The Last Dickens

beginning to make a devil out of opium and opium use; in their minds the opium eater is as unreal and unwanted as a human vampire. They have protested the morality of the trade with China. Before long the Americans and the English will hold opium accountable for all their own faults and pass more rules and regulations. China has finally surrendered their will against the drug and will grow the poppy themselves to feed their people's appetite. Besides, with the opening of the Suez Canal, every damned little parleyvou with a tugboat can get to China without any skills or knowledge of trading: the coasts will be positively overrun. It is your own people who clamor for supply, with scores of soldiers-Yankee and Rebel alike-returned to their homes under the spell of injury and the need for relief and ignored by a society that has moved on with commerce and progress while those brave souls wither. Now with the hypodermic, any man or woman who wishes will provide themselves with the medication and enjoyment they can no longer find in the devouring cities without artificial assistance. America is the land of experimentation-a new religion, a new medicine, a new invention-if there is something to transform, Americans will throw away all constraints with the freedom of self-indulgence. Alcohol makes man into beast, but opium makes him divine. The syringe will replace the flask and be an unfailing remedy in the pocket of the businessman, the bookkeeper, the mother, the teacher, and the lawyer who suffer the curse of modern cares. What do you think of it, Osgood? Oh, I know your trade is books, but it all comes down to this: to know your customers, to know how they wish to make their escapes from this bleak world, and to make sure they can't live without you. The modern brain will wither without finding a way to join excitement and numbness. We have sought the same thing through Dickens, you and I, to protect ourselves and the people we depend on. No, I seek nobody's death.”

“Daniel Sand depended on me,” Osgood said, “and I could not protect him.”

“But I could have,” Wakefield said, “if he had not been so set on your approval.” He turned solicitously to Rebecca. “My dear girl, I'm afraid you've gained too much intelligence today to live freely without causing me some degree of future consternation. You have fascinated me from the moment I saw you. We have both been made invisible by unjust forces. Damn the rules of your divorce, damn the little position Osgood has thrown at you for half pay, the peasant laborer he made your brother into: come with me back to England, you will have all you ever ask for, all you deserve. That is why I have unfolded every-thing for you now. I'd want you to understand all the reasons for what has happened, so that you could consider my offer honestly once and for all within your heart.”

Rebecca looked up from where she sat, first at Osgood, then at Wakefield. “You killed Daniel! You are nothing but a scoundrel and a liar! A woman could have loved Eddie Trood, with all his faults in the face of a hard world, but never a fraud like you!”

Wakefield's face turned red before his hand went flying out across her face. To his apparent surprise, she did not cry when he struck her. “I shall not give you the satisfaction, Mr. Trood,” she said bitterly, seeing in his raging eyes his anticipation. “I'll weep for my brother, not for anything you could do to me.”

“Ungrateful female,” Wakefield said, turning away from her and replacing his hat on his head. “You have done fine in training her in your species of high-handed failure, Mr. Osgood. Very well. You have made your bed, Rebecca; now you may both lie in it.”

Wakefield turned his back to them.

“Your father!” Osgood said.

Wakefield slowed his steps.

“Your father misses you, Edward,” Osgood continued.

Wakefield sighed longingly. Then, as he turned around again he laughed, harshly this time.

“Thank you. I shall have to see to it that my old man never tells another soul my story who may pick up on the clues as you have done. We'll be paying him a visit back in England, be sure, and Jack Chinaman, and your friend Branagan, too.”

Wakefield disappeared up the stairway

Herman stood grinning toothlessly and raised his walking stick. He swung it at Osgood's satchel, scattering the floor with the pages of the final six installments of Edwin Drood.

Chapter 38

PLEASE, HORMAZD, WE CAN WORK OUT A BARGAIN,” SAID OS-good pleadingly to Herman.

“This isn't a Jews’ marketplace,” replied Herman, momentarily pausing at his given name. “No bargains.” He seemed to contemplate the beastly animal head on his walking stick for a moment. Then he glowered at his prisoners. “The only thing I'd regret, Osgood, is that Mr. Wakefield insisted on trying to persuade her to come with us. Waiting makes me angry. I may even finish you off with my bare hands.”

“Why have you despised me?” Osgood demanded.

“Because, Os good, you think you can be friends with everybody by flashing your smile. You think everybody can be like you.” Herman's answer flew out of his mouth like a confession, showing his real mind more than he intended.

“It's Mr. Wakefield who has made you who you are, Herman!” Rebecca said persuasively. “He made you into a pirate.”

“I was born one, lassie.”

A torrent of footsteps on the stairs. When Herman turned to look over his shoulder for Wakefield, his smug smile dropped away. Osgood recognized a look of confusion in the face of his captor. In a flash, Osgood lunged at him, throwing himself onto Herman's back and putting his arm around his eyes to blind him. Herman growled out and pried Osgood's fingers with his iron grip. Osgood landed on his feet and put up his fists in a boxing pose. Just then, a club slammed against the back of Herman's turbaned head.

Behind Herman, gripping the hook and bill club, stood the man Osgood once knew as Dick Datchery: Jack Rogers.

There was a sickening sound as the club resounded against Herman's skull. But Herman didn't budge, blinking meditatively.

“Ironhead Herman,” Osgood whispered.

“Ironhead?” Rogers repeated in a worried tone.

Herman revolved around slowly to face Rogers, readying his walking stick. Realizing the man was still unhurt, Rogers thrust the spike at the tip of the club into Herman's sternum. This stunned Herman. He dropped his cane and fell to the floor on his knees. With a shout, Rogers swung the club again as hard as he could against Herman's head. It smashed into splinters and sent the hook and spike flying across the room in bits. Herman dropped onto all fours and, drained of strength, blinded by his own blood, he collapsed flat on top of his walking stick.

“Rogers!” Osgood cried, looking from Herman to the former Harper's policeman. “How did you know…?”

“I told you I would repay my debt to you, good Ripley,” said Rogers, breathing heavily. “I'm a man of my word.”

Osgood threw himself on the floor and began to gather the scattered pages of Drood.

“No time, Ripley! There's no time for any of that!” Rogers called out. “Where's Wakefield?”

“He's already gone-probably back to his ship,” Osgood said.

“Come along!”

Securing his treasure in his satchel, Osgood hesitated to take the hand Rogers held out to him.

Rogers seemed prepared for this. “Because it was my duty, I deceived you in England when my conscience told me otherwise. Now my duty is to follow my conscience above all else. You must trust me- your lives depend on it.”

Osgood nodded and stepped over the motionless Herman on the way to the door. Rebecca paused for a moment, tears in her eyes. She looked down at the man on the floor and she brought her heel down onto his back again and again.

“Rebecca!” Osgood took her in his arms. “Come along!”

Osgood's embrace returned her to the present situation and its dangers. She felt more grounded at once with his touch.