I did tell her that Jack the Ripper was Roderick Whittle, and how he'd chased me to the Thames, and how I'd been his prisoner until we reached the sh.o.r.es of America where I escaped from him. She could pa.s.s the information on to Uncle William, and he could let the news out to everyone. It'd come as a great relief to the authorities-not to mention the East End wh.o.r.es-that Jack the Ripper would no longer be prowling the streets.

The next day, Sarah and I rode into town again. She sent me into the store with some money to purchase tobacco for the General while she took my letter to the post office for me.

The day after that, Christmas happened. It only made me sad, mostly. I longed more than ever to be at home. It had always been a jolly time, with parties and caroling, a great feast at Uncle's house with goose and plum pudding and such, and getting ambushed under the mistletoe by folks I'd never let kiss me otherwise. We always had a Christmas tree on the parlor table all bright with tapers and fancy doodads. I wondered if Mother had put up a tree this year without me there, and thought how lonesome she must be. She wouldn't be getting my letter for a few weeks, but at least my cable must've perked her up some.

Christmas was pretty much like any other day at the Forrest place, only gloomier. We didn't even have a tree. According to Sarah, the General and Mable were down on Christmas because they had no family except her and didn't enjoy being reminded of the fine old times they used to have.

The General sat around morose in the parlor, smoking his pipe and drinking rum till he fell asleep at midday.

Mable, she went for a walk and disappeared. Sarah and I had to go out hunting for her. We found her about halfway to town, crouched down a ways off the road, digging in the snow. She gave us kind of a scatterbrained look and said she was aiming to pick some posies.

We loaded her onto the sleigh and took her home. Sarah told me this sort of thing had happened a few times before. Every now and again, the old lady would slip a cog and wander off. "It's her age," Sarah explained.

Back at the house, we tucked Mable into bed. The General was still snoring in the parlor. We hadn't gotten any chance to eat, so Sarah set to work on making some chowder.

We ate by candlelight in the dining room, just the two of us. Sarah could see I was feeling low, and tried to cheer me up. She poured us some red wine, and we "Merry Christmased" each other and sipped at it. The wine tasted sweet and sent a warmth through me. But it put me in mind of the rum I'd drunk in Mary's room, and that reminded me of things that didn't improve my mood any.

After the chowder was gone, we kept sitting there and drinking the wine.

By and by, Sarah told me she'd be back in a minute and I should stay put. Feeling plain miserable, I helped myself to another gla.s.sful. Well, along she came hiding one hand behind her, and knelt beside my chair. I scooched it away from the table, and turned it toward her. "Close your eyes, Trevor," she said. I shut them. When she told me to open, I looked and she was dangling a gold watch in front of me by its chain. "Merry Christmas," she said.

My throat clutched and my eyes watered up. I couldn't say a thing. She put the watch into my hand and I studied it. The timepiece was blurry, so I had to blink before I could make out the crossed revolvers engraved on its case.

"It's...grand," I finally managed to stammer out. "Thank you ever so much."

"It belonged to my father," she said. "I want you to have it."

"I shouldn't...really."

"Certainly you should. You'll never know how much joy you've brought into my life. You must keep it always."

"I...I do wish I had a gift to give you."

"You might give me a kiss."

With that, she uncrouched some. Hands on my knees, she leaned forward and turned her cheek to me. I kissed it. Then she faced me and looked me in the eyes.

"I know you miss your mother awfully," she said. "I do wish you could could be with her, on this day especially." be with her, on this day especially."

I nodded, and wished the tears would quit running down my cheeks.

"I doubt I'll ever be blessed with a child of my own," Sarah went on.

"Oh, certainly you..."

She touched a finger to my lips. "If I did did have a son, I hope he would be as fine a young man as yourself." have a son, I hope he would be as fine a young man as yourself."

Then she she took to weeping. took to weeping.

She sank to her knees and crossed her arms on my legs and buried her face and gasped and sobbed. I set my new watch on the table.

"Don't cry," I said. "It's all right."

She kept at it. I patted her back and stroked her hair. Finally, she stood up. She straightened her dress and sniffled a few times. "I'm sorry," she murmured. "I don't know..." And suddenly she was bawling all over again, even harder than before.

I got to my feet and put my arms around her.

We stood there, mashing each other tight, both of us sobbing to beat the band.

It took a while, but we finally got worn out and stopped our crying. We didn't let go of each other, though. It felt mighty comfortable to be hugging her, even though I knew she wasn't my mother and she knew I wasn't her son.

When we unclenched, she tried to smile. Her face was all red and slick with tears, her eyes ashimmer. She looked just lovely. "Aren't we the silly ones, though?" she said. "Carrying on that way?"

I didn't know what to say. Sarah brushed the tears off my cheeks with her fingertips. Then she kissed my mouth, real gentle and sweet.

Not long after that, I went on up to my room and turned in. Taken all around, it had been a mighty strange Christmas. I spent a while puzzling over things, but my head was all foggy from the wine and before I knew it I was asleep.

Sarah woke me up the next morning with a kiss. She took to doing that every morning. Each night she'd come into my room at bedtime. We'd usually chat a spell, then she'd kiss me goodnight and go on her way.

In between, we looked after the General and Mable. I helped prepare meals, clean the house, and care for the horses. About once a week, Sarah and I went into town. We took the sleigh sometimes, or a carriage when the road was clear. There in town, we always bought supplies and a copy of the World World, and Sarah always fixed us up with licorice sticks. Sometimes, when the weather was good, we wandered over to the beach. A boardwalk was there, with all sorts of shops and booths and bath houses and pavilions and rides and such, but they were shut down for the winter. Sarah, she never failed to go on considerable about what a bully time we would be having there, come summer.

The way my savings were stacking up, a dollar each week, I could see I'd still be around through summer, and likely for a few summers more. I didn't know how much a boat ticket for England might cost, but it had to be dear.

Well, my spirits sank some whenever I thought about it. Mostly, though, I was fairly happy to be where I was. Sarah treated me real good. The General, he seemed to like having me around. Even old Mable warmed up to me. She bossed me something frightful, but didn't get snappish too often.

There were times when I went for whole days without giving a thought to Whittle. I figured I was safe, and he was far away somewhere. For all I knew, he might've gone and gotten himself killed. I sure hoped so.

Every time we came back from town with a new edition of the World World, though, I hunted through it. I checked each story, half afraid I'd find one about a butchery and know Whittle was up to his old tricks.

There were murders aplenty reported in that newspaper. Folks were forever getting themselves shot or bludgeoned or strangled or stabbed. For a while, though, I didn't find anything that looked like Whittle's work.

It was the middle of January when I came across a story about a woman "of low character" named Bess who was found "unspeakably mutilated" in a place called h.e.l.l's Kitchen. That sure set my heart to thundering. But I read on a bit, and the paper said a fellow named Argus Tate had been nabbed for it.

As the weeks went by, I found half a dozen more stories about women getting cut up. More often than not, it happened in h.e.l.l's Kitchen or Chelsea. I didn't tell Sarah why I was interested, but asked her about those places and she said they were in Manhattan, across the East River from us. When she let out that they were only just fifteen or twenty miles from us and you could cross the river by a bridge or boat, I felt rather squirmy inside.

You could get there in a day. day. Whittle could get Whittle could get here here in a day. in a day.

Of course, it might not be him that was killing those gals. That's what I told myself. I had to tell myself that, because otherwise it'd be my duty to go after him. I allowed I'd stay where I was unless I knew for sure it had to be Whittle over there.

I kept on checking the newspaper, and always hoped nothing would turn up to make it Whittle for certain.

My studies of the World World didn't take much time. In between ch.o.r.es and trips to town and such, I trekked through a good many of the books in the General's parlor. I read a heap of Shakespeare and Charles d.i.c.kens and Stevenson and Scott. I had a go at some tales by Edgar Allan Poe, but gave up quick on those, for they reminded me of when I'd tried to read one on the didn't take much time. In between ch.o.r.es and trips to town and such, I trekked through a good many of the books in the General's parlor. I read a heap of Shakespeare and Charles d.i.c.kens and Stevenson and Scott. I had a go at some tales by Edgar Allan Poe, but gave up quick on those, for they reminded me of when I'd tried to read one on the True D. Light True D. Light and gotten woozy. I wanted no truck with anything that put me in mind of that yacht or Whittle. and gotten woozy. I wanted no truck with anything that put me in mind of that yacht or Whittle.

The books I liked best were those about America. I read plenty of Mark Twain, and even got to finish Huckleberry Finn Huckleberry Finn, which I'd left hanging the night Mother dragged Barnes home drunk and I set off to hunt for Uncle William. I read all the Leatherstocking Saga Leatherstocking Saga by Cooper, and bunches of stories by Bret Harte. They gave me an awful hankering to see the Mississippi and the great forests and plains and mountains, and gold fields and the like. I longed to travel and have adventures. by Cooper, and bunches of stories by Bret Harte. They gave me an awful hankering to see the Mississippi and the great forests and plains and mountains, and gold fields and the like. I longed to travel and have adventures.

Every now and then, I took a notion to light out for the West. I dreamed about it, but knew I was meant to stay with the Forrests until I could earn enough money for my return to England.

Besides, I heard tales from the General that made me glad to be safe in the civilized East.

After my goodnight kiss from Sarah, I often crept downstairs to the parlor and sat for hours with the General. We'd sit in front of the fireplace, him smoking his pipe, both of us taking sips of rum, and he'd talk on and on about his times with the Army.

He told me about West Point, and about Civil War battles, but mostly he liked to talk about his experiences during the Indian Wars.

Back on the yacht, Whittle had gone on considerable about going West and joining up with savages. If he'd had a chance to chat with Matthew Forrest, though, I reckon he might've sung a different tune. For one thing, most of the Indians were already killed or tame by now. For another, they did things to white men that would've made any reasonable chap eager to stay clear of them.

The General went on considerable about such horrors. I don't know if he just enjoyed trying to shock me, or if he had had to talk about them. Maybe it was both. to talk about them. Maybe it was both.

Scalping seemed like a frightful thing, but that wasn't the worst of it.

Whenever the Indians had a chance to work on dead men, they stripped them naked and not only scalped them but packed them full of arrows and cut off their heads and arms and legs and privates and scattered such things about. It sounded just as bad as what Whittle'd done to Mary and Trudy.

The redskins didn't usually do such things to women, though, so Whittle had them beat there. They mostly hung on to the white women, and abused them, and kept them for slaves.

The General told me the two main rules of Indian fighting: don't let the heathens capture your women, and don't let them take you alive.

When women were at risk, you had to kill them. If it came down to one bullet left, and you had a choice of whether to plug an Indian warrior or your wife, why there wasn't any choice to be made. You shot your wife in the head.

He told me about a time when it looked as if the Sioux and Cheyennes might overrun Fort Phil Kearney, so the soldiers put all the women and children inside the magazine and left an officer with them who was supposed to touch off the powder and blow them all to smithereens rather than let the Indians take them alive. Fortunately, it didn't come to that.

He said the worst thing, next to letting them get their hands on women, was to let them take you you alive. alive.

One thing they liked to do was to strip a fellow naked and stake him out on the ground. Then they'd build a fire by one of his feet. When that foot was good and crisp, they'd cook the other, and then the legs and arms. They took their time about it, too. When they finally got tired of it all, they'd build a fire on the poor chap's chest and that would finish him.

Another favorite sport was to hang their captive upside down over a low fire. The head would cook real slow. By and by, though, it'd explode.

Sometimes, a white man would get turned over to the squaws. The General clammed up about what manner of games the squaws played on their prisoners, so I judged it must've been a sight worse than what he had had told me. That was hard to imagine, though. told me. That was hard to imagine, though.

The upshot was, you'd rather be dead than captured.

If things got nip and tuck, you always saved your last bullet for yourself.

He told me about a time he found himself and his troops surrounded. He had a revolver for himself, but plenty of the others didn't. They only had rifles, so before the Indians came whooping down at them, every one of them tied a string around his rifle trigger and put a loop at the other end. That way, when it came down to the last round, they could put the rifles' barrels to their heads and use the toes of their boots to pull the triggers. Well, they got out of that sc.r.a.pe all right, but the General said it was common, when he came upon a ma.s.sacre, to find whole pa.s.sels of men who'd shot their own women and children, and followed it up with a bullet for themselves.

It made me sick to hear about such things, and to think about them afterward. Putting a gun to your own head seemed mighty extreme, but for a man to shoot his wife and children or anyone else he loved-it made me shudder.

One time, I asked the General how he felt about it. He took a pull on his pipe, and let the smoke out slow, then said, "There are many fates worse than death. Slow torture at the hands of the red man, that's one of them. Another is to lose those you love. A bullet in the brainpan is quick and merciful next to either of those circ.u.mstances."

I never told him about Trudy. But I spent considerable time worrying my head about the way she'd ended. Getting done by Indians was no worse than how Whittle'd butchered her. I took to feeling guilty about saving her life. If I'd let her hang or drown and not been so quick at jumping to the rescue, she would've been spared from his knife. The trouble is, I'd known known it. Even while I'd been working to save her those times, I'd known she might be better off dead. But I'd gone ahead and saved her anyhow. it. Even while I'd been working to save her those times, I'd known she might be better off dead. But I'd gone ahead and saved her anyhow.

Maybe I didn't have it within me to do otherwise. But after hearing all the General had to say about saving a bullet for the woman, I knew I'd done wrong.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE.

Losses Early in April, on a rainy Tuesday afternoon, Mable went roaming off. She'd pulled such stunts five or six times before, always sneaking out of the house when the rest of us were busy. On this particular day, the General was snoozing by the fire and I stayed in the kitchen to keep Sarah company while she baked cookies. It wasn't till the cookies were done and we carried out a plate so the General and Mable could enjoy some hot ones that we noticed she'd gone missing again.

It always fell on me and Sarah to go hunting for her, as Sarah didn't want the General out in the weather for fear he'd come down with pneumonia or such. Besides that, he never worried much about his wife's disappearances.

I came back to the parlor after a quick search of the house and shook my head. "She seems to have gone off," I said.

Sarah winced.

The General swallowed a mouthful of cookie and said, "Yes. There's been a palpable, refreshing silence for the past hour or so. My eardrums have greatly appreciated the respite."

"Grandpa!"

"Oh, now, no need to worry your head about Mable. I believe she only takes her little jaunts for the fun of being retrieved."

"It's pouring pouring outside." outside."

"The rain'll do her good. She hasn't bathed in a fortnight."

That was on account of me, I reckon. Sarah'd woken me up a couple weeks ago and after giving me my morning smooch, she'd said a hot bath was waiting for me. It had gotten to be a fairly regular thing. Every few days, she would prepare my bath bright and early so I could have it before the General and Mable got around to stirring. I'd go down and soak, then by and by she'd come along with coffee for both of us. She'd sit on her chair near the tub, and we'd have a nice chat while we sipped. Later on, she'd come over and scrub my back for me.

I'd found the business a trifle embarra.s.sing the first few times, but that pa.s.sed as I got used to it. Then I got to where I really looked forward to those baths.

Sarah took her baths on the days between mine. When she finished, she'd come into my room all fresh and rosy from the heat, her hair still damp. I always stayed in bed and waited for her.

It usually ran through my mind, while I was waiting, that maybe I could head downstairs and take coffee to her her, and stay and chat and maybe wash her back for her. The notion made me feel a bit squirmy. It also put my mind at ease, though, for the way I got stirred up by thinking about Sarah in the tub made it clear Whittle hadn't ruined women for me, after all. I purely longed to go down and visit her, but I felt guilty about it. After all, Sarah was some ten years older than me and often put me in mind of Mother, so it didn't seem right.

I let her go on bathing alone, figuring if she wanted me to join her, she ought to ask.

It bothered me considerable that she never asked, but allowed she must have her reasons, so I never let on that our bathing ritual seemed a mite one-sided and unfair. Besides, whenever I imagined imagined her asking, it wrecked my nerves so bad I judged I'd likely turn down the invitation. her asking, it wrecked my nerves so bad I judged I'd likely turn down the invitation.

Anyhow, on that particular morning two weeks before Mable wandered off into the rain, I put on my slippers and robe and hurried downstairs. Sarah had gone on ahead of me. I figured to find her in the kitchen, starting the coffee. But she wasn't there, so I waltzed on into the bathroom.

Mable must've thought the bath was meant for her.

She'd beaten me to it, but not by much. She wasn't in, yet. With one foot on the floor, she was holding on to the edge of the tub while she swung her other leg over the side. Of course, she didn't have a st.i.tch of clothes on.

She hadn't seen me. I should've stepped out quick and silent, but I didn't.

Not that I took any pleasure from the sight of her. Not by a long shot. But I was so surprised to find her climbing into my tub that I just stood there, gaping.

Her face was all dark and wrinkled like old wood. So were her hands. But the rest of Mable, mostly, was white except for a pa.s.sel of blue veins and looked maybe thirty years younger than her face. She was so skinny her bones showed through her skin. The way she was bent over, her b.r.e.a.s.t.s dangled. They were long and rather flat, and hanging so low the nipple of one rubbed the rim of the tub.

I saw all that pretty quick, and then I noticed her scars. When I saw those, I gasped. Must've been fifteen or twenty of them, though I never got a chance to count. Puffy pink scars, each about an inch long, on her rump and down the backs of both her legs. I'd pretty much gotten used to Mable's limp, but seeing all those nasty scars made me realize why she hobbled.

Well, the gasp gave me away.

Mable looked over her shoulder and let out a frightful squeal. I hotfooted into the kitchen. Safe outside the door, I called in, "I'm frightfully sorry, Mable."

"You'll be be sorry when I lay my hands on you. Land sorry when I lay my hands on you. Land sakes sakes! A woman can't bathe in her own house! Sarah! SARAH!"