Harshada Bani Dulhan 8211 Part 4
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“So, I’ve arrived. What now?” Cavendish said to himself. He was alone in a vast city. At least they spoke English he had thought when he had docked, but so far he had heard Russian, Polish, German, French and something that might have been English but, spoken as it was by someone from the West of Ireland, it was impossible to be sure.
He walked down a street looking for a cheap hotel, rounding a corner he came across a be-whiskered man backed against the building on the pavement. Two men were clearly threatening him with violence. Cavendish walked towards them, unsure what to do and noticing that others were pretending not to notice. One didn’t get involved it seemed. And yet the man was old, at least 50! It was unfair; no, no, he could not pass by like the ... the ... Bad Samaritan? He had not paid enough attention to religious education at school or home or church.
“I say, you chaps. Why not pick on someone your own size?” This was a foolish, schoolboy comment, the kind he had said to McClintock or Foodle when they bullied an ‘oikling’ (the school term for a first year). He realised then that they could not even pick on him, they were several chest sizes bigger than him; his one claim to possible salvation was that their waist size was similarly much larger than his. They were, and here he surprised himself by thinking clearly in the micro-seconds that were ticking past before what he assumed might be his last moments on earth, overweight. Fat even. Perhaps he stood a chance. He did, but not for the reason of his smaller girth.
The one nearest turned and began to draw a knife from its sheath. In this situation the natural reaction is one of two; either the knifee (the person to be knifed) freezes like a rabbit in the glare of its nemesis stoat, or they look at the knife. It is perfectly natural to be petrified by fear. People are often ashamed after, but why wouldn’t you be frozen to the spot when presented with a scenario that for which your years in polite society had not prepared you? Cavendish though was not of that mould. He did not look at the knife; even the thug pulling the knife out was thinking of the damage it would do, so when the straight fist to his nose caused it to squash, bend and then all but explode in blood and pain he was taken by surprise. Cavendish had boxed at school, and the straight right to the nose was a well-established boxing move. The next was learnt from fights in the playground rather than the ring. His left fist was shaped so two knuckles stood proud of the others; as this hand connected with the mugger’s right eye socket these knuckles were not held in check by the orbit bone. The scream erupted from the assailant as his eyeball was crushed. He might see again from that eye if he was lucky. Cavendish had put a lot of force behind the punch, much more than he had at school where he had perfected this fight winning punch.
The second hooligan had his knife out and was thrusting towards Cavendish Young. He was actually the more dangerous of the two; he had no morals, none. His third ‘wife’ (he hadn’t married any of them) had run away the previous week when he had started abusing her 5 year old daughter. His father was in his grave after a fight in which this man had not stopped kicking until the man stopped moving. He had no compunction about stabbing someone, and no hesitation either. What he did have was too much distance between his victim and himself, and as he stepped forward he received a vicious kick to the groin followed by an upper cut to the jaw. The two innocent parties heard the crack as his jaw broke. The man collapsed to the ground and made no move. The other was already the ground nursing his face. With that the younger man led the older away and left the robbers to contemplate their mistake.
The older man took some time before he was able to speak. Finally, when they had left the less salubrious area for a better neighbourhood, and entered a hostelry whose customers, if not actually refined at least did spit in the spittoon rather than the floor, he was able to explain.
“My name, sir is Whitney C. Haberdash the third. Who do I have the inestimable honour to address?”
“Cavendish Young, the er, the first. Very pleased to have been of service, sir”
“It is I who am pleased, sir. You were a veritable Hercules in dealing with those men.
I should explain, I am sure you are wondering, why I was in that place” Cavendish was studying his companion, he was certainly over fifty, his hair was white and long; this confirmed his somewhat vague knowledge of accents which had concluded that the gentleman was a Southerner. He looked like an older Robert E Lee, thought Cavendish, who had only seen such pictures in the newspapers in England. Newspapers who had drawn on all their skill and artistry to produce a picture of Southern gentleman without the irritating necessity of actually having seen the general in question. “I am a gunsmith. An amateur, you understand. I have produced some models in which I had thought one of the Yankee manufacturers might take an interest.
Sadly I was wrong, it seems that they believe nothing good can come from Georgia! Well, I was dismissed by Smith and Wesson by a curt letter of rejection. Colt at least agreed to meet, but their representative was clearly less than interested. I did get some interest from Walker and Co. who have their manufactory near here ... or near where we were, I have no idea where we are now. But they too felt that my designs were too complex. I assured them that I had working models, yet they were not convinced.” Cavendish was interested, he had only fired old hunting guns at a friend’s farm. “Then come with me, back to my hotel. Or would I be taking you out of your way.”
Explaining that he had not, as yet, a ‘way’ to be taken out of, he said he would be delighted, indeed given the shock the man had had he felt it his duty, to escort the man to his hotel.
“Oh, good. Isobel with be pleased, so will Cassie I’ve no doubt” Isobel, Cavendish took to be his wife, he did not quite grasp who Cassie was but she seemed to be a servant.
They hailed a cab and were delivered with no further incident to the hotel, and thence to the door number 501. A woman of jet black skin colour opened the door to them. “Why sir, I was worried! You should have returned fully two hours ago”
“Not to worry Isobel, I was delayed, this kind gentleman helped me back to the hotel.” The maid, if maid she was, smiled at Cavendish “Cassie, Cassie, come out here, we have visitors”
Whitney C. Haberdash looked slightly concerned as the young lady appeared. He was watching Cavendish rather than his daughter. She was, what Cavendish thought was called a Mulatto, or was it half-caste? He was knowledgeable to know that the wrong term could cause huge offence, so he opted to think no term at all. He looked at the prettiest girl he had seen since ... well, since that morning when he had got off the boat. Perhaps not that much of a superlative, but she was definitely very pretty. Her dark, golden skin perfectly complemented her deep brown hair colour. She walked towards him with all the style of the most upper class lady. And he played his part, taking her hand and offering a slight bow. He consciously did not look at her décotellage, which showed a delightful view of a valley between two dark hills. “I am delighted to meet you ma’am. And even more delighted that the earlier occurrence enabled me to do so.” His admiration was clear, open and honest; and Mr Haberdash moved from concern that his half-black daughter might in some way be insulted by their visitor (it had happened before) to concern that his daughter might be seduced by this handsome young man.
Nevertheless, when he heard that Cavendish had nowhere to stay, he insisted on booking a room at the hotel for him “At least for this night, it is the least I could do for your bravery.” Cavendish discovered that Whitney C. Haberdash was not a man to be dissuaded when he had determined upon a course of action.
“My father was determined to go to Walkers even though it was in an area of the city not frequented by honest people. That he decided to walk back is typical of him as well. He likes to see the good in all people.” The conversation progressed as Cavendish waited for his small amount of luggage to be delivered – now he had somewhere to stay he had sent for it from the repository. It seemed that Mr. Haberdash had, not unlike his supposed look-alike General Lee, fought in the civil war reluctantly on the Confederate side out of loyalty to his state rather than a genuine conviction. He had freed his slaves long before the law required it and, although it was true the liaison had started when Isobel was a slave, he had continued with it since. Isobel for her part loved the older man with a passion (here Cassie looked down, realising that the word might be misconstrued, but also that actually that misconstrusion would be correct – they had a passionate relationship even now which was not usually found in ‘polite’ society). They had travelled north and married after the war (the South not being well populated with ministers willing to sanction mixed marriages) and then settled back in Georgia. There his pool of friends had somewhat reduced on account of his wife’s colour and his insistence on publicly recognising her as his wife; having a child before marriage that he recognised as his own did not help. He said this was a good thing as it showed who his true friends were. One of his truest, Cassie said, was a man who had owned over a hundred slaves and had been a strong advocate of slavery as the natural way of things. But he was Whitney’s friend and accepted his choice of bride with not a word of disagreement. People, Cassie said, were never quite what you expected.
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