Quite a long time ago, and in a place somewhat removed from us at present, a ship slipped silently through the gloomy and misty waters of the English Channel. It was night, and darkness covered all with an impenetrable gloom that weighed down upon the tiny, frail ship like an ill omen. Her sails were fully extended, and oars slipped out into the water as desperate sailors fought for speed. Men ran to and fro upon the deck in an attitude of great excitement and fear, yet all was silent. No one spoke, not one man so much as murmured to his fellow as he set about his duties; the grim look on every face was conversation enough.
Only one figure remained unmoved, frozen. A beautiful young woman stood against the rails, staring out into the night, clasping her arms about her to gain some warmth against the chilly air. In her stillness there was such poise and grace that even the most perceptive observer would be hard pressed to detect any sign of agitation and fear like that which so stirred the men about her; and yet, there was about the features of her delicate face an air of hopelessness and doom deeper and more profound than theirs, and in her shining eyes were set a thousand clues portending that hers was a greater grief than all her fellows’, and that none felt the sting of the present moment more sharply than she. A chilly breeze assaulted her, and she shuddered suddenly in a motion not entirely prompted by the cool air alone. Unseen by the men scuttling around the deck and scarcely noted by even herself, a single solitary tear slid off her cheek and fell into the salty sea.
For another ship rode the waters of the Channel that night - a large, black, and glooming shape that dwarfed the other as a man dwarfs an infant. Its enormous bow, an affront to nature by its very size, did not part the cool waters of the sea so much as it tore them asunder in violent motion, cutting through the blackness with an efficient, frightening speed, gaining on the smaller ship in quick pace. On the topmost deck of this monstrosity another single figure stood motionless, wrapped within a voluminous cloak of the very color of the gloomy night. It was a man (or, perhaps more appropriately, a creature who had once been a man) large of frame and height with hunched shoulders and enormous booted feet. A large black patch covered one eye, and a long, hideous scar ran down the side of his nose, cheek, and neck, twisting what once might have been fair features into the grotesque and the terrifying. His mouth was turned into a scowl, and his uncovered eye squinted at the shape of the smaller ship in the distance as a hawk squints at his prey.
He nodded to himself. Only a few minutes more, and they would close the gap.
"Fouillez le navire," the dark figure rasped at his men. "Apportez-moi la fille." He spoke with the heavy accent of an Englishmen, but his crew, native sons of France, saluted eagerly and cowered in fear of his every look.
"This time there will be no escape," the dark figure murmured.
The two ships grew closer together, and every sailor on each prepared himself for a battle whose outcome, it would seem, was inevitable. In the midst of this confusion, one single lifeboat slipped away from the doomed vessel, vanishing almost instantly against the dark water. The two men on board this small raft rowed for their lives, hardly daring to breathe lest the sound reveal them, heading with no small effort towards the distant English shore....
Chapter I
It is a truth universally acknowledged that nothing travels quite so quickly, or with so much pleasure, than gossip about one's neighbors; and this maxim holds especially true in the more remote and less populated regions, where there is so little of any consequence that occurs and so few people to comment and offer speculation upon, that even the slightest of alteration to the common order of things can become a veritable sensation that excites local society for weeks. And so it was with the greatest commotion and delight that the ladies of Anchorhead, a quiet and often forgotten hamlet in remote Tatooineshire, received the news that Mr. and Mrs. Lars had received a ward in the form of a small male child under quite mysterious and possibly scandalous circumstances.
Mr. Lars was a landed gentleman of no small consequence to the region. His wealth and breeding, while perhaps meager compared to the society of London, were nonetheless great enough to provide him with the respect and good standing of the men and women of Anchorhead, and to place him as one of the foremost gentlemen in the area. His father had come to the region some years ago, and everyone agreed he had been an upstanding and kindly old gentleman who had enriched the town with his residence. His son, upon inheriting, had improved his father's reputation in every respect, even marrying a local Tatooineshire girl of good education and character. Together they resided on a pleasant estate some distance from the town proper and ran the affairs of quite a sizeable portion of land, the constant management of which occupied the bulk of the gentleman's attention and care. It was no surprise that they were the object of interest to almost everybody in the town, and if they were disinclined to be social, and came to the local dinner parties somewhat infrequently, why! -- this could only serve to arouse curiosity about their affairs even further amongst their neighbors and relations.
Therefore it was no small matter when news of the child's arrival reached the town's society, for any such unusual circumstances could not help but be commented and conjectured upon, particularly as it touched the person of a gentleman so widely admired. Not that any wrongdoing or suspicion was placed upon Mr. Lars himself. His character had always seemed beyond reproach and was likely to continue so. And certainly nobody could imagine that Mrs. Lars, one of their own, could possibly share any blame for so shocking a circumstance. No, in the conversations between the ladies while at home, and between the men while at sport, it was agreed that the sudden arrival of an infant boy and the implications of shame and disgrace surrounding such an event could not but be the work of Mr. Lars' absent and long-estranged brother, about whom much was suspected but very little was known. This suspicion shortly proved true, for not a fortnight had passed before Mr. Lars made it known publicly that his new ward was in fact his nephew and that he was only too glad to welcome a relation into his home and to provide for his upbringing.
Naturally, this provoked the greatest of interest about the boy's parents and the circumstances which had resulted in them placing their son into the care of relatives. On this subject, Mr. Lars was not forthcoming; however, Mrs. Lars had once let it slip at a dinner party that the child's father and her husband were brothers by marriage only, not by blood, by virtue of the late Mr. Lars' second marriage to an unknown woman of no importance, low station, and no connexions to speak of. The women of the town were properly scandalized, and imagined amongst themselves that Mr. Skywalker (as the boy's father was called) was a low, roguish character of no breeding and of an ill-mannered disposition. They took great pleasure in attributing to him all the faults and evil acts that men of that station are wont to have, and agreed that the child, who had been christened Luke and for reasons of propriety took his father's family name, was fortunate indeed to be raised instead by the gentle and respectable Mr. and Mrs. Lars.
So intense was the general interest about the child that another unusual event that would normally have occasioned a great amount of conversation went almost completely unnoticed. An unknown gentleman had purchased Jundland Cottage, an old and run-down structure on the farthest reaches of the town's territory. Nobody knew where he had come from or what had brought him to Anchorhead, but as the gentleman showed not the slightest interest in introducing himself or in becoming better acquainted with the men and women of the town, he was quickly and quite completely forgotten -- for which the gentleman himself could not have been more pleased.
And so the boy Luke grew, and as the years passed and his became a familiar face amongst the people of Anchorhead, the events surrounding his mysterious arrival in the town and the scandalous behavior widely attributed to his birth parents became so commonly known as to be unremarkable. By the time the boy had become a man, it was scarcely spoken of by the neighbors, or, if it was, it was with a disinterested air that had long since lost the sharp edge of curiosity.
Young Luke was raised with the greatest of care and affection by his new guardians. He was perhaps doted on more than necessary by Mrs. Lars, as is not uncommon for kindly old aunts, and perhaps pushed too severely by Mr. Lars, as is not unheard of for gruff and serious old uncles -- but in general, every care was provided for his education and welfare. He grew strong, with pleasing manners and a gracious disposition, and showed not a small part of the handsome figure and face that his mysterious father was rumored to have possessed. All the ladies in Anchorhead could not but expect that he would make a most pleasing addition to any local family and an excellent husband to some lucky local young woman, and there was a great expectation for the time in which he would find himself so inclined to settle down with one of them.
However, the desire for a settling of any kind was not soon forthcoming within the bosom of the boy himself. Young Luke, like so many young men his age, hot of blood and restless of feet, found he had grown altogether discontent with a small town like Anchorhead and the provincial life that was led there. Aiding his uncle in the affairs of the farms on their land provided only a small distraction from his unhappiness, and even this profitable employment quickly became tedious. He spoke often of wishing to explore the world, sailing the seven seas on board a ship or perhaps even to take on a military career. Such were his ambitions, and in his imagination he was often captain of his own seafaring vessel on visits to distant ports, an explorer of jungles and wastes yet uncharted, or even a valiant sailor swept up into glorious battles in the defense of his native England. Any of these adventurous occupations would suffice, and each was infinitely more rewarding than the life of a gentleman’s ward in Tatooineshire. However, his uncle was firmly opposed to any such designs as these and made his opinion on the matter clear whenever possible.
"You cannot suppose, my dear," said Mrs. Lars to her husband one day, "that young Luke will be content to stay here with us forever. He will not, I suspect, be at all at peace until he has seen something of the world."
"I do not like it," returned her husband, "but I cannot deny you are correct. Still, you do not mean to suggest that at his tender age he is ready to leave us? Another few seasons at least will find him much more prepared to face the trials of travelling abroad. Besides, you know how much I have come to rely upon him in my work. Indeed, I do not know how I should get along at all without his constant assistance!"
"You press him too much!" the lady protested, "And his discontent is plain for all to see. He will never take to farming as an occupation with any of the enthusiasm which it provides you, my dear. He is too much like his father in that respect."
"It is precisely that likeness that distresses me," Mr. Lars replied shortly.
Mrs. Lars was not to be dissuaded. She was a lady particularly accustomed to her husband's humor and knew through experience the proper methods to bend him towards her mind.
"At the very least," she said after a moment, "It could do no harm to take on a few extra servants to assist you? This would provide young Luke with some relief from his labor and improve the quality of his disposition. I can certainly guarantee that it will! Why, I would not guess but that he will be cheerful within a month, and seeking the hand of one of the local young ladies within another."
"More servants!" roared the old gentleman, "Madam, do you suppose that there is an excess of money that we are required to dispose of? Do you believe that my pockets are lined with innumerable and inexhaustible stocks of credits?"
"Oh, really, Owen," said Mrs. Lars, not impressed by her husband's protests. "A servant or two would not provide so unwieldy an expense! Two servants would be perfectly sufficient. One to assist you in the fields, and one to help here around the house. One adept at languages, such as French, German, and Bocce, would be particularly useful for me. Surely you cannot deny my good sense and reasoning in this matter?"
"As you wish, my dear," Mr. Lars said, with a weary sigh, "I certainly know better than to refuse you and your good sense. Indeed, I have learned from experience that to do so always brings the most profound regrets. I shall acquire two new servants straight away, though I suspect their services will be more useful in impressing your lady-friends than in providing Luke any relief or pleasure."
So gratified was his wife at his agreement to the idea that she let slide the last remark. "You shall not but agree that it was a particularly inspired idea of mine. I promise you that."
Mr. Lars returned to reading a newspaper and said nothing, having found in the past that silence was often a great inducement to ending such conversations with the least amount of discomfort on his part. Mrs. Lars herself returned to her needlework, smiling with pleasure to have the matter so thoroughly resolved and hoping with all her noble and matronly heart that the new servants would indeed provide her nephew with the comfort which she so dearly wished for him.
Mr. Lars was a landed gentleman of no small consequence to the region. His wealth and breeding, while perhaps meager compared to the society of London, were nonetheless great enough to provide him with the respect and good standing of the men and women of Anchorhead, and to place him as one of the foremost gentlemen in the area. His father had come to the region some years ago, and everyone agreed he had been an upstanding and kindly old gentleman who had enriched the town with his residence. His son, upon inheriting, had improved his father's reputation in every respect, even marrying a local Tatooineshire girl of good education and character. Together they resided on a pleasant estate some distance from the town proper and ran the affairs of quite a sizeable portion of land, the constant management of which occupied the bulk of the gentleman's attention and care. It was no surprise that they were the object of interest to almost everybody in the town, and if they were disinclined to be social, and came to the local dinner parties somewhat infrequently, why! -- this could only serve to arouse curiosity about their affairs even further amongst their neighbors and relations.
Therefore it was no small matter when news of the child's arrival reached the town's society, for any such unusual circumstances could not help but be commented and conjectured upon, particularly as it touched the person of a gentleman so widely admired. Not that any wrongdoing or suspicion was placed upon Mr. Lars himself. His character had always seemed beyond reproach and was likely to continue so. And certainly nobody could imagine that Mrs. Lars, one of their own, could possibly share any blame for so shocking a circumstance. No, in the conversations between the ladies while at home, and between the men while at sport, it was agreed that the sudden arrival of an infant boy and the implications of shame and disgrace surrounding such an event could not but be the work of Mr. Lars' absent and long-estranged brother, about whom much was suspected but very little was known. This suspicion shortly proved true, for not a fortnight had passed before Mr. Lars made it known publicly that his new ward was in fact his nephew and that he was only too glad to welcome a relation into his home and to provide for his upbringing.
Naturally, this provoked the greatest of interest about the boy's parents and the circumstances which had resulted in them placing their son into the care of relatives. On this subject, Mr. Lars was not forthcoming; however, Mrs. Lars had once let it slip at a dinner party that the child's father and her husband were brothers by marriage only, not by blood, by virtue of the late Mr. Lars' second marriage to an unknown woman of no importance, low station, and no connexions to speak of. The women of the town were properly scandalized, and imagined amongst themselves that Mr. Skywalker (as the boy's father was called) was a low, roguish character of no breeding and of an ill-mannered disposition. They took great pleasure in attributing to him all the faults and evil acts that men of that station are wont to have, and agreed that the child, who had been christened Luke and for reasons of propriety took his father's family name, was fortunate indeed to be raised instead by the gentle and respectable Mr. and Mrs. Lars.
So intense was the general interest about the child that another unusual event that would normally have occasioned a great amount of conversation went almost completely unnoticed. An unknown gentleman had purchased Jundland Cottage, an old and run-down structure on the farthest reaches of the town's territory. Nobody knew where he had come from or what had brought him to Anchorhead, but as the gentleman showed not the slightest interest in introducing himself or in becoming better acquainted with the men and women of the town, he was quickly and quite completely forgotten -- for which the gentleman himself could not have been more pleased.
And so the boy Luke grew, and as the years passed and his became a familiar face amongst the people of Anchorhead, the events surrounding his mysterious arrival in the town and the scandalous behavior widely attributed to his birth parents became so commonly known as to be unremarkable. By the time the boy had become a man, it was scarcely spoken of by the neighbors, or, if it was, it was with a disinterested air that had long since lost the sharp edge of curiosity.
Young Luke was raised with the greatest of care and affection by his new guardians. He was perhaps doted on more than necessary by Mrs. Lars, as is not uncommon for kindly old aunts, and perhaps pushed too severely by Mr. Lars, as is not unheard of for gruff and serious old uncles -- but in general, every care was provided for his education and welfare. He grew strong, with pleasing manners and a gracious disposition, and showed not a small part of the handsome figure and face that his mysterious father was rumored to have possessed. All the ladies in Anchorhead could not but expect that he would make a most pleasing addition to any local family and an excellent husband to some lucky local young woman, and there was a great expectation for the time in which he would find himself so inclined to settle down with one of them.
However, the desire for a settling of any kind was not soon forthcoming within the bosom of the boy himself. Young Luke, like so many young men his age, hot of blood and restless of feet, found he had grown altogether discontent with a small town like Anchorhead and the provincial life that was led there. Aiding his uncle in the affairs of the farms on their land provided only a small distraction from his unhappiness, and even this profitable employment quickly became tedious. He spoke often of wishing to explore the world, sailing the seven seas on board a ship or perhaps even to take on a military career. Such were his ambitions, and in his imagination he was often captain of his own seafaring vessel on visits to distant ports, an explorer of jungles and wastes yet uncharted, or even a valiant sailor swept up into glorious battles in the defense of his native England. Any of these adventurous occupations would suffice, and each was infinitely more rewarding than the life of a gentleman’s ward in Tatooineshire. However, his uncle was firmly opposed to any such designs as these and made his opinion on the matter clear whenever possible.
"You cannot suppose, my dear," said Mrs. Lars to her husband one day, "that young Luke will be content to stay here with us forever. He will not, I suspect, be at all at peace until he has seen something of the world."
"I do not like it," returned her husband, "but I cannot deny you are correct. Still, you do not mean to suggest that at his tender age he is ready to leave us? Another few seasons at least will find him much more prepared to face the trials of travelling abroad. Besides, you know how much I have come to rely upon him in my work. Indeed, I do not know how I should get along at all without his constant assistance!"
"You press him too much!" the lady protested, "And his discontent is plain for all to see. He will never take to farming as an occupation with any of the enthusiasm which it provides you, my dear. He is too much like his father in that respect."
"It is precisely that likeness that distresses me," Mr. Lars replied shortly.
Mrs. Lars was not to be dissuaded. She was a lady particularly accustomed to her husband's humor and knew through experience the proper methods to bend him towards her mind.
"At the very least," she said after a moment, "It could do no harm to take on a few extra servants to assist you? This would provide young Luke with some relief from his labor and improve the quality of his disposition. I can certainly guarantee that it will! Why, I would not guess but that he will be cheerful within a month, and seeking the hand of one of the local young ladies within another."
"More servants!" roared the old gentleman, "Madam, do you suppose that there is an excess of money that we are required to dispose of? Do you believe that my pockets are lined with innumerable and inexhaustible stocks of credits?"
"Oh, really, Owen," said Mrs. Lars, not impressed by her husband's protests. "A servant or two would not provide so unwieldy an expense! Two servants would be perfectly sufficient. One to assist you in the fields, and one to help here around the house. One adept at languages, such as French, German, and Bocce, would be particularly useful for me. Surely you cannot deny my good sense and reasoning in this matter?"
"As you wish, my dear," Mr. Lars said, with a weary sigh, "I certainly know better than to refuse you and your good sense. Indeed, I have learned from experience that to do so always brings the most profound regrets. I shall acquire two new servants straight away, though I suspect their services will be more useful in impressing your lady-friends than in providing Luke any relief or pleasure."
So gratified was his wife at his agreement to the idea that she let slide the last remark. "You shall not but agree that it was a particularly inspired idea of mine. I promise you that."
Mr. Lars returned to reading a newspaper and said nothing, having found in the past that silence was often a great inducement to ending such conversations with the least amount of discomfort on his part. Mrs. Lars herself returned to her needlework, smiling with pleasure to have the matter so thoroughly resolved and hoping with all her noble and matronly heart that the new servants would indeed provide her nephew with the comfort which she so dearly wished for him.
Chapter II
So remote and unconnected was Mos Eisley from the rest of the country that the larger affairs and concerns of the world never reached there; or, if they did, they occasioned little comment and disturbed almost no one. Certainly, everyone knew that old Napoleon Palpatine of France had declared himself Emperor, and everyone had heard tales of battles long since passed that had brought all of England under his sway -- but this was old news indeed. The Prime Minister still managed the affairs of the country, and England still had a King, and so what matter if they were now claimed by the Empire of France? All of Europe had been part of the Empire for years, and it has long been the habit of the English to follow the newest fashions of the Continent.
And yet, the degree to which the town of Anchorhead remained unaffected amidst the recent changes was singularly remarkable, and it was that very isolation that on occasion served to attract certain men who, for one reason or another, sought to hide away and find a modicum of peace and quiet. Such was the attraction of the place, at any rate, for Mr. Cecil Treypeo, lately of London, and his companion Arthur Deetoo, who arrived in Anchorhead on precisely the morning that Mrs. Lars had persuaded her husband to seek out two new servants.
There has in recent years arisen a kind of person not difficult to be found amongst the servant classes who considers himself a cut above his peers. He is of exceptional pride in regards to his person and occupation and of the most exquisite and expensive tastes; for this servant, bred almost from birth to wait upon the upper crust of our society and to move in their circles, is so much adjusted to the world of the aristocracy that he feels himself (though his possessions be few, his debts great, and his every waking moment spent in toil and servitude to his superiors) to be one of that illustrious number. If an academician of one of our great universities wished to study a prime specimen of one such a person, he would find none more suitable to his purpose than Mr. C. Treypeo, with whom this narrative now finds itself concerned. Here was a tall, thin man of middle years who, he fancied, still retained his youthful figure and enthusiasm while adding thereto the wisdom of age and experience; and who, to his great pride, had served as manservant and butler to some of the greatest families in the capitol. He had, to his own mind, all the class, refinement, discernment, and good taste required in a servant, and in abundance. In short, he possessed every qualification which should have easily earned him a respected place in the most prominent of households. It was a great shock to him, therefore, to find himself in so small and provincial a town without any obvious means of honest employment.
The circumstances were these: for several years, Mr. Treypeo had served as the trusted butler of a most honorable personage, one Lord Antilles, a nobleman well-connected and influential in Parliament. As head of the Antilles household, Mr. Treypeo lived in the most comfortable and luxurious of arrangements and therefore had never experienced the remotest threat to his personal safety. His accustomed comfort and security came to an end quite suddenly, however, when his Lordship was forced by circumstances of politics (which Mr. Treypeo never fully understood nor paid any notice of) to take a long voyage by sea on behalf of the Government. Mr. Treypeo, as Lord Antilles' chief servant and most trusted aide, was required to accompany him, and so for three long and miserable weeks he had lived at sea, thinking in his discomfort that his fate could surely grow no worse.
But fate is fickle and, like an old spinster delighting in the trouble of others, had a few tricks left up her sleeve. Though the voyage of the HMS Tantiv was to be peaceful, she ran afoul of Napoleon's armada for reasons the troubled servant had never fully understood. After a brief and useless resistance, the ship had been captured along with all on board, and held as prisoner by the authority of the French Empire. Mr. Treypeo could not have escaped without the assistance of his friend Mr. Deetoo, a sailor in the Tantiv’s crew whose quick thinking allowed the two to escape by rowboat in the heat of the battle and avoid capture until they reached England’s shores.
There could be no more unlikely companion for Mr. Treypeo to be imagined than Arthur Deetoo. The former was a creature of security, a product of the very center of our society and culture, while the latter had for all his life been kept as far distant from such things as could be possible. From his boyhood he had spent his time on ships of all kinds and description, visiting far off and exotic locations, ports of call in lands scarcely mentioned or thought of in London. As a sailor, Mr. Deetoo was every bit the perfect exemplar of his profession as Mr. Treypeo was of his, possessing all the strength, tenacity, and patience required of such a person, in addition to the distinct lack of social graces that make them seem so strange to persons who live their lives ashore. And yet for all this, and notwithstanding the fact that due to his occupation Arthur Deetoo had scarcely set foot upon the solid ground of his native land, it shall be shown hereafter that there existed in his character a peculiarly intense loyalty to King and Country, made perhaps all the stronger from the necessity that England had existed for the wandering sailor mainly as an Ideal of the mind to be dreamed upon rather than a more fallible actuality.
When at last the two returned to land, Mr.Treypeo was in great distress. He had abandoned his employer and so disgraced himself; no respectable household in London would dare to take him on now, for loyalty in a servant is always a virtue highly prized. What's more, he found himself entirely of a mind to avoid politics and any such nonsense and live a life of peace -- to accomplish this it was clear that any life in London such as the one he had previously known could not now be expected. Mr. Deetoo had then suggested that they seek employment together in the city of Anchorhead, which, the sailor assured his new friend, was so far removed from all affairs of import that no such trouble as that which they had formerly been so unlucky as to endure could possibly reach them there. At first Mr. Treypeo had flatly rejected such a plan; it was one thing to give up the society and refinement of the Capitol proper (painful enough for any man of culture such as himself), and quite another to set up residence in the smallest and most obscure part of the realm. He protested that any course which took him so far from the center of things and into the uncivilized outer regions was not to be accepted under any circumstances. But gradually he had come to be convinced by Mr. Deetoo’s strangely steadfast insistence that Anchorhead was the proper place.
They became lost en route to the city, but were assisted by a kindly gentleman named Mr. Jawa who, returning from a business trip from the port town of Mos Eisley and passing them on the road, offered them a ride on his horse-and-cart and escorted them safely to the edge of town.
"Words cannot express our gratitude," proclaimed Mr. Treypeo, "Indeed, sir, I believe we would have been quite ruined had it not been for your timely intervention. But, if we may presume to trouble you further, I will state quite plainly that we are honest, respectable men seeking employment, and I will be so bold as to ask you, sir, if there are households in Anchorhead in need of industrious, dependable, educated, and altogether quite useful servants?"
Mr. Jawa scratched his chin and pondered. "If anyone had such a need and the means to satisfy it," he said at last, "it would undoubtedly be Mr. Lars."
"And is Mr. Lars a respectable, wealthy gentleman?" Mr. Treypeo inquired.
The other man blinked at so direct a question. "He is without doubt, sir, the foremost gentleman of our parish and the wealthiest man of property in Tatooineshire. Head into town and make your inquiries - I assure you everyone there can direct you to him."
Mr. Treypeo was much obliged, and forever in the good man's debt, etc, etc. Having ascertained now the object of their search, the two entered the town in search of the noble Mr. Lars, of whom great things had been spoken and upon whom so much hope was now placed.
And yet, the degree to which the town of Anchorhead remained unaffected amidst the recent changes was singularly remarkable, and it was that very isolation that on occasion served to attract certain men who, for one reason or another, sought to hide away and find a modicum of peace and quiet. Such was the attraction of the place, at any rate, for Mr. Cecil Treypeo, lately of London, and his companion Arthur Deetoo, who arrived in Anchorhead on precisely the morning that Mrs. Lars had persuaded her husband to seek out two new servants.
There has in recent years arisen a kind of person not difficult to be found amongst the servant classes who considers himself a cut above his peers. He is of exceptional pride in regards to his person and occupation and of the most exquisite and expensive tastes; for this servant, bred almost from birth to wait upon the upper crust of our society and to move in their circles, is so much adjusted to the world of the aristocracy that he feels himself (though his possessions be few, his debts great, and his every waking moment spent in toil and servitude to his superiors) to be one of that illustrious number. If an academician of one of our great universities wished to study a prime specimen of one such a person, he would find none more suitable to his purpose than Mr. C. Treypeo, with whom this narrative now finds itself concerned. Here was a tall, thin man of middle years who, he fancied, still retained his youthful figure and enthusiasm while adding thereto the wisdom of age and experience; and who, to his great pride, had served as manservant and butler to some of the greatest families in the capitol. He had, to his own mind, all the class, refinement, discernment, and good taste required in a servant, and in abundance. In short, he possessed every qualification which should have easily earned him a respected place in the most prominent of households. It was a great shock to him, therefore, to find himself in so small and provincial a town without any obvious means of honest employment.
The circumstances were these: for several years, Mr. Treypeo had served as the trusted butler of a most honorable personage, one Lord Antilles, a nobleman well-connected and influential in Parliament. As head of the Antilles household, Mr. Treypeo lived in the most comfortable and luxurious of arrangements and therefore had never experienced the remotest threat to his personal safety. His accustomed comfort and security came to an end quite suddenly, however, when his Lordship was forced by circumstances of politics (which Mr. Treypeo never fully understood nor paid any notice of) to take a long voyage by sea on behalf of the Government. Mr. Treypeo, as Lord Antilles' chief servant and most trusted aide, was required to accompany him, and so for three long and miserable weeks he had lived at sea, thinking in his discomfort that his fate could surely grow no worse.
But fate is fickle and, like an old spinster delighting in the trouble of others, had a few tricks left up her sleeve. Though the voyage of the HMS Tantiv was to be peaceful, she ran afoul of Napoleon's armada for reasons the troubled servant had never fully understood. After a brief and useless resistance, the ship had been captured along with all on board, and held as prisoner by the authority of the French Empire. Mr. Treypeo could not have escaped without the assistance of his friend Mr. Deetoo, a sailor in the Tantiv’s crew whose quick thinking allowed the two to escape by rowboat in the heat of the battle and avoid capture until they reached England’s shores.
There could be no more unlikely companion for Mr. Treypeo to be imagined than Arthur Deetoo. The former was a creature of security, a product of the very center of our society and culture, while the latter had for all his life been kept as far distant from such things as could be possible. From his boyhood he had spent his time on ships of all kinds and description, visiting far off and exotic locations, ports of call in lands scarcely mentioned or thought of in London. As a sailor, Mr. Deetoo was every bit the perfect exemplar of his profession as Mr. Treypeo was of his, possessing all the strength, tenacity, and patience required of such a person, in addition to the distinct lack of social graces that make them seem so strange to persons who live their lives ashore. And yet for all this, and notwithstanding the fact that due to his occupation Arthur Deetoo had scarcely set foot upon the solid ground of his native land, it shall be shown hereafter that there existed in his character a peculiarly intense loyalty to King and Country, made perhaps all the stronger from the necessity that England had existed for the wandering sailor mainly as an Ideal of the mind to be dreamed upon rather than a more fallible actuality.
When at last the two returned to land, Mr.Treypeo was in great distress. He had abandoned his employer and so disgraced himself; no respectable household in London would dare to take him on now, for loyalty in a servant is always a virtue highly prized. What's more, he found himself entirely of a mind to avoid politics and any such nonsense and live a life of peace -- to accomplish this it was clear that any life in London such as the one he had previously known could not now be expected. Mr. Deetoo had then suggested that they seek employment together in the city of Anchorhead, which, the sailor assured his new friend, was so far removed from all affairs of import that no such trouble as that which they had formerly been so unlucky as to endure could possibly reach them there. At first Mr. Treypeo had flatly rejected such a plan; it was one thing to give up the society and refinement of the Capitol proper (painful enough for any man of culture such as himself), and quite another to set up residence in the smallest and most obscure part of the realm. He protested that any course which took him so far from the center of things and into the uncivilized outer regions was not to be accepted under any circumstances. But gradually he had come to be convinced by Mr. Deetoo’s strangely steadfast insistence that Anchorhead was the proper place.
They became lost en route to the city, but were assisted by a kindly gentleman named Mr. Jawa who, returning from a business trip from the port town of Mos Eisley and passing them on the road, offered them a ride on his horse-and-cart and escorted them safely to the edge of town.
"Words cannot express our gratitude," proclaimed Mr. Treypeo, "Indeed, sir, I believe we would have been quite ruined had it not been for your timely intervention. But, if we may presume to trouble you further, I will state quite plainly that we are honest, respectable men seeking employment, and I will be so bold as to ask you, sir, if there are households in Anchorhead in need of industrious, dependable, educated, and altogether quite useful servants?"
Mr. Jawa scratched his chin and pondered. "If anyone had such a need and the means to satisfy it," he said at last, "it would undoubtedly be Mr. Lars."
"And is Mr. Lars a respectable, wealthy gentleman?" Mr. Treypeo inquired.
The other man blinked at so direct a question. "He is without doubt, sir, the foremost gentleman of our parish and the wealthiest man of property in Tatooineshire. Head into town and make your inquiries - I assure you everyone there can direct you to him."
Mr. Treypeo was much obliged, and forever in the good man's debt, etc, etc. Having ascertained now the object of their search, the two entered the town in search of the noble Mr. Lars, of whom great things had been spoken and upon whom so much hope was now placed.
Chapter III
So little was Mr. Lars' enthusiasm for the task that his wife had set for him that when he arrived in town to hire servants and found two men already seeking him out for that very purpose, he was inclined to think himself very fortunate indeed to have the whole matter resolved so quickly.
"You have experience in this field of work, sirrah?" Mr. Lars asked.
"Dear me," replied Cecil Treypeo, "I have worked in the noblest houses of London. I assure you, sir, you'll not find a manservant more experienced! I can provide you with the names of several illustrious noblemen who will serve as references should you require further confirmation."
"I’m sure that will not be necessary. Do you have a talent for languages? Mrs. Lars is most desirous to employ a servant fluent in Bocce."
"My linguistic talents are unparalleled," Treypeo said proudly, "And the tongue to which you refer is one I have shown a particular affinity for."
"And your friend? A laborer by the look of him, no stranger to working with his hands and earning his bread with the sweat of his brow. What's his history?"
"An honest sailor, sir, whose character I can vouch for personally. I’ll own that he's a bit of the wild, adventurous sort, but his hard-work and service in His Majesty's Navy cannot be understated. Mr. Deetoo is a fine Englishman, and I quite literally owe him my life."
All this was perfectly agreeable to Mr. Lars, and a bargain was struck for the employment of the two men almost at once. The three returned to the Lars Homestead, where Mr. Lars placed the two new servants in the care of young Luke, instructing his ward to acquaint them with the grounds and their new duties. Naturally, the young man was filled with curiosity about the two newcomers who had come from lands abroad, and he found he had many questions to put to them.
"You've lived in London?" asked Luke eagerly, picturing the towers and crowds of that grand city which he had often longed to see.
"Indeed, sir,” replied Mr. Treypeo, “I've resided there most of my life, in the employment of several noblemen well-connected in Government."
This reply only further spurred the young man’s eagerness. "You have been involved in Politics? Are the rumors true of a Resistance to Napoleon's rule?"
"On matters such as these," sniffed Treypeo, "I have little to say. I make it a point of honor never to pry into the affairs of my employers. I joined my master at sea simply to serve him, without concerning myself in greater matters - as is entirely proper for man of my position."
"I have often longed to go to sea myself," said Luke with a sigh, "It is an occupation that I feel particularly suited for. Was it altogether very exciting?"
"It was wet, sir, and very cramped. It was not at all a suitable place for a gentleman of breeding and character such as yourself. I am glad to be rid of it. This quaint countryside and beautiful estate is much more suitable, I imagine, for us both."
"You surprise me!" said Luke, "And I cannot agree with your sentiments. Indeed, if there is a single bright center to all of England, then Tatooineshire is surely the remotest county from it. It is much better, surely, to be involved in the great adventure of things, to know of the excitements of life!"
"I have seen quite enough excitement for us both, Master Luke," Treypeo said, "And I assure you that I feel quite differently. Peace and quiet are not to be underestimated. I do not deny that the pleasures of London still hold an attraction for me – but this I have learned: tranquility, sir, is worth any price."
Arthur Deetoo, Threepeo's companion, whistled a jaunty sailor's tune with a wry look on his face, but whether he agreed or not with his friend's opinions it was impossible to say. Luke found himself curious about the sailor and studied him carefully. He was a short, stocky man with a weather-worn brown face. Luke could see exotic sailor's tattoos on his arms and peeking out from the collar of his shirt, which had the effect of making his appearance all the more strange and exciting.
"What is that you have there, sir?" he asked at last, pointing to a parchment peeping out of Mr. Deetoo's pockets. At once the sailor thrust his hand into the pocket, obscuring whatever it was that Luke had seen there.
"Dear me, Master Luke, I cannot imagine what you are referring to," said Mr. Treypeo.
"Your friend carries a very expensive looking parchment in his pocket," said Luke brashly, "A strange possession for a sailor, is it not?"
At this Mr. Deetoo spoke, but so thick was his sailor talk and so full of low words and strange phrases that Luke understood nothing. Mr. Treypeo, however, had grown accustomed to the strange dialect of sailors during his time at sea.
"He claims it is a private letter, sir, which he has been tasked to deliver to a gentleman of the area," Mr. Treypeo translated, adding, "Frankly, sir, I cannot imagine what he means. It is the first I have heard of such a charge."
"Give it here," said Luke, but Mr. Deetoo shook his head stubbornly.
"Arthur, I'm surprised at you!" exclaimed Mr. Treypeo, "Master Luke is our new employer, and we owe him all due respect and obedience!"
For a moment it seemed that Arthur Deetoo would persist in his refusal. His jaw was stubbornly set, but he studied young Luke carefully and at last seemed to reconsider his resolution. With reluctance the short man withdrew the parchment, which did indeed prove to be a letter, folded and sealed with wax. On the outside cover it had been addressed in a flowing and feminine hand. The whole effect of the letter was one of great importance, and Luke felt instinctively that it had been written by a person of great note and contained matters of no small urgency. Arthur would not consent to allow his new employer to handle the document himself, but instead presented it for his closer inspection. Peering closely, Luke could make out what had been written on the exterior.
To Sir Benjamin Kenobi, OBE-1, General (ret.), and Master of the Noble Order of J.
Jundland Cottage, Anchorhead, Tatooineshire.
"Do you know the gentleman referred to here, Master Luke?" inquired Treypeo, noting the look of surprise from the young man as he read the name.
"I cannot say that I am acquainted with the man," Luke replied, "But I know of him, or I much mistake myself. There is an old gentleman of the name Kenobi who does indeed reside at the Jundland Cottage, but I had no idea he was a person of such importance or of such high connexion! Indeed, my uncle has spoken nothing but ill of the man and holds him in complete disregard. Do you know who wrote this letter?"
Mr. Deetoo let out a string of unintelligeble sentences.
"Oh, really, Arthur. There's no need to lie!" Mr. Treypeo said, "He claims, sir, that a woman who was a passenger aboard our late vessel along with my former master put it into his care."
"And who was she?" Luke asked. He stared with fascination at the flowing curves of the script upon the letter, admiring the strong and confident angles of each letter.
"We were never informed exactly who she was, sir, and it was made clear that her identity was to remain anonymous. From this I gathered she was a woman of great nobility and importance. I cannot imagine why a lady of her character and station would take a lowly sailor such as Mr. Deetoo into her confidence and entrust him with such a seemingly important task." He peered at his companion suspiciously.
"I shall speak to my uncle about this letter," Luke said, "Though I suspect he will not be pleased to do any favors for Mr. Kenobi."
Arthur Deetoo protested in strong terms.
"We shall speak of it in the morning," Luke insisted, and thought the matter quite resolved.
"You have experience in this field of work, sirrah?" Mr. Lars asked.
"Dear me," replied Cecil Treypeo, "I have worked in the noblest houses of London. I assure you, sir, you'll not find a manservant more experienced! I can provide you with the names of several illustrious noblemen who will serve as references should you require further confirmation."
"I’m sure that will not be necessary. Do you have a talent for languages? Mrs. Lars is most desirous to employ a servant fluent in Bocce."
"My linguistic talents are unparalleled," Treypeo said proudly, "And the tongue to which you refer is one I have shown a particular affinity for."
"And your friend? A laborer by the look of him, no stranger to working with his hands and earning his bread with the sweat of his brow. What's his history?"
"An honest sailor, sir, whose character I can vouch for personally. I’ll own that he's a bit of the wild, adventurous sort, but his hard-work and service in His Majesty's Navy cannot be understated. Mr. Deetoo is a fine Englishman, and I quite literally owe him my life."
All this was perfectly agreeable to Mr. Lars, and a bargain was struck for the employment of the two men almost at once. The three returned to the Lars Homestead, where Mr. Lars placed the two new servants in the care of young Luke, instructing his ward to acquaint them with the grounds and their new duties. Naturally, the young man was filled with curiosity about the two newcomers who had come from lands abroad, and he found he had many questions to put to them.
"You've lived in London?" asked Luke eagerly, picturing the towers and crowds of that grand city which he had often longed to see.
"Indeed, sir,” replied Mr. Treypeo, “I've resided there most of my life, in the employment of several noblemen well-connected in Government."
This reply only further spurred the young man’s eagerness. "You have been involved in Politics? Are the rumors true of a Resistance to Napoleon's rule?"
"On matters such as these," sniffed Treypeo, "I have little to say. I make it a point of honor never to pry into the affairs of my employers. I joined my master at sea simply to serve him, without concerning myself in greater matters - as is entirely proper for man of my position."
"I have often longed to go to sea myself," said Luke with a sigh, "It is an occupation that I feel particularly suited for. Was it altogether very exciting?"
"It was wet, sir, and very cramped. It was not at all a suitable place for a gentleman of breeding and character such as yourself. I am glad to be rid of it. This quaint countryside and beautiful estate is much more suitable, I imagine, for us both."
"You surprise me!" said Luke, "And I cannot agree with your sentiments. Indeed, if there is a single bright center to all of England, then Tatooineshire is surely the remotest county from it. It is much better, surely, to be involved in the great adventure of things, to know of the excitements of life!"
"I have seen quite enough excitement for us both, Master Luke," Treypeo said, "And I assure you that I feel quite differently. Peace and quiet are not to be underestimated. I do not deny that the pleasures of London still hold an attraction for me – but this I have learned: tranquility, sir, is worth any price."
Arthur Deetoo, Threepeo's companion, whistled a jaunty sailor's tune with a wry look on his face, but whether he agreed or not with his friend's opinions it was impossible to say. Luke found himself curious about the sailor and studied him carefully. He was a short, stocky man with a weather-worn brown face. Luke could see exotic sailor's tattoos on his arms and peeking out from the collar of his shirt, which had the effect of making his appearance all the more strange and exciting.
"What is that you have there, sir?" he asked at last, pointing to a parchment peeping out of Mr. Deetoo's pockets. At once the sailor thrust his hand into the pocket, obscuring whatever it was that Luke had seen there.
"Dear me, Master Luke, I cannot imagine what you are referring to," said Mr. Treypeo.
"Your friend carries a very expensive looking parchment in his pocket," said Luke brashly, "A strange possession for a sailor, is it not?"
At this Mr. Deetoo spoke, but so thick was his sailor talk and so full of low words and strange phrases that Luke understood nothing. Mr. Treypeo, however, had grown accustomed to the strange dialect of sailors during his time at sea.
"He claims it is a private letter, sir, which he has been tasked to deliver to a gentleman of the area," Mr. Treypeo translated, adding, "Frankly, sir, I cannot imagine what he means. It is the first I have heard of such a charge."
"Give it here," said Luke, but Mr. Deetoo shook his head stubbornly.
"Arthur, I'm surprised at you!" exclaimed Mr. Treypeo, "Master Luke is our new employer, and we owe him all due respect and obedience!"
For a moment it seemed that Arthur Deetoo would persist in his refusal. His jaw was stubbornly set, but he studied young Luke carefully and at last seemed to reconsider his resolution. With reluctance the short man withdrew the parchment, which did indeed prove to be a letter, folded and sealed with wax. On the outside cover it had been addressed in a flowing and feminine hand. The whole effect of the letter was one of great importance, and Luke felt instinctively that it had been written by a person of great note and contained matters of no small urgency. Arthur would not consent to allow his new employer to handle the document himself, but instead presented it for his closer inspection. Peering closely, Luke could make out what had been written on the exterior.
To Sir Benjamin Kenobi, OBE-1, General (ret.), and Master of the Noble Order of J.
Jundland Cottage, Anchorhead, Tatooineshire.
"Do you know the gentleman referred to here, Master Luke?" inquired Treypeo, noting the look of surprise from the young man as he read the name.
"I cannot say that I am acquainted with the man," Luke replied, "But I know of him, or I much mistake myself. There is an old gentleman of the name Kenobi who does indeed reside at the Jundland Cottage, but I had no idea he was a person of such importance or of such high connexion! Indeed, my uncle has spoken nothing but ill of the man and holds him in complete disregard. Do you know who wrote this letter?"
Mr. Deetoo let out a string of unintelligeble sentences.
"Oh, really, Arthur. There's no need to lie!" Mr. Treypeo said, "He claims, sir, that a woman who was a passenger aboard our late vessel along with my former master put it into his care."
"And who was she?" Luke asked. He stared with fascination at the flowing curves of the script upon the letter, admiring the strong and confident angles of each letter.
"We were never informed exactly who she was, sir, and it was made clear that her identity was to remain anonymous. From this I gathered she was a woman of great nobility and importance. I cannot imagine why a lady of her character and station would take a lowly sailor such as Mr. Deetoo into her confidence and entrust him with such a seemingly important task." He peered at his companion suspiciously.
"I shall speak to my uncle about this letter," Luke said, "Though I suspect he will not be pleased to do any favors for Mr. Kenobi."
Arthur Deetoo protested in strong terms.
"We shall speak of it in the morning," Luke insisted, and thought the matter quite resolved.
Chapter IV
As a young gentleman of good breeding and heir to an enviable fortune, Luke Skywalker had grown accustomed to many comforts and privileges. His privacy, always dear to a brooding young man, was in all cases respected by the servants of the household. He was therefore not accustomed to being disturbed in his private bedchambers as he prepared to retire for the night. It was no surprise, therefore, that when the timid knock came at his door Luke was at first certain he had merely imagined the noise. He sighed and turned back to the window, where he had been staring at the moon with sad longing as was his habit on gloomy evenings such as these.
Within moments the knock returned again, and this time there could be no doubt as to its origin. Rising from his chair, Luke approached the door with some urgency and confusion, opening it slightly to peer out at whoever had dared to disturb his reverie.
"Master Luke!" Mr. Treypeo was pale, and he shrunk away from the door in terror. "A thousand pardons for the disturbance! Oh, please do not have me beaten, sir!"
"Don't be absurd," Luke said impatiently, "Whatever is the matter? Speak, man!"
"It's Arthur! He's run off! I think he's lost his mind, sir. I've never known him to behave in such a manner."
"Run off? You mean the fellow has gone?" Luke received this news with a frown. It would not at all be pleasant news to relate to his uncle in the morning.
"He kept babbling on about an important mission, and finding Mr. Kenobi. He took the letter with him, sir. Oh, I tried to stop him. God only knows I did my best! But he wouldn’t listen to me, sir. He scoffed at my wisdom and advice. He’s gone – quite, quite gone."
"But this is madness," Luke protested, "The outlying roads are not always safe at night. There are bandits and scoundrels and the like during the warmer months."
"Merciful heavens. He's doomed! And it is my doing! He’s always had an impetuous nature, and I should have reined him in long before now. Oh, I'm a miserable fellow. His blood is on my hands!" Mr. Treypeo raised his palms before his face, examining them with wide, horrified eyes.
"Calm yourself, or you’ll only make matters worse. I shall have to go after him.”
"I could not possibly expect a gentleman such as yourself--"
"He is my responsibility. I should have confiscated the letter and spoken to my uncle immediately. We'll take a few horses and be back before anyone knows we've gone."
"We?" Treypeo exclaimed, as he turned a brighter shade of white, "But certainly, sir, you shall find me a great nuisance? I have no great propensity for horse-riding, I assure you. Perhaps I could... I could prepare a warm meal for your return?"
"You're the only one who can understand the fellow," Luke countered, "There's no time to delay, we must after him at once." And this was exactly what they did, riding away before any of the Lars household could realize they were missing.
It is not the purpose of this narrative to describe the peculiarities of the landscape in that part of Tatooineshire. If you have never had the occasion to visit the region you may refer to one of the plentiful guidebooks printed on the subject. At present, it suffices to repeat that the lands are remote and desolate indeed, devoid of much vegetation or animal life. Even Luke, who had always called Anchorhead home, found the sight to be quite dismal as he surveyed the landscape from the back of his favorite grey stallion. The light of the moon did little to improve the scene, for there was nothing of consequence to be lit.
It did not take long to catch up to the wayward Mr. Deetoo. The sailor had taken the most direct route towards Jundland Cottage, proceeding on foot, and therefore the others were able to overtake him quite quickly on horseback. Luke berated the servant rather fiercely for this wild and unmannerly behavior, speaking much of the great danger in which he had now placed all three of them. Mr. Deetoo, for his part, did not seem the least bit ashamed in the face of this barrage. If anything, he appeared the more determined to continue on his mysterious mission. Luke insisted that the man turn back immediately, but to no avail. The insolent sailor refused to return until after his task was completed.
Luke’s grey stallion shifted nervously beneath him, and from this clue the young gentleman had his first premonition that all was not right. By the time he made out the shapes of a large group of men melting out of the darkness, he knew he had acted rashly by rushing out into the night without escort. He found suddenly that he very much regretted ever laying eyes on Treypeo or his mad sailor companion.
“Halt!” called one of the men, a leader by the looks of him. He and his men were ragged and wild, half-dressed and dirty. They grinned at the Luke and his two servants with hungry, predatory eyes. “You be trespassing, lad. There’s a gross fee for such trangessions ‘round these parts.”
The other men chuckled menacingly. They had now encircled their three victims, and for a moment young Luke thought of digging his heels into the side of his steed and attempting to escape. A single voice of reason kept him from acting on this panic-born impulse, for it was very likely that a bandit would seize him and pull him from the saddle before he could break his way through them, and then all would be lost.
“Gracious!” cried out Treypeo, “We’re doomed! Oh, please, make our deaths quick!”
Luke shot a silencing look at the manservant and drew himself up to his full height, glaring down at the men with his best imperious look. “I cannot be a trespasser on my own land,” he announced to the group of men boldly. “This territory belongs to Mr. Lars, my uncle.”
“During the day, mayhap,” the ugly man jeered, “But o’ night all we see is our’n alone. So you’ve best be handing over all ya got, lad. ”
Luke felt his fear, but fought hard not to give the scoundrel the satisfaction of seeing the signs of it on him. “What impudence!” Luke scoffed, “How thoroughly uncivilized! What is your name, fellow?”
The leader of the bandits bowed in mock civility. “The name’s Tusken, my boy, and don’t ye forget it. These be my raiders and my dear associates. Go on, lads, introduce yourselves to the boy!”
At this cue the bandits sprang into action. Luke was certain the hour of their doom was at hand. He was a gentleman’s ward, untrained in the arts of warfare at his uncle’s specific command. Mr. Treypeo could certainly provide no aid. And even Arthur Deetoo, with his rough sailor’s life behind him, could not save them from so large a number.
Precisely at the moment when Luke expected to feel the first blow from one of the ruffians, a loud blaring of a trumpet echoed through the night. At the sound, the raiders froze in shock and turned to their leader.
“Highway patrol!” the man named Tusken shouted.
“At this time of night?” replied another scoundrel, “Couldn’t be!”
“Ye want to stay and hang, ‘tis all one to me!” said the leader of the bandits as he fled into the darkness. The others followed with quick steps, looking so much like frightened children that Luke could not help but laugh. He shared a relieved smile with the two servants, and called out some choice taunts towards the backs of the fleeing men.
“To mock the weakness of others is not only rude, it is ignoble,” came a new voice, quiet and yet quite firm. Young Luke could now make out another shape in the night, a figure approaching him with swift and sure step. “It is ungentlemanly, young man. I would expect better manners from a Skywalker.”
Within moments the knock returned again, and this time there could be no doubt as to its origin. Rising from his chair, Luke approached the door with some urgency and confusion, opening it slightly to peer out at whoever had dared to disturb his reverie.
"Master Luke!" Mr. Treypeo was pale, and he shrunk away from the door in terror. "A thousand pardons for the disturbance! Oh, please do not have me beaten, sir!"
"Don't be absurd," Luke said impatiently, "Whatever is the matter? Speak, man!"
"It's Arthur! He's run off! I think he's lost his mind, sir. I've never known him to behave in such a manner."
"Run off? You mean the fellow has gone?" Luke received this news with a frown. It would not at all be pleasant news to relate to his uncle in the morning.
"He kept babbling on about an important mission, and finding Mr. Kenobi. He took the letter with him, sir. Oh, I tried to stop him. God only knows I did my best! But he wouldn’t listen to me, sir. He scoffed at my wisdom and advice. He’s gone – quite, quite gone."
"But this is madness," Luke protested, "The outlying roads are not always safe at night. There are bandits and scoundrels and the like during the warmer months."
"Merciful heavens. He's doomed! And it is my doing! He’s always had an impetuous nature, and I should have reined him in long before now. Oh, I'm a miserable fellow. His blood is on my hands!" Mr. Treypeo raised his palms before his face, examining them with wide, horrified eyes.
"Calm yourself, or you’ll only make matters worse. I shall have to go after him.”
"I could not possibly expect a gentleman such as yourself--"
"He is my responsibility. I should have confiscated the letter and spoken to my uncle immediately. We'll take a few horses and be back before anyone knows we've gone."
"We?" Treypeo exclaimed, as he turned a brighter shade of white, "But certainly, sir, you shall find me a great nuisance? I have no great propensity for horse-riding, I assure you. Perhaps I could... I could prepare a warm meal for your return?"
"You're the only one who can understand the fellow," Luke countered, "There's no time to delay, we must after him at once." And this was exactly what they did, riding away before any of the Lars household could realize they were missing.
It is not the purpose of this narrative to describe the peculiarities of the landscape in that part of Tatooineshire. If you have never had the occasion to visit the region you may refer to one of the plentiful guidebooks printed on the subject. At present, it suffices to repeat that the lands are remote and desolate indeed, devoid of much vegetation or animal life. Even Luke, who had always called Anchorhead home, found the sight to be quite dismal as he surveyed the landscape from the back of his favorite grey stallion. The light of the moon did little to improve the scene, for there was nothing of consequence to be lit.
It did not take long to catch up to the wayward Mr. Deetoo. The sailor had taken the most direct route towards Jundland Cottage, proceeding on foot, and therefore the others were able to overtake him quite quickly on horseback. Luke berated the servant rather fiercely for this wild and unmannerly behavior, speaking much of the great danger in which he had now placed all three of them. Mr. Deetoo, for his part, did not seem the least bit ashamed in the face of this barrage. If anything, he appeared the more determined to continue on his mysterious mission. Luke insisted that the man turn back immediately, but to no avail. The insolent sailor refused to return until after his task was completed.
Luke’s grey stallion shifted nervously beneath him, and from this clue the young gentleman had his first premonition that all was not right. By the time he made out the shapes of a large group of men melting out of the darkness, he knew he had acted rashly by rushing out into the night without escort. He found suddenly that he very much regretted ever laying eyes on Treypeo or his mad sailor companion.
“Halt!” called one of the men, a leader by the looks of him. He and his men were ragged and wild, half-dressed and dirty. They grinned at the Luke and his two servants with hungry, predatory eyes. “You be trespassing, lad. There’s a gross fee for such trangessions ‘round these parts.”
The other men chuckled menacingly. They had now encircled their three victims, and for a moment young Luke thought of digging his heels into the side of his steed and attempting to escape. A single voice of reason kept him from acting on this panic-born impulse, for it was very likely that a bandit would seize him and pull him from the saddle before he could break his way through them, and then all would be lost.
“Gracious!” cried out Treypeo, “We’re doomed! Oh, please, make our deaths quick!”
Luke shot a silencing look at the manservant and drew himself up to his full height, glaring down at the men with his best imperious look. “I cannot be a trespasser on my own land,” he announced to the group of men boldly. “This territory belongs to Mr. Lars, my uncle.”
“During the day, mayhap,” the ugly man jeered, “But o’ night all we see is our’n alone. So you’ve best be handing over all ya got, lad. ”
Luke felt his fear, but fought hard not to give the scoundrel the satisfaction of seeing the signs of it on him. “What impudence!” Luke scoffed, “How thoroughly uncivilized! What is your name, fellow?”
The leader of the bandits bowed in mock civility. “The name’s Tusken, my boy, and don’t ye forget it. These be my raiders and my dear associates. Go on, lads, introduce yourselves to the boy!”
At this cue the bandits sprang into action. Luke was certain the hour of their doom was at hand. He was a gentleman’s ward, untrained in the arts of warfare at his uncle’s specific command. Mr. Treypeo could certainly provide no aid. And even Arthur Deetoo, with his rough sailor’s life behind him, could not save them from so large a number.
Precisely at the moment when Luke expected to feel the first blow from one of the ruffians, a loud blaring of a trumpet echoed through the night. At the sound, the raiders froze in shock and turned to their leader.
“Highway patrol!” the man named Tusken shouted.
“At this time of night?” replied another scoundrel, “Couldn’t be!”
“Ye want to stay and hang, ‘tis all one to me!” said the leader of the bandits as he fled into the darkness. The others followed with quick steps, looking so much like frightened children that Luke could not help but laugh. He shared a relieved smile with the two servants, and called out some choice taunts towards the backs of the fleeing men.
“To mock the weakness of others is not only rude, it is ignoble,” came a new voice, quiet and yet quite firm. Young Luke could now make out another shape in the night, a figure approaching him with swift and sure step. “It is ungentlemanly, young man. I would expect better manners from a Skywalker.”
Chapter V
Though understandably shaken and still somewhat distracted by his near encounter with such black-minded ruffians, Luke could not help but be impressed by this newcomer. He was an older gentleman, dressed impeccably and in clothes of exquisite quality, and yet there was none of that exorbitance or desperation for attention which Luke had so often noticed in the appearance of the Tatooinshire elite. His neat, snowy white beard and wrinkled face spoke of wisdom and experience, so much so that Luke very nearly bowed to him in respect out of instinct alone.
He wore no periwig, which was somewhat surprising for a man of his age – and yet the most surprising thing about him by far was the presence of a long, sheathed blade hanging from his belt. His age, class, and appearance did not mark him as the sort of man who would use a weapon of any sort. But perhaps it was not so surprising for a man wandering the night at such an hour to bring some manner of defense. Luke noticed that the man’s hand rested on the hilt of the sword quiet casually.
The young man alighted to the ground to greet the older man warmly. “Do you know me, sir? If it was you who signaled the trumpet and frightened away those men, I thank you with all my heart. My uncle shall certainly reward you for your aid,” Luke said, as graciously as possible.
“I am relieved that they still fear the forces of the law,” the man replied, “Perhaps the memories of the ancient days of honor have not disappeared as completely as I have feared.” The strange gentleman surveyed Luke and his two companions. “What brings you out so late at night with so small an escort, young man?”
At this the young Luke sighed, feeling there would be no use in hiding the truth from his mysterious benefactor. He indicated Arthur with a nod of his head. “This fellow has taken it upon himself to run off and deliver a message to Mr. Kenobi at the old Jundland Cottage – as he is lately under the employment of my uncle, I felt it my duty to come after him. He refuses to explain the nature of his message, nor why its urgency required him to travel the roads at such an ungodly hour of the night.”
Arthur Deetoo still showed not the slightest bit of shame or remorse, but his companion Mr. Treypeo more than made up for this deficiency. The small man sputtered weak apologies that were barely audible and covered his face with his hands.
“A message for Kenobi, you say?” the gentlemen replied, scratching his beard, “Peculiar. Very peculiar, indeed.”
“Pardon me,” Luke asked, “But do you by chance know Mr. Kenobi?”
The gentleman laughed and patted Luke on the shoulder with strange familiarity. “As well as any man can know himself. I am the man, though I can’t say why anyone should want to send me a message or who would know where to find me if they did. But we should not speak of these things here. Bandits frighten easily, but you may rest assured that they will not stay away forever; and when they return they will have doubled in strength. Their kind flourishes in our present age of darkness. Come.”
Young Luke and his two servants had no intention of disobeying the command of the noble gentleman, and followed him without comment back to his residence in the Jundland Cottage. Luke had always been told that the structure was old and rundown, and yet this information was quickly proved to be inaccurate. While certainly past its prime, it was as well-kept and exhibited the same quality of good taste and refinement as old Kenobi himself.
Once they were safely within the gentleman’s abode, Luke felt Sir Benjamin Kenobi’s eyes upon him, studying him under the light of the flickering candles. The old man’s face was suddenly ashen and grave.
“Are you feeling quite alright, sir?” asked Threepeo, “You look as if you have seen a ghost!”
“Perhaps I have at that,” muttered Sir Kenobi, “I was not prepared for how strongly you resemble your father, young Luke. You are the very image of the man.”
“You knew my father?” Luke asked eagerly. Over the years, Mr. Lars had provided precious little information regarding his nephew’s heritage, and if there was any person more curious to know the truth about his mysterious past than the gossip-prone ladies of the local society, it was Luke himself.
“Oh, yes indeed, like a brother. We were friends and comrades-in-arms once, a long time ago, during the Civil War. Come, sit with me, and we shall enjoy a pot of tea.”
They all agreed that a cup of tea would be just the thing to shake off the horrible experience that had just befallen them. Sir Kenobi invited them all to sit at ease in his parlour, even the two servants, while he himself prepared the kettle. Luke was again impressed by his kindness and gentility. He did not stand upon ceremony, and yet there was the air of greatest refinement and sophistication about him. Soon they were all comfortably set up with a cup of hot tea and a single biscuit.
“I believe you are mistaken, sir, or I am,” Luke said politely, sipping his tea cautiously, “I had been led to believe that my father was a first mate on a simple merchant ship, not a warrior or a soldier of any kind.”
“Of course you were,” Sir Kenobi replied, “Your uncle did not approve of your father’s choice of profession. He would not have wanted you to get any ideas about following in his footsteps.”
Luke knew this to be true, and felt a pang of bitterness towards his uncle. “I wish I knew more of my father; so little of any consequence has been related to me.”
The old gentlemen smiled as memories of ancient days played across his face. “Your father was the finest warrior I have ever met -- and the dearest friend that a man could wish for. In fact, I have something of his here in my possession that by rights should belong to you. He would have wanted you to inherit it, I feel certain.”
Luke felt himself growing excited at the prospect of possessing something that had once belonged to his mysterious father. When Sir Kenobi revealed the item itself, Luke felt he might be faint with joy.
“It’s beautiful,” the young man breathed, for so it was. It was a long, slightly curved blade of the most elegant design. The hilt and sheathe were intricately woven in silver and gold. Luke pulled the sword free and admired the obvious craftsmanship in every element. It felt as weightless as a feather in his hand, but he could tell at once that the edge was razor sharp and deadly in the right hands.
“It is a light sabre,” Sir Kenobi explained, “of the best Spanish craftsmanship. You’ll not find better blades forged these days, I assure you. It is a noble weapon, much more precise and gentlemanly than the muskets and cannons of today. And it is the proper weapon for a Knight of the Order of the Jedi.”
Luke noticed that the blade hanging from the old man’s belt was of a similar design to the one he held in his hands. “The Order of Jedi?” he asked, “I’m sorry, sir, but I’m not familiar with the order of which you speak.”
Sir Benjamin shook his head sadly. “Your uncle has neglected your education more grossly than I had imagined. The order of Jedi was once the most ancient order of knights, dating from the age of legends. It is said that since the days of King Arthur himself there have been knights of our order to defend the realm and to uphold all that is noblest and most civilized in our land. We taught the country what it was to be gentlemen, warriors, and scholars – and we showed the world what it meant to be British. Before the recent wars with France, of course. The fiendish Napoleon’s first action as the new Emperor of our land was to officially disband the order, ending our long tradition. His troops hunted us down without mercy, and our numbers were thinned during the war so we had no strength to resist. Thus our order has passed away into history…” His voice trembled slightly.
“Do none of the order yet live besides yourself?” Luke asked.
“Only one other,” the old gentleman replied, “but as I have had no news from him in many years, it is entirely possible that I am all that is left.” He took a long, weary sip from his tea, as though a great weight had suddenly reasserted itself upon him.
Luke was now quite certain that most of what he had previously been told regarding his father was a lie and was eager to learn more of the truth. His mind still reeled from the thought that he was not the son of a merchant sailor, as he had previously believed, but of a noble knight of an ancient order. He would not be able to rest now until he had heard all.
“Did my father die in the war against France?” Luke asked softly.
The old man’s look turned dark again, and his lips tightened. “Not exactly, I’m afraid. Have you heard of the English traitor the French call Monsieur Le Vader?”
The young man nodded somberly, his eyes wide. “He is the terror of the seas and the right hand of Napoleon, so I have heard it said. Few who face him live to tell the tale.”
“He is as different from your father as a man can be. I am ashamed to confess that he was my squire for many years and that the responsibility for his education was on my shoulders. I could not have foreseen his betrayal to me and to the King, yet still I blame myself for all that has transpired, not the least of which was the fate of your poor father. Many unfortunate men have been destroyed in that evil man’s reign of terror; your father was the first. Le Vader forgot the code of honor that gives a knight his strength – he was seduced by money and power, and the savagery of Napoleon’s armies. His treason turned the tide of the war and took your father away from us forever.”
Luke studied his father’s sabre with sad longing, so overwhelmed with emotion at all of this new information that he felt quite certain he would not be able to speak. Sir Benjamin Kenobi, correctly judging the young man’s attitude, patted him comfortingly on the shoulder and let the matter end there.
With sad talk of the past behind them, Sir Benjamin now turned his attention to the matters at hand. Throughout the evening’s exchange, Arthur Deetoo had grown more and more restless, eager to interrupt the conversation between the two gentlemen but too polite to do so. He had not taken so much as a nibble of his biscuit and only one or two sips of tea. Instead, he held the mysterious letter before him, ready to present it to the old knight and complete his charge as soon as he was presented with the slightest opportunity to do so.
Such an opportunity was not long in coming. “Now, my young friend,” said Sir Kenobi, turning to the sailor, “Let us speak about this message which you were so determined to bring to me.”
Mr. Deetoo’s sigh of relief was audible, and he thrust the parchment into the gentleman’s hands with great alacrity. Sir Kenobi glanced at writing on the outside and raised his eyebrows slightly to see his name and titles so elegantly described there. Without another word he broke the seal and scanned the contents of the letter.
“Luke,” he said at last, “I’m afraid that I require your assistance. Pray, lend me your youthful eyes for a few moments. In my advanced age, I do not see so well by candlelight. If you would be so kind as to read the letter aloud to me, we may soon learn its import.”
This was a task most agreeable to Luke’s disposition, as he was already quite desperate in his curiosity to know the contents of the letter, and the young man's melancholy meditation on his father's fate was quickly cheered by this new opportunity. He accepted the unfolded parchment from the old gentleman and held it up to the light. It was written in the same flowing, admirable hand as before. Luke was almost certain he could catch the slightest scent of perfume wafting from the parchment, a scent mysterious and feminine and yet somehow familiar. He knew at once that this was a pivotal moment and that something in him had now changed forever, and he was quite unsure if he was ready for the world to be changed so drastically. Thus as he read the letter aloud he found his voice was unsteady and soft, the strange new voice of his strange new self:
To the Illustrious and Renowned General Kenobi,
Greetings,
You do not know me, kind sir, but I know of you. My father has often related to me the heroism, courage, and loyalty with which you served him during our last great struggle against the forces of France. At this time, dear sir, it has become expedient to rise up again in defiance against Napoleon Palpatine, and my father now must ask for that same aid and counsel which once you rendered to him so faithfully. It is with the most profound regrets that I confess that I shall not be allowed the honor of begging for your aid in person, for it now appears that the Empire has been apprised of the nature of my mission and we are sure to be intercepted. I have passed this letter into the hands of a faithful and loyal sailor named Arthur Deetoo, and I pray to God he and this message have come safely to you. He possesses information of the most vital and irreplaceable importance, which may indeed prove to be the key to the salvation of our fledging Resistance. I must beg you to accompany him to my father’s ancestral estate in the port of Alderaan-upon-Avon, where many of our allies are in hiding. Under suspicion of the Empire, the city has been heavily garrisoned and the port completely blockaded -- I fear my loyal servant Mr. Deetoo will never make it there successfully without your noble aid. I beg you as well, dear sir, to forgive the impertinence of this request. The times require desperate and bold action.
I must again entreat you with all my heart to aid us, for without you, Sir Kenobi, I fear I have no other to place my hopes upon.
Sincerely,
HRH Leia Organa
Duchess of Alderaan and Princess of the Realm
Luke felt his face grow pale. His voice trailed off as he read the illustrious titles of the writer of the letter. This was far beyond and above him, and he was very much intimidated by such lofty matters even as he longed to be a part of them, fear and desire mingling in him in equal measure.
“The princess!” exclaimed Treypeo, staring in shock at Arthur Deetoo, “I had no idea our passenger was royal! I did not pay her all due deference and respect!” He fretted, wringing his bony hands furiously.
“It was most prudent of Her Highness to hide her identity, given the circumstances,” said Sir Kenobi, reclaiming the letter from Luke, “A wise precaution, though not sufficient, it would seem.”
And with a cavalier flick of the wrist, the old knight tossed the letter into the fire. The others gasped and rose to their feet in surprise to see such an important letter destroyed without so much as a thought. “A precaution of our own,” Kenobi explained, “we dare not risk this letter falling into the hands of our enemies, or one of their spies. As we know now what we are to do, we no longer require it.”
“Then you intend to aid Her Highness as requested?” Treypeo asked curiously. Arthur Deetoo leaned forward, eager to her the gentleman’s reply to the question.
“But of course,” replied Sir Benjamin, lifting his chin and looking suddenly far younger than his years, “Our order may be disbanded, but I am still a knight and loyal to the Crown. I swore an oath of fealty to the King that should ever the need arise again for my service I would be there. I will guide you to Alderaan and protect you with my life – you have the word of a Jedi.”
Arthur breathed a sigh of relief, echoed almost immediately by his slim and anxious companion. “Thank goodness,” said Mr. Treypeo, “How pleasant to have the matter resolved so satisfactorily. Of course, Arthur will have to tender his resignation to Mr. Lars at once, but the gentleman can hardly object when it is shown a matter of the gravest national importance is at hand. I wish you both the best of good fortune.”
“I’m afraid that you shall join us on the journey, friend,” old Benjamin replied gravely, “I have no doubt that the French are now looking for you both. To remain here would be foolish and dangerous.”
“But, that cannot be!” sputtered Mr. Treypeo, “I know nothing of these affairs! Besides, I am an employee of the Lars family now and cannot go gallivanting off on adventures to God knows where whenever I should so please. Master Luke, please talk some sense into this man. Tell him you and I must return to the estate at once!”
Luke was still too stricken to speak, but the elder knight raised his eyebrows. “Have you not guessed?” he said, “Young Luke shall have to come with us as well. It is his fate.”
At last the young man found his voice. “Me?” he asked incredulously, “Sir, you honor me, but you cannot be serious.”
But Sir Benjamin Kenobi appeared very serious indeed, his face a mask of solemn sincerity. “Come with me to Alderaan, young Luke. Become my squire and learn the ways of knighthood as once your father did. Even in dark times such as these, chivalry can only die if we allow it to be so, if we do nothing. Perhaps in you the light of the Jedi will shine once more upon the face of England, saving her from the clutches of France.”
Luke felt his soul stir within him, felt the longing which had kept him so long restless with his life in Anchorhead. And yet there still remained the fear, the doubt, the sense of responsibility to his duties despite everything, all of which combined to create in him the greatest sense of unease and reluctance. He had long desired the opportunity that now presented itself, and now that it had come he found he could not bring himself to fully credit it.
“Sir, I am flattered by your high estimation of me,” he said, “But you are mistaken. I am not destined to save our nation, nor to become a great warrior such as you say my father was. I am a country gentleman’s ward, no more or less, and I cannot abandon my uncle and aunt now, so close to harvest time when they will need me most. How would it look?” He felt ashamed of himself even as he said it and knew that it was his guardians, not himself, who were the true authors of these words.
A look of the purest disappointment crossed Kenobi’s face. “You are indeed only that which you believe yourself to be. No more, no less.” He sighed and turned his back to the others. “Come, I shall show you to rooms where you may retire. I shall return you to your uncle’s estates at first light, and then these gentlemen and I must start our journey.”
Luke felt the sharpest regrets for his words. “I had no wish to offend you, sir.”
“Certainly not,” replied the old man gracefully, as he left the room, “Of that I have no doubt.”
He wore no periwig, which was somewhat surprising for a man of his age – and yet the most surprising thing about him by far was the presence of a long, sheathed blade hanging from his belt. His age, class, and appearance did not mark him as the sort of man who would use a weapon of any sort. But perhaps it was not so surprising for a man wandering the night at such an hour to bring some manner of defense. Luke noticed that the man’s hand rested on the hilt of the sword quiet casually.
The young man alighted to the ground to greet the older man warmly. “Do you know me, sir? If it was you who signaled the trumpet and frightened away those men, I thank you with all my heart. My uncle shall certainly reward you for your aid,” Luke said, as graciously as possible.
“I am relieved that they still fear the forces of the law,” the man replied, “Perhaps the memories of the ancient days of honor have not disappeared as completely as I have feared.” The strange gentleman surveyed Luke and his two companions. “What brings you out so late at night with so small an escort, young man?”
At this the young Luke sighed, feeling there would be no use in hiding the truth from his mysterious benefactor. He indicated Arthur with a nod of his head. “This fellow has taken it upon himself to run off and deliver a message to Mr. Kenobi at the old Jundland Cottage – as he is lately under the employment of my uncle, I felt it my duty to come after him. He refuses to explain the nature of his message, nor why its urgency required him to travel the roads at such an ungodly hour of the night.”
Arthur Deetoo still showed not the slightest bit of shame or remorse, but his companion Mr. Treypeo more than made up for this deficiency. The small man sputtered weak apologies that were barely audible and covered his face with his hands.
“A message for Kenobi, you say?” the gentlemen replied, scratching his beard, “Peculiar. Very peculiar, indeed.”
“Pardon me,” Luke asked, “But do you by chance know Mr. Kenobi?”
The gentleman laughed and patted Luke on the shoulder with strange familiarity. “As well as any man can know himself. I am the man, though I can’t say why anyone should want to send me a message or who would know where to find me if they did. But we should not speak of these things here. Bandits frighten easily, but you may rest assured that they will not stay away forever; and when they return they will have doubled in strength. Their kind flourishes in our present age of darkness. Come.”
Young Luke and his two servants had no intention of disobeying the command of the noble gentleman, and followed him without comment back to his residence in the Jundland Cottage. Luke had always been told that the structure was old and rundown, and yet this information was quickly proved to be inaccurate. While certainly past its prime, it was as well-kept and exhibited the same quality of good taste and refinement as old Kenobi himself.
Once they were safely within the gentleman’s abode, Luke felt Sir Benjamin Kenobi’s eyes upon him, studying him under the light of the flickering candles. The old man’s face was suddenly ashen and grave.
“Are you feeling quite alright, sir?” asked Threepeo, “You look as if you have seen a ghost!”
“Perhaps I have at that,” muttered Sir Kenobi, “I was not prepared for how strongly you resemble your father, young Luke. You are the very image of the man.”
“You knew my father?” Luke asked eagerly. Over the years, Mr. Lars had provided precious little information regarding his nephew’s heritage, and if there was any person more curious to know the truth about his mysterious past than the gossip-prone ladies of the local society, it was Luke himself.
“Oh, yes indeed, like a brother. We were friends and comrades-in-arms once, a long time ago, during the Civil War. Come, sit with me, and we shall enjoy a pot of tea.”
They all agreed that a cup of tea would be just the thing to shake off the horrible experience that had just befallen them. Sir Kenobi invited them all to sit at ease in his parlour, even the two servants, while he himself prepared the kettle. Luke was again impressed by his kindness and gentility. He did not stand upon ceremony, and yet there was the air of greatest refinement and sophistication about him. Soon they were all comfortably set up with a cup of hot tea and a single biscuit.
“I believe you are mistaken, sir, or I am,” Luke said politely, sipping his tea cautiously, “I had been led to believe that my father was a first mate on a simple merchant ship, not a warrior or a soldier of any kind.”
“Of course you were,” Sir Kenobi replied, “Your uncle did not approve of your father’s choice of profession. He would not have wanted you to get any ideas about following in his footsteps.”
Luke knew this to be true, and felt a pang of bitterness towards his uncle. “I wish I knew more of my father; so little of any consequence has been related to me.”
The old gentlemen smiled as memories of ancient days played across his face. “Your father was the finest warrior I have ever met -- and the dearest friend that a man could wish for. In fact, I have something of his here in my possession that by rights should belong to you. He would have wanted you to inherit it, I feel certain.”
Luke felt himself growing excited at the prospect of possessing something that had once belonged to his mysterious father. When Sir Kenobi revealed the item itself, Luke felt he might be faint with joy.
“It’s beautiful,” the young man breathed, for so it was. It was a long, slightly curved blade of the most elegant design. The hilt and sheathe were intricately woven in silver and gold. Luke pulled the sword free and admired the obvious craftsmanship in every element. It felt as weightless as a feather in his hand, but he could tell at once that the edge was razor sharp and deadly in the right hands.
“It is a light sabre,” Sir Kenobi explained, “of the best Spanish craftsmanship. You’ll not find better blades forged these days, I assure you. It is a noble weapon, much more precise and gentlemanly than the muskets and cannons of today. And it is the proper weapon for a Knight of the Order of the Jedi.”
Luke noticed that the blade hanging from the old man’s belt was of a similar design to the one he held in his hands. “The Order of Jedi?” he asked, “I’m sorry, sir, but I’m not familiar with the order of which you speak.”
Sir Benjamin shook his head sadly. “Your uncle has neglected your education more grossly than I had imagined. The order of Jedi was once the most ancient order of knights, dating from the age of legends. It is said that since the days of King Arthur himself there have been knights of our order to defend the realm and to uphold all that is noblest and most civilized in our land. We taught the country what it was to be gentlemen, warriors, and scholars – and we showed the world what it meant to be British. Before the recent wars with France, of course. The fiendish Napoleon’s first action as the new Emperor of our land was to officially disband the order, ending our long tradition. His troops hunted us down without mercy, and our numbers were thinned during the war so we had no strength to resist. Thus our order has passed away into history…” His voice trembled slightly.
“Do none of the order yet live besides yourself?” Luke asked.
“Only one other,” the old gentleman replied, “but as I have had no news from him in many years, it is entirely possible that I am all that is left.” He took a long, weary sip from his tea, as though a great weight had suddenly reasserted itself upon him.
Luke was now quite certain that most of what he had previously been told regarding his father was a lie and was eager to learn more of the truth. His mind still reeled from the thought that he was not the son of a merchant sailor, as he had previously believed, but of a noble knight of an ancient order. He would not be able to rest now until he had heard all.
“Did my father die in the war against France?” Luke asked softly.
The old man’s look turned dark again, and his lips tightened. “Not exactly, I’m afraid. Have you heard of the English traitor the French call Monsieur Le Vader?”
The young man nodded somberly, his eyes wide. “He is the terror of the seas and the right hand of Napoleon, so I have heard it said. Few who face him live to tell the tale.”
“He is as different from your father as a man can be. I am ashamed to confess that he was my squire for many years and that the responsibility for his education was on my shoulders. I could not have foreseen his betrayal to me and to the King, yet still I blame myself for all that has transpired, not the least of which was the fate of your poor father. Many unfortunate men have been destroyed in that evil man’s reign of terror; your father was the first. Le Vader forgot the code of honor that gives a knight his strength – he was seduced by money and power, and the savagery of Napoleon’s armies. His treason turned the tide of the war and took your father away from us forever.”
Luke studied his father’s sabre with sad longing, so overwhelmed with emotion at all of this new information that he felt quite certain he would not be able to speak. Sir Benjamin Kenobi, correctly judging the young man’s attitude, patted him comfortingly on the shoulder and let the matter end there.
With sad talk of the past behind them, Sir Benjamin now turned his attention to the matters at hand. Throughout the evening’s exchange, Arthur Deetoo had grown more and more restless, eager to interrupt the conversation between the two gentlemen but too polite to do so. He had not taken so much as a nibble of his biscuit and only one or two sips of tea. Instead, he held the mysterious letter before him, ready to present it to the old knight and complete his charge as soon as he was presented with the slightest opportunity to do so.
Such an opportunity was not long in coming. “Now, my young friend,” said Sir Kenobi, turning to the sailor, “Let us speak about this message which you were so determined to bring to me.”
Mr. Deetoo’s sigh of relief was audible, and he thrust the parchment into the gentleman’s hands with great alacrity. Sir Kenobi glanced at writing on the outside and raised his eyebrows slightly to see his name and titles so elegantly described there. Without another word he broke the seal and scanned the contents of the letter.
“Luke,” he said at last, “I’m afraid that I require your assistance. Pray, lend me your youthful eyes for a few moments. In my advanced age, I do not see so well by candlelight. If you would be so kind as to read the letter aloud to me, we may soon learn its import.”
This was a task most agreeable to Luke’s disposition, as he was already quite desperate in his curiosity to know the contents of the letter, and the young man's melancholy meditation on his father's fate was quickly cheered by this new opportunity. He accepted the unfolded parchment from the old gentleman and held it up to the light. It was written in the same flowing, admirable hand as before. Luke was almost certain he could catch the slightest scent of perfume wafting from the parchment, a scent mysterious and feminine and yet somehow familiar. He knew at once that this was a pivotal moment and that something in him had now changed forever, and he was quite unsure if he was ready for the world to be changed so drastically. Thus as he read the letter aloud he found his voice was unsteady and soft, the strange new voice of his strange new self:
To the Illustrious and Renowned General Kenobi,
Greetings,
You do not know me, kind sir, but I know of you. My father has often related to me the heroism, courage, and loyalty with which you served him during our last great struggle against the forces of France. At this time, dear sir, it has become expedient to rise up again in defiance against Napoleon Palpatine, and my father now must ask for that same aid and counsel which once you rendered to him so faithfully. It is with the most profound regrets that I confess that I shall not be allowed the honor of begging for your aid in person, for it now appears that the Empire has been apprised of the nature of my mission and we are sure to be intercepted. I have passed this letter into the hands of a faithful and loyal sailor named Arthur Deetoo, and I pray to God he and this message have come safely to you. He possesses information of the most vital and irreplaceable importance, which may indeed prove to be the key to the salvation of our fledging Resistance. I must beg you to accompany him to my father’s ancestral estate in the port of Alderaan-upon-Avon, where many of our allies are in hiding. Under suspicion of the Empire, the city has been heavily garrisoned and the port completely blockaded -- I fear my loyal servant Mr. Deetoo will never make it there successfully without your noble aid. I beg you as well, dear sir, to forgive the impertinence of this request. The times require desperate and bold action.
I must again entreat you with all my heart to aid us, for without you, Sir Kenobi, I fear I have no other to place my hopes upon.
Sincerely,
HRH Leia Organa
Duchess of Alderaan and Princess of the Realm
Luke felt his face grow pale. His voice trailed off as he read the illustrious titles of the writer of the letter. This was far beyond and above him, and he was very much intimidated by such lofty matters even as he longed to be a part of them, fear and desire mingling in him in equal measure.
“The princess!” exclaimed Treypeo, staring in shock at Arthur Deetoo, “I had no idea our passenger was royal! I did not pay her all due deference and respect!” He fretted, wringing his bony hands furiously.
“It was most prudent of Her Highness to hide her identity, given the circumstances,” said Sir Kenobi, reclaiming the letter from Luke, “A wise precaution, though not sufficient, it would seem.”
And with a cavalier flick of the wrist, the old knight tossed the letter into the fire. The others gasped and rose to their feet in surprise to see such an important letter destroyed without so much as a thought. “A precaution of our own,” Kenobi explained, “we dare not risk this letter falling into the hands of our enemies, or one of their spies. As we know now what we are to do, we no longer require it.”
“Then you intend to aid Her Highness as requested?” Treypeo asked curiously. Arthur Deetoo leaned forward, eager to her the gentleman’s reply to the question.
“But of course,” replied Sir Benjamin, lifting his chin and looking suddenly far younger than his years, “Our order may be disbanded, but I am still a knight and loyal to the Crown. I swore an oath of fealty to the King that should ever the need arise again for my service I would be there. I will guide you to Alderaan and protect you with my life – you have the word of a Jedi.”
Arthur breathed a sigh of relief, echoed almost immediately by his slim and anxious companion. “Thank goodness,” said Mr. Treypeo, “How pleasant to have the matter resolved so satisfactorily. Of course, Arthur will have to tender his resignation to Mr. Lars at once, but the gentleman can hardly object when it is shown a matter of the gravest national importance is at hand. I wish you both the best of good fortune.”
“I’m afraid that you shall join us on the journey, friend,” old Benjamin replied gravely, “I have no doubt that the French are now looking for you both. To remain here would be foolish and dangerous.”
“But, that cannot be!” sputtered Mr. Treypeo, “I know nothing of these affairs! Besides, I am an employee of the Lars family now and cannot go gallivanting off on adventures to God knows where whenever I should so please. Master Luke, please talk some sense into this man. Tell him you and I must return to the estate at once!”
Luke was still too stricken to speak, but the elder knight raised his eyebrows. “Have you not guessed?” he said, “Young Luke shall have to come with us as well. It is his fate.”
At last the young man found his voice. “Me?” he asked incredulously, “Sir, you honor me, but you cannot be serious.”
But Sir Benjamin Kenobi appeared very serious indeed, his face a mask of solemn sincerity. “Come with me to Alderaan, young Luke. Become my squire and learn the ways of knighthood as once your father did. Even in dark times such as these, chivalry can only die if we allow it to be so, if we do nothing. Perhaps in you the light of the Jedi will shine once more upon the face of England, saving her from the clutches of France.”
Luke felt his soul stir within him, felt the longing which had kept him so long restless with his life in Anchorhead. And yet there still remained the fear, the doubt, the sense of responsibility to his duties despite everything, all of which combined to create in him the greatest sense of unease and reluctance. He had long desired the opportunity that now presented itself, and now that it had come he found he could not bring himself to fully credit it.
“Sir, I am flattered by your high estimation of me,” he said, “But you are mistaken. I am not destined to save our nation, nor to become a great warrior such as you say my father was. I am a country gentleman’s ward, no more or less, and I cannot abandon my uncle and aunt now, so close to harvest time when they will need me most. How would it look?” He felt ashamed of himself even as he said it and knew that it was his guardians, not himself, who were the true authors of these words.
A look of the purest disappointment crossed Kenobi’s face. “You are indeed only that which you believe yourself to be. No more, no less.” He sighed and turned his back to the others. “Come, I shall show you to rooms where you may retire. I shall return you to your uncle’s estates at first light, and then these gentlemen and I must start our journey.”
Luke felt the sharpest regrets for his words. “I had no wish to offend you, sir.”
“Certainly not,” replied the old man gracefully, as he left the room, “Of that I have no doubt.”
Chapter VI
It was mid-day, but Major Taugge of the French Army could never have guessed it in the darkness of the room where he sat, where not a trace of sunlight was able to penetrate. Here, it was as gloomy and as shadowed as the dead of night, yet all the more unsettling because it was so unnatural. A few lamps bolted to the cold metal walls sputtered an eerie glow across the scene, illuminating the Major and his companion, Captain Mottie, an older officer of the Navy. All around them were the clanks and clangs of machinery, and the floor beneath their feet vibrated ominously. Taugge shuddered and felt not at all himself, for his eyes were tense and his fingers twitched restlessly. As an Army officer he had never felt comfortable at sea, and he had never been aboard a vessel such as this.
“Il n'est pas sage!” he insisted to his companion suddenly, and the vehemence in his voice owed not a small amount of its sharpness to his displeasure at his uncomfortable surroundings, “It is unwise to be so confident before our victory is assured. We do the gravest injustice to our Empire if we do not take every threat seriously.”
“Mais oui, Taugge,” replied the Navy officer, “But la Resistance of the puny English? Don’t be a fool, mon ami. We broke their spirits twenty years ago. You are too young to remember, but trust me – their defeat was total and complete. Look around you. Look what we have made! They will not dare to rise against us now.”
“I still say that such confidence can only do us harm,” argued the Major, “Our forces in England are stretched thin, and the English are many. The Army cannot keep everyone in check.”
“Perhaps not,” replied Captain Mottie with a condescending smile, “but the Navy have no such concerns. Now that this battleship is complete, there can be no doubt that we rule the seas. England is an island, Major, in case you have forgotten. With all her ships destroyed years ago, she is at our mercy with no hope of outside support or supplies. Even the smuggling problem will vanish once word of this ship’s power is made public.”
“With respect, capitaine, the Resistance is not a threat to dismiss so quickly.”
A new voice echoed into the room, startling both men. “I agree, Major. Which is why we must act quickly.”
Both officers rose to their feet immediately to salute the newcomer, for the presence of a commanding officer gives fire to his inferiors. Admiral Tarquin was a thin, pale man of advanced years whose wrinkled eyes had seen much of the world in his long years of service. Medals from a hundred battles decorated his uniform and he possessed an unmistakable confidence and authority, all of which was, in Taugge's opinion, exactly fitting for the trusted military advisor and friend of Napoleon himself. Behind Tarquin stood a mountain of a man, dark, foreboding and hideously scarred, and who made the other two French officers cringe nervously. This large man wore an eye patch and a large black cloak, under which Taugge could just make out the shape of an ornate and impressive sword hanging from his belt.
“It is of foremost importance that we locate the heart of la Resistance and crush it at once,” Tarquin continued, seating himself at the head of the table and nodding to the others to be at ease. “In this matter, the princess will no doubt prove to be the key to our success.”
Taugge took a deep breath. “Mon amiral, with respect, I must protest in the strongest terms. Holding the English princess captive will only outrage the people and cause trouble for our troops stationed there. Why, when their parliament hears of this-“
Tarquin raised a single gray eyebrow. “Oh? But have you not read the latest decree from l’Empereur?” He nodded to the big man behind him, who smoothly produced a document from his cloak and handed it to the young Major.
“C’est impossible!” Taggert muttered as he read. “Parliament disbanded permanently? How can we possibly maintain control over the English now?”
“Quite simply,” the Admiral replied, “La peur de les controler! Once the full power of French ingenuity, exemplified in this peerless battleship, is demonstrated, it will become clear to our English friends that their only future will be to seek our favor rather than invite our ire. It is time for any semblance of autonomy in our provinces to be wiped out. So says the Emperor.”
The Major glanced nervously at Mottie, knowing he was treading on dangerous ground but feeling his duty was to continue to voice his doubts. “You place much faith in this ship, Amiral, and I will confess I marvel at what we have created. But what of the rumors that the blueprints have been stolen by English spies? Could it be possible that with such information they may find a weakness?”
Captain Mottie, who had until this point remained quiet, burst into laughter. “A weakness? Mon Dieu! I can assure you, Major, that this battleship is utterly indestructible. It is larger, faster, and stronger than any ship man has ever made, with enough firepower to wipe out an entire city. Let the English have the blueprints. The only thing they will learn from them is that they have no hope against us. Should they make one false move, they shall feel the full wrath of l’Etoile de la Mort.”
The large man standing behind Tarquin suddenly spoke, his voice a deep basso mixed with the wheezing of labored breath. His tone was soft, and yet at its sound the others grew still as death so that his words echoed as loudly as though he shouted. “The blueprints you speak of shall soon be recovered. I shall see to it personally. I have men closing in on their only possible location.”
The captain cleared his throat and addressed himself to Tarquin. “With respect, Amiral, perhaps another would be more suited to such a delicate task? After all, your traitorous English pet has not proved himself capable of finding the hidden outpost of la Resistance let alone these stolen blueprints. Perhaps les chevaliers such as he are no longer needed in our modern world – they are obsolete relics!”
The large man suddenly leapt into action, his massive bulk moving with such incredible speed that in the space it took the others to blink he had crossed the distance to Mottie, pulled his sword free, and placed the sharp edge of the blade against the Captain’s throat.
“You were saying, capitaine?” Monsieur le Vader hissed, a grim smile tightening his scarred face. “You think your metal monstrosity shall last forever? You are a fool, and you know nothing of true power.”
Mottie’s face was drained of color and he struggled to speak. A single drop of blood slipped down his neck from underneath the blade.
“Cease this at once,” Tarquin said irritably, “We have too much serious work to do for us to be squabbling like children.”
Le Vader sneered one final time at the officer under his power, then pulled the blade away with a flourish. Mottie gasped with relief and brought a hand to his throat, covering the small cut that now sprouted there in bright red.
Tarquin stood and spoke with finality. “Monsieur le Vader will find the blueprints. He will persuade the princess to tell us the secret of la Resistance. And then we will use this battleship to stamp out all who would oppose our Emperor’s rule. Vive la France!”
The others rose to their feet and echoed him. “Vive la France! Vive la France!”
The flickering light of the torches cast their shadows in impossible lengths across the floor. Yes, their shadows stretched long indeed, across the waters of the Channel, across the face of England, and reached all the way to remote Tatooineshire and the unsuspecting people of Anchorhead.
It has previously been mentioned that in small, provincial towns, the locals are aware of the outside world and the affairs that take place there more or less as much as they are aware of the moon and that it rotates our sphere; that is to say, with knowledge that such a thing exists, but as a distant phenomenon without any direct influence on the course of familiar affairs. Every citizen of Anchorhead, therefore, was aware that England was now under the thumb of the French Empire just as they knew that the King resided in Coruscant Palace in London, but it was not to be expected that either the Empire or the Palace were ever to hold a place in their collective lives more than as a topic of conversation to while the hours away on dull winter evenings.
Imagine, then, the shock and horror that attended the community at the sight of an entire battalion of French troops in complete battle dress, fully armed and with the look in their eyes of hardened veterans, marching into town without so much as a warning or without any explanation of their presence there. The panic such a sight engendered in the poor inhabitants of Anchorhead caused a commotion the likes of which the town had never seen, nor was likely to experience ever again. Men ran to and fro from house to house, unsure where to hide or what to do, while mothers called anxiously for their children, held them to their breasts in dread, and raised fervent prayers to Heaven in a sudden burst of devotion.
The commanding officer of the battalion signaled for a halt in the center of town, and called out in heavily accented English to be immediately addressed by the local mayor, which official, trembling and feeling suddenly very small, approached at once with his hat in hand and his head respectfully bowed. The officer inquired of the mayor if he could speak in French, and sniffed disdainfully when the humble official replied with a red face that he could not. He then produced a parchment and read aloud a description of two men: one, a tall and wiry middle-aged man of the servant class, light of hair and complexion, with sharp nose and chin; the second, a short and stocky sailor with the hardened and browned skin usual to his profession, dark of hair, and copiously tattooed in the Eastern style; most likely traveling together, or perhaps separately, and likely to have arrived in the vicinity within the last day or two at the latest. The officer demanded that the mayor make the following generally known: in the name the great French Empire which they all now served, those in possession of it should come forward with any information regarding the two that had been described.
There was a gasp from amidst the gathered crowd which prevented the mayor from making a reply, and which so echoed in the unnatural silence that followed the officer’s announcement that it drew every eye to its origin. The commander of the French made a silent motion, and two of his troops immediately pushed through the crowd and grabbed the man who had dared to gasp so loudly.
“What is your name and profession?” the Frenchman asked, once the fellow had been escorted to his presence.
“Jawa, m’lord,” the short man said, knuckling his forehead in respect, “Jasper Jawa, at your service. I am a merchant.”
The French officer furrowed his brow in suspicion. “And what do you sell, Monsieur Jawa?”
“Oh, bits and bobs, m’lord,” the Englishman stuttered, “Bits and bobs. Mostly I trade goods in Mos Eisley, you see, and sell them here to these fine people.”
“Legitimate goods, I trust? Bearing the seal of l’Empereur?”
The merchant paled. “Oh, certainly, m’lord! Anything else would be unthinkable! I'm a respectable businessman, I am, and honored by my clients and competitors alike, I assure you.”
“That is well. Let it be known that the Empire will tolerate no smugglers! We all know that the port of Mos Eisley has a certain reputation, do we not?” The Frenchman drew closer to the frightened Mr. Jawa. “And now, sir, do you not have something to report regarding the whereabouts of the two men we have described?"
Mr. Jawa nodded, eager to please the officer. "Yes, m'lord. Only yesterday I was returning from Mos Eisley where, sir, as I said before, it is my usual habit to practice my trade. On the road I passed two men who fit your description, m'lord, and who said they were bound for Anchorhead though in their ignorance of the roads hereabouts they were heading the wrong way entirely. I gave them a ride on my cart, m'lord, for nobody can say that Mr. Jawa is inhospitable or unfriendly to his fellows - why, show me the man who would dare to say such a thing, and I will show you a liar! One of the men told me that they were seeking employment as servants and I directed them to the finest gentlemen in our parish as the most likely to require their services."
"And what is the name of this fine gentlemen to whom you recommended these men?"
"Lars, sir," he replied, "The honorable Mr. Owen Lars, who owns quite a large acreage of property outside of town."
There was a rumble of murmuring and surprise amongst the crowd at the mention of their respected neighbor's name. The officer signaled again to his men, who immediately apprehended Mr. Jawa's person despite his yelp of protest.
"You will come along with us," the Frenchman said dismissively, "And lead us to this Lars of whom you speak. You and he are both arrested in the name of Napoleon for the duration of our investigation into these matters. Should you prove to be innocent of wrongdoing against the State, your freedom may be returned to you."
The poor merchant gasped again, and clutched his chest as though staggering from a blow. All around him, the townspeople of Anchorhead let out shouts of surprise and protestation, which the French officer silenced with a look.
"I remind you, sons and daughters of conquered Briton, that your lives and your liberty are now the toys of the father of our Empire, the jewel of Europe, Emperor Napoleon Palpatine. You exist only at his pleasure. Resistance of any kind will be put down quickly and without mercy. Submit, and you may yet live long and prosperous lives. Come, Monsieur Jawa, let us away."
And so the entire battalion descended upon the Lars Homestead, and news of the affair traveled quickly over the land, sounding in every ear and spreading fear in every heart. A business partner of Mr. Jawa, witness to the whole dreadful affair, returned to his home and told all to his wife, who in turn rushed to her neighbor to tell the news, during which time she was overheard by her neighbor's manservant, who himself told the cook and so on and so forth until at last the tidings found their way to Jundland Cottage.
“Il n'est pas sage!” he insisted to his companion suddenly, and the vehemence in his voice owed not a small amount of its sharpness to his displeasure at his uncomfortable surroundings, “It is unwise to be so confident before our victory is assured. We do the gravest injustice to our Empire if we do not take every threat seriously.”
“Mais oui, Taugge,” replied the Navy officer, “But la Resistance of the puny English? Don’t be a fool, mon ami. We broke their spirits twenty years ago. You are too young to remember, but trust me – their defeat was total and complete. Look around you. Look what we have made! They will not dare to rise against us now.”
“I still say that such confidence can only do us harm,” argued the Major, “Our forces in England are stretched thin, and the English are many. The Army cannot keep everyone in check.”
“Perhaps not,” replied Captain Mottie with a condescending smile, “but the Navy have no such concerns. Now that this battleship is complete, there can be no doubt that we rule the seas. England is an island, Major, in case you have forgotten. With all her ships destroyed years ago, she is at our mercy with no hope of outside support or supplies. Even the smuggling problem will vanish once word of this ship’s power is made public.”
“With respect, capitaine, the Resistance is not a threat to dismiss so quickly.”
A new voice echoed into the room, startling both men. “I agree, Major. Which is why we must act quickly.”
Both officers rose to their feet immediately to salute the newcomer, for the presence of a commanding officer gives fire to his inferiors. Admiral Tarquin was a thin, pale man of advanced years whose wrinkled eyes had seen much of the world in his long years of service. Medals from a hundred battles decorated his uniform and he possessed an unmistakable confidence and authority, all of which was, in Taugge's opinion, exactly fitting for the trusted military advisor and friend of Napoleon himself. Behind Tarquin stood a mountain of a man, dark, foreboding and hideously scarred, and who made the other two French officers cringe nervously. This large man wore an eye patch and a large black cloak, under which Taugge could just make out the shape of an ornate and impressive sword hanging from his belt.
“It is of foremost importance that we locate the heart of la Resistance and crush it at once,” Tarquin continued, seating himself at the head of the table and nodding to the others to be at ease. “In this matter, the princess will no doubt prove to be the key to our success.”
Taugge took a deep breath. “Mon amiral, with respect, I must protest in the strongest terms. Holding the English princess captive will only outrage the people and cause trouble for our troops stationed there. Why, when their parliament hears of this-“
Tarquin raised a single gray eyebrow. “Oh? But have you not read the latest decree from l’Empereur?” He nodded to the big man behind him, who smoothly produced a document from his cloak and handed it to the young Major.
“C’est impossible!” Taggert muttered as he read. “Parliament disbanded permanently? How can we possibly maintain control over the English now?”
“Quite simply,” the Admiral replied, “La peur de les controler! Once the full power of French ingenuity, exemplified in this peerless battleship, is demonstrated, it will become clear to our English friends that their only future will be to seek our favor rather than invite our ire. It is time for any semblance of autonomy in our provinces to be wiped out. So says the Emperor.”
The Major glanced nervously at Mottie, knowing he was treading on dangerous ground but feeling his duty was to continue to voice his doubts. “You place much faith in this ship, Amiral, and I will confess I marvel at what we have created. But what of the rumors that the blueprints have been stolen by English spies? Could it be possible that with such information they may find a weakness?”
Captain Mottie, who had until this point remained quiet, burst into laughter. “A weakness? Mon Dieu! I can assure you, Major, that this battleship is utterly indestructible. It is larger, faster, and stronger than any ship man has ever made, with enough firepower to wipe out an entire city. Let the English have the blueprints. The only thing they will learn from them is that they have no hope against us. Should they make one false move, they shall feel the full wrath of l’Etoile de la Mort.”
The large man standing behind Tarquin suddenly spoke, his voice a deep basso mixed with the wheezing of labored breath. His tone was soft, and yet at its sound the others grew still as death so that his words echoed as loudly as though he shouted. “The blueprints you speak of shall soon be recovered. I shall see to it personally. I have men closing in on their only possible location.”
The captain cleared his throat and addressed himself to Tarquin. “With respect, Amiral, perhaps another would be more suited to such a delicate task? After all, your traitorous English pet has not proved himself capable of finding the hidden outpost of la Resistance let alone these stolen blueprints. Perhaps les chevaliers such as he are no longer needed in our modern world – they are obsolete relics!”
The large man suddenly leapt into action, his massive bulk moving with such incredible speed that in the space it took the others to blink he had crossed the distance to Mottie, pulled his sword free, and placed the sharp edge of the blade against the Captain’s throat.
“You were saying, capitaine?” Monsieur le Vader hissed, a grim smile tightening his scarred face. “You think your metal monstrosity shall last forever? You are a fool, and you know nothing of true power.”
Mottie’s face was drained of color and he struggled to speak. A single drop of blood slipped down his neck from underneath the blade.
“Cease this at once,” Tarquin said irritably, “We have too much serious work to do for us to be squabbling like children.”
Le Vader sneered one final time at the officer under his power, then pulled the blade away with a flourish. Mottie gasped with relief and brought a hand to his throat, covering the small cut that now sprouted there in bright red.
Tarquin stood and spoke with finality. “Monsieur le Vader will find the blueprints. He will persuade the princess to tell us the secret of la Resistance. And then we will use this battleship to stamp out all who would oppose our Emperor’s rule. Vive la France!”
The others rose to their feet and echoed him. “Vive la France! Vive la France!”
The flickering light of the torches cast their shadows in impossible lengths across the floor. Yes, their shadows stretched long indeed, across the waters of the Channel, across the face of England, and reached all the way to remote Tatooineshire and the unsuspecting people of Anchorhead.
It has previously been mentioned that in small, provincial towns, the locals are aware of the outside world and the affairs that take place there more or less as much as they are aware of the moon and that it rotates our sphere; that is to say, with knowledge that such a thing exists, but as a distant phenomenon without any direct influence on the course of familiar affairs. Every citizen of Anchorhead, therefore, was aware that England was now under the thumb of the French Empire just as they knew that the King resided in Coruscant Palace in London, but it was not to be expected that either the Empire or the Palace were ever to hold a place in their collective lives more than as a topic of conversation to while the hours away on dull winter evenings.
Imagine, then, the shock and horror that attended the community at the sight of an entire battalion of French troops in complete battle dress, fully armed and with the look in their eyes of hardened veterans, marching into town without so much as a warning or without any explanation of their presence there. The panic such a sight engendered in the poor inhabitants of Anchorhead caused a commotion the likes of which the town had never seen, nor was likely to experience ever again. Men ran to and fro from house to house, unsure where to hide or what to do, while mothers called anxiously for their children, held them to their breasts in dread, and raised fervent prayers to Heaven in a sudden burst of devotion.
The commanding officer of the battalion signaled for a halt in the center of town, and called out in heavily accented English to be immediately addressed by the local mayor, which official, trembling and feeling suddenly very small, approached at once with his hat in hand and his head respectfully bowed. The officer inquired of the mayor if he could speak in French, and sniffed disdainfully when the humble official replied with a red face that he could not. He then produced a parchment and read aloud a description of two men: one, a tall and wiry middle-aged man of the servant class, light of hair and complexion, with sharp nose and chin; the second, a short and stocky sailor with the hardened and browned skin usual to his profession, dark of hair, and copiously tattooed in the Eastern style; most likely traveling together, or perhaps separately, and likely to have arrived in the vicinity within the last day or two at the latest. The officer demanded that the mayor make the following generally known: in the name the great French Empire which they all now served, those in possession of it should come forward with any information regarding the two that had been described.
There was a gasp from amidst the gathered crowd which prevented the mayor from making a reply, and which so echoed in the unnatural silence that followed the officer’s announcement that it drew every eye to its origin. The commander of the French made a silent motion, and two of his troops immediately pushed through the crowd and grabbed the man who had dared to gasp so loudly.
“What is your name and profession?” the Frenchman asked, once the fellow had been escorted to his presence.
“Jawa, m’lord,” the short man said, knuckling his forehead in respect, “Jasper Jawa, at your service. I am a merchant.”
The French officer furrowed his brow in suspicion. “And what do you sell, Monsieur Jawa?”
“Oh, bits and bobs, m’lord,” the Englishman stuttered, “Bits and bobs. Mostly I trade goods in Mos Eisley, you see, and sell them here to these fine people.”
“Legitimate goods, I trust? Bearing the seal of l’Empereur?”
The merchant paled. “Oh, certainly, m’lord! Anything else would be unthinkable! I'm a respectable businessman, I am, and honored by my clients and competitors alike, I assure you.”
“That is well. Let it be known that the Empire will tolerate no smugglers! We all know that the port of Mos Eisley has a certain reputation, do we not?” The Frenchman drew closer to the frightened Mr. Jawa. “And now, sir, do you not have something to report regarding the whereabouts of the two men we have described?"
Mr. Jawa nodded, eager to please the officer. "Yes, m'lord. Only yesterday I was returning from Mos Eisley where, sir, as I said before, it is my usual habit to practice my trade. On the road I passed two men who fit your description, m'lord, and who said they were bound for Anchorhead though in their ignorance of the roads hereabouts they were heading the wrong way entirely. I gave them a ride on my cart, m'lord, for nobody can say that Mr. Jawa is inhospitable or unfriendly to his fellows - why, show me the man who would dare to say such a thing, and I will show you a liar! One of the men told me that they were seeking employment as servants and I directed them to the finest gentlemen in our parish as the most likely to require their services."
"And what is the name of this fine gentlemen to whom you recommended these men?"
"Lars, sir," he replied, "The honorable Mr. Owen Lars, who owns quite a large acreage of property outside of town."
There was a rumble of murmuring and surprise amongst the crowd at the mention of their respected neighbor's name. The officer signaled again to his men, who immediately apprehended Mr. Jawa's person despite his yelp of protest.
"You will come along with us," the Frenchman said dismissively, "And lead us to this Lars of whom you speak. You and he are both arrested in the name of Napoleon for the duration of our investigation into these matters. Should you prove to be innocent of wrongdoing against the State, your freedom may be returned to you."
The poor merchant gasped again, and clutched his chest as though staggering from a blow. All around him, the townspeople of Anchorhead let out shouts of surprise and protestation, which the French officer silenced with a look.
"I remind you, sons and daughters of conquered Briton, that your lives and your liberty are now the toys of the father of our Empire, the jewel of Europe, Emperor Napoleon Palpatine. You exist only at his pleasure. Resistance of any kind will be put down quickly and without mercy. Submit, and you may yet live long and prosperous lives. Come, Monsieur Jawa, let us away."
And so the entire battalion descended upon the Lars Homestead, and news of the affair traveled quickly over the land, sounding in every ear and spreading fear in every heart. A business partner of Mr. Jawa, witness to the whole dreadful affair, returned to his home and told all to his wife, who in turn rushed to her neighbor to tell the news, during which time she was overheard by her neighbor's manservant, who himself told the cook and so on and so forth until at last the tidings found their way to Jundland Cottage.
Chapter VII
To the man who has known no real misfortune, nothing but continued providence and propitious circumstances can be imagined. After all, these men reason, calamity is something which falls only on other men, belonging to another sphere. Little do they suppose that men throughout history utterly ruined by unforeseen tragedy have once believed the same as they, and were brought to their knees defeated in an attitude of shock quite as much as grief, stunned beyond measure to learn at the last that they are as vulnerable to misfortune as any other man. In such a state we rejoin young Master Luke on his receipt of the news that his family estate had been seized, his inheritance annexed, his relations imprisoned and disgraced, and, in short, the entirety of his livelihood and reputation destroyed; all of which momentous events had taken place in the scant few hours that he had been away. Naturally, it was a scarcely believable turn of events to the poor young gentleman, and perhaps he would have refused to credit the report entirely had it not arrived from several different and reputable sources and were not the signs of great agitation in the county so obvious for all to see.
The young man, along with his two servant companions and the venerable old knight, were finishing preparations for their journey (Luke having agreed to accompany the others as far as the township) when the word came. Sir Kenobi turned pale, Mr. Threepeo squeaked and trembled, Arthur Deetoo mumbled a prayer in his coarse tongue, but Luke said not a word for several minutes. His mind struggled to comprehend the fate that had befallen his nearest and dearest relations.
How quickly our contempt for the familiar object will vanish once it has been taken from us! And likewise how sharply we feel the pain of the absence of loved ones who, when they were present, we never regarded with more than a passing glance! Thus it was that all of young Master Skywalker’s resentment towards his uncle, but a few hours since incensed against his guardian for the old gentleman’s many deceptions, turned at once into the grief of a dutiful child and heir when word of his arrest and incarceration had worked upon the boy’s thoughts. In a flash his adventurous and impetuous nature reasserted itself, and the boy spoke forcefully of affecting a rescue worthy of an ancient epic, or at least of one of the three-volume novels which had so much fed his imagination as a lad.
“Ruin!” the young man exclaimed, “D--- it all, but that it should come to this! It is not to be born, by G---. A fine and noble act indeed, to apprehend a noble gentleman and his wife who never did any harm to anybody? How very brave! And on upon what charge? Conspiracy against the Empire? Why, it’s perfectly outrageous! Barbaric! Dishonorable!” He rattled his father’s sword, red faced with the fire of youthful ire. “We should storm the Homestead at once and free my kin from their unrighteous detainment! Will you not help me save them, dear old Sir Benjamin?”
Wise Sir Kenobi shook his head at the young man’s naivety. “Think, lad!” the seasoned old knight reasoned, “The four of us alone against a whole battalion? We would be inviting the greatest of ruin upon ourselves and failing in our duty to the princess utterly. Though it pains me greatly to say it, it is certain that your guardians are well on their way to the Bastille or La Force by now, and you no doubt marked to join them there the moment you can be found. It is clear that these forces are in pursuit of whatever information our friend Arthur possesses, and they are eager to silence any who may have had contact with him and who could have received any intelligence from him.”
Luke could not help but stare at the sailor who had been the cause of all of this disruption in his life. “What information could one sailor possibly possess that would prompt such drastic action from the French? It is absurd!”
“I do not know,” the old knight said, “And it is clear the man has been sworn to secrecy in the matter at the request of one in whom we must place our trust. It is up to us simply to safeguard him to Alderaan-upon-Avon as we were entreated and to ask no further questions.”
“By heaven!” Luke gasped, “And am I simply to leave my uncle and aunt, who have given everything to me, who have been the only parents I have known, in the hands of French and to think nothing more about them? Can a man be so unfeeling?”
“The safety of their persons, and the countless others like them who have met a similar fate, cannot now be secured until the power of the French is countered and defeated. Aid me and you shall be aiding the Resistance, Luke – and by aiding the Resistance, you shall be aiding your unfortunate relations.” The old knight placed a comforting hand on the young man’s shoulder. “Do not blame yourself, young friend. We should praise Providence that you were not at home and are yet free – in you there is now a ray of hope for us all.”
Though he still raged with anger and indignation, young Luke could not but hear the wisdom in the old man’s words. Suddenly he knew his path, the only path left to him, the only way to regain his family’s lost honor.
“You are right,” Luke said quietly, “What else is left to me now? I will follow you to Alderaan, good Sir Kenobi, and be your squire. I want to be a valiant knight, as my father was before me, and bring honor to the name of Skywalker as he did.”
“Yes,” Kenobi said, with a sad smile. “I am certain that you shall, my young friend. But for now we must leave at once. With the French so heavily present in the county, it will behoove us greatly to vacate the region, and without delay. We can reach Mos Eisley by sundown.”
“Mos Eisley!” interjected Threepeo in his shrill voice, “But that’s a port city! Surely you do not suppose to reach Alderaan by sea? What of the French blockade? We’ll be captured for sure! Mr. Deetoo and I can both attest to the strength of the French armada.”
“We have no other choice,” replied Sir Benjamin, “for haste is of the greatest importance. To travel by land will take far too long and we are sure to encounter numerous patrols – no, we must brave the seas. We will hire a ship in Mos Eisley to take us there, a ship fast enough to run the blockade.”
“Is such a thing possible?” Luke asked skeptically.
“Not only possible, but profitable,” Kenobi explained, “Smugglers have been slipping past the French ships for years, and Mos Eisley is the perfect place to find smugglers. Why, such a wretched hive of scum and villainy is not to be found anywhere in England. We must exercise great caution, but depend upon it, my friends: this is our best and only course.”
The others could not think of any reasonable objection to this course of events, and so it was decided that Mos Eisley was their next destination. The four men set out on horseback, leaving Jundland Cottage far behind in a matter of hours. Three times they spotted French patrols along the roads, but the quick thinking and wisdom and Sir Benjamin allowed them to find another path around their enemies or to spot a position to hide and let the patrols pass safely by. It was a long day of journey, with scarcely a moment to rest. Mr. Threepeo muttered curses to himself continuously and rubbed his backside, unused as he was to travel by horse. Even Mr. Deetoo, as brave as his was, could not help but groan as his sailor’s legs adjusted to the saddle. Luke, however, was lost in his silent thoughts as he brooded over his family’s misfortune; and besides, Sir Benjamin said not a word of complaint about their fate, and Luke was determined to do likewise.
It was sundown when they at last crested a hill and saw the port of Mos Eisley splayed before them, hugging the water and bustling with energy and life. As they approached the city, Luke felt his stomach drop and his heart fill with dread. French soldiers were guarding every entrance to the town, interrogating everyone entering the city. It was obvious they were looking for something or for somebody, and it took little imagination on the part of our four heroes to imagine the object of their search. Threepeo let out a high-pitched yelp and would have turned and fled at that moment had not Arthur Detoo reached out and grabbed his reins firmly. Kenboi’s lips pursed at the sight of the enemy, but he remained as silent and stoic as any Roman soldier as he contemplated their duty.
“What shall we do?” Luke said, trying to keep the panic out of his voice. “We cannot hope to get past them without being discovered! We must turn around, Sir Benjamin, and seek another way.”
The old knight turned to set his steely gaze on his young pupil’s face. “Have faith, Luke,” he said, “for you travel in the company of a knight of the Order of the Jedi. Trust me.”
As they neared the French checkpoint, Luke felt his anxiety growing to near hysterical levels. Threepeo was nearly catatonic with fear, and even Mr. Detoo cast unsure glances at the old knight as if not quite sure the man was entirely in his right senses.
“Stop there,” a French soldier called out haughtily, “What is your business in Mos Eisley?”
“We’re taking a ship to London, friend, and then off to visit Paris,” Sir Kenobi replied casually, “I’ve long wanted to show my grandson the glories of your marvelous French capital.” He nodded to Luke.
The soldier frowned disbelievingly. “How long have you employed these servants, monsieur?” he said, studying Threepeo and Detoo with suspicion.
Kenobi rubbed his beard thoughtfully, “Over a decade, my good man. Let’s see… twelve or fourteen years now at least. If you are in the market for servants, these two are spoken for, I’m afraid!”
“Are you certain? They match the description of the men we are looking for almost perfectly.” The soldier narrowed his eyes, and Luke was certain their time had come.
Sir Benjamin leaned down from his saddle and fixed his unnerving gaze into the Frenchman’s eyes. “My dear boy, these most certainly are not the men you are looking for.”
“They… they are not?” the soldier replied, sounding somewhat dazed.
“Of course not, my good man,” Kenobi said, with an infectious smile, “Why, how could they be? They’ve been in my employ for many years!”
“Oui,” the Frenchman said uncertainly, “This is true. But they look so like the traitors we seek, dangerous criminals!”
“Criminals, indeed!” Kenobi replied, laughing good-naturedly, “They’ve been stealing wine from my stock for years, the ruffians! On second thought, my good man, if you’d like to take them into your service, you are more than welcome!” Pale Mr. Threepeo swayed in his saddle at that, as though he might lose consciousness at any moment.
The soldier laughed politely, “There is no need for that. They do not look so much like the traitors as I thought.”
“I thought not,” Kenobi replied, completely at ease, “Surely we can go about our business now, friend?”
“Yes, yes,” the soldier said, impatiently, “Move along, please.”
“Thank you,” the old knight said courteously, nudging his horse into a slow pace. Luke blinked in surprise as he followed. It was not until they had traveled some several minutes into the town proper that he allowed himself to believe that they were truly out of danger.
“I do not understand,” he said, “How did you change the man’s mind?”
“I didn’t,” Kenobi explained, “I only changed what he saw. A Jedi is adept at influencing the perceptions of less disciplined minds. Our gallantry, courage, charisma, and nobility are chief among our many weapons. We create our own reality, and lesser men have no choice but to accept it as the only reality. Let this be your first lesson as my squire, young Luke.”
Luke scarcely had time to wonder at this before they were enveloped in the strange and intoxicating sights of Mos Eisley herself.
The young man, along with his two servant companions and the venerable old knight, were finishing preparations for their journey (Luke having agreed to accompany the others as far as the township) when the word came. Sir Kenobi turned pale, Mr. Threepeo squeaked and trembled, Arthur Deetoo mumbled a prayer in his coarse tongue, but Luke said not a word for several minutes. His mind struggled to comprehend the fate that had befallen his nearest and dearest relations.
How quickly our contempt for the familiar object will vanish once it has been taken from us! And likewise how sharply we feel the pain of the absence of loved ones who, when they were present, we never regarded with more than a passing glance! Thus it was that all of young Master Skywalker’s resentment towards his uncle, but a few hours since incensed against his guardian for the old gentleman’s many deceptions, turned at once into the grief of a dutiful child and heir when word of his arrest and incarceration had worked upon the boy’s thoughts. In a flash his adventurous and impetuous nature reasserted itself, and the boy spoke forcefully of affecting a rescue worthy of an ancient epic, or at least of one of the three-volume novels which had so much fed his imagination as a lad.
“Ruin!” the young man exclaimed, “D--- it all, but that it should come to this! It is not to be born, by G---. A fine and noble act indeed, to apprehend a noble gentleman and his wife who never did any harm to anybody? How very brave! And on upon what charge? Conspiracy against the Empire? Why, it’s perfectly outrageous! Barbaric! Dishonorable!” He rattled his father’s sword, red faced with the fire of youthful ire. “We should storm the Homestead at once and free my kin from their unrighteous detainment! Will you not help me save them, dear old Sir Benjamin?”
Wise Sir Kenobi shook his head at the young man’s naivety. “Think, lad!” the seasoned old knight reasoned, “The four of us alone against a whole battalion? We would be inviting the greatest of ruin upon ourselves and failing in our duty to the princess utterly. Though it pains me greatly to say it, it is certain that your guardians are well on their way to the Bastille or La Force by now, and you no doubt marked to join them there the moment you can be found. It is clear that these forces are in pursuit of whatever information our friend Arthur possesses, and they are eager to silence any who may have had contact with him and who could have received any intelligence from him.”
Luke could not help but stare at the sailor who had been the cause of all of this disruption in his life. “What information could one sailor possibly possess that would prompt such drastic action from the French? It is absurd!”
“I do not know,” the old knight said, “And it is clear the man has been sworn to secrecy in the matter at the request of one in whom we must place our trust. It is up to us simply to safeguard him to Alderaan-upon-Avon as we were entreated and to ask no further questions.”
“By heaven!” Luke gasped, “And am I simply to leave my uncle and aunt, who have given everything to me, who have been the only parents I have known, in the hands of French and to think nothing more about them? Can a man be so unfeeling?”
“The safety of their persons, and the countless others like them who have met a similar fate, cannot now be secured until the power of the French is countered and defeated. Aid me and you shall be aiding the Resistance, Luke – and by aiding the Resistance, you shall be aiding your unfortunate relations.” The old knight placed a comforting hand on the young man’s shoulder. “Do not blame yourself, young friend. We should praise Providence that you were not at home and are yet free – in you there is now a ray of hope for us all.”
Though he still raged with anger and indignation, young Luke could not but hear the wisdom in the old man’s words. Suddenly he knew his path, the only path left to him, the only way to regain his family’s lost honor.
“You are right,” Luke said quietly, “What else is left to me now? I will follow you to Alderaan, good Sir Kenobi, and be your squire. I want to be a valiant knight, as my father was before me, and bring honor to the name of Skywalker as he did.”
“Yes,” Kenobi said, with a sad smile. “I am certain that you shall, my young friend. But for now we must leave at once. With the French so heavily present in the county, it will behoove us greatly to vacate the region, and without delay. We can reach Mos Eisley by sundown.”
“Mos Eisley!” interjected Threepeo in his shrill voice, “But that’s a port city! Surely you do not suppose to reach Alderaan by sea? What of the French blockade? We’ll be captured for sure! Mr. Deetoo and I can both attest to the strength of the French armada.”
“We have no other choice,” replied Sir Benjamin, “for haste is of the greatest importance. To travel by land will take far too long and we are sure to encounter numerous patrols – no, we must brave the seas. We will hire a ship in Mos Eisley to take us there, a ship fast enough to run the blockade.”
“Is such a thing possible?” Luke asked skeptically.
“Not only possible, but profitable,” Kenobi explained, “Smugglers have been slipping past the French ships for years, and Mos Eisley is the perfect place to find smugglers. Why, such a wretched hive of scum and villainy is not to be found anywhere in England. We must exercise great caution, but depend upon it, my friends: this is our best and only course.”
The others could not think of any reasonable objection to this course of events, and so it was decided that Mos Eisley was their next destination. The four men set out on horseback, leaving Jundland Cottage far behind in a matter of hours. Three times they spotted French patrols along the roads, but the quick thinking and wisdom and Sir Benjamin allowed them to find another path around their enemies or to spot a position to hide and let the patrols pass safely by. It was a long day of journey, with scarcely a moment to rest. Mr. Threepeo muttered curses to himself continuously and rubbed his backside, unused as he was to travel by horse. Even Mr. Deetoo, as brave as his was, could not help but groan as his sailor’s legs adjusted to the saddle. Luke, however, was lost in his silent thoughts as he brooded over his family’s misfortune; and besides, Sir Benjamin said not a word of complaint about their fate, and Luke was determined to do likewise.
It was sundown when they at last crested a hill and saw the port of Mos Eisley splayed before them, hugging the water and bustling with energy and life. As they approached the city, Luke felt his stomach drop and his heart fill with dread. French soldiers were guarding every entrance to the town, interrogating everyone entering the city. It was obvious they were looking for something or for somebody, and it took little imagination on the part of our four heroes to imagine the object of their search. Threepeo let out a high-pitched yelp and would have turned and fled at that moment had not Arthur Detoo reached out and grabbed his reins firmly. Kenboi’s lips pursed at the sight of the enemy, but he remained as silent and stoic as any Roman soldier as he contemplated their duty.
“What shall we do?” Luke said, trying to keep the panic out of his voice. “We cannot hope to get past them without being discovered! We must turn around, Sir Benjamin, and seek another way.”
The old knight turned to set his steely gaze on his young pupil’s face. “Have faith, Luke,” he said, “for you travel in the company of a knight of the Order of the Jedi. Trust me.”
As they neared the French checkpoint, Luke felt his anxiety growing to near hysterical levels. Threepeo was nearly catatonic with fear, and even Mr. Detoo cast unsure glances at the old knight as if not quite sure the man was entirely in his right senses.
“Stop there,” a French soldier called out haughtily, “What is your business in Mos Eisley?”
“We’re taking a ship to London, friend, and then off to visit Paris,” Sir Kenobi replied casually, “I’ve long wanted to show my grandson the glories of your marvelous French capital.” He nodded to Luke.
The soldier frowned disbelievingly. “How long have you employed these servants, monsieur?” he said, studying Threepeo and Detoo with suspicion.
Kenobi rubbed his beard thoughtfully, “Over a decade, my good man. Let’s see… twelve or fourteen years now at least. If you are in the market for servants, these two are spoken for, I’m afraid!”
“Are you certain? They match the description of the men we are looking for almost perfectly.” The soldier narrowed his eyes, and Luke was certain their time had come.
Sir Benjamin leaned down from his saddle and fixed his unnerving gaze into the Frenchman’s eyes. “My dear boy, these most certainly are not the men you are looking for.”
“They… they are not?” the soldier replied, sounding somewhat dazed.
“Of course not, my good man,” Kenobi said, with an infectious smile, “Why, how could they be? They’ve been in my employ for many years!”
“Oui,” the Frenchman said uncertainly, “This is true. But they look so like the traitors we seek, dangerous criminals!”
“Criminals, indeed!” Kenobi replied, laughing good-naturedly, “They’ve been stealing wine from my stock for years, the ruffians! On second thought, my good man, if you’d like to take them into your service, you are more than welcome!” Pale Mr. Threepeo swayed in his saddle at that, as though he might lose consciousness at any moment.
The soldier laughed politely, “There is no need for that. They do not look so much like the traitors as I thought.”
“I thought not,” Kenobi replied, completely at ease, “Surely we can go about our business now, friend?”
“Yes, yes,” the soldier said, impatiently, “Move along, please.”
“Thank you,” the old knight said courteously, nudging his horse into a slow pace. Luke blinked in surprise as he followed. It was not until they had traveled some several minutes into the town proper that he allowed himself to believe that they were truly out of danger.
“I do not understand,” he said, “How did you change the man’s mind?”
“I didn’t,” Kenobi explained, “I only changed what he saw. A Jedi is adept at influencing the perceptions of less disciplined minds. Our gallantry, courage, charisma, and nobility are chief among our many weapons. We create our own reality, and lesser men have no choice but to accept it as the only reality. Let this be your first lesson as my squire, young Luke.”
Luke scarcely had time to wonder at this before they were enveloped in the strange and intoxicating sights of Mos Eisley herself.
Chapter VIII
It can scarcely be imagined that any of my illustrious readers will have frequented such disreputable drinking establishments as were commonly to be found in port cities such as Mos Eisley. Persons of such refinement and intelligence as to trouble themselves with this tale of long, long ago will have had no cause to enter such an unseemly place, and rightfully so. It falls then to the Author to present such details as will create a picture of the questionable establishment in which Luke and Sir Kenobi soon found themselves in a manner thorough enough as to excite the imagination and yet not so thorough as to cause the more delicate among my audience to swoon in revulsion. That being said, however, if you are of a particularly refined sensibility suited only to people and places of the highest quality and class, then you are advised with all sincerity to skip the section that follows and rejoin our tale when it takes up more noble environments.
Young Master Luke had never been to Mos Eisley nor, it need hardly be said, had he ever visited a drinking establishment of a similar character to that in which Sir Kenobi had directed them. It was packed full of men and women of unsavory character engaging in vices beyond description. They wore the grubby clothing of sailors and workmen, so utilitarian and ugly that young Luke found himself quite uncomfortable by the suddenly conspicuous nature of his gentleman’s attire. The patrons of the place seemed to be covered head to foot in dirt. Their hair was grimy and unwashed, and in almost every mouth Luke could see black and crooked teeth. The men drank and laughed raucously, without any sense of decorum, groping at the few ladies among them without shame. These ladies, if such they could even be called, drank and laughed as loudly as the men, and Luke even saw one of them break a tankard of ale over the head of a man who had somehow offended her. Young Luke would surely have turned and fled the place were it not for the calm and confident presence of Sir Benjamin. He was the good old knight’s squire now, he remembered, and he would not leave the man's side.
The owner of this tavern nodded respectfully to Sir Benjamin, as though he knew him, and filled up two mugs of the local ale for them both. The knight began a whispered conversation with the man, which Luke could not make out amongst the noise of the place. Besides the many men and women laughing, talking, and shouting, a small band of musicians was playing in the corner on fiddle and pipe. Luke could barely make out the tune amongst the cacophony – just enough to recognize that the song was repetitive and annoying. He felt out of place and uncomfortable, and found himself wishing that Arthur Detoo and Mr. Threepeo had joined them instead of waiting outside. Threepeo had taken one look at the place and refused to go any further, and Mr. Detoo, though not a stranger to such dens of ill repute, had volunteered to stay behind to keep an eye on the excitable and nervous man.
Luke took a sip of ale, a most unappetizing flavor and too strong by half for the inexperienced young man, and tried his best to look unassuming and inconspicuous. His efforts were not successful. Perhaps it was his fine clothing, his clean and shaved appearance, or even simply his youthful age that drew attention to him. Whatever the reason, he was suddenly surprised by an insistent tap on his shoulder, and he turned to see a very large and very hairy man leering down at him. He spoke in a rattled, quick language that Luke could not understand.
“Oy,” called another, smaller man nearby. “Lookee here! The Spaniard’s taken a liking to fancy boy here! He'll have the lad for breakfast, he will!” There was a round of laughter. The big man, the Spaniard, spoke again.
“Ah! He says he don’t like you, fancy boy!”
“If I have given offense, I apologize,” Luke stammered, turning back to his drink and hoping that would be the end of the matter.
The Spaniard, however, was not placated. He went off again in his native tongue, speaking louder and with far more of an edge to his voice.
“Oy, fancy boy,” the smaller man said, now at the Spaniard’s side, “Your fancy words ain’t going to earn you no favors here, boy. We don’t like your type comin’ round and stickin up your noses at us. We’re as good as men as any of you lordly types.”
“That’s right!” shouted somebody else.
“You tell ‘em!” added one of the fierce looking women in the crowd.
It had not been long before that Luke had faced the man Tusken and his bandits, and he knew how dangerous these poor and desperate men could be. His hand twitched towards his father’s sword, still hanging from his belt, but the Spaniard saw the movement and drew a dragger of his own. He spoke threateningly, and Luke needed no translation to understand his meaning.
“Oooooh, the fancy boy has a fancy blade, lads!” the smaller man hooted, and the others laughed and slapped their tables in merriment, “You better watch out, boy. Pondo here has killed more men than he can count! He’s a wanted criminal in most of the nations of Euorpe, he is!” The Spaniard Pondo twirled his dagger, a look of violence in his eyes that made Luke shudder. He did not doubt that the small man’s claim was true.
“Perhaps there has been a misunderstanding,” came the calm and certain voice of old Sir Kenobi, who had at last turned from his discussion with the barkeep to see the brewing danger. By now the whole tavern had grown silent, and every inhabitant of that place had their eye on the two rich intruders and the men who were challenging them, so the knight’s words carried easily even though he barely raised his voice at all. “Allow me to purchase a round of drinks for you gentlemen, and let us part friends.”
The Spaniard growled. The small man grinned wickedly. “We ain’t gentlemen, and we ain’t yer friends, old man. We don’t want yer charity!”
The Spaniard moved quickly then, brushing poor Luke to the side to thrust his dagger straight for old Sir Kenobi’s throat. But in a single instant, a single blink of Luke’s eyes, the old man was no longer there and the dagger met only empty air. The relative quiet of the tavern was suddenly filled with the scrap of metal on metal as Sir Kenobi’s saber lept from its scabbard and cut the air. The Spaniard cried out and fell to the ground, clutching one arm in pain and sobbing out prayers in his mother tongue. Sir Benjamin replaced his blade smoothly and expertly into its sheath, and regarded the room with singular intensity.
“Now,” the old knight said, quite as calm as before, “A round of drinks on me for my new friends.”
The smaller man and those who had been urging him on kept their heads down and said nothing, though Luke saw they readily accepted the tankards of ale that Sir Kenobi had purchased. The young man stood up and brushed himself off with as much dignity as he could muster. The Spaniard wobbled out of the tavern whimpering, leaving a trail of blood as he went.
“You saved my life again, dear Sir Benjamin,” Luke began, but the old man quickly interrupted him.
“Tush, tush,” the knight said, “Come, I believe I have found what we have sought. My friend here has directed me to a man who should serve our needs quite admirably. Now to see if he will help us, and at what price.”
Sir Kenobi led Luke to a table at the very back of the tavern where two men sat waiting. Of the two, one made for such an extraordinary sight that Luke could not take his eyes off of him to examine the other. The object of Luke’s stunned attention was a large man with skin as dark as night. He was tall as Luke was while seated, with shoulders as broad as a large door. His head was bare, and, most shockingly perhaps, his nose was pierced through with what looked to be the bone of some animal. He wore almost nothing save a vest and trousers made of the skin of some beast. His whole appearance was so exotic and bewildering to a sheltered youth such as Luke that it was several moments before the poor young gentleman realized he had been staring at the savage quite rudely.
“A good even to ya,” the other man said in thick Irish brogue, “Kindly have a seat, me good lad. Me friend may look a beast but you’ll find no danger in him, I tell you true.”
Luke noticed with a start that Sir Kenobi was already seated, and that they were all looking at him with expectation. He hastily sat, and tried to remember his manners. To keep his eyes off the exotic man with dark skin, he forced himself to study the other man, who was no less interesting in his own way.
“Captain Hanagan O’Solo, at yer service,” the man introduce himself. His hair, ruddy reddish brown, was long and pulled back into a tail. His face was handsome enough, Luke admitted, with a pleasant smile and glinting, mischievous eyes. His whole posture was relaxed and arrogant, but Luke sensed at once that this was a man to be reckoned with. “This be me constant companion, Choo-ee.” He slapped the darker man on the shoulder with brotherly familiarity.
“I take it Mr. Choo-ee is not an Englishman,” Sir Benjamin said with a wry smile.
“That he is not, good sir,” said O’Solo with a grin, “But then neither am I, come to that. No, sir, Mr. Choo-ee is a native of a country far away in the South Seas, where I had the pleasure to journey in me younger days. As it happened I was in need of a companion to help me sail homeward, and me friend here volunteered. He’s been like family to me ever since. Why, I would have married him to me sister if I could.”
“Did the lady object to the match?” Sir Kenobi asked with polite interest.
“Not at all, sir,” replied the captain, “It’s just that I haven’t got a sister.” He laughed, and even Choo-ee his savage companion roared with mirth. The dark man spoke in a strange, guttural language that made Luke’s mouth drop open.
“Aye, tis true, me friend, tis true,” O’Solo said in response to whatever his companion had said. “But enough of me jokes. You gentlemen have not come to see Captain Hanagan for salty tales of sea, I wager.”
“That’s true enough,” Sir Kenobi said. “We’re in need of a passage on a ship for four: myself, the lad, and two servants who will be no trouble to you. We require speed, safety, and above all, a certain lack of curiosity into the nature of our voyage.”
“Never a man was less curious than O’Solo,” the captain assured them, “I mind no business but me own, I swear to ya by me mother’s grave. But one question I must be askin' I’m afraid. A voyage be all well and good, and the reason for a man’s wanderings be he own, no doubt. But as I am the man who must steer the ship, I must ask – where, pray tell, be ye headed, old man?”
“Alderaan-upon-Avon,” the old man said at once, meeting the captain’s gaze without blinking. The savage grunted in surprise, but O’Solo did not flinch.
“A lovely port,” he said, “home to lovely women, honest men, fine taverns... and surrounded by a French blockade, as no doubt ye know.”
“If I thought such a blockade would prove an impediment to a man of your skills, Captain O’Solo, I would not have sought your aid,” the old knight said smoothly.
“Aye, and right you are at that, old man. A man of good sense ya are, that I can see,” he glanced at Choo-ee briefly then back to Sir Kenobi. “But it be a greater risk all the same, which means of course a greater fee, ya understand. Two hundred pounds, and we set sail at once.”
“Two hundred pounds?” Luke gasped indignantly, “Are you mad? Why, we could purchase a ship of our own with such a sum!”
“Luke, restrain yourself,” Sir Kenobi murmured, but O’Solo hooted with laughter.
“Aye, lad,” the captain said, “Ye could at that, but could ye also purchase salty old sea dogs like Choo-ee and yours truly to sail her? A ship’s no good to ya without a man with experience at the helm. Or did you plan to captain her yerself, me lad?” He chuckled.
Luke rankled at the man’s arrogance. “Perhaps I could at that!” he protested, “And anyway, what assurances do we have that your ship is even fast enough to outrun the French blockade?”
O’Solo gasped and brought his hand to forehead in feigned offense. “Oh lad, ye wound me. Have ye not heard of me famous ship, the celebrated Centennial Falcon?”
Sir Benjamin smiled at that. “I’m afraid we have not, Captain. Is there a reason we should?”
“Not heard of the Falcon! Impossible!” the Captain wrung his hands in false agony, “Why, she’s the terror the seas, lad! The bane of the French trade laws, the very ship which navigated the treacherous Kessel reefs in less than twelve leagues! That fast enough for ya, me lad?”
Luke sniffed disdainfully. “A league is a unit of distance, not of time,” he pointed out.
Captain Hanagan roared with laughter. “Right you are! Perhaps you be brighter than ya look, at that.”
Luke’s face burned with embarrassment, but he kept his mouth shut. Best to let old Sir Benjamin handled this impudent man, he thought.
“The offer stands,” the captain continued, “Two hundred, and not a farthing less.”
“We will pay you five hundred pounds,” Sir Kenobi said suddenly, and the table grew quiet. “Two hundred now,” the knight continued, “And three hundred upon our safe arrival. Your silence and cooperation will be well rewarded, captain.”
O’Solo’s face did not change in the slightest, but Luke saw his fingers twitch and knew that the man was excited by such a sum.
Yet still the Irishman made a show of a large sigh. “Ah, well, I suppose we must help ya after all. How could I refuse to help me fellow man what was in need, eh? We shall take our leave at once, if you have no objections? I’ll prepare the ship – you collect your servants and meet us there. You’ll find her tied up at dock ninety-four. She’s a real beauty, you can’t miss her.” Hanagan leaned forward and stared at them down the bridge of his nose. “Bring the money, or the ship’s going nowhere,” he said, “Business, ye understand. Nothing personal.”
“We understand,” Kenobi nodded, and he motioned for Luke to join him in taking their leave. Once they had left the tavern behind, O’Solo let out a loud laugh and leaned back in his chair.
“Lord ha’mercy!” the captain roared, “Five hundred quid! Bless me bleeding heart. Sweet lady luck has had me back all along, eh, Choo-ee?”
The islander grunted in response, speaking a few words in his guttural language.
“Aye, a bit o’ a risk, to be sure,” O’Solo said thoughtfully, “They’re in trouble with the French something fierce. Why, I bet they’d be worth quite a prize if we turned them in to the local authorities, you think, old friend?”
The dark man arched an eyebrow and asked a question.
“Why, Choo-ee, you offend me by the very idea! I’m a loyal Briton as well you know,” he smiled ironically at that. “Besides, I hate them Frenchies. It will be a cold day in hell before O’Solo accepts any sum of money from the likes of them. Quickly now, off to the ship with ya and get her ready to go.”
Choo-ee protested in his language, his hands moving dramatically along with his words.
“For the love of all that’s holy,” O’Solo breathed, “Forget the cursed goods! We’ll make three times as much in this little jaunt, and then we will be well in the clear of all our debts, you see? Time enough for smuggled goods on the next go round, brother mine. Off wit’ ya, now, I want to finish me drink!”
The islander nodded his assent and soon was gone, pressing through the gawking crowd of tavern patrons as he went. Captain O’Solo lingered a while more, sipping the last of his ale and admiring the wenches amidst the crowd. His eye happened to pass over the doorway in time to see a rather imposing figure enter. His dark face was covered in a thick black beard, and a red fez sat atop his head. O’Solo muttered curses to himself as the man approached.
“Captain O’Solo,” the man said in a strange accent.
“Why, I believe you’ve mistaken me, good man,” O’Solo said.
The man in the fez did not smile. “Very amusing. You do not know me, Captain, but I know you well enough. The Turk sends his regards.”
Hanagan sighed. “You can tell the Turk what he can do with his regards, my good man,” he snarled, “I’m on my way to pay him as we speak, as it happens.”
“So you have said before. The Turk will tolerate no such promises anymore. He is a man possessed with little patience.”
“I don’t see why,” O’Solo commented, “He’s possessed with so much of everything else. This time I actually have the money, as a rather interesting opportunity has recently fallen in me lap. So why don’t you run back to your master and tell him that good Captain O’Solo is on his way with his money now.”
“You do not understand. I am not here to collect the money. The Turk will not be mocked. It is your life he wants, O’Solo,” the man in the fez drew a small pistol from under his coat, “And it is your life he shall have!”
“Not bloody likely,” the captain murmured. His own pistol was already out, leveled at the other man under the table. There was an explosion and a puff of smoke, and once again the entire tavern grew still. When the smoke cleared, O’Solo was seen to be tossing back the last drop of ale from his mug while the man in the fez was slumped over the table, motionless.
“Oy!” called the tavern keeper, “Look at this mess you made!”
“Terribly sorry, me good man,” O’Solo said, tossing him another coin. “I’d appreciate if you could keep this to yerself for an hour or two? No need to bring the Frenchies in on this.”
The tavern keeper looked thoughtfully at the coin. “’Twere self-defense, wernnit? The man shot at you first and missed, like, and you had no choice but to shoot back!”
O’Solo froze and leveled an icy stare at the man while the crowd watched on. “I shot first,” he said.
“But, good sir, I’m quite certain I saw…”
“I don’t give a bleeding bejeezus what you thought you saw, my good man, or what any o’ the lot of ya thought ya saw. Captain Hanagan O’Solo bloody well fired the first shot, and any man who says otherwise will have me boot in his arse before he can blink, that’s what! Do I make myself clear?”
The crowd said nothing, but looked at their drinks with tight lips.
“That’s what I thought,” the captain murmured as he brushed he way through them and out into the streets of Mos Eisley.
Young Master Luke had never been to Mos Eisley nor, it need hardly be said, had he ever visited a drinking establishment of a similar character to that in which Sir Kenobi had directed them. It was packed full of men and women of unsavory character engaging in vices beyond description. They wore the grubby clothing of sailors and workmen, so utilitarian and ugly that young Luke found himself quite uncomfortable by the suddenly conspicuous nature of his gentleman’s attire. The patrons of the place seemed to be covered head to foot in dirt. Their hair was grimy and unwashed, and in almost every mouth Luke could see black and crooked teeth. The men drank and laughed raucously, without any sense of decorum, groping at the few ladies among them without shame. These ladies, if such they could even be called, drank and laughed as loudly as the men, and Luke even saw one of them break a tankard of ale over the head of a man who had somehow offended her. Young Luke would surely have turned and fled the place were it not for the calm and confident presence of Sir Benjamin. He was the good old knight’s squire now, he remembered, and he would not leave the man's side.
The owner of this tavern nodded respectfully to Sir Benjamin, as though he knew him, and filled up two mugs of the local ale for them both. The knight began a whispered conversation with the man, which Luke could not make out amongst the noise of the place. Besides the many men and women laughing, talking, and shouting, a small band of musicians was playing in the corner on fiddle and pipe. Luke could barely make out the tune amongst the cacophony – just enough to recognize that the song was repetitive and annoying. He felt out of place and uncomfortable, and found himself wishing that Arthur Detoo and Mr. Threepeo had joined them instead of waiting outside. Threepeo had taken one look at the place and refused to go any further, and Mr. Detoo, though not a stranger to such dens of ill repute, had volunteered to stay behind to keep an eye on the excitable and nervous man.
Luke took a sip of ale, a most unappetizing flavor and too strong by half for the inexperienced young man, and tried his best to look unassuming and inconspicuous. His efforts were not successful. Perhaps it was his fine clothing, his clean and shaved appearance, or even simply his youthful age that drew attention to him. Whatever the reason, he was suddenly surprised by an insistent tap on his shoulder, and he turned to see a very large and very hairy man leering down at him. He spoke in a rattled, quick language that Luke could not understand.
“Oy,” called another, smaller man nearby. “Lookee here! The Spaniard’s taken a liking to fancy boy here! He'll have the lad for breakfast, he will!” There was a round of laughter. The big man, the Spaniard, spoke again.
“Ah! He says he don’t like you, fancy boy!”
“If I have given offense, I apologize,” Luke stammered, turning back to his drink and hoping that would be the end of the matter.
The Spaniard, however, was not placated. He went off again in his native tongue, speaking louder and with far more of an edge to his voice.
“Oy, fancy boy,” the smaller man said, now at the Spaniard’s side, “Your fancy words ain’t going to earn you no favors here, boy. We don’t like your type comin’ round and stickin up your noses at us. We’re as good as men as any of you lordly types.”
“That’s right!” shouted somebody else.
“You tell ‘em!” added one of the fierce looking women in the crowd.
It had not been long before that Luke had faced the man Tusken and his bandits, and he knew how dangerous these poor and desperate men could be. His hand twitched towards his father’s sword, still hanging from his belt, but the Spaniard saw the movement and drew a dragger of his own. He spoke threateningly, and Luke needed no translation to understand his meaning.
“Oooooh, the fancy boy has a fancy blade, lads!” the smaller man hooted, and the others laughed and slapped their tables in merriment, “You better watch out, boy. Pondo here has killed more men than he can count! He’s a wanted criminal in most of the nations of Euorpe, he is!” The Spaniard Pondo twirled his dagger, a look of violence in his eyes that made Luke shudder. He did not doubt that the small man’s claim was true.
“Perhaps there has been a misunderstanding,” came the calm and certain voice of old Sir Kenobi, who had at last turned from his discussion with the barkeep to see the brewing danger. By now the whole tavern had grown silent, and every inhabitant of that place had their eye on the two rich intruders and the men who were challenging them, so the knight’s words carried easily even though he barely raised his voice at all. “Allow me to purchase a round of drinks for you gentlemen, and let us part friends.”
The Spaniard growled. The small man grinned wickedly. “We ain’t gentlemen, and we ain’t yer friends, old man. We don’t want yer charity!”
The Spaniard moved quickly then, brushing poor Luke to the side to thrust his dagger straight for old Sir Kenobi’s throat. But in a single instant, a single blink of Luke’s eyes, the old man was no longer there and the dagger met only empty air. The relative quiet of the tavern was suddenly filled with the scrap of metal on metal as Sir Kenobi’s saber lept from its scabbard and cut the air. The Spaniard cried out and fell to the ground, clutching one arm in pain and sobbing out prayers in his mother tongue. Sir Benjamin replaced his blade smoothly and expertly into its sheath, and regarded the room with singular intensity.
“Now,” the old knight said, quite as calm as before, “A round of drinks on me for my new friends.”
The smaller man and those who had been urging him on kept their heads down and said nothing, though Luke saw they readily accepted the tankards of ale that Sir Kenobi had purchased. The young man stood up and brushed himself off with as much dignity as he could muster. The Spaniard wobbled out of the tavern whimpering, leaving a trail of blood as he went.
“You saved my life again, dear Sir Benjamin,” Luke began, but the old man quickly interrupted him.
“Tush, tush,” the knight said, “Come, I believe I have found what we have sought. My friend here has directed me to a man who should serve our needs quite admirably. Now to see if he will help us, and at what price.”
Sir Kenobi led Luke to a table at the very back of the tavern where two men sat waiting. Of the two, one made for such an extraordinary sight that Luke could not take his eyes off of him to examine the other. The object of Luke’s stunned attention was a large man with skin as dark as night. He was tall as Luke was while seated, with shoulders as broad as a large door. His head was bare, and, most shockingly perhaps, his nose was pierced through with what looked to be the bone of some animal. He wore almost nothing save a vest and trousers made of the skin of some beast. His whole appearance was so exotic and bewildering to a sheltered youth such as Luke that it was several moments before the poor young gentleman realized he had been staring at the savage quite rudely.
“A good even to ya,” the other man said in thick Irish brogue, “Kindly have a seat, me good lad. Me friend may look a beast but you’ll find no danger in him, I tell you true.”
Luke noticed with a start that Sir Kenobi was already seated, and that they were all looking at him with expectation. He hastily sat, and tried to remember his manners. To keep his eyes off the exotic man with dark skin, he forced himself to study the other man, who was no less interesting in his own way.
“Captain Hanagan O’Solo, at yer service,” the man introduce himself. His hair, ruddy reddish brown, was long and pulled back into a tail. His face was handsome enough, Luke admitted, with a pleasant smile and glinting, mischievous eyes. His whole posture was relaxed and arrogant, but Luke sensed at once that this was a man to be reckoned with. “This be me constant companion, Choo-ee.” He slapped the darker man on the shoulder with brotherly familiarity.
“I take it Mr. Choo-ee is not an Englishman,” Sir Benjamin said with a wry smile.
“That he is not, good sir,” said O’Solo with a grin, “But then neither am I, come to that. No, sir, Mr. Choo-ee is a native of a country far away in the South Seas, where I had the pleasure to journey in me younger days. As it happened I was in need of a companion to help me sail homeward, and me friend here volunteered. He’s been like family to me ever since. Why, I would have married him to me sister if I could.”
“Did the lady object to the match?” Sir Kenobi asked with polite interest.
“Not at all, sir,” replied the captain, “It’s just that I haven’t got a sister.” He laughed, and even Choo-ee his savage companion roared with mirth. The dark man spoke in a strange, guttural language that made Luke’s mouth drop open.
“Aye, tis true, me friend, tis true,” O’Solo said in response to whatever his companion had said. “But enough of me jokes. You gentlemen have not come to see Captain Hanagan for salty tales of sea, I wager.”
“That’s true enough,” Sir Kenobi said. “We’re in need of a passage on a ship for four: myself, the lad, and two servants who will be no trouble to you. We require speed, safety, and above all, a certain lack of curiosity into the nature of our voyage.”
“Never a man was less curious than O’Solo,” the captain assured them, “I mind no business but me own, I swear to ya by me mother’s grave. But one question I must be askin' I’m afraid. A voyage be all well and good, and the reason for a man’s wanderings be he own, no doubt. But as I am the man who must steer the ship, I must ask – where, pray tell, be ye headed, old man?”
“Alderaan-upon-Avon,” the old man said at once, meeting the captain’s gaze without blinking. The savage grunted in surprise, but O’Solo did not flinch.
“A lovely port,” he said, “home to lovely women, honest men, fine taverns... and surrounded by a French blockade, as no doubt ye know.”
“If I thought such a blockade would prove an impediment to a man of your skills, Captain O’Solo, I would not have sought your aid,” the old knight said smoothly.
“Aye, and right you are at that, old man. A man of good sense ya are, that I can see,” he glanced at Choo-ee briefly then back to Sir Kenobi. “But it be a greater risk all the same, which means of course a greater fee, ya understand. Two hundred pounds, and we set sail at once.”
“Two hundred pounds?” Luke gasped indignantly, “Are you mad? Why, we could purchase a ship of our own with such a sum!”
“Luke, restrain yourself,” Sir Kenobi murmured, but O’Solo hooted with laughter.
“Aye, lad,” the captain said, “Ye could at that, but could ye also purchase salty old sea dogs like Choo-ee and yours truly to sail her? A ship’s no good to ya without a man with experience at the helm. Or did you plan to captain her yerself, me lad?” He chuckled.
Luke rankled at the man’s arrogance. “Perhaps I could at that!” he protested, “And anyway, what assurances do we have that your ship is even fast enough to outrun the French blockade?”
O’Solo gasped and brought his hand to forehead in feigned offense. “Oh lad, ye wound me. Have ye not heard of me famous ship, the celebrated Centennial Falcon?”
Sir Benjamin smiled at that. “I’m afraid we have not, Captain. Is there a reason we should?”
“Not heard of the Falcon! Impossible!” the Captain wrung his hands in false agony, “Why, she’s the terror the seas, lad! The bane of the French trade laws, the very ship which navigated the treacherous Kessel reefs in less than twelve leagues! That fast enough for ya, me lad?”
Luke sniffed disdainfully. “A league is a unit of distance, not of time,” he pointed out.
Captain Hanagan roared with laughter. “Right you are! Perhaps you be brighter than ya look, at that.”
Luke’s face burned with embarrassment, but he kept his mouth shut. Best to let old Sir Benjamin handled this impudent man, he thought.
“The offer stands,” the captain continued, “Two hundred, and not a farthing less.”
“We will pay you five hundred pounds,” Sir Kenobi said suddenly, and the table grew quiet. “Two hundred now,” the knight continued, “And three hundred upon our safe arrival. Your silence and cooperation will be well rewarded, captain.”
O’Solo’s face did not change in the slightest, but Luke saw his fingers twitch and knew that the man was excited by such a sum.
Yet still the Irishman made a show of a large sigh. “Ah, well, I suppose we must help ya after all. How could I refuse to help me fellow man what was in need, eh? We shall take our leave at once, if you have no objections? I’ll prepare the ship – you collect your servants and meet us there. You’ll find her tied up at dock ninety-four. She’s a real beauty, you can’t miss her.” Hanagan leaned forward and stared at them down the bridge of his nose. “Bring the money, or the ship’s going nowhere,” he said, “Business, ye understand. Nothing personal.”
“We understand,” Kenobi nodded, and he motioned for Luke to join him in taking their leave. Once they had left the tavern behind, O’Solo let out a loud laugh and leaned back in his chair.
“Lord ha’mercy!” the captain roared, “Five hundred quid! Bless me bleeding heart. Sweet lady luck has had me back all along, eh, Choo-ee?”
The islander grunted in response, speaking a few words in his guttural language.
“Aye, a bit o’ a risk, to be sure,” O’Solo said thoughtfully, “They’re in trouble with the French something fierce. Why, I bet they’d be worth quite a prize if we turned them in to the local authorities, you think, old friend?”
The dark man arched an eyebrow and asked a question.
“Why, Choo-ee, you offend me by the very idea! I’m a loyal Briton as well you know,” he smiled ironically at that. “Besides, I hate them Frenchies. It will be a cold day in hell before O’Solo accepts any sum of money from the likes of them. Quickly now, off to the ship with ya and get her ready to go.”
Choo-ee protested in his language, his hands moving dramatically along with his words.
“For the love of all that’s holy,” O’Solo breathed, “Forget the cursed goods! We’ll make three times as much in this little jaunt, and then we will be well in the clear of all our debts, you see? Time enough for smuggled goods on the next go round, brother mine. Off wit’ ya, now, I want to finish me drink!”
The islander nodded his assent and soon was gone, pressing through the gawking crowd of tavern patrons as he went. Captain O’Solo lingered a while more, sipping the last of his ale and admiring the wenches amidst the crowd. His eye happened to pass over the doorway in time to see a rather imposing figure enter. His dark face was covered in a thick black beard, and a red fez sat atop his head. O’Solo muttered curses to himself as the man approached.
“Captain O’Solo,” the man said in a strange accent.
“Why, I believe you’ve mistaken me, good man,” O’Solo said.
The man in the fez did not smile. “Very amusing. You do not know me, Captain, but I know you well enough. The Turk sends his regards.”
Hanagan sighed. “You can tell the Turk what he can do with his regards, my good man,” he snarled, “I’m on my way to pay him as we speak, as it happens.”
“So you have said before. The Turk will tolerate no such promises anymore. He is a man possessed with little patience.”
“I don’t see why,” O’Solo commented, “He’s possessed with so much of everything else. This time I actually have the money, as a rather interesting opportunity has recently fallen in me lap. So why don’t you run back to your master and tell him that good Captain O’Solo is on his way with his money now.”
“You do not understand. I am not here to collect the money. The Turk will not be mocked. It is your life he wants, O’Solo,” the man in the fez drew a small pistol from under his coat, “And it is your life he shall have!”
“Not bloody likely,” the captain murmured. His own pistol was already out, leveled at the other man under the table. There was an explosion and a puff of smoke, and once again the entire tavern grew still. When the smoke cleared, O’Solo was seen to be tossing back the last drop of ale from his mug while the man in the fez was slumped over the table, motionless.
“Oy!” called the tavern keeper, “Look at this mess you made!”
“Terribly sorry, me good man,” O’Solo said, tossing him another coin. “I’d appreciate if you could keep this to yerself for an hour or two? No need to bring the Frenchies in on this.”
The tavern keeper looked thoughtfully at the coin. “’Twere self-defense, wernnit? The man shot at you first and missed, like, and you had no choice but to shoot back!”
O’Solo froze and leveled an icy stare at the man while the crowd watched on. “I shot first,” he said.
“But, good sir, I’m quite certain I saw…”
“I don’t give a bleeding bejeezus what you thought you saw, my good man, or what any o’ the lot of ya thought ya saw. Captain Hanagan O’Solo bloody well fired the first shot, and any man who says otherwise will have me boot in his arse before he can blink, that’s what! Do I make myself clear?”
The crowd said nothing, but looked at their drinks with tight lips.
“That’s what I thought,” the captain murmured as he brushed he way through them and out into the streets of Mos Eisley.
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