Crossings, A Thomas Pichon Novel Read online

  La faiblesse est le seul défaut que l’on ne saurait corriger. (Weakness is the only fault we don’t know how to correct.) — François, duc de La Rochefoucauld, Maximes, No. 130.

  Copyright © 2015 A. J. B. Johnston

  This book is a work of fiction and as such contains deliberate or accidental historical or geographical inaccuracies. The characters, places and events depicted are either products of the author’s imagination or are real historical figures but are used here in a fictional context. Any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced or used in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or any information storage or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher. Cape Breton University Press recognizes fair use exceptions. Responsibility for the opinions, research and the permissions obtained for this publication rest with the author.

  Cape Breton University Press recognizes the support of the Canada Council for the Arts, Block Grant program, and the Province of Nova Scotia for our publishing program. We are pleased to work in partnership with these bodies to develop and promote our cultural resources.

  Cover by Cathy MacLean, Chéticamp, NS

  Layout by Mike R. Hunter, Port Hawkesbury and Sydney, NS

  Edited by Kate Kennedy, Halifax, NS

  The font used in this manuscript is Garamond. It was familiar to all French readers in the 18th century. Claude Garamond created the typeface in the 1540s for the French king, François I. Over time, the Garamond fonts came to be used throughout Europe. The Garamond typeface uses less ink than many other fonts.

  Also in the series: Thomas, A Sectret Life (2012), The Maze (2014)

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Johnston, A. J. B., author

  Crossings : a Thomas Pichon novel / A.J.B. Johnston.

  Issued in print and electronic formats.

  ISBN 978-1-77206-020-1 (paperback).--ISBN 978-1-77206-021-8 (pdf).

  --ISBN 978-1-77206-022-5 (epub).--ISBN 978-1-77206-023-2 (kindle)

  1. Pichon, Thomas, 1700-1781--Fiction. I. Title.

  PS8619.O4843C76 2015 C813’.6 C2015-905227-0

  C2015-905228-9

  Cape Breton University Press

  P.O. Box 5300, Sydney, Nova Scotia B1P 6L2 CA

  www.cbupress.ca

  CROSSINGS

  A Thomas Pichon Novel

  by A. J. B. Johnston

  Third in the Thomas Pichon Novel Series

  Thomas, A Secret Life

  978-1-897009-74-1 (2012)

  The Maze

  978-1-897009-76-5 (2014)

  For Mary, Kate and Mike,

  without whom the Thomas Pichon novels would not exist.

  Contents

  I - Outing

  II - Talk

  III - Heat

  IV - Discovery

  V - Favour

  VI - Obligation

  VII - Amour

  VIII - Encore

  IX - Travail

  X - Crossing

  A few notes and acknowledgements

  Previous Books by A.J.B. Johnston

  About the Author

  I

  Outing

  En route – November 1734

  There comes a sudden drumming of hooves. It stirs Thomas from his languorous state. The rolling motion of the coach and the absence of conversation had induced something close to sleep. But the sound of horses coming on fast brings him straight up in his seat. He rubs a hand across his face and tilts his head.

  No, the pounding hooves are definitely not coming from up front, from the horses pulling the coach. The sound is coming up from behind and fast.

  Thomas glances down to the floor of the coach. In the middle, surrounded by four sets of feet, rests their hope. It is a small wooden coffre. He bends and lifts its lid. Yes, everything is still there: a half dozen small bottles and flasks containing ointments for various diseases, diseases no one in the coach has. It is a camouflage of stink, for in the hollow compartment underneath, Thomas and his companions have placed their coins.

  “Cleland,” Thomas whispers to his friend seated across.

  “Cleland,” he repeats, louder than before.

  Still not enough. Thomas knows the man consumed too much drink at the Windsor coach inn where they stayed last night. Despite Thomas’s frequent warning looks, Cleland would not take the hint. He said he wanted to celebrate being so close to the royal castle, and would not stop filling his glass. This is the result. Thomas shakes his head.

  The horses’ hooves grow louder. Thomas lifts his right leg and with one of his new black leather shoes, with the buckles that look like real silver though they’re only plate, taps his friend hard on the shin.

  John Cleland’s eyes shoot open. “What? What?”

  Thomas puts a finger to his lips. He darts a glance at flaxen-haired Fanny, asleep with her mouth slightly agape. Her head is on Cleland’s shoulder. There’s a hint of a smile on her face. Next, Thomas nudges his own sleeping lover, the dark-haired Élisabeth Cauvin, at his side. Ah, she’s waking on her own. A good Swiss is she, as punctual and smart as a clock.

  Élisabeth blinks into consciousness. “Thomas, des chevaux. I hear horses.”

  Thomas nods and smiles to see that her eyes also go immediately down to the little coffre of ointments near her feet. It’s surprising how alike they often are.

  He turns back to Cleland. “It may just be riders. In a hurry. Mais—” Thomas waves at Fanny as if to say, just look at her. “We all need to be prepared.”

  John Cleland blinks his agreement. He turns in his seat and whispers, “Fanny. Fanny, it’s time.”

  “Time?” The young woman’s blue eyes stare unblinkingly into Cleland’s face. “Bath so soon? How long was I asleep?”

  “No, not Bath. Riders, Fanny. Riders. Listen.”

  Fanny sits up straight and tries to come to alert. She adjusts her straw yellow dress. Her hands go to her hair and cap.

  “Stay calm,” says Cleland. Glancing at the chest on the floorboards between them, there is concern on his face. “Like a lady.”

  Fanny gives Élisabeth a quizzical look. The latter nods.

  “Come on, you two. Lively now,” Thomas says.

  “Yes, please,” Cleland adds.

  Fanny shrugs. She inserts a hand into the dark paisley sack beside her on the seat and pulls out a fox fur muff. She lays it on her lap. With a deep inhale she places her hands within, from both ends at the same time.

  Thomas cannot take his eyes off Fanny, such is the show of concentration on her face. “That’s right,” he says. “Like we are London ladies and gentlemen. Not a souci in the world.” He swings his attention Élisabeth’s way. She already has her hands in a muff that appears to be made of the fur from a black bear. Does the Swiss not look lovely in her off-white cotton dress with slender stripes of pale blue?

  “Prête,” she says.

  “It’s wait and see,” Thomas replies.

  The sound of the horses is louder, advancing on both sides of the bouncing coach.

  Thomas casts one more glance at his companions. Fanny’s usual prettiness is gone, replaced with a tight-lipped severity. Cleland’s expression is much the same, Élisabeth’s too. He supposes his cannot be much different. He has a small hole burning inside his bowels and his lungs are being squeezed by a tightening rope.

  With the hooves drumming alongside the coach, Élisabeth�
�s thoughts are of the life she once knew and has long since lost. Her father claimed he never blamed her for having taken her mother’s life as she came into the world. “You are my only child,” he often said. How fortunate she was that he educated her as if she were a son. It made her an oddity in Geneva, but it was a separateness and an independence Élisabeth came to like.

  She turns Thomas’s way. Though he is trying to hide his worry about the riders, she sees it in his eyes. She gives him what she hopes is a reassuring smile. Élisabeth is more than a little pleased that he has taken a shine to her. Their relationship has come a long way since that first night in the room upstairs at the Shakespeare’s Head. When he was the customer, and she the... the goods.

  ———

  “Stay relaxed,” Thomas says aloud to no one in particular. “Need our wits.” He looks at each of his fellow travellers in turn. Cleland purses his lips. Fanny gives nervous agreement, after glancing at Élisabeth. The Swiss removes a hand from her muff and taps Thomas on the knee.

  “Halt!” It’s a deep-voiced shout from the left. “Halt, I say.”

  “Pull up! Stop, we say.” That’s a second voice, almost a tremolo, from the right side of the coach. Its owner is evidently younger and more nervous than the first.

  Two horsemen ride up beside the coach, one on each side. Each has his nose and mouth covered by a black kerchief tied around the back of the neck. Combined with the tightly pulled-down tricornes and the rolled-up collars of their coats, there is almost nothing of their faces to be seen. The man on the left is dressed in greys. He has a coil of rope looped round his neck and across his chest. The man on the right is clothed in brown. Each is waving a pistol in one hand, the other gripping the pommel and the reins to their galloping horses.

  Thomas sucks a breath as the highwayman on the far side extends his arm. The pistol slowly takes aim up high, at the top of the coach. He must be aiming at the driver.

  A bang, a cloud of smoke.

  The driver yells, but it sounds more like shock than pain. The old fellow must not have known there were two highwaymen riding alongside. It is apparently only a warning shot, a command to bring the horses to a stop.

  “Whoa there, whoa. Whoa!”

  The four passengers within the compartment jolt and sway as the coach jerks up and down and side to side as the horses strain to slow down. Thomas and Cleland half stand. They use their outstretched arms to steady the two women in their seats They don’t want them tossed about. Fanny and Élisabeth withdraw their hands from their muffs. Each takes hold of her leather seat and the wooden frame of the coach.

  Thomas nods approvingly. “Everyone all right?” He looks first at Élisabeth then at Fanny and Cleland.

  Élisabeth and Cleland nod. Fanny blinks.

  “Here he comes,” says Cleland. “Say nothing. Understood?”

  No one in the coach says another word, but four pairs of eyes rove to warn and implore each other in turn. Where before the coach smelled of the different sweet sprinklings each had applied to cover their various human aromas, the air now carries more than a hint of sweat.

  “Hands! Hands up.” It’s the younger, wavery-voiced highwayman. The other rider, the commanding man in greys, is out of sight.

  The pale blue eyes of the young highwayman peer through the window. With curled lips, he scowls at Thomas then Cleland. The two women seated on the far side do not appear to register in the young man’s gaze at all. He extends his pistol more than a foot through the open window. The hand is trembling, but the young man tries to hide it by swinging the blue steel barrel back and forth. Thomas and Cleland both lift their arms up in the air.

  Is it Thomas’s imagination, or can he feel the chill from the barrel each time it points his way? He has a sudden metallic taste in his mouth.

  He closes his eyes when the young man cocks the firing mechanism the next time the barrel comes his way.

  “Bang!” the young man shouts.

  Thomas opens his eyes.

  “Saying your prayers, blue pants?”

  There is much mockery in the highwayman’s eyes, but at least now the pistol swings away, over to Cleland’s side. What is wrong with the blueness of Thomas’s new breeches? The tailor said the colour, queen’s blue, would be appropriate for a trip to Bath. Guaranteed to impress.

  The young man’s gaze and gun come back to Thomas. Then he waves the pistol at the two women, who have disobeyed orders and returned their hands into their muffs.

  “Youse two, skirts. Hands up.”

  Fanny steals a look at Cleland then at Élisabeth and Thomas.

  “Not them in charge, pretty face,” says the highwayman. “If I says hands up, hands up it is.”

  Élisabeth speaks up. “Here, look.” She withdraws both hands from the black fur muff in her lap. Two empty hands dance in front of her face.

  Fanny does the same.

  “That’s better.” The young highwayman uses the tip of the barrel of his flintlock pistol to edge his hat up an inch. He seems to be assessing the two women, going back and forth between them.

  In the silence Thomas hears the whinnies and snorts of the horses. A bird is calling cheerily from the woods.

  The highwayman withdraws his attention and his gun from the inside of the coach. “Dick!” he shouts, then glances back inside. “Dick,” he yells again. “We want them out, right?”

  The four passengers crane to see where Dick might be. Thomas catches a glimpse. The man is off his horse and on the ground. He has the driver of the coach spread-eagled, a foot on the man’s ass, a pistol aimed at the centre of his back.

  “Chrissake, Petey,” Dick shouts back. “Get it goin’.”

  “Hear that?” Petey asks those inside the coach. “Dick says it’s out you get.”

  “Petey,” the unseen Dick yells. “Get their shoes first. Look for coins.”

  “Right you are.” Petey cocks his pistol again and points it at Thomas. “Hear that, blue boy? That’s the famous Dick Turpin. That’s right, my own Uncle Dick. ’E says off the shoes. Could be coins.”

  Four heads nod at once.

  “So hurry up!” Petey’s shout makes his horse neigh and twist. “Whoa, boy.”

  Thomas and Cleland lower their hands to unbuckle the metal clasps on their shoes. Toe to heel, the shoes come off. The women untie their lacings and help each other tug off their boots. One by one, Thomas hands the footwear to Petey astride the horse. He gives each a shake then tosses it over his shoulder, to the ground.

  “Nothin’, Unc.”

  “All right, get them out of the box,” Dick says.

  “You’re not deaf. Get out.”

  “Might you open the door?” asks Cleland. “So we can do as he asks.”

  “As he asks?” Petey looks like he wants to spit in Cleland’s face. “It’s no ask.”

  No one within the coach moves or says a thing.

  “Youse look like you’re all about to shit!” Petey laughs. He dismounts, keeping his pistol trained on Cleland now. The young highwayman reaches out with his free hand to open the door. His horse wanders around.

  “Now?” Thomas asks.

  Petey says nothing but beckons with his pistol. Thomas stoops into the doorway.

  “Well, look at you!” Petey’s eyes light up above the mouchoir covering his nose and mouth. “Who-hoo. Dressed for the city, out on a country ride.”

  Petey suddenly reaches out and grabs Thomas by the hand. He yanks hard and Thomas comes sprawling into the air. He kicks at nothing then hits the ground, his legs taking the shock. He clasps his hands around the left knee, the one that hurts the most. Fleeting visions of another time, another place – a tumble in an underground tunnel in his youth – race through his mind.

  Petey barks, “That’s right, fancy pants. Now, face down, arms out.”

  Thomas feels the sh
arp pain where Petey kicks his ribs.

  “Hey!” Thomas hears Cleland shout. “Can’t do that.”

  Thomas twists to see Cleland’s frame fill the doorway of the coach. Petey leaves Thomas where he is and goes to his friend. The muzzle of the pistol presses on Cleland’s brow.

  “Can’t do? Can’t do what?”

  Even though he is a dozen feet away, Thomas sees the grin in Petey’s eyes, above the mask.

  Cleland waves a hand toward Thomas. “You can’t—”

  Petey lifts his gun up off Cleland’s forehead and brings it back down hard, wooden handle first. Cleland recoils, hands to his brow. Thomas sees a trickle of blood.

  “Fuckster,” Cleland mutters. He makes a single threatening fist, keeping the other hand over his brow.

  Petey puts on a show. “Oh my,” he says, and dances a quick jig. Then, to the women inside the coach, behind John Cleland’s frame, he says, “See, ladies, me and me uncle, we do what we want.” Petey raises his pistol again, threatening to strike John Cleland once more.

  Cleland holds up both hands in front of his head.

  “Get down,” Petey shouts.

  Cleland twists through the doorway and climbs down the iron steps. He goes to lie down beside Thomas. Both men’s noses hover just above the road’s packed earth, their backs to the clouds.

  “Dick,” Petey sings out.

  Thomas sees Dick glance up. He’s just finishing tying up the driver, who is face down with his hands tied behind his back. “Hold on,” Dick shouts back.

  “Dick does the tying,” Petey explains conversationally to Thomas and Cleland’s backs. He gives Thomas’s then Cleland’s socked feet a kick. “Then it’s pickin’ time.” Petey does another jig. “Better to give than receive. Is that not it?” Petey puts his hands on his hips and gyrates like he’s having sex. “Youse give, and Dick and me receive.”

  Petey makes a clucking sound. Then, arms extended, he takes a bow before the thicket of blackberry brambles that runs along the road.

  “Enough of that.” It’s Dick clapping Petey on the back. “Hurry. We just might get another one before day is done.”