The Legend: Part Four
Fat with pork, and more than a few men heaving up the excess that their starved bellies could not handle, several sailors gathered on deck to hear the next installment of Jaime’s story. He settled himself with a large mug of wine, leaning against the mast, and continued his tale.
One by one, Joseph ben Saolomon gave all of his children and their families a similar sendoff. Each month as they feasted, the group grew smaller as the next family left for refuge in Calais. Joseph blessed the children and grandchildren, gave them their necklaces, and made them promise never to forget their faith or their family. Within just a few months, only two more branches of their family remained—Joseph and his wife and his youngest daughter Miriana, her husband, and their child.
On the night Miriana’s brother—only ten months her senior—left with his family—her family joined Joseph and Rebekah for yet another meal. It wasn’t the usual jolly feast they expected. No, a nervous tension filled the air that night that ended the party early.
Miriana, her husband Aaron, and their only child, Levi, went home, Rebekah took herself to bed, and Joseph locked himself in his counting room.
Southeast of them, a boat sailed across the channel. Yvo huddled with his pregnant wife in the storage room of the boat while Ingelby tried to sail through fog that descended without warning. Panic rose in Robert Ingelby’s face as he tried to follow the compass. If another ship were caught—The moment that he thought it, one of the men cried out the dreaded words, “Ship ahoy!”
He jerked the wheel leeward, but despite his best efforts, the sickening crunch of wood on wood and the jarring of two colliding boats knocked out Ingelby and his first mate. Their minimal crew scrambled to the deck, rolled the two men into a dory, and the rest piled in. The overloaded dory began to sink. A few men began to push Ingelby and the other man over the side, but the rest refused. Three jumped overboard—still not enough. Two more followed. The terrified cries of a man and woman confused the crew.
“Let’s go back. We can take the other dory,” one of the swimming sailors cried. “It’ll get us out of this freezing water!”
So, while the still-overladen dory limped its way back to Dover, settling a few miles south of their destination, the other men swam back to the ship, trying to determine if the cries came from their boat (which seemed unlikely to them) or if they were of someone trapped on the other boat.
Ingelby revived just before they landed. His head pounding, he asked after the crew, if the boat had sunk or if there was hope for it, and settled back to rest until they reached land. Someone commented on hoping the others had found a boat, sending Robert into panicked rantings that made no sense to anyone else. He cried out, demanding they return to the boat—to save a couple locked in the storage room—obviously delusional and possibly suffering from brain trauma.
The moment the boat pulled to shore, the men tried to help the two injured men out and on land. Robert Ingelby broke free and fought to return. The others stopped him, dragging him away, promising that the others had gone back to see if someone needed help. They pointed out the fog, the choppy water, and the unlikelihood of success, but nothing consoled him. He ranted wildly of passengers locked in storerooms. The others ignored him.
Robert awoke the next morning with an inexplicable feeling of dread in his heart. He glanced around the familiar room, snuggled under the thick, warm covers, and wondered what disturbed him so. It must have been a dream. What had he dreamed about? It seemed as though he’d been surrounded by cold blankets, smothering him in the frigid air. Something, some evil monster, rocked the bed, trying to spill him out of it. Even still, the dream remained elusive—buried deep within his mind.
He sat up, eyes wide, and retched. A servant hurried to assist him while another ran to fetch help. In the confusion, he could do little but murmur, “Did they survive? Did anyone get them out? Oh, what will Joseph say?!”
The doctor assured the family that a blow to the head had caused swelling of the brain which caused the illness and delirium. Alas, no one listened as he insisted that he was rational. Each attempt to escape—to try to deliver the terrible news to Joseph—failed. Joseph expected him within days, but the doctor, the servants, and even his father kept him in bed against his will, often with medications that made him drowsy and muddleheaded.
Desperate, he tried a new tactic. It would work. It had to work.
“I’m tired, Martha. I’d like some quiet so I can sleep. Is there any of that sleeping draught that the doctor left?”
“I’ll get Thomas. He’ll help, I’m sure.”
And the plan worked perfectly. Thomas stirred the powder into his water and hurried to fetch another blanket while Robert poured the drink out into the pitcher near the bed. He snuggled down, begged for someone to extinguish the lamps and to bank the fire. Then he waited. Hours passed while the house settled down for the night. Twice, Thomas came through to check on him before whispering to Martha that she could go to bed. “He’ll sleep until morning.”
~~~~~~~~~~
Every minute, each tiny step—agony. Despite his protests, Robert was weary, and his body craved rest. His head jostled against the carriage wall, aggravating his headache even more. Never had the trip to London seemed so horribly long and uncomfortable. The ride home wouldn’t be any easier, but the dread in his heart would be gone—if he were still alive.
Cold, shivering, and sicker than he’d ever imagined, he nearly crawled through the streets to the house of his creditor. The servant led him to a chair near the fire and promised to return with Joseph. When Robert said not to hurry, he meant it. The fire felt wonderful.
Joseph entered, eyes steely and cold. “What has taken you so long? I expected you days ago.”
“I’ve been ill. There was a collision. I was knocked out. I tried, but...”
“Yvo?”
“Gone.”
Without a word, Joseph reached for his ledger. Slowly he turned the pages as Robert’s mouth went dry with dread. After what seemed an age, he scribbled something in a column and then passed the book across the table and held out the pen for Robert to sign.
The man’s hand shook as he accepted the proffered pen and looked at the ledger. To his astonishment, payment in full had been recorded and signed by Joseph. “Wha—”
“Sign and get your bloody hands out of my house!”
“I did try, Joseph. Why are you wiping the debt clear?” Even as he questioned, Ingelby thought he knew why and his heart clenched at the thought. “They wouldn’t let me go back, but two men died trying to save the—”
“I never want to see your face again, Robert Ingelby. You have the blood of my family on your head. Live with that.”
“You’re not going to kill me?” The question was unnecessary. Robert could see that the moneylender had no intention of murdering him or hiring the job done for him, but he couldn’t understand why.
“No.”
Robert signed the ledger and pushed it across the desk. “I—”
“Will get out of my sight now. That is what you will do.”
“Yes, but…” He swallowed hard. “Please just kill me now. I cannot stand wondering and waiting for the inevitable.” As terrified as he was, Robert wanted, more than anything else at that moment, for the dread to be wiped clean—even if it were with his own blood.
“‘To Me belongeth vengeance, and recompence; their foot shall slide in due time: for the day of their calamity is at hand, and the things that shall come upon them make haste.’” Joseph’s hate-filled eyes met those of the man he felt had betrayed him. “You can live with it until the LORD comes upon you and gives my family justice for your weakness, your cowardice, your crime against the house of Joseph ben Saolomon. Until then, your memories will be your jail and your conscience, the warden. May you live in wretchedness until that day.”
Joseph scribbled something on a paper, folded it, and passed it across the desk. In slow, measured tones the older man said, “Now get out of my house.”
An hour later, Ingelby crept back to Joseph’s house, desperate to find some kind of solace—forgiveness. However, lamps flickered upstairs and even in the street he could hear the wailing of Rebekah and Joseph as they mourned the death of their son. Defeated, he turned back and tried to forget the words of the half-crazed old moneylender.
“…for the day of their calamity is at hand…”