Authors: Mark Latham
‘Shh,’ Rosanna hushed me. ‘Someone has done something terrible to you, it is true, but you are safe and well. We do not care who you are or what you have done, only that you need help. When you are strong again, you can travel with us or go on your way, as you wish. But please, get some sleep, and we will talk later. Be happy, John Hardwick, for your fever has broken and you are on the mend.’
I tried to speak, but my voice stuck in my claggy throat. Rosanna offered me more water, which I gulped, and nodded my thanks. I had little choice but to follow her instructions and sleep, for my body was exhausted even if my brain was not. Indeed, the hallucinations I had been experiencing were beyond mere nightmares; I did not know how much opium the Artist had put into me, but it was enough that I still felt it, even now. And I wanted more. As Rosanna’s soft hand stroked my hair, however, I descended into a deep, mercifully dreamless sleep.
* * *
It was early evening when I woke, Rosanna still at my side. She led me from the tent into the heart of the bustling gypsy camp. I leaned on her as heavily as was proper, as my legs were leaden and my right side was numb after my operation. With my arm in a sling and an eye-patch over one eye, I must have looked like a real wounded soldier, though I certainly didn’t feel like one.
The camp was made up of around twenty gaily painted caravans, and several tents of varying sizes, sheltered on all sides by copses of woodland through which sparse trails wound in all directions. A group of men were gathered around a large fire in the centre, exchanging stories, whilst another man thrummed softly on a mandolin. Half a dozen old women were preparing game and vegetables for a feast, and I felt ravenous at the sight of it. Young girls carried water back from a nearby stream, while the lads of a similar age tended the spotted ponies and sturdy cobs that were kept nearby in a makeshift paddock. Smaller children still ran barefoot around the campsite, playing hide and seek around the caravans and carts, climbing trees and giggling as if they had no cares in the world.
We took our place by the fire, sitting on the fallen bough of an old tree, and Rosanna swayed to the mandolin music. The assembled men greeted us cheerfully, and one offered me a cup of mulled wine from an iron pot near the fire. I was unsure whether alcohol would do me any good, but Rosanna passed it over to me and smiled, and so I took it. A few of the children poked their heads around wagon wheels and out of tent flaps to get a look at the one-eyed stranger, and their playful curiosity made me feel at ease. I joined in the talk around the campfire, which was all of poaching game, drinking wine and travelling faraway lands. I knew plenty on that last topic, and very soon felt less of a stranger than I had expected. Presently, a group of men emerged from the woods—some of them little more than youths, really—carrying bundles of sticks and logs, and Rosanna stood up and waved to them.
‘Gregor, Willem!’ she called out. She nodded towards me, and two of the men peeled off from the group and came to us. As they drew near, Rosanna said to me: ‘John, you will be happy to know these men; they saved your life back in London, and brought you to our camp.’
I certainly was glad to know them, and I rose unsteadily, helped partway by Rosanna, and shook each man by the hand. Gregor was a gruff, dark-bearded man, of the same Romani stock as Rosanna, I guessed. Willem, by contrast, was a slight, mousey-haired fellow, with grey eyes that darted furtively about, and hands that were rough like a labourer’s, but slender like a pickpocket’s.
‘Pleased to make your acquaintance, guv,’ said Willem, in an unmistakeable cockney twang. ‘Very glad you’re still in the land of the living.’
‘Not half as glad as I am, Willem. And might I say, you have the sound of a Londoner about you?’
‘That’s because I am one, sir. Or was. William, is me name, though these folks all call me
Villem
, after the German way, like. I travel with ’em, sir—London got a bit tasty for my liking a few months back, sir, and so’s I stay on the road now. Keep me head down, if you see, sir.’
I saw only too well. That he had fallen foul of the law at some point was evident, but nevertheless he had done me a good turn, and could do no real harm out here in the countryside.
‘My friend,’ said Gregor, in an accent more in keeping with the gypsy camp, ‘my heart is glad that you live. Willem and I were about to leave the docks for the last time, and he saw you floating down the river. We thought you were dead for sure, but we felt your heart beat, and took you to a man we know in the East End. He make you well; take out bullet and fix up your eye. This is good. To think—if you had floated by just five minutes later, we would have been gone, and you would surely have drowned. This was meant to be.’
‘It was fortunate indeed—but to go to so much trouble… and expense?’
Gregor and William exchanged glances, and then looked at Rosanna, who nodded assent.
‘What?’ I asked.
‘My friend,’ said Gregor, ‘when we pulled you from the river, we knew that we had to bring you here. Rosanna had…’ he tailed off.
‘Foreseen it,’ Rosanna said, and my blood ran cold.
‘What do you mean… foreseen it?’ I asked, hardly wanting the answer.
‘In my crystal ball, as you would say,’ Rosanna shrugged.
‘Well, sort of, sir. We was on the lookout for an injured stranger, you see,’ William said, ‘on account of Rosanna’s instruction, like. But injured strangers are ten a penny in London, ’specially down by the docks. Then you come floating by, and we fish you out the Thames, and Gregor and me, we argues a bit about whether you were the one or not. After all, you didn’t look as if you’d pull through, pardon me for saying so. I was sure Rosanna wasn’t wanting no dead fella bringing back to camp. But while we was arguing, this toff comes walking by—’
‘Toff?’ I interjected.
‘Yessir. Dandy fella ’ee was. And he tells us to take you to a ’pothecary, and gives us ten shillings to cover the bill. So we did, and when the old sawbones says you’d pulled through, we figured you must be the one. So we brought you back with us, see?’
‘Not really,’ I said. I looked again to Rosanna. ‘“The one”? Your crystal ball?’
‘Gregor, Willem, I’m sure the captain is very grateful. Would you leave us, please?’ she said. The two men left at once.
‘John Hardwick, there is much to talk about, and much to explain. But trust me when I tell you that you are safe. Please, enjoy the hospitality of the camp, get well, get strong, and I promise I will make everything clear to you, all in good time. Will you trust me?’ She held out her hand.
Even the suggestion of prescience and crystal balls or whatever else had put me on my guard. After Sir Arthur’s warning, after the Artist in particular, I did not feel able to let myself fall into another circle of prophecy and destiny, from which it seemed there would be no escape. I wondered, too, at the identity of the ‘toff’ William had mentioned—was he a friend? A fellow agent? Or simply a well-meaning passerby? Part of me knew, deep down. I recalled the look of regret on Ambrose’s face as I’d staggered back from the gunshot and fallen into the Thames. If Ambrose Hanlocke had come back for me, out of guilt or sense of misplaced fellowship, then perhaps he was not beyond redemption. But it would take far more than fishing me out of the river to atone for his treachery against the Crown. I hoped it had merely been a stranger who had paid William and Gregor; that would make it all the easier to hate Ambrose Hanlocke.
In the end, I pushed such thoughts aside, and listened to Rosanna, though I barely felt I had a choice. Her voice—her very presence—soothed me, and although I had doubts, they ebbed away as she spoke. Now, it seems almost as if I was enchanted by her. Then, I felt I could trust her wholeheartedly. So I set aside my questions, just for a while, and took her hand.
We strolled through the camp as the sun set. Fires were lit, and every man, woman and child gathered round them to eat and drink, and sing and talk. It seemed a thriving little community, full of people who I would never have so much as looked at had I not fallen into dire straits. And yet their lives, though poor, seemed full, and I felt a pang of sadness that I did not belong anywhere the way these people belonged with each other.
Soon I was eating a hearty game stew with crusty bread out of a tin bowl, and drinking mulled wine and joining in the gypsies’ songs, though I did not speak Romani and did not understand the meaning. Every man I spoke to that evening was careful not to ask me how I had come to be floating face down in the Thames, and in fact they did a good job of pretending not to care. The more I talked to them, the more I realised that William was not the only outsider amongst them—they were not all Romani, but were instead from many countries and all walks of life. They were all escaping something, and had found some common bond of fellowship in this itinerant wagon train, where their past lives did not matter. I liked that a great deal, for I did not have to speak of the horrible things that haunted me, nor have to say anything that might compromise my position.
Throughout the evening, Rosanna was never far from my side. When she went away to fetch food, or talk with other groups, I saw her looking back at me, and she smiled when our eyes met. There were other women in the camp, some pretty, some plain, but none as captivating as my nurse. It was William who caught me looking at her lingeringly.
‘She’s something, ain’t she boss?’ he said. ‘Maybe too good for the likes o’ me, but a gentleman like yourself… well, you never know.’ I took his words as a reproach, though I doubt he had intended them as such, for I was coveting the girl in a most ungentlemanly fashion.
‘What makes you think I’m a gentleman?’ I asked.
‘It’s obvious, sir. Man of breeding, you are. We don’t talk about past lives here, sir, but you’ll forgive me that I guessed that you was a copper or a soldier, or some such, just as soon as we pulled you out the Thames. Rosanna says you’re a captain, so I s’pose I was right. I won’t say nothing, sir. But that Rosanna—she’s a beauty and no mistake.’
‘I suppose she is, William. But why did you say she’s too good for you? Surely you’re all equals here?’
‘Ho! Not quite, sir. For the most part, maybe—we all talk and make merry, and we all have a say about who joins and where we go next, and so on. But someone has to make the decisions—cast the deciding vote, so to speak—and that someone is your Rosanna, sir. Most of the people here are Romanies, and they look to her for leadership.’ He took a swig of beer from a bottle; I guessed that mulled wine was too rich for his tastes.
‘But she is certainly not the oldest here, and she’s a woman to boot. Why would the likes of Gregor take orders from her? I thought gypsies were ruled by the menfolk?’
‘That they are, in the main. S’true,’ agreed William. ‘But the old boss died of consumption a couple o’ years back, and Rosanna was his eldest daughter. He never had no sons, just five girls, and all of them with the Sight, so they say, and so they rule the roost. She’s a princess in their world, sir, of high birth. That’s why she’s too good for me; I’m no bloody prince, that’s for sure!’ He chortled at that, with no bitterness. William was one of those common men who knew his station in life, and perhaps had found a better place with a more equal share amongst the gypsies than he ever could in London.
‘You said something about the “Sight”?’ I asked. I felt light-headed. Hadn’t Sir Arthur’s man described his master’s ‘gift’ as such?
‘Oh yes, sir. Well, it’s not really my thing, I’m sure, but a lot of these folk reckon the Sight is real enough. They say them with the Sight can see the future—read your palm and all that stuff. Fortune-tellers, we’d call ’em. But the Romanies take it more serious, like. They won’t move camp unless the signs are right. If they catch a cold they’re straight off to the boss’ caravan for some herbal remedy or other. A superstitious lot and no mistake.’
William told me of the ‘Five Sisters’—Rosanna, Drina, Nadya, Elsbet and Esme—and how they held sway over the camp. I came to the conclusion that half the men—William included—were in love with the girls, and the other half were their blood kin. However, whilst it was easy to see the good in such ‘pretty young things’, as William put it, I was guarded. For good or ill, clairvoyants, mediums, table-rappers—call them what you like—had been at the very heart of this whole sorry affair with the Othersiders, and the thought that Rosanna was such a person tore at me. I was not sure whether to be afraid for her, afraid of her, or bitter that even here, amidst an illusory pastoral bliss, my bizarre adventures seemed determined to continue. I was starting to believe that there were no coincidences any more; that everything was linked somehow to the coming of the invaders from the other side. These thoughts swam around my head. I had been given a second chance, that much was certain, and it was my solemn duty to recover my strength and make the best of that opportunity.
‘You look like you’re sickening again, sir,’ said William.
‘You may be right,’ I said. ‘I think perhaps I should retire.’ I made to stand, but William put a hand on my arm, and looked about the camp to make sure no one was watching. He reached inside his waistcoat, and pulled out a small brown bottle, the sight of which made my heart lurch. I struggled to retain my composure.
Laudanum.
‘Pardon sir, but I have a confession to make. The ’pothecary gave us this, for you, like. But I kept it.’ He looked shame-faced. ‘I had the habit back in the day, something chronic, and I thought maybe… well, I was wrong. You need it more than me by the looks of you. Please, with my apologies.’ He thrust the bottle into my hands, and had I not taken it would have let it fall to the ground. William had turned and gone before I could say anything more. All I could do was stare numbly at the bottle in my hand, and return to my tent.
* * *
When I awoke the next morning, Rosanna was already in my tent, wringing out some cloths over a bowl.
‘I hope you slept well, my Captain,’ she said, without looking up from her chores. ‘We shall change your dressing, and then you will be ready to face the day.’