A Voice from the Past

Chapter 4: A Disappointing Encounter

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. . . . .

While the cart jounced along the rutted highway, Frank had time to ruminate over his predicament, but one thing in particular stuck in his mind. His abductors had mentioned, Captain Randall. Could it possibly be? If, in fact, that was the case, what an extraordinary opportunity to meet with his illustrious progenitor. So, even though he was trussed up like a Christmas goose, he reveled in seeing history in the making. It made the hairs on his arms stand up at attention. He wished now that he had brought along a pen and a notepad.

They camped for the night, and the two men who first grabbed him, removed the wad from his mouth, untied his hands, and set down a dish of unpalatable food, and some water. The gag left a nasty taste on his tongue, and so contributed an unpleasant flavor to the already disagreeable cuisine. He hadn't a bite all day, and so, being hungry he ate it nonetheless.

When he finished eating, the terrible two came back to retrieve the remains of his dinner, and replace the shackles to his wrists. They placed a bucket in the corner, for nature calls, along with a couple of thin blankets, muttering something under their breath all the while. Finally, the taller of the two, Charlie Hicks, said, "Stand up, Mr. Highty-tighty."

Frank struggled to get to an upright position; the ropes tied around his hands and feet, making it difficult. Charlie shouted orders to his companion, Alfred. "Turn out his pockets. He may have a gold piece or two."

Frank was at their mercy. What could he do? They rummaged through all his pockets, and hooted as they found the gold. They looked puzzled at the fob with the dangling keys, and threw them aside, but when they handled the seal case, Charlie blared, "Ho, ho, what have we here?"

He held up the pewter cylinder, and opened it, sliding out the seal. Charlie's eyes widened. "JWR, hmmm ..."

Worried that they would somehow damage the precious artifact, Frank snapped, "Give me that. It belongs to me. You can have the gold; I don't give a care about the coins."

"Huh," Alfred huffed. "You think you have any say about it? You can bet your breeks, we'll keep the gold, but this here seal goes to the leftenant."

Charlie rolled the cylinder in his palm. "I know I've seen this before. JWR, Jonathan Wolverton Randall. The captain won't be pleased to have some spy walk off with what's rightfully his. I would chance to say he paid a good sum for it too."

"I told you, I am not a spy."

He felt the sting from a slap across his face, and then the rag was shoved into his mouth once more. Charlie smirked at him. "Did you enjoy that? I know I did."

Hicks laughed at Frank's discomfort, and gestured to his friend. "Come along, Alfred. He needs to rest before the Cap'n has a go at him, eh?"

. . . . .

Despite the lack of comfortable surroundings, and a sleepless night, Frank was anticipating his first meeting with the indomitable Jonathan Randall. The cart creaked along the road, and soon the towering hulk of Fort William loomed before him.

The soldiers all dismounted beyond the gates, and goaded Frank forward. They French-walked him through the front entrance and up the stairs to Randall's headquarters. The door was open, and the infamous Black Jack was seated behind a desk against the wall on the right. His feet were arrogantly propped upon it. He stood on their arrival, his back to them, while pushing his chair away from the desk.

"To what do I owe this intrusion, I said I—"

Randall turned about, and Frank froze on the spot. He was looking at his mirror image. The Captain's mouth dropped open, but closed just as suddenly. "What the deuce? Who are you, and what are you doing with my face on your head? Gah! The impertinence of it all ..."