The Dark Side of Midnight
Alone in his upstairs room once again, Edmund Kerr Murray stood staring out of the tall window onto the severely manicured lawn and shrubbery of his father's London townhouse. The thick London air swirled before him, a mixture of fog, smoke, dirt and odors.
Unconsciously the boy wrinkled his nose and narrowed his eyes. Unbidden came the memories of his native Kentucky woodlands. The clean fresh woodsy air, the soft dark soil and the clear, clear rivers. He blinked away the sudden tears and swallowed the lump in his throat. All that was past. He was a captive now in this strange land that his father seemed to appreciate, if not love.
Did his father love him? That was the question that haunted his thoughts. There seemed to be ample proof that he did not. Then why had he been taken from his homeland and brought to his father's home if not because of love? The familiar thoughts followed their proscribed path through his agile mind. Because of what he was. A product, a replacement, a guarantee that the line would continue. When Lord Dunsmore looked at him, there was cold scrutiny in his hard blue eyes. A measuring. And Edmund knew that somehow he did not measure up to expectations.
His head dropped onto his chest as the deep longing for acceptance swept over the boy. He yearned for his home, his friends, and his mother. But she was dead and his home was far away over the cold Atlantic Ocean. Clenching both his fists and his jaw, the young half-blood Cherokee fought the anguish as he fought it every hour of every day. The battle had made him thin and worn. His loneliness was a living thing inside of him, threatening to consume his very life. Despair robbed him of any possibility for happiness. His future seemed as bleak as the grey London fog.
The heavy walnut clock downstairs chimed the hour of five. His tutors would now be reporting to his father. Every blunder, every flaw would be exposed. Any delay in absolute obedience would be catalogued. And any challenge would soon be punished. He heard the massive front door close and knew that the two men had returned to their homes. His father's gruff voice would soon demand his presence in the library to confront the daily list of evidence compiled against him.
"Edmund!" The summons rang through the dark paneled halls.
Swallowing the lump that continued to rise in his throat and willing his heartbeat to slow, the boy opened his door and entered the dim hall. The buckled shoes encasing his feet clacked on the wooden floors. He slowly descended the long flight of stairs and entered the lamplit library where his father stood ready to lay all his faults before him.
"Close the door," his father ordered. Edmund gently pulled the doors closed and stood just inside the large library. Book shelves lined all four walls. This room was Edmund's secret treasure. When his father was asleep and the night was far spent the boy often crept into this room and removed a volume to stash away in his own hiding place. Underneath the largest drawer on his dresser was a space large enough to slide a small book. The maid who straightened his room had never found it.
Inside that same space hid a speckled stone that his mother found one day as they waded in the stream near the village. She had laughingly given it to the child by her side then splashed bright droplets to cool the little one's long legs and slender body. The stone was all that physically remained to remind Edmund of his Cherokee mother. She lay in far off Kentucky, her scaffold raising her body into the clean sky.
"Master Robie and Master Hoskins report that today you were not prepared to recite in either mathematics or geography. Why?" Edmund's father's eyes bored into his. The boy raised his chin and returned the stare. "Answer me, you insolent whelp!"
The impatience and disapproval in Lord Dunsmore's voice stiffened the boy's spine. His own voice was cold and disrespectful as he replied. "Because I do not like mathematics and Master Robie is a dunce."
The reaction was swift and expected. Edmund rocked back on his heels as the heavy hand lashed across his mouth. Another slap followed and his inner lip cut itself against his teeth. The salty taste of blood reinforced his resistance and he stood still glaring defiantly at his tall father.
"Your insolence WILL NOT be tolerated! Why must you be so intractable?" Lord Dunsmore's voice was cold and betrayed no hint of affection for the dark skinned boy before him.
"Why don't you love me?" the boy questioned silently in his mind. "Why did you take me from my family and my home if you don't love me?" Aloud he responded, "Because I am right and you know it."
The blow was powerful and the boy staggered against the closed door. Blood began to pour from his nose and mouth where the heavy hand did the most damage. Eyes flaming with anger and hate, the boy spun on his heels and opened the library door, rushed through to the heavy front door, pulled it open and was lost in the oppressive fog.
Running down the darkening street, the boy nearly toppled the lamplighter from the ladder leaning against the light pole. The rough Londoner cursed at the running boy, the sound of his coarse language following behind the fleeing child. Edmund turned at the first intersection and continued aimlessly running.
The sensation took his mind back to his native Kentucky where a Cherokee child could run freely whenever he wanted. The heavy stiff shoes impeded his flight. He was tempted to remove them and feel the pavement on his stocking feet. But he knew that the streets of London contained all manner of debris and to remove his shoes would be to invite injury.
The heavy, dirty air made breathing difficult and he had to stop to catch his breath. The fog swirled around him, reaching damp fingers across his bruised face. He could feel the blood continuing to trickle from his nose. When he put his hand up to check the damage he felt that his face was sticky with blood. He must look frightful. He turned his head to get his bearings and discovered that the thickening fog obscured all but the very nearest objects. He was lost.
The knowledge brought conflicting emotions. On the one hand, he may be able to escape and somehow flee back to America. On the other, he was damp, chilled, hungry and uneasy. The city of London was very, very large. It was full of dangerous people. He did not know how to deal with such people and he knew it.
Trembling from the exertion, emotional and physical stress, he turned slowly trying to get his bearings. Sounds began to intrude on his consciousness. Wheels on cobblestones. Footsteps. Distant voices. Church bells chiming the hour. It was six o'clock and fully dark. The smothering air closed in all around him and he began to pant.
Into his mind came the memory of his father as he delivered the last blow. Red with anger, lips pursed, eyes cold and full of disapproval. The fine well-groomed hands. The beautifully tailored coat draped over the strong, tall body. Handsome, connected, well-liked by all the right people and saddled with a half-breed from the wilds of America.
Edmund knew that was how his father viewed his being. Suddenly came the realization that he would always be seen in that light. His father would never love him, never be proud to claim him as a son, never see him for the person that he was. Though tears stung his eyes, his jaw clenched and his eyes burned with emotion. At that moment the boy known as Caramingo to the Cherokee pushed all his natural softness and sensitivity deep into his heart and the hard crust of survival formed over his gentle soul.
He continued to walk, listening for the sound of a coach. He had decided to go to Bristol, find a ship headed for the colonies and sign on as a cabin boy. The usual age for a cabin boy was around thirteen, and Edmund was nearly that age. He was tall, and he was sure that no one would doubt his age. The idea grew in his mind. He began to dream of the freedom that the sea would bring with no one to make him stay below decks as his father had done on the voyage from Philadelphia.
Horribly seasick, heartsick from his mother's death and the forced removal from all he had known, Edmund needed reassurance and affection from his father. Instead he received only cold orders to stay hidden from the other passengers and crew. He was stiffly dressed in restrictive clothing and his long black hair was nearly shorn off.
Day after day his father drilled him on the English language, manners and customs. Any sign of grief was considered weakness by Lord Dunsmore and the boy quickly learned to hide his emotions from his father. Except for anger. He could not hide the growing anger that pushed against his heart and made swallowing difficult. His father pretended not to notice, so instead of growing close in their mutual need the two grew farther and farther apart.
The fog intensified. Walking slower because of it, Edmund was stopped by an English policeman. The officer noticed the fine stained clothes and the blood that covered the boy's face and hands. He gripped Edmund's shoulder. " 'Ere, boy. Where'r you going on this bleak and foggy night? Eh? What happened to ye?"
"I want to find a ship, sir. I want to be a cabin boy on a ship to America."
The officer heard the cultured accent and knew at once that this boy came from quality. There had obviously been a confrontation of some kind, probably with his father. The officer had seen other boys in the same condition. He sighed. "No ship is going to take you, lad. You're quality folks. No captain would take a chance on hauling away some upper crust boy. He'd know your father wouldn't like it. Now, who is your father?"
Edmund stood silently before the authority figure. The man continued to hold his shoulder making it difficult to turn and run. As if reading the boy's mind, the officer tightened his grip. In the weak light of the nearby lamp the officer saw the boy's eyes. They were dark and communicated only anger and despair. It was then that the officer noticed the heavy black hair. He knew who the boy's father was: John Murray. The Earl who had spent years in the colonies and returned with a half-breed son to take his place as Lord Dunsmore. The officer's kind face turned hard and a sneer began to form.
"I know you now, boy. You belong to himself, the Earl of Dunsmore. I'm taking you back to him. You crazy, boy? Got yourself a big house, a warm bed, plenty of food, servants to take care o' ye. Coaches to travel in. Ready to throw it all away to run half-naked through a forest? There's millions'd give their eye teeth to have a tenth o' what you got. You think about that. Now come on!"
The officer pulled on Edmund's shoulder and pushed the slender boy in front of him down the dark street. Head down, the shaking boy dragged his feet and the officer accidentally tripped him. He fell hard on the pavement and skinned both knees and both hands. The officer pulled him up without a word of kindness and pushed him forward. They walked nearly an hour until Edmund stood before the large brick house that was thought to be his home.
When the officer rang the bell the Earl himself answered the door. Tipping his hat, the officer pushed Edmund over the threshold and into the Earl's tall body. Both the boy and the man recoiled as though the touch caused physical pain. The officer saw and smirked. The Earl tipped the officer a half-crown and closed the door. He stood still several seconds before turning to face the weary boy.
"You have disgraced yourself, disgraced me, and disgraced our family's title. I never, repeat never, want you to behave in such a dishonorable way again. A man cannot run away from his obligations, Edmund. They remain no matter how he tries to dodge them. And so it is with you. You have an obligation to become the Earl of Dunsmore. You have a line of ancestors who preserved this title for you, with their treasure and their honor. You owe them. You owe me. And you will conduct yourself as I expect a person of royal blood to conduct themselves. Do you understand me?"
Edmund stood with his head bowed. Yes, he had royal blood. From his mother. She was a member of the ruling clan, sister to the chief. The royal British blood was nothing compared to hers. Deep in his heart Caramingo accepted his royal Cherokee blood and the rights and duties that it brought. But he knew that he would never accept the trappings that his British blood demanded. He also knew that his father would not wait long for a reply to his demand. He raised his bloody head and looked straight into his father's hard eyes.
"Yes, sir."
"Yes sir, what?"
"Yes, sir, I understand."
"Go upstairs and wash yourself. Lay your bloody clothes beside the door for Henry to take care of in the morning. Leave the bloody towels for Emma. Go to bed and sleep. You must redouble your efforts with your studies. You must be ready to take the entrance exams soon, and you must earn a place at Oxford."
"My status will only take you so far; the rest must be your doing. And you will not be the first son of an Earl to fail. You will not! Mark my words, Edmund. If I have to beat you every day, you will not fail to make yourself ready to follow in my family's footsteps. Now go!"
The weary, hungry boy stumbled up the long staircase and into his room. Emma had lighted the candle for him and turned down the bed. There was a full pitcher of water and three fresh towels on his wash stand. He kicked off his stiff heavy shoes. Numbly he unbuttoned his bloody shirt and pulled it over his head. His trousers followed. He stood naked in the cool, damp room.
His mind shot back to his mother's lodge in Kentucky. He had his own little narrow cot near hers. They would talk together and sing together each night before they fell asleep. When his father was present there was no comfortable sharing between them. His father expected silence once you were in bed.
He remembered the feel of the fur against his bare skin. His father demanded that here he wear a nightshirt. The one time that he defied the man and the maid found him unclothed in the bed, his father had whipped him with his riding crop for heathen behavior. His muscular buttocks bore the scars as proof and reminder.
He poured the water into the basin and dipped his bloody hands. He leaned over and splashed water onto his crusty face. The soft soap helped loosen the dried blood and after three rinses he could see no more blood reflected in the mirror above the small table. He dried his face with the last towel, then used the washcloth to rinse the day's sweat from under his arms, around his neck, behind his knees, and below his waist.
His mind brought memories of refreshing swims in Kentucky's clear rivers. While here in London, he had only bathed once a week in a tub of water. He missed the feeling of cool water flowing over his slender body. Clenching his jaw once again, he willed the memory from his mind.
He placed his bloody clothes and towels outside his door for the maid and valet to find. Then pulling his nightshirt over his head he stepped in front of the mirror once again. His large dark eyes stared back from the reflective surface. There was no sparkle of humor, no joy of living. Only the dead eyes of a wooden puppet. And that was what Caramingo was to become if the Earl of Dunsmore was successful.