The Accounting
A few moments saw all the shopkeepers talking amongst themselves while the clerk calmly wrote their names and amounts in a ledger, announcing the names, the amount, and the total as he went.
A collective gasp rose from the crowd when the total exceeded a month’s pay for a lieutenant. A louder one followed when it exceeded two and then three, and the line was still not exhausted.
Elizabeth was astonished, and the frown on Mr Follet’s face became ever grimmer, though whether from consternation or increasing pain from his gout was unclear. She wondered if he was distressed by the dishonesty of Mr Wickham, or the credulity of the shopkeepers.
She heard her companion muttering, but she understood only broken phrases—now they understand…
he won’t get away this time… the mask is off—and similar sentiments.
She concluded that her companion had vastly understated her interest in the affair and noticed she had not been surprised by descriptions of the boy who acted as town crier.
Colonel Forster appeared as the man’s debts exceeded three months’ pay and bellowed in what he doubtless considered an authoritative manner, “What is the meaning of this?”
Mr Follet snarled, “The meaning, sir, is that you have a scoundrel in our midst who is under your command. There is an open question of how much of a scoundrel he is. Have you some idea of interfering?”
The colonel surveyed the townspeople who were staring at him in revulsion and concluded prudence was the better part of valour.
“I shall leave him to you first, though he will be subject to military discipline afterwards.”
“Yes!” her companion hissed, which led Elizabeth to suspect she had some idea of what military discipline encompassed.
Since the navy routinely impressed men guilty only of the bad luck of being in the wrong place when a press-gang passed through, she thought his true military career might begin sooner than he preferred and it would not be a plum posting.
Captain Denny stepped forward. “What about debts of honour, sir? We have vowels from the man as well.”
Mr Follet looked as if he would spit on the ground were women not present, but instead he laboriously dragged himself to his feet, leaned his knuckles on the table menacingly, and spoke as emphatically as an Old Testament prophet.
“Never was there a more inappropriately named encumbrance. So-called debts of honour are nothing more than men engaged in inherently dishonourable activity and unwilling even to follow their own rules. In the unlikely case there is anything left after all these good people, I may consider it, but you should not anticipate a good outcome, and frankly, any man foolhardy enough to both gamble and take a vowel from a loser deserves what he gets.”
“But, but, but…” the man stammered.
Mr Follet bellowed, “Begone, you little whippersnapper. Consider this a valuable lesson.”
Colonel Forster looked as if he might have an apoplexy on the spot but wisely refrained from challenging a magistrate with ultimate authority, a bad temper, and considerable pain.
Elizabeth laughed softly, and she thought that having the officers called whippersnappers by a man who could barely walk a dozen yards might dim their lustre for her sisters. At least, she hoped rather than expected it would.
A moment later, Elizabeth noticed another group and gasped. “Good heavens… I suspect his day is about to become even worse.”
“How so?” her companion asked with obvious excitement.
“See those boys conferring with Tom,” she returned, then slowed when her friend (was she a friend?) looked confused; “the blacksmith’s son who runs like the wind.”
Her companion nodded enthusiastically and turned to see the boys in question, but they were too far to the right, so Elizabeth pulled her to the other side of the window to get a better view.
“I see them.”
“I do not know their names, but unless I am much mistaken, those are the sons of the blacksmith, the roofer, and the butcher. I suspect things are about to become most uncomfortable for Mr Wickham.”
“What do you mean?” her companion asked. She looked puzzled, and Elizabeth thought that probably a good thing, since failing to draw the inference quickly indicated a level of innocence that was appealing.
“Unless Mr Follet takes pity on him, or Colonel Forster asserts his authority, I suspect we are about to witness a demonstration of tar and feathers.”
The girl gasped, and Elizabeth watched her carefully to see if his receiving his just deserts, perhaps at her instigation, would distress her. She soon suspected the man had done some great injury, either to the girl or someone close to her, because she did not flinch.
The younger girl thought for a moment and straightened her back. “Good! It is long overdue.”
That she could so calmly dismiss what was likely to be an extremely painful punishment indicated she either had no idea how terrible it would be, or she did not care.
Elizabeth had, of course, never witnessed such a spectacle, nor was she likely to, as the magistrate would doubtless do it in private, if he allowed it at all—but it was a frightening thing.
Tar and feathers were pure agony when applied, and again when removed.
Extreme pain was certain; survival was not.
They turned back in time to see the boys run in different directions, doubtless looking for their ingredients.