Charles - A Fashionable Indulgence

T HE E NGLISH C HANNEL, A PRIL 1808

Harry Gordon was a wanted man at twelve years old.

He stared over the side of the boat at the dark water as they lurched toward France. This wasnt his first Channel crossing; it wasnt even the first time hed been hurried onto a ship in the night, his ears straining for shouts of pursuit or rapid footsteps. But it was the first time hed understood what happened to the men they left behind when they fled, and the thought made him feel even more nauseated than the heaving motion under his feet.

Father was next to him, leaning on the rail, head down. Even stooped like that he was a foot taller than his wife. Mother was very short, plump, and round-faced too, but she reminded Harry of the Roman matrons Father had taught him about, the heroic kind who sent legions of men to war because death was less frightening than having to explain why you hadnt done as she told you. She glared at the starry night above them as though she wanted to outstare God.

It was cold, the wind whipping and tangling Harrys sweaty-damp hair, adding a chill to the salt spray on his skin.

Three days ago, Fatherthe radical demagogue Alexander Gordonhad ranted to angry London crowds about the collapse of the government. He had demanded a new rule of the people, for the people. An end to injustice and mismanagement. Peace with Bonaparte. A revolution.

They hadnt started a revolution; they never did. They had managed to incite a riot, though. It was a patchwork in Harrys memory, vivid images stitched together with panic. Red-coated soldiers and blue-coated policemen firing muskets into the air, roaring for order but drowned out by the howling crowd. Mud and blood and screaming. The arrest warrants had been issued that day for all three of them.

Youve got to leave the country, Silas had said the next morning, as they and a few others huddled in Theobalds Bookshop, filthy and exhausted. Silas was a big, powerful man with a resentful cast to his jaw, a few years younger than Father, who had worked with his parents since they started stirring up trouble in London. He was the angriest radical Harry knew, even angrier than Mother, and the harder the government came down on them, the angrier Silas became. But now there was a wild look to his eye that made Harry think, for the first time, that Silas was afraid. The boys old enough to be charged as a man and theyll gaol him along with you. You know it, Alex. Take the fight elsewhere.

They want you too, Mother had told Silas.

The shops here, my livelihood. Silas shrugged. Where would I go?

In truth, Harry couldnt imagine Silas outside London, let alone England. He was the spirit of the city: coarse, unruly, belligerent. When Mother told him about folk heroes like Wat Tyler and Jack Cade, Harry pictured Silas, clenching his fists and squaring up to authority without a care for the inevitable, bloody end.

Mother had played at Wat Tyler as a girl, dreaming of defiance. Harry told her he did too, to please her, though it wasnt true. Hed preferred to dream of Robin Hood during the endless evenings of political talk, with Silas cast as the hulking Little John. Harry played the part of nimble, amusing Will Scarlet, inventing ingenious plans that saved the day. Robin had been a shadowy figure in his mind with a smooth, cultivated voice and graceful manners, and Will Scarlet would kneel and take his hand and pledge his passionate loyalty forever

Then Harry had realized that he was imagining a nobleman as their leader, and hed stopped the game, ashamed, even though nobody else would ever know.

It was all gone now. The soldiers had come for them yesterday evening, and theyd fled. That was Harrys last clear memory of London: Silas bellowing at them to run, his muscles corded as he held the door against the blows of the redcoats on the other side, while Father dragged Harry and Mother away. Silas making his own capture inevitable to give the family a chance of escape.

Sea spume splashed over Harrys fingers, clenched on the rough wood of the gunwale. He wiped dampness from his eyes. What will happen to Silas, Mother? What will they do to him? Will he be gaoled?

Mothers jaw jutted. Flogged first, I expect.

Fathers head drooped farther. My love

No. He should know. This is why we do it, Harry. She put a hand to his face, turning it so that he had to look at her. Because those who speak out for reform are gaoled, and those who fight for it are flogged or hanged. Because we live under tyranny and corruption while the people starve. Because this country must be freed. This is a battle, and every fight has casualties.

Were not casualties, though, are we? Harry fumbled for his handkerchief. Weve escaped. We left the others behind. We ran.

A thought came to him, sudden and overwhelming in its guilty relief: Was it over now? Would there be an end to the secret meetings and public protests? Might they live without fear of a heavy tread at the door?

He could go to school. His parents would speak of other things. His life could be comfortable.

Someone else would have to take up the fight, of course. But surely Silass sacrifice would be in vain if they went on, risking exposure. Surely his parents could see that.

He licked his lips, tried to control his voice. Whatwhat will we do now?

Father raised his head and clapped a hand to Harrys shoulder. Dont fear, my boy. Theres more we can do, much more. Well never give up.

Never, said Mother softly.

Harry looked between his parents as they gazed at each other, Father with his chin tilted up, Mother with her lips pressed together, and the brief exultant flame guttered to ash. Of course they hadnt given up. They were going to start again, in France or Spain or wherever their principles might take them. Rousing the people, risking arrest at every turn. Men like Silas would stand with them, and fall as Silas had. And Harry would be there too, because he had nowhere else to go.

He stared down into the dark waters, glaring at their useless, endless agitation through eyes blurred with moisture.

I dont care about the rights of man, he thought fiercely at his parents. I dont, I dont. And I wish you didnt either.