her own father.

Chapter One

The sequence remained constant: the sparks shooting out of the fire pit, the hiss of heat hitting water, the sharp clink of metal upon metal. When the shoe was turned just so and the holes for the nails were pounded through, the smithy dropped the curved piece of metal into the water bath for it to cool. And with every strike of the anvil upon the blistered iron, the boy mimicked the motion with his make-believe implements.

Akin to a thousand other boys thrown out to fend for themselves, William Channel grew up a lost waif on the streets of London. Thievery was his occupation, a job born of necessity. When he was not filching fruits from street vendors, he was picking the pockets of aristocrats. Occasionally, he sneaked through an open window and helped himself to anything handy: food, silverware, a lace doily. A good day was a dry one, not too hot or cold, no rotting bodies lying in the gutter to stumble over, and free from the stealing of his food by bigger boys or a chasing by the sheriff.

For entertainment, Will enjoyed watching the blacksmith forge horseshoes or to form the bands for the carriage wheels. Moreover, he took great pleasure in the presence of the horses. Horses did not mind he had not bathed, that he was a thief, that he was abandoned, or that he was practically mute. His mother obviously objected to his inability to speak beyond a whisper. From the moment of his birth, she had winced at the pitiful screeching cries emanating from a damaged larynx and scoffed at the slight deformity of his left foot to include a sixth toe. And as he grew older, she mocked his grave attempts at communication, so much that he ceased talking for fear of her disapproval. After the births of three additional children, each of dubious paternity, she determined his potential for a paying job was limited. He was barely seven when, in sixteen and ninety-two, she threw him into the streets to make do. In the beginning, he presented his meager finds for her approval, but there was never gratitude. A leaking roof was the only benefit in his coming home, and in time, he simply did not. He was not missed.

Will’s one and only ally was the blacksmith, a burly, hairy man perpetually covered in soot. Blackie, as he was commonly referred to, was not much of a talker; a grunt sufficed for most communication. Horses got nothin’ to say, and I gets along with ‘em fine. As for two legged critters, I got no high regard for the lot of ‘em, he told Will. Blackie had developed a soft spot for the homeless, wide-eyed boy who watched him work and who rarely spoke. Lad, you’re gonna catch consumption or get yourself thrown in the work house if ya don’t find a place to stay besides them streets. I know a place might do if ya be smart about it. Blackie gave Will directions to the stable across town where carriage horses were housed and where the foreman was reputed to be a decent bloke.

Will located the stable, pried loose a piece of lumber at the back of the structure, and found himself a corner in the stall of a particularly composed horse. He was leery of the horse’s hoofed feet, not knowing if he might be clobbered in the head if he dozed off. But the soft rhythm of the animal breathing, the warmth arising from its massive body, and the rustling of the hay in the stall lulled him into a tranquil sleep. Will’s habit of sneaking into the livery each night and bedding down with the horses became as natural as any life he could imagine. As well as sharing their bed, he scrounged half-eaten apples and occasionally, when pickings were slim and he was particularly hungry, he ate the sweet feed and drank the water from the same trough as his equestrian friends—he knew these friends would not bear witness.

One by one, the boys with whom Will trolled the streets disappeared. There were always new ones, younger or pluckier, to take their place, but the longer a boy lived on the sly, the older or bolder he became, the more the sheriffs were to apt to take an interest in his activities. The fear of being caught in the act of thievery and carted off to a work house began to trouble Will. If he could develop blacksmithing skills, perhaps he could continue to survive on his own. Stoking the fires and fetching metal was the extent of his abilities, however. His malnourished body with its scrawny shoulders and puny arms was incapable of hefting the hammer repeatedly let alone pounding it down on the anvil.

Despite Blackie’s empathy for the lad, he was unable to pay him for the modest amount of work he performed. It pained him to see the boy traipse the six-mile round trip daily to the stable, sneak in and out of alleys all day, and struggle to impress him in the afternoon with his miserable attempts at blacksmithing. Eventually, he put in a good word for Will with the foreman of the stable. At the age of nine, Will was given a job mucking out the very stalls where he slept at night, and for his effort he was paid a paltry sum. In time, he became as adept at doing honest labor as he had been at stealing. And soon, he left the streets and his lawlessness behind.

By age fifteen, Will had become the head stable boy with a man-size list of duties. He cleaned stalls, groomed horses, repaired and maintained the tack and carriages, secured feed and hay, and ran errands for the stable foreman. He still slept in the stable, but he had a bunk and access to clean water. With wages to purchase meals on a regular basis, he was no longer the scrawny kid unable to lift a hammer. Now strapping and strong, dark-haired and dark-eyed, he could pound the steel better than Blackie and he did so once a week when he delivered horses for their hooves to be shod. He took pride in making and fitting the shoes for the work horses he attended, and he considered them his horses, his family.

With his eyes closed, Will knew by the way he tromped heavy on his back quarters that Barnaby was returning from an arduous day. He guessed Stella was in pain by the way she snorted, or that Morris was in a foul mood when he tried to take bites out of other horses. Communicating in equestrian had taken the place of talking with humans, and everything equestrian had become as natural as breathing. And yet, he could not ride; riding was a privilege reserved for soldiers and the landed gentry. At night, when no one was present to notice, Will slipped onto Barnaby’s smooth, bare back. A primeval power surged through his limbs making him feel more beast than human. During these prized moments, his mind conjured the wind caressing his face as he rode one with the horse wild and free upon the English fields forgetting all the ugliness in his past life. His horse would grow wings, and together they would fly upon cloud billows to an enchanted home where mortal language was communicated not by mouth to mouth but from heart to heart. Will’s dreams were tempered by his lack of knowledge of the world outside his miniscule domain, but they endured because of his optimism.

Will reported to the stable foreman, a tolerable man whom he felt comfortable to trust. Fate would have that tolerance replaced by the coarse temperament of a new foreman when Will was seventeen. Seamus Turnberry not only resembled an ogre with his stubby bowed legs and triple chins, with his bulging eyes and protruding teeth, but his character was equally gruesome as he immediately set out to prove himself a cruel taskmaster. Longer hours and less pay were consequences Will could stomach for himself, but when the rations were cut for the horses, he protested. For his disobedience, Turnberry threatened to dismiss him as well as blackball him in all of London.

Will kept his mouth shut for a time. The business of running carriages for hire was good, but it became apparent Turnberry wanted it improved. The hours of operation grew longer, the horses were forced to do more runs without rest, and limits for the number of passengers in each carriage was withdrawn. Will was certain Turnberry was lining his own miserly pockets with the profits from these changes. He was also convinced the foreman would run the business into the ground by destroying the poor creatures which made their jobs possible.

Two months since being threatened with the loss of his job, and still Will held his tongue. It had been a long, dreary day. Every horse in the stable had worked in the cold and the sleet since dawn. Barnaby had run more than his share of calls and lumbered wearily into the stable. The driver, an old geezer fond of his cups, hopped down and was out the door and headed for the tavern before Will could attend to the harness.

Will massaged the animal with long, firm stokes until Barnaby began to relax. There’s a good fellow, he whispered as he held out an apple for him to chomp. Following the apple, he lifted a bucket of feed to his mouth, and the horse ate greedily.

Hey, what’s this ‘ere? Turnberry growled.

Will was unaware his boss had returned to the stable from his evening meal. Just puttin’ away the horses, sir, Will replied in a gravelly voice.

Don’t ignore me, boy. Where did that bucket of feed come from? It ain’t the ration I approved.

The horses can’t work all day and live on the rations allowed ‘em. I bought the extra feed with me own wages. Will glared at Turnberry.

Your own wages, huh? If ya can afford to buy feed, then I reckon I be payin’ ya beyond fair. See how ya like it when ya can barely feed your ownself let alone these mangy excuses.

The bucket still in his hand, Will took a hesitant step toward Turnberry just as Morris pulled the last carriage into the stable.

At the sight of the bucket, Morris bolted forward, forcing Turnberry into the side of a stall. The skinny carriage driver yelled at him to, Whoa, but the starving animal was not to be restrained. Turnberry bellowed obscenities and tried shoving Morris away. Morris did what he instinctively did when harassed, he jerked his huge head and bit Turnberry on the arm.

Will rushed to the anxious horse, grabbed the harness, coaxed him away from Turnberry, and managed to put the bucket under his nose within twenty seconds. Whoa, boy, whoa now, take it easy. Have a bite and then you’ll get a rub.

That damnable horse won’t get a bite and a rub. What he’ll get is the whip, Turnberry blustered. His bulging eyes appeared ready to pop out of his oversized head when he bent to pick up a wooden plank lying on the floor. Before Will could stop him, Turnberry brought the plank over his head and swung it down on Morris’s exposed rump. He was preparing to swing it again when the horse snorted and reared up on his hind legs causing the carriage to go spilling onto its side sending the driver leaping into the air for clearance. The driver hit the ground with a thud, screamed, and crawled to safety before Morris reared up again.

Will no longer cared if he maintained control of Morris—his objective was to stop Turnberry from further assault. He dropped the bucket and dived at Turnberry’s midsection. The upheld plank slipped from Turnberry’s hands and landed on his head with a thunk, and the two men went crashing against the same stall where Turnberry had been pinned earlier. Grunting and bleeding, Turnberry shot out a useless punch with his fleshy fist. Will grabbed the fist, yanked Turnberry’s arm behind his back and rammed his face onto the mud and manure-laden floor. With his knee grinding into Turnberrys’s back, Will’s man-sized hands encircled the flabby flesh around the older man’s neck.

Will’s rage boiled. Raw, repressed anger seethed in his chest and clouded his brain. The need to survive had always kept him in check until this very moment, and for the last few minutes he had reacted on sheer impulse. Now, the temptation to squeeze the life from this tyrant was overwhelming. He pressed and he squeezed, and Turnberry struggled beneath him. If I let ‘im live, nothin’ good will come of it. If I let ‘im live, he’ll not change. The world will not change. He pressed and he squeezed, and Turnberry’s struggles grew weak. If I kill ‘im, I’ll change.

Will released his grip and stood. While hovering over the limp body, he exhaled the resolute loathing, then grabbed the back of Turnberry’s jacket, pulled him up from the mire, and dragged him to a sitting position against the stall. Turnberry gagged and sputtered, but Will paid no attention as he went about his normal chores. He first checked on the driver to ensure his injuries were not serious before sending him on his way. He righted the carriage and finished removing Morris’s harness. He rubbed down the horses and gave them extra feed, all the while speaking to them in his whisper voice the calming, meaningless language only they appreciated.

And when his chores were completed, he put out the lantern, sat on his bunk and waited. He was aware when Turnberry fumbled in the dark for the rear door of the stable. He was aware when the first light of day peeped through the bare windows. He was aware and ready when he heard voices outside the stable. The men behind the voices would find him where Turnberry had left him. But there would be no Morris, no Barnaby, no Stella. All twenty horses were gone, led out in the middle of the night into the streets of London.

* * *

Two weeks of incarceration had yielded no results. Will refused to divulge the whereabouts of the stolen property. The owner of the London Carriage Company for whom Will had been working since he was nine-years-old had been summoned from his country home and was now peering at him through black and grimy iron bars. Lewis Cranford was a middle-aged man, fashionably dressed but not dandified. Will had seen him perhaps on two occasions in the last eight years and he had determined the man might be a satisfactory fellow, that is, until he hired the clod Turnberry. He held doubts about his previous judgment.

Not appearing overly wrought, Cranford leaned on his walking cane and demanded in well-educated English diction, Now, see hear, young man. You will surely go to the stocks if you do not make amends. We must know where the horses have been located.

Will cleared his throat and attempted to be heard. Sir, I wish to oblige if….

Cranford leaned into the bars. I say, what is it you are trying to say. Speak up, Channel.

Apologies, sire. Me voice box don’t work proper. I can’t speak much above a whisper.

Ah, I understand. Cranford summoned Will nearer to the bars. With a hand cupped behind his ear, he listened intently to Will’s story.

Unaccustomed to making speeches to humans, Will struggled to find the suitable words which would convince Cranford his actions were in the best interest of the business. He explained how Turnberry was starving the horses and running them beyond endurance. He told him about the reduced wages to the workers and the over-charges to customers. He described the unsound condition of the equipment and how the foreman was using cheap, used parts for carriage repairs. It ain’t none a me business, sire, and I don’t expect no retort, but I question the whereabouts of them profits. If ya ain’t seen none, then make up your own mind up about whose pocket they might a got.

"I shall do precisely that.