Page 68 of Charmless
As I wove my way through the crowd, I could have encountered some hostility myself. There was little affection or respect between the rough, poor folk of the Bottoms and the more prosperous law-abiding Midtown citizens. But garbed as I was in my old gown and Horatio’s travel-worn cloak, with my unbound hair a tangled mess, never had I looked less like a daughter of Midtown.
Little notice was taken of me as I worked my way to the front of the crowd. One toothless old woman shifted aside to make room for me. My breath hitched in my throat when I was finally able to see my neighbors, their misery and humiliation cruelly put on display. The Hanson and Bafton families had been herded together by the troop of Border guards wielding pikes and halberds.
Mr. Bafton hung his head in shame, looking as though he could not believe such a thing was happening to a respectable tailor like himself. His daughter, Ivy stood close to him, her cheeks bright red, but her small chin jutted out in defiance. They both carried small valises. The only one empty- handed was Amy’s erstwhile suitor, Fortescue Bafton. I had always regarded the young fop as being something of an ass, vain and foolish. When I had danced with him at the ball, I was surprised to realize that his love for Amy was genuine. Even more astoundedwhen the fight had broken out and the dandy had leapt in, fists flying to defend his fellow Midtown citizens from the Heights aristocrats and the palace guards.
Fortescue must have offered some resistance when the Border Scutcheons had turned up at the tailor shop to evict his family. His cheek was badly bruised, his jaw swollen, one eye nearly closed shut. Despite all of this, he had decked himself out in his finest apparel, tight bright yellow pantaloons, and a chartreuse wasp-waisted jacket with enormous gilt buttons. His hands were encased in kid gloves, his high crowned beaver hat tipped at a jaunty angle. He should have looked utterly ridiculous, enough to inspire mockery from the watching crowd. But not a single jeer was hurled, perhaps because Fortescue carried himself with remarkable dignity. Any angry mutterings were directed at the Border Guards.
The Hanson family crowded close to the Baftons. Myrtle and Flora looked terrified, clutching small bundles of whatever belongings they had been allowed to take. Their father hovered protectively near the girls, one arm draped around his weeping wife, his other hand gripping a heavy satchel. Their brothers, Payton and Toland brought up the rear, limping, their faces streaked with dried blood.
The grinning border guard continued to beat his drum. I don’t know whether the annoying sound was meant to make this dismal proceeding seem more like some bold military action or perhaps it was intended to convey a warning to the watching crowd. The first thing Horatio did was to bear down upon the drummer and command him to cease his infernal racket.
The Border Scutcheon looked taken aback to be receiving orders from a Midtown commander. When he drummed out a few more taps, Horatio wrenched the stick from his grasp and flung it to the ground.
The action elicited some gasps from the watching crowd and a few faint cheers. Myrtle Hanson broke past the guards. She hurled herself at Horatio’s feet, hugging his knees and crying.
“P-please, Commander Crushington. Help us.”
“I am sorry, Miss Hanson, I—” Horatio broke off as he was surrounded by the rest of the Hanson family and the Baftons, clamoring and pleading, their faces lit with the hope he had come to offer them a reprieve.
Horatio looked sick as he was forced to disillusion them. I know how hard he had tried to save these people. The weight of his failure rested heavily upon his shoulders and my heart ached for him as much as it did for the families.
The guards closed in, roughly herding the Hansons back into line. One grabbed Myrtle, trying to pry her away from Horatio. Horatio shoved the man back before gently drawing Myrtle to her feet.
By this time the commander of the Border Guards had recovered from his initial astonishment at Horatio’s arrival on the scene. Bluntvale appeared to be an arrogant, swaggering sort of fellow, despite his double chins and large stomach flopping over his military belt.
His face as red as his brick-colored hair, he stormed toward Horatio, bellowing.
“Crushington!”
Horatio swung about to face him. If Bluntvale possessed any sense at all, he would have halted in his tracks. Horatio had drawn himself up to his full height. With his broad shoulders, he cut a formidable figure and never had I seen my beloved look so angry.
Good sense was clearly not among Bluntvale’s virtues (if the man had any). Jabbing a pudgy finger at Horatio, he said, “This is a Border matter and none of your concern, so what the frap are you doing here?”
“Trying to stop you from causing a riot, you fool. What were you thinking, man? Making such a spectacle of these unfortunate people.”
“I am following my orders directly from the palace.”
“What? The king instructed you to behave like a frapping idiot.”
“No. I was told to make an example of these miscreants. Especially to this lawless rabble here in the Bottoms.”
A low rumble sounded, almost like distant thunder but it was coming from the mob. I was surprised that this ragged crowd would care about the fate of anyone from Midtown. But I recalled that most evictions were carried out in secret. This was likely the first time the Border Scutcheons had dared flaunt their cruel actions publicly.
Giving Bluntvale a disgusted look, Horatio faced the crowd, holding up his hands in a peace-making gesture. “Good citizens of Misty Bottoms,” he called out. “I sympathize with your anger and outrage, but you can do no good here. You cannot help these unfortunate people. If you try to interfere with the king’s justice, you will only bring his wrath down upon yourselves and your families. Go back to your homes and your shops.”
No one moved but I sensed a subtle shift in the mood of the crowd, an uncertainty. Perhaps it was because Horatio had won a modicum of respect from this rough crowd from the way he had challenged Bluntvale. Perhaps it was something more elemental than that.
Horatio Crushington was one of those rare men who seemed born to lead and command. When the fistfight had erupted at the ball, he had seized control of the situation and restored order. He might have succeeded here in Misty Bottoms if not for Bluntvale.
The volatility of the situation appeared to have finally penetrated his thick skull, but jealousy over having his authority usurped caused Bluntvale to push his way in front of Horatio.
“I can take it from here, Crushington,” he said. Hitching up his breeches he snarled at the crowd, “All right. The show is over. Enough gawking. Clear off, the whole stinking lot of you.”
Bluntvale’s command was greeted by a heavy silence more ominous than the rumble of anger. No one retreated an inch. One old man in the front stubbornly stood his ground and spat in the dirt.
Incensed by this defiance, Bluntvale shouted, “All you all deaf? I said go home!”
The Border Guard commander was foolish enough to unsheathe his sword. I could sense the anger swell around me. Some of the burly, grizzled men pushed forward wielding cudgels, while the younger lads advanced, armed with nothing more than their fists. Even the old lady next to me smacked her gums and waved a rusty dinner fork.
