The Knights in the Satchel
🕯️This might have happened, but ❌ not in London. Maybe it happened 🌱 to another character? 🌱 backstory that doesn't appear in final story? 🌱 flashback to explain an Act III Finale beat?
This draft was originally written as a possible Chapter 1.
🪴 I still like this quiet moment, but it doesn’t really match what I need Jess to be demonstrating right out of the gate as the story begins.
🌱 This might work better as a flashback when Jess is struggling with his identity or when he needs to make some kind of connection to his childhood when he finally understands who his parents are.
🌱 Or maybe it could be recycled as something connected to Jess’s final conversation with George and the mood of Chapter 84 in The Way of All Flesh.
The one thing I remember is that satchel.
This satchel of mine was a child-sized leather crossbody, sling-type bag that slipped easily over my left shoulder and draped conveniently on my right hip for easy access.
And in my satchel were four things: 🌱 my Bab book and 🌱 my three wooden knights.
I’d like to include the Bab book of Gilbert’s verses just so Jess has more exposure to Gilbertian topsy-turvy writing, but this may be overkill. 🪴 The current explanation that places Jess’s interest in G&S starting with Pinafore in 1878 seems to be dovetailing better with the the Act III: Execute the New Plan story beat because of the revivals in the 1890s and the real temptation to Jess to accept a starring role in a revived Pinafore and proof that he hasn’t been destroyed by the antagonist.
🌱 However, I am wondering about the value of Jess knowing about the Bab books for Act II’s Jetmore Pinafore and possibly connecting to George’s children. Still really excited about the idea of a neat little callback to the novella that way.
My knights were named Miguel, Rocinante, and Sancho. I always said their names in alphabetical order because they were brothers-in-arms and 🌱 did not rank one above the other.
The four items in my satchel were all mine, and no one ever took them away from me.
And as long as I had my satchel and its contents, my guardian could assure anyone that I would be no trouble to keep while 🕯️ he was away at auditions or rehearsals or performances.
🕯️ I’m starting to become less and less convinced of Pick being an actor. His later objections to Jess’s career choice don’t make sense if he is.
When Mr. John Pickett and I arrived in ❌ London, 🕯️ New York City, he found an apartment for the two of us ❌ West End, near the theatres (🔥 needs research) . Mrs. Dully, our landlady, was skeptical when he offered an added few coins to the rent for minding me nights. "I raised sons, Mr. Pickett," she mumbled, looking me up and down. "I know what rascals they are. Never sit still. Neck deep into trouble the minute I turn my back. I'm too old for that anymore. My rule is I mind girls and if the girl brings a little brother, she minds him and she'll punished if she don't."
"Jess is different," Mr. Pickett said, his right hand warm with my left one inside it. "I assure you, if he has his little satchel to occupy him, he will be no bother at all."
Mrs. Dully squinted. "Yes, but what happens when the father leaves?"
Mr. Pickett shook his head. "I'm not his father, Mrs. Dully. He's an orphan. But your question is a fair one. And my fair answer to you is that I have paid many good-hearted ladies as yourself to mind Jess in the three years I've had guardianship of him. And each and every one of these good ladies welcomed opportunities to look after him."
Mrs. Dully twisted her head downward.
"In fact--" Mr. Pickett paused and chuckled. "Now, I only tell you this story, Mrs. Dully, to prove my point. Please read no request into my words."
She blinked.
"One particularly scrupulous lady who watched Jess while I was away refused payment because she felt it unfair to take money for having done nothing other than give him meals. He did everything else himself without fuss or help."
Mrs. Dully's eyebrows creased, and her eyes met mine.
I ducked.
She sighed. "All right, Mr. Pickett. One night only. Then you must find someone else to mind him when you are away. I *never* watch boys."
With his hand still encasing mine, Mr. Pickett crouched, put his hand under my chin and lifted it so our eyes met. He leaned in slowly until his forehead touched mine, grey eyes studying me.
"There is no need to tell you to be good, pícaro," he whispered. "Because you *are* a good boy already."
So I stayed with Mrs. Dully that evening for four hours.
And after that, she was the same as all the rest.
About two weeks after my first stay with her, Mrs. Dully's brother, Mr. Preston, came to visit. As I sat at the table, eating my supper with Miguel standing sentry over my plate, Mr. Preston commented on the unorthodox use of a toy being allowed attendance at the table.
"He likes his toy soldiers," Mrs. Dully said sweetly. "There's no harm to have one close while he eats."
"Well, now, Mr. Jess," said Mr. Preston in the swaggering voice that meant children exist to entertain. "Which war are your British soldiers off to?"
🔥 In revising this to be in an American setting, it would make more sense to use the state of the conflict between America and Spain in the post-Civil War years.
I swallowed my mouthful. "If you please, sir. They are not British, sir," I said.
"Not British?" Mr. Preston cocked his head. "Why, they most certainly are. Don't tell me you don't know a British uniform."
I shook my head. "If you please, sir. They are Spanish knights, sir."
Mr. Dully's eyes widened. "Spanish? Never. Those are British soldiers."
"If you please, sir. They are in disguise."
"Disguise?" Mr. Preston cocked an eyebrow.
"Yes, sir. They pretend, you see. They are actors."
Mrs. Dully tittered. She turned to Mr. Preston, grinning. "You see, Dickie? Quirky, this one. Such stories all the time."
"Nonsense," Mr. Preston gave me a concerned stare. "They're British." He turned fretfully to Mrs. Dully. "The point of toys is to teach the histories. If he thinks these are Spanish, he'll never understand the war parts."
"If you please, sir, they do not go to war, sir." I explained.
This was too much for Mr. Preston. He whipped back to me, his mouth agape. "Don't go to war? What possible use are these soldiers of yours?"
I ducked.
"They're not soldiers, Dickie," Mrs. Dully interjected, smirking. "They're knights. But these knights go West and find gold. Isn't that right, Jess?" she chirped.
Relieved at least one adult understood, I tilted my head up. "Yes, ma'am," I assured her. "But if you please, ma'am, not gold. They want to find the cities of gold, ma'am."
"Knights, gold cities. What next?" Mr. Preston frowned in distress. "Mary, you can't allow this. Mr. Pickett has big plans for this boy, eh?”
Mrs. Dully pressed her lips together.
“Well, this is just the kind of thing that spoils children and makes them good for nothing. If Mr. Pickett finds out, that'll be the end of your easy money."
Mrs. Dully's face clouded. "Jess," she said with a wobbly sharpness. "No more talk. Finish your supper and then go play with your soldiers. Or look at your book."
I ducked again. "Yes, ma'am."
Once settled by the warm, quiet, hearth-side spot Mrs. Dully always kept for me, I rotated Miguel over and over in my hands, considering his uniform carefully on every turn. A queasiness whispered from deep in my stomach that Mr. Preston might know a whole lot more about the world inside me than I did. How can an adult be wrong? my belly gurgled.
But just as I felt sweaty, agonized tears blocking my sight, I peered into Miguel's painted face and ... he looked at me.
And smiled.
I took a sharp breath.
He winked.
And that was the first moment I realized that anything was possible.