Jim Morgan and the King of Thieves (23 page)

“Those in there certainly believe in the magic, don’t they?” Cornelius offered, looking away from the window and into Jim’s face. He opened his beak to say more, when the door to the shop opened and an old man in a fine winter coat and fur-lined hat came out of the store with several packages beneath his arms. His plump old face was flushed with the cold, but he smiled in the mist of his breath. He looked over at Jim, who was now staring into the shop window all by himself, for Cornelius had fluttered up to the roof when the man had looked their way.

“Happy Christmas, young man,” the old gentleman said to Jim.

“Happy Christmas, sir.”

“Shouldn’t we be running along home, now? It’s awfully cold tonight.”

Normally Jim and the Ratts told such marvelous lies when people asked them about home and parents, to keep off the suspicion, but for
some reason those, lies failed Jim completely. “I … I don’t …” was all Jim could say before the huskiness in his voice stopped him from talking.

The man looked at Jim from underneath his thick hat and bushy white eyebrows for a long moment, and Jim wondered if he was thinking of a way to trick Jim into following him to St. Anne’s or to Butterstreet’s. But then the gentleman smiled and reached deep into his pocket with his free hand. He pulled out an entire crown and held it out toward Jim. Jim Morgan knew he was a proud fellow, but that night, in the falling snow, he reached out and took the large coin in his cold little hand.

“Peace on earth, good will toward men,” the old man said rather quietly. “Happy Christmas, son.”

“Happy Christmas, sir,” Jim said again, and the old man smiled and walked off into the night. The thickness in Jim’s throat did not go away - in fact, it hardened ever so slightly in a lump, and Jim suddenly felt like an invisible hand was pinching his nose and watering his eyes.

Jim looked into the store window again and then back down into his palm. For the first time in many months, Jim had money that was his own. It was not stolen, but it was given. It was all his. For a quick second he wondered what fantastic things he could buy with an entire crown all to himself. There were the tops, and the wooden soldiers, and oh, look, sweets…but then, just as he was about to rush into the store, another thought stole into Jim’s mind. He dwelt on that thought for a time, a smile spreading across his face, some warmth spreading into his arms and legs from within his very self, the cold of the night suddenly feeling not so oppressive or deep.

Jim burst into the hole of the cellar with snow falling off his shoulders and hat. “Hello, George, Peter and Paul!” he cried. “Happy Christmas!” Now, ever since the death of his father, Jim had become a
rather serious boy, but just then he could not keep the smile from his face. From the way the three Ratt brothers stared at him as he leapt into the light of the stove, Jim thought for a moment that they hardly even recognized him.

“Happy what?” George said rather sulkily, but Peter and Paul smiled back as though they’d been waiting to smile for weeks and only now just found the joy to do so.

“Happy Christmas, I said!” Jim repeated. “Didn’t you know? It’s Christmas Eve!”

“Who bloody well cares?” George seemed intent on staying as cranky as possible, but Jim remembered that he felt that same way staring into that barrel of rainwater until the reflection’s of his friends’ faces appeared beside his own.

“Well, I do.” Jim kept the smile on his face. “And now you have to as well.”

From behind his back, Jim pulled out four packages wrapped in brown paper and tied up with string.

“What are those?” Paul asked eagerly, but Jim could tell he already knew and just couldn’t believe it.

“They’re presents, Paul,” Jim said, handing both Peter and Paul a gift-wrapped present each. The two boys stared at Jim, then at each other, then tore the brown paper to bits.

“Toy soldiers!” they cried together, immediately engaging their wooden troopers in battle before laughing aloud and seizing Jim in a giant bear hug.

“Thanks, Jim!” Peter said.

“Happy Christmas, Jim!” Paul’s smile covered the entire bottom half of his face.

With all the shouting and joyous ruckus, George wandered over to where his brothers and Jim stood on a carpet of shredded paper. He looked at Paul and Peter, playing happily with their toys, then he looked at Jim, and then he looked down at the other brown paper-wrapped gift in Jim’s hand.

“Jim … I …” George mumbled.

“George, you silly goose,” Jim said, pushing the package into George’s hands. “This is a small thing, really. Without you, I don’t know where I’d be right now.”

George took the package and opened it up. It was a tricorn hat, maroon with gold threads along the edges. He stared at it for a few moments and then threw his cap off and set the hat on his head. With a sprinkling of awe in their eyes, Jim, Paul, and Peter gazed at George in his new hat.

“George, you’re—” Peter began.

“—just like a gentleman of London.” Paul said, finishing the thought. George blushed a bit, and for the first time in weeks, like his brothers, he smiled, some of the old Ratt mischief seeping back into his eyes.

Then Jim looked past the Ratts to a pile of potato sacks in the corner, where Lacey sat with her arms folded over her chest and a rather sour countenance on her face. Jim walked slowly over, the last package in his hands.

“I told you earlier, Jim Morgan,” Lacey said without looking at him. “I don’t steal on Christmas, and I don’t want anything that was stolen on Christmas.”

“So do you think I lifted the wrapping paper and string as well, and tied them up in the middle of the street with no one noticing? I didn’t steal them, Lacey. And I didn’t get them with money that I stole. It’s a real present. A real one. Happy Christmas, Lacey.”

Jim watched as Lacey’s angry face slowly melted into a believing smile, and she took the package into her hands, carefully unwrapping it. She undid the little string and peeled back the paper with such care so that not one corner or edge was ripped or tattered. When she found a little cloth doll with blonde yarn hair, dressed in a little yellow dress, resting in the crinkled folds of the paper, she looked up at Jim with wonder in her eyes.

“But Jim, how…?”

“It’s Christmas, Lacey. It was magic.” Then Lacey leapt up and squeezed Jim around the neck. In a moment, the three Ratts were
squeezing as well, until the five of them were one big, twisty pile of arms and tattered coats, spinning around in a circle in the light of the orange coals.

“I’m sorry, Lacey,” George said. “I’m sorry I’ve been such a brat.”

“Oh, Happy Christmas, George!” Lacey said, and the hugging went on for quite some time. In the midst of it all, a thought lit upon Jim’s mind as soft as a snowflake on his tongue. Even if he failed to gain back his box, and even if he failed to find his father’s treasure and pay back those fiends the Cromiers and his treacherous aunt, something in the back of Jim’s mind told him his life could still somehow turn out for the better. As long as he kept these new friends, his best friends, close, anything was possible.

TWENTY–THREE

he sun rose, glaring brightly off a thick blanket of freshly fallen snow, covering the roofs and streets of London like frosting on a cake. It was now January, and Constable Edmund Butterstreet arrived to his office, sporting his cleaned and ironed uniform, rapping the shingle above his head that read “King’s Men,” the snow on the shingle cascading over him like his own personal snow shower. The constable smiled to himself, whistling the tune to his favorite Christmas carol.

Despite the harsh cold, winter was Butterstreet’s favorite times of year, mostly because of Christmas and New Year, the constable being one of those types that somehow managed to keep his holiday spirit deep into February, when most had long since abandoned it, hoping only for the warmth of spring. But Butterstreet so loved the Christmas
services and the choirs, the foods and the gifts, that he remembered them most of the year until the next Christmas, trying to spread a bit of holiday cheer to all he knew, even the criminals.

“Good morning, Thomas,” Butterstreet said to the deputy at the desk as he walked into the office.

“Morning, constable!” Thomas replied as he warmed his hands by the coal stove. “Hope you’re ready to start early today, sir, you have a visitor waiting for you in your office.”

“A visitor? This early and in this kind of weather? Now what could this be about?” The big constable stepped into his office and, as Thomas said, found his visitor waiting for him. He was a pale man, tall, with raven-black hair tied into a tail, wearing the uniform of a captain of his majesty’s navy, a sword on his side and standing at the window, staring into the snow with cold blue eyes. After a moment, Butterstreet recognized him from some rather unpleasant business some months ago.

“Ah, Captain Cromier, is it?” Butterstreet said merrily, holding out his hand to shake Cromier’s. Bartholomew turned and, ignoring the offered hand, instead went and sat down behind Butterstreet’s own desk. Now, this might have infuriated many men and led to some sort of argument, but Butterstreet was a man of common birth himself who was used to the way of things. Besides, it was still the Christmas season as far as Butterstreet was concerned and there was no use in letting an arrogant nobleman ruin his spirits. “Well, good morning, sire and welcome to our little office.”

“Good? Hardly,” Cromier sneered, quickly assessing the quaint office with its unvarnished wooden furniture and plain walls. “I’m going to get straight to the point Betterstraight.”

“Butterstreet, sire,” Butterstreet said politely, but as with his handshake, this was ignored.

“I have a serious problem that requires your full attention.”

“It is my duty to mind this city from this office to the docks on the Thames, captain,” Butterstreet replied. “How may I be of service to his majesty’s navy?”

“There is a dangerous pirate of the seas in our fair city, Bitterstraught,” Bartholomew said, standing once again and strutting about the office. “He is a scourge of the Channel and the Atlantic, but he has made the mistake of wintering in London for a time and was spotted heading this way some weeks ago. In fact, he may already be here now.”

“And which pirate may this be that I’m looking for, captain?”

Bartholomew set his jaw and said the name with a dramatic turn: “Captain Dread Steele.” Unfortunately, he finished his flourish only to find Butterstreet erupting with laughter.

“Captain Steele?
The
Dread Steele?” Butterstreet held his big sides as his rumbling laughter filled the entire office. Even Thomas in the front office smiled when he heard the thunderous roar. “Oh, forgive me sire, but I think you’d have better luck catching old Father Noel handing out sticks and coal to the gangs of thieving children I chase than catching that one!”

Bartholomew’s alabaster cheeks pinked fiercely, and he tapped his index finger on the pommel of his sword. But then he pulled his jacket straight, swallowed some of his enormous pride, and spoke through gritted teeth. “And why is that…do you say?”

“Captain Steele comes in and out of London as he pleases, captain.” Butterstreet ceased his laughing, a serious look blooming in his merry eyes. His voice lowered as though what he was about to say should not be spoken too loudly. “Oh, he’s a crook all right, and a buccaneer, but he’s a charmer, that one is, and a master of disguise to boot. I’ve heard he can appear as nearly the likeness of any person he desires, and sound like them too. Some even say he does this through powers of the black arts, and that he has wizards, witches, and talking animals for allies. Even the great Captain Lindsay Morgan, God rest him, couldn’t catch Dread Steele noways. Gawd, I may have arrested the man once before, thinking him a regular thief and then let him go the next week.”