The Survivor by Paul Almond

for books and such, and I...”
    “Your parents don’t have the money?” James asked.
    “No sir, no parents.”
    James absorbed the fact: an orphan, here, working in the mill. But then, he knew of plenty of stories of London’s orphans — pickpockets and prostitutes. So perhaps this lad was not so badly off.
    “Well, Ben,” James volunteered on the spur of the moment, “I’ll see what I can do about teaching you your L M N O P’s.”
    “Oh, no thank you, sir. All them learning and books — I got no time for that. I gotta earn me money.”
    “Ben, you can still earn your money. Just maybe in the evenings —”
    “Evenings, sir? I don’t have no oil lamp nor candle in me tent. How’ll I see?”
    “Well, maybe I can buy us a candle,” James said. “But hold on, I don’t even know if I’ll be working here.”
    “Well, sir, you look like a strong man and you look like you’ve had education. I bet he hires you. He needs a good Number Two man, Mr. Hall does. I’ve noticed that.”
    “Oh you have, have you?” James offered. Smart little devil, he thought. No problem to teach him reading and writing. Another reason to hope for the job.

Chapter Seven
    As darkness fell, the work stopped. James, with his heart in his mouth and a prayer on his lips, strode into the open end of the mill where the logs were brought in off the river. James selected one man who from his bearing and look — a vigorous short fellow with large ears — must be the owner. “Excuse me, Mr. Hall, sir!”
    The man stopped and took James in with a long suspicious look. “What can I do for ye? Come to buy lumber?”
    “No sir, in fact, I was looking for work.” James spoke firmly even though he felt anything but firm.
    “Were ye now?” Mr. Hall gestured for the lantern which one of his men had taken down from its hook on a low beam. “Thank ya, ’Ti-Pete.”
    James noticed his worn trousers and torn shirt, out at the elbows. Not the look of a rich man, he thought, but then, that was applying Old World standards. Here, clothing meant nothing. He liked that.
    “Yes, I am, sir,” James added in affirmation, though he hated to push himself. “I’m a hard worker, not afraid of any task. Trained in the British Navy,” he added, and then bit his tongue.
    “Well,” said Mr. Hall, eying him from under bushy eyebrows, “we’ll see about that. We work from daylight to dusk. Them’s long days now, summer time and all.”
    “Long days for sure,” agreed James, “as I can see now. But that’s just what I need. I would welcome a spell of good hard work.” Especially with the news he had just heard back at the Garretts’ about Catherine being taken forever, this might get his mind off that piece of ill fortune.
    The millwright drew on his pipe and studied James in the low light of a lantern.
    “I brought you this letter.” James took it from his pocket and handed it to him. “Who’s it from?”
    “Mr. Garrett. He thinks I might be of some use, I believe.”
    “Does he now?” Mr. Hall took the folded parchment, and tore it in pieces. “So William thinks he’ll plant the spy in my camp, does he?” He turned with his lantern as though the interview were at an end.
    “A spy, sir?” James added quickly, following. “I don’t think I understand.”
    “Don’t ye now?” Hall stopped and looked back at him. James’s mind tried to fathom what was being said. “I’m very sorry, Mr. Hall, but I just do not see what you are telling me.”
    The old man studied him. “How well d’ye know old William?”
    “We met briefly two years ago, but then, not again until yesterday. He comes from the north of England as I do, and perhaps he feels some kind of kinship.” And then it hit him, William Garrett Sr. must want him out of the way until Catherine and her fiancé could tie the knot. Off here in the woods, James could do little harm. They probably see me, James decided, as a threat to their arranged marriage. But at the moment,