attention, a fact which seemed to please him.
A Portuguese Jew who had emigrated thirty years ago, Senhor Tomas Habitas was small, slender, olive-skinned and dark-eyed, with a long face, big nose and full mouth. About him hung a faint aura of aloofness, something he shared in common with the Quakers; a knowledge, perhaps, that he was too different ever to fit into the ordinary Bristol mold. The city had been good to him, as indeed it was to all Jews, who, unlike the papists, were permitted to worship God in their own fashion, had their burying ground in Jacob Street and two synagogues across the Avon in Temple parish; Jewishness was less of an impediment to social and economic success by far than Roman Catholicism. Mostly due to the fact that there were no Jewish (or Quaker) pretenders to His Britannic yet Germanic Majesty’s throne. Bonnie Prince Charlie and 1745 were still fresh in every mind, and Ireland not very distant.
“What brings you so far from home, sir?” asked Dick Morgan, presenting the guest with a large glass (made by the Jewish firm of Jacobs) of deep amber, very sweet sherry.
The narrow black eyes darted about the empty room, returning to Richard rather than to Dick. “Business is bad,” he said in a surprisingly deep voice, only lightly accented.
“Aye, sir,” said Richard, sitting down opposite the visitor.
“I am very sorry to see it.” Senhor Habitas paused. “I may be able to help.” He put his long, sensitive hands upon the table, and folded them. “We have this war with the American colonies to thank, I know. However, the war has brought increased business to some. And to me, very much so. Richard, I need you. Will you come back to work?”
While Richard was still opening his mouth to answer, Dick butted in. “On what terms, Senhor Habitas?” he asked, a little truculently. He knew his Richard—too soft to insist upon terms before he said yes.
The enigmatic eyes in the smooth face did not change. “On good terms, Mister Morgan,” he said. “Four shillings a musket.”
“Done!” said Dick instantly.
Only Mr. Thistlethwaite was looking at Richard, and in some pity. Did he never have a chance to decide his own destiny? The blue-grey eyes in Richard Morgan’s handsome face held neither anger nor dissatisfaction. Christ, he was patient! Patient with his father, with his wife, his mother, the patrons, Cousin James-the-druggist—the list really had no end. It seemed the only person for whom Richard would go to war was William Henry, and then it was a quiet business, steadfast rather than choleric. What
does
lie within you, Richard Morgan? Do you know yourself? If Dick were my father, I’d give him a bunch of fives that knocked him to the floor. Whereas you bear with his megrims and his fits and starts, his criticisms, even his too thinly veiled contempt for you. What is your philosophy? Where do you find your strength? Strength you have, I know it. But it is allied to—resignation? No, not quite that. You are a mystery to me, yet I like you better than any other man I know. And I fear for you. Why? Because I have a feeling that so much patience and forebearance will tempt God to try you.
* * *
Oblivious to Mr. Thistlethwaite’s concern for him, Richard returned to the Habitas workshop and settled to make Brown Bess for the soldiers fighting in the American war.
A gunsmith made a gun, but not its component parts. These came from various places: the steel barrel, forged into a tube by a hammer, from Birmingham, as did the steel parts of the flintlock; the walnut stock from any one of a dozen localities throughout England; and the brass or copper fittings from around Bristol.
“You will be pleased to know,” said Habitas when Richard reported on his first day, “that we have been commissioned to make the Short Land musket—a little lighter and easier to handle.”
At 42 inches, it was 4 inches shorter than the old Long Land still employed at the time of
A Portuguese Jew who had emigrated thirty years ago, Senhor Tomas Habitas was small, slender, olive-skinned and dark-eyed, with a long face, big nose and full mouth. About him hung a faint aura of aloofness, something he shared in common with the Quakers; a knowledge, perhaps, that he was too different ever to fit into the ordinary Bristol mold. The city had been good to him, as indeed it was to all Jews, who, unlike the papists, were permitted to worship God in their own fashion, had their burying ground in Jacob Street and two synagogues across the Avon in Temple parish; Jewishness was less of an impediment to social and economic success by far than Roman Catholicism. Mostly due to the fact that there were no Jewish (or Quaker) pretenders to His Britannic yet Germanic Majesty’s throne. Bonnie Prince Charlie and 1745 were still fresh in every mind, and Ireland not very distant.
“What brings you so far from home, sir?” asked Dick Morgan, presenting the guest with a large glass (made by the Jewish firm of Jacobs) of deep amber, very sweet sherry.
The narrow black eyes darted about the empty room, returning to Richard rather than to Dick. “Business is bad,” he said in a surprisingly deep voice, only lightly accented.
“Aye, sir,” said Richard, sitting down opposite the visitor.
“I am very sorry to see it.” Senhor Habitas paused. “I may be able to help.” He put his long, sensitive hands upon the table, and folded them. “We have this war with the American colonies to thank, I know. However, the war has brought increased business to some. And to me, very much so. Richard, I need you. Will you come back to work?”
While Richard was still opening his mouth to answer, Dick butted in. “On what terms, Senhor Habitas?” he asked, a little truculently. He knew his Richard—too soft to insist upon terms before he said yes.
The enigmatic eyes in the smooth face did not change. “On good terms, Mister Morgan,” he said. “Four shillings a musket.”
“Done!” said Dick instantly.
Only Mr. Thistlethwaite was looking at Richard, and in some pity. Did he never have a chance to decide his own destiny? The blue-grey eyes in Richard Morgan’s handsome face held neither anger nor dissatisfaction. Christ, he was patient! Patient with his father, with his wife, his mother, the patrons, Cousin James-the-druggist—the list really had no end. It seemed the only person for whom Richard would go to war was William Henry, and then it was a quiet business, steadfast rather than choleric. What
does
lie within you, Richard Morgan? Do you know yourself? If Dick were my father, I’d give him a bunch of fives that knocked him to the floor. Whereas you bear with his megrims and his fits and starts, his criticisms, even his too thinly veiled contempt for you. What is your philosophy? Where do you find your strength? Strength you have, I know it. But it is allied to—resignation? No, not quite that. You are a mystery to me, yet I like you better than any other man I know. And I fear for you. Why? Because I have a feeling that so much patience and forebearance will tempt God to try you.
* * *
Oblivious to Mr. Thistlethwaite’s concern for him, Richard returned to the Habitas workshop and settled to make Brown Bess for the soldiers fighting in the American war.
A gunsmith made a gun, but not its component parts. These came from various places: the steel barrel, forged into a tube by a hammer, from Birmingham, as did the steel parts of the flintlock; the walnut stock from any one of a dozen localities throughout England; and the brass or copper fittings from around Bristol.
“You will be pleased to know,” said Habitas when Richard reported on his first day, “that we have been commissioned to make the Short Land musket—a little lighter and easier to handle.”
At 42 inches, it was 4 inches shorter than the old Long Land still employed at the time of
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