Francis LaPorte and the Association of Good Fellows

The Very Next Ship

Sunday, 25 Tishrei, 5694

Nathaniel Bartley, the eminent theologian who thought more highly of himself than was, perhaps, appropriate, had arrived in the city of Bevel that morning and had enjoyed, among other things, an invitation from Liam Fidel to stop in at the house of the prominent cleric for a chat over some tea and pipe smoke. Both cozy and quaint, the house was a welcoming place to Bartley, tucked away from the rest of the world by the woodland property which surrounded it, and set with the laughter of Fidel's two young children who skipped and jumped and played. The hospitality of Fidel's wife, Ida, too was a blessed thing for a man on a journey.

The two men had plenty to discuss, from the troubles in Garma, to the documents which LaPorte had sent Bartley to look over on behalf of Bealer and the dissenting clerics who had met under his supervision, to even more recent matters such as the new league which Fidel had been working to establish. Membership in the league had, up to that time, been quite fluid. Its members seemed always to be nervous and unreliable in their support.

His kind-hearted host was in the act of discussing with him the problem of mass unreliability and all of the troubles it was causing for them, as well as possibilities to try and fix it by creating something more concrete when the question arose from Bartley, the answer to which would cause him to go into a tizzy.

"Well, you have LaPorte," Bartley suggested, thinking him a good man for support. "Though, I know that he can be a bit too radical, at least we know he has a clear head. With his connections and vast theological armory, he must be a ready asset to you."

Fidel shook his head and with a pensive look he took another puff of his pipe. "Francis LaPorte is on his way to Inglegrad. You're right that he is one of the most reliable people we have on our side, as well as one of the most radical. Though, given the way things are developing, that's hardly a fault. He and Fritz Gibbons have been invaluable assets to us here in Bevel, but Gibbons's mother is an Altruite, and from what I understand, he plans on leaving Garma himself. He has already resigned his position, and I will only have him here for the better part of a month. After that, he's off with Francis to Inglegrad!"

There was a clear crease which had developed on the cleric's forehead as he spoke, holding his pipe at the corner of his mouth. All of the stress might have been just becoming a little too much for the inspired leader of the opposition in the midst of the madness. Though, he was an enigma in that he was himself a member of the National Association and seemed to be of the opinion that if only Freitag knew what was going on, he might have taken some action against it, as any true Good Fellow would.

Bartley bit his pipe and his eyes locked on to Liam's contemplative eyebrows. "Leaving... he didn't mention it to me," he muttered. "And Fritz Gibbons? He always has struck me as a clever man, but I hear that he has said some nasty things about me." He snickered. "God, what is LaPorte doing?"

"Well, I'll tell you what he's doing," Liam interrupted, raising his eyes back to his distraught guest. "He is on his way to Inglegrad." He checked his golden watch. "His ship should be leaving the harbor within the hour now, actually. I'm sure that he has already packed his things and gone off to catch it."

"Why, that wretched, lovable brat!" Bartley huffed as he jumped up from his chair. "He didn't tell me. He didn't tell me!"

He repeated the words again and again to himself as he gulped down his tea in between frantic turns of his egg-shaped head as he searched with his eyes for his coat. Ida must have taken it and put it somewhere hidden. Perhaps, a closet. Where didn't particularly matter to him now, though. What mattered was that he had it to throw on and wear. But, of course, he didn't yet have it, and therein was the problem.

"My coat, my coat, my coat, my coat...!"

He uttered the single-minded request over and over in the same intellectual tone with which he always spoke, and he spun his hand in a circular motion, snapping his fingers as if to beg the lady to get on with it. This was, after all, of infinite importance. Francis could hardly be allowed to remove himself from everything, and to think that he had not so much as written the old master his intentions. He should have asked his opinion first. Of course, he would have told him no. But Francis hadn't asked him, and that might have been because of the foreseeability of his response. Even so, he had to try and catch him.

When at last the coat arrived, it felt to Bartley as though it had been a matter of hours, though he knew that it had only been mere seconds. Still, time was of the essence for him. He threw the sleeves of the long, forest-green trench coat on over each of his arms in a rushed, haphazard fashion with his smoking pipe still in his mouth, and he neglected to tie the belt on it before speeding off towards the door.

"So long, Bartley!" Liam called after him, holding his pipe in his long, delicate fingers and smiling as he watched him go. "I hope you catch him! I really do."

As Nathaniel Bartley sped away in his car, he drove irresponsibly quickly down towards the harbor. It would still take him some time to get there, and he harbored no illusion that he would make it any sooner than the last possible minute. It was likely that the ship would already be boarding, if it hadn't boarded already by the time that he arrived. But to think that a man like LaPorte would think to leave his post right when his house was burning, and that he would find it reasonable to do so, also! All of that was far beyond explanation as far as Bartley's mind could see.

He abandoned his car in a gravel parking area near the docks, but he had left it double-parked and hardly parked well. Still, all of that could be fixed later. What could not wait was his location of Francis. The young theologian had finally gone a step too far... again; only, this time Bartley found himself with the unique opportunity of having a chance to stop him before the ship had sailed... or so he hoped.

Bartley ran down the wooden stairs to the crowded docks and across to the place where the large ocean liner was preparing for departure. There, leaning with his arms folded over the broad metal rail, was Francis LaPorte, dressed as sporty as ever, with a pack of his luggage beside him.

Francis cocked his head at the sight of Bartley running across the docks in such an undignified fashion as he was, and his eyes stayed on him as he raced through the crowd. Though, it was only Francis's eyes that moved; the rest of him remained very tense and still as he watched his distinguished friend propel himself in such an awkward manner.

"LaPorte!" Bartley screamed up at him, locking onto his eyes just as the younger man's eyes had locked on him. "Francis LaPorte, I know you see me! Now, you listen!" he shouted the words as the ship began to set sail. "What makes you think that you can just up and abandon your post? For God's sake, your house is burning as we speak! And what of your splendid theological armory? It will all be wasted when we could make such good use of it here!"

It was an appeal that would fall on deaf ears. Perhaps, there really had been a reason why Francis had not written the old master for his advice: he had no intention of taking it. His mind, it seemed, had already been made up.

Francis lifted his head with a weary smile and put his hand to the side of his mouth in order to amplify the sound as he called back to Bartley. "It's no good, Bartley! I need some time alone to think. I've found myself out of step with everybody, and it seems that it would be safer for me to remove myself from the situation than it would for me to make a move. Even you yourself have told me that I've gone a bit too far for your liking. How then should I press on? I need some time to think it all over with the water in between!"

The ship had begun to set sail, and Nathaniel jogged to a stop at the edge of the dock, just below the place where Francis stood up on the deck. He looked up at him as he was carried slowly away on the sea by the massive ship. He frowned, realizing that it was too late to change the opinion of the brilliant young soul. The best that he could do now was to will him back.

"Well, in that case, Francis, I want to see you back here on the very next ship! Do you hear me? The very next ship!" He paused, having caught a glimpse of a similar vessel returning on the haze of the horizon. "Or, given the circumstances, shall we say... the one after next?"