ON THE NIGHT THAT OUR WEDDING IS ON US 15 страница
Dressed, Jamie circled round the table to help me lift the body. Instead of putting his hands under it, though, he reached across and took my hands in both of his.
“Swear to me, Claire,” he said. His voice was nearly gone with hoarseness; I had to lean close to hear it. “If it should one day fall to my lot as it did to my father . . . then swear ye will give me the same mercy I gave this wretched bugger here.”
There were fresh blisters on his palms from the digging; I felt the strange softness of them, fluid-filled and shifting as he gripped my hands.
“I’ll do what must be done,” I whispered back, at last. “Just as you did.” I squeezed his hands and let them go. “Come now and help me bury him. It’s over.”
BROWNSVILLE
IT WAS MID-AFTERNOON before Roger, Fergus, and the militia reached Brownsville, having missed their road and wandered in the hills for several hours before meeting two Cherokee who pointed the way.
Brownsville was half a dozen ramshackle huts, strewn among the dying brush of a hillside like a handful of rubbish tossed into the weeds. Near the road—if the narrow rut of churned black mud could be dignified by such a word—two cabins leaned tipsily on either side of a slightly larger and more solid-looking building, like drunkards leaning cozily on a sober companion. Rather ironically, this larger building seemed to operate as Brownsville’s general store and taproom, judging from the barrels of beer and powder and the stacks of drenched hides that stood in the muddy yard beside it—though to apply either term to it was granting that more dignity than it deserved, too, Roger thought.
Still, it was plainly the place to start—if only for the sake of the men with him, who had begun to vibrate like iron filings near a magnet at sight of the barrels; the yeasty scent of beer floated out like a welcome. He wouldn’t say no to a pint, either, he thought, waving a hand to signal a halt. It was a numbingly cold day, and a long time since this morning’s breakfast. They weren’t likely to get anything beyond bread or stew here, but as long as it was hot and washed down with some sort of alcohol, no one would complain.
He slid off his horse, and had just turned to call to the others when a hand clutched his arm.
“Attendez.” Fergus spoke softly, barely moving his lips. He was standing beside Roger, looking at something beyond him. “Do not move.”
Roger didn’t, nor did any of the men still on their horses. Whatever Fergus saw, so did they.
“What is it?” Roger asked, keeping his voice low, too.
“Someone—two someones—are pointing guns at us, through the window.”
“Ah.” Roger noted Jamie’s good sense in not riding into Brownsville after dark the night before. Evidently, he knew something about the suspicious nature of remote places.
Moving very slowly, he raised both his hands into the air, and jerked his chin at Fergus, who reluctantly did the same, his hook gleaming in the afternoon sun. Still keeping his hands up, Roger turned very slowly. Even knowing what to expect, he felt his stomach contract at sight of the two long, gleaming barrels protruding from behind the oiled deerskin that covered the window.
“Hallo the house!” he shouted, with as much authority as could be managed with his hands over his head. “I am Captain Roger MacKenzie, in command of a militia company under Colonel James Fraser, of Fraser’s Ridge!”
The only effect of this intelligence was to cause one gun barrel to swivel, centering on Roger, so that he could look straight down the small, dark circle of its muzzle. The unwelcome prospect did, though, cause him to realize that the other gun had not been trained on him to start with. It had been, and remained, pointing steadily over his right shoulder, toward the cluster of men who still sat their horses behind him, shifting in their saddles and murmuring uneasily.
Great. Now what? The men were waiting for him to do something. Moving slowly, he lowered his hands. He was drawing breath to shout again, but before he could speak, a hoarse voice rang out from behind the deerskin.
“I see you, Morton, you bastard!”
This imprecation was accompanied by a significant jerk of the first gun barrel, which turned abruptly from Roger to focus on the same target as the second—presumably Isaiah Morton, one of the militiamen from Granite Falls.
There was a scuffling noise among the mounted men, startled shouts, and then all hell broke loose as both guns went off. Horses reared and bolted, men bellowed and swore, and drifts of acrid white smoke fumed from the window.
Roger had thrown himself flat at the first explosion. As the echoes died away, though, he scrambled up as though by reflex, flung mud out of his eyes, and charged the door, headfirst. To his detached surprise, his mind was working very clearly. Brianna took twenty seconds to load and prime a gun, and he doubted that these buggers were much faster. He thought he had just about ten seconds’ grace left, and he meant to use them.
He hit the door with his shoulder, and it flew inward, smashing against the wall inside and causing Roger to rush staggering into the room and crash into the wall on the opposite side. He struck his shoulder a numbing blow on the chimney piece, bounced off, and managed somehow to keep his feet, stumbling like a drunkard.
Several people in the room had turned to gape at him. His vision cleared enough to see that only two of them were in fact holding guns. He took a deep breath, lunged for the nearest of these, a scrawny man with a straggling beard, and seized him by the shirtfront, in imitation of a particularly fearsome third-form master at Roger’s grammar school.
“What do you think you are doing, you wee man, you!?” he roared, jerking the man up onto his toes. Mr. Sanderson would have been pleased, he supposed, at the thought that his example had been so memorable. Effective, too; while the scrawny man in Roger’s grip did not either wet himself or snivel, as the first-form students occasionally had under such treatment, he did make small gobbling sounds, pawing ineffectually at Roger’s hand clutching his shirt.
“You, sir! Leave hold of my brother!” Roger’s victim had dropped both his gun and powder horn when seized, spilling black powder all over the floor. The other gunman had succeeded in reloading his weapon, though, and was now endeavoring to bring it to bear on Roger. He was somewhat impeded in this attempt by the three women in the room, two of whom were blethering and pulling at his gun, getting in his way. The third had flung her apron over her head and was uttering loud, rhythmic shrieks of hysteria.
At this point, Fergus strolled into the house, an enormous horse pistol in his hand. He pointed this negligently at the man with the gun.
“Be so kind as to put that down, if you will,” he said, raising his voice to be heard above the racket. “And perhaps, madame, you could pour some water upon this young woman? Or slap her briskly?” He gestured toward the screaming woman with his hook, wincing slightly at the noise.
Moving as though hypnotized, one of the women went slowly toward the screeching girl, shook her roughly by the shoulder, and began to murmur in the girl’s ear, not taking her eyes off Fergus. The shrieking stopped, replaced by irregular gulps and sobs.
Roger felt an immense relief. Sheer rage, simple panic, and the absolute necessity of doing something had got him this far, but he would freely admit that he had not the slightest idea what to do next. He took a deep breath, feeling his legs begin to tremble, and slowly lowered his victim, releasing his grip with an awkward nod. The man took several fast steps backward, then stood brushing at the creases in his shirt, narrowed eyes fixed on Roger in resentment.
“And who in blazes are you?” The second man, who had indeed put his weapon down, looked at Fergus in confusion.
The Frenchman waved his hook—which, Roger noticed, seemed to fascinate the women—in a gesture of dismissal.
“That is of no importance,” he said grandly, lifting his aristocratically prominent nose another inch. “I require—that is, we require”—he amended, with a polite nod toward Roger—“to know who you are.”
The inhabitants of the cabin all exchanged confused looks, as though wondering who they might in fact be. After a moment’s hesitation, though, the larger of the two men thrust out his chin pugnaciously.
“My name is Brown, sir. Richard Brown. This is my brother, Lionel, my wife, Meg, my brother’s daughter, Alicia”—that appeared to be the girl in the apron, who had now removed the garment from her head and stood tearstained and gulping—“and my sister, Thomasina.”
“Your servant, madame, mesdemoiselles.” Fergus made the ladies an extremely elegant bow, though taking good care to keep his pistol aimed at Richard Brown’s forehead. “My apologies for the disturbance.”
Mrs. Brown nodded back, looking a little glazed. Miss Thomasina Brown, a tall, severe-looking person, looked from Roger to Fergus and back with the expression of one comparing a cockroach and a centipede, deciding which to step on first.
Fergus, having managed to transform the atmosphere from an armed confrontation to that of a Parisian salon, looked pleased. He glanced at Roger and inclined his head, clearly handing management of the situation over to him.
“Right.” Roger was wearing a loose woolen hunting shirt, but he felt as though it were a straitjacket. He took another deep breath, trying to force air into his chest. “Well. As I said, I am . . . ah . . . Captain MacKenzie. We are charged by Governor Tryon with raising a militia company, and have come to notify you of your obligation to provide men and supplies.”
Richard Brown looked surprised at this; his brother glowered. Before they could offer objections, though, Fergus moved closer to Roger, murmuring, “Perhaps we should discover whether they have killed Mr. Morton, mon capitaine, before we accept them into our company?”
“Oh, mphm.” Roger fixed the Browns with as stern an expression as possible. “Mr. Fraser. Will you see about Mr. Morton? I will remain here.” Keeping the Browns in his gaze, he held out a hand for Fergus’s pistol.
“Oh, yon Morton’s still canty, Captain. He isny wae us, forbye, ’cause he’s ta’en to the broosh like a bit’ moggie wae a scorchit tail, but he wiz movin’ a’ his limbs when I saw um last.” A nasal Glaswegian voice spoke from the doorway, and Roger glanced over to see a cluster of interested heads peering into the cabin, Henry Gallegher’s bristly nob among them. A number of drawn guns were also in evidence, and Roger’s breath came a little easier.
The Browns had lost interest in Roger, and were staring at Gallegher in sheer bewilderment.
“What did he say?” Mrs. Brown whispered to her sister-in-law. The older lady shook her head, lips drawn in like a pursestring.
“Mr. Morton is alive and well,” Roger translated for them. He coughed. “Fortunately for you,” he said to the male Browns, with as much menace as he could contrive to put into his voice. He turned to Gallegher, who had now come into the room and was leaning against the doorjamb, musket in hand and looking distinctly entertained.
“Is everyone else all right, then, Henry?”
Gallegher shrugged.
“They crap-bags hivny holed anyone, but they gie’d your saddlebag rare laldy wae a load o’ bird shot. Sir,” he added as an afterthought, teeth showing in a brief flash through his beard.
“The bag with the whisky?” Roger demanded.
“Get awa!” Gallegher bugged his eyes in horror, then grinned in reassurance. “Nah, t’other.”
“Och, well.” Roger waved a hand dismissively. “That’s only my spare breeks, isn’t it?”
This philosophical response drew laughter and hoots of support from the men crammed in the doorway, which heartened Roger enough to round on the smaller Brown.
“And what d’ye have against Isaiah Morton?” he demanded.
“He’s dishonored my daughter,” Mr. Brown replied promptly, having recovered his composure. He glared at Roger, beard twitching with anger. “I told him I’d see him dead at her feet, if ever he dared show his wretched countenance within ten miles of Brownsville—and damn my eyes if the grass-livered spittle-snake hasn’t the face to ride right up to my door!”
Mr. Richard Brown turned to Gallegher.
“You mean to tell me we both missed the bastard?”
Gallegher shrugged apologetically.
“Aye. Sorry.”
The younger Miss Brown had been following this exchange, mouth hanging slightly open.
“They missed?” she asked, hope lighting her reddened eyes. “Isaiah’s still alive?”
“Not for long,” her uncle assured her grimly. He reached down to pick up his fowling piece, and all the female Browns burst out in a chorus of renewed screeches, as the guns of the militia at the door all raised simultaneously, trained on Brown. He very slowly put the gun back down.
Roger glanced at Fergus, who lifted one brow and gave the slightest of shrugs. Up to him.
The Browns had drawn together, the two brothers glaring at him, the women huddled behind them, sniffling and murmuring. Militiamen poked their heads curiously through the windows, all staring at Roger, waiting for direction.
And just what was he to tell them? Morton was a member of the militia, and therefore—he assumed—entitled to its protection. Roger couldn’t very well turn him over to the Browns, no matter what he’d done—always assuming he could be caught. On the other hand, Roger was charged with enlisting the Browns and the rest of the able-bodied men in Brownsville, and extracting at least a week’s supplies from them as well; they didn’t look as though such a suggestion would be well received at this point.
He had the galling conviction that Jamie Fraser would have known immediately how best to resolve this diplomatic crisis. He personally hadn’t a clue.
He did, at least, have a delaying tactic. Sighing, he lowered the pistol, and reached for the pouch at his waist.
“Henry, fetch in the saddlebag with the whisky, aye? And Mr. Brown, perhaps ye will allow me to purchase some food, and a barrel of your beer, for my men’s refreshment.”
And with luck, by the time it was all drunk, Jamie Fraser would be here.
ONE-THIRD OF A GOAT
IT WASN’T QUITE OVER, after all. It was well past dark by the time we had finished everything at the Beardsley farm, tidied up, repacked the bags, and resaddled the horses. I thought of suggesting that we eat before leaving—we had had nothing since breakfast—but the atmosphere of the place was so disturbing that neither Jamie nor I had any appetite.
“We’ll wait,” he said, heaving the saddlebags over the mare’s back. He glanced over his shoulder at the house. “I’m hollow as a gourd, but I couldna stomach a bite within sight o’ this place.”
“I know what you mean.” I glanced back, too, uneasily, though there was nothing to see; the house stood still and empty. “I can’t wait to get away from here.”
The sun had sunk below the trees, and a chill blue shadow spread across the hollow where the farmhouse stood. The raw earth of Beardsley’s grave showed dark with moisture, a humped mound beneath the bare branches of the mountain ash. It was impossible to look at it without thinking of the weight of wet earth and immobility, of corruption and decay.
You will rot and die, Jamie had said to him. I hoped the reversal of those two events had been of some benefit to Beardsley—it had not, to me. I hugged my shawl tight around my shoulders and breathed out hard, then deeply in, hoping the cold, clean scent of the pines would eradicate the phantom reek of dead flesh that seemed to cling to hands and clothes and nose.
The horses were shifting, stamping, and shaking their manes, eager to be off. I didn’t blame them. Unable to stop myself, I looked back once more. A more desolate sight would be hard to imagine. Even harder to imagine was the thought of staying here, alone.
Evidently, Mrs. Beardsley had imagined it, and come to similar conclusions. At this point, she emerged from the barn, the kid in her arms, and announced that she was coming with us. So, evidently, were the goats. She handed me the kid, and disappeared back into the barn.
The kid was heavy and half-asleep, flexible little joints folded up into a cozy bundle. It huffed warm air over my hand, nibbling gently to see what I was made of, then made a small “meh” of contentment and relaxed into peaceful inertness against my ribs. A louder “meh!” and a nudge at my thigh announced the presence of the kid’s mother, keeping a watchful eye on her offspring.
“Well, she can’t very well leave them here,” I muttered to Jamie, who was making disgruntled noises in the dusk behind me. “They have to be milked. Besides, it’s not a terribly long way, is it?”
“D’ye ken how fast a goat walks, Sassenach?”
“I’ve never had occasion to time one,” I said, rather testily, shifting my small hairy burden. “But I shouldn’t think they’d be a lot slower than the horses, in the dark.”
He made a guttural Scottish noise at that, rendered more expressive even than usual by the phlegm in his throat. He coughed.
“You sound awful,” I said. “When we get where we’re going, I’m taking the mentholated goose grease to you, my lad.”
He made no objection to this proposal, which rather alarmed me, as indicating a serious depression of his vitality. Before I could inquire further into his state of health, though, I was interrupted by the emergence from the barn of Mrs. Beardsley, leading six goats, roped together like a gang of jovially inebriate convicts.
Jamie viewed the procession dubiously, sighed in resignation, and turned to a consideration of the logistical problems at hand. There was no question of mounting Mrs. Beardsley on Gideon the Man-Eater. Jamie glanced from me to Mrs. Beardsley’s substantial figure, then at the small form of my mare, little bigger than a pony, and coughed.
After a bit of contemplation, he had Mrs. Beardsley mounted on Mrs. Piggy, the sleepy kid balanced before her. I would ride with him, on Gideon’s withers, theoretically preventing any attempt on that animal’s part to fling me off his hindquarters into the underbrush. He tied a rope round the billy goat’s neck, and affixed this loosely to the mare’s saddle, but left the nannies loose.
“The mother will stay wi’ the kid, and the others will follow the billy here,” he told me. “Goats are sociable creatures; they’ll no be wanting to stray awa by themselves. Especially not at night. Shoo,” he muttered, pushing an inquisitive nose out of his face as he squatted to check the saddle girth. “I suppose pigs would be worse. They will gang their own way.” He stood up, absently patting a hairy head.
“If anything should come amiss, pull it loose at once,” he told Mrs. Beardsley, showing her the half-bow loop tied to the saddle near her hand. “If the horse should run away wi’ ye all, your wee fellow there will be hangit.”
She nodded, a hunched mound atop the horse, then lifted her head and looked toward the house.
“We should go before moonrithe,” she said softly. “She cometh out then.”
An icy ripple ran straight up my spine, and Jamie jerked, head snapping round to look at the darkened house. The fire had gone out, and no one had thought to close the open door; it gaped like an empty eye socket.
“She who?” Jamie asked, a noticeable edge in his voice.
“Mary Ann,” Mrs. Beardsley answered. “She was the latht one.” There was no emphasis whatever in her voice; she sounded like a sleepwalker.
“The last what?” I asked.
The latht wife,” she replied, and picked up her reins. “She thtands under the rowan tree at moonrithe.”
Jamie’s head turned toward me. It was too dark to see his expression, but I didn’t need to. I cleared my throat.
“Ought we . . . to close the door?” I suggested. Mr. Beardsley’s spirit had presumably got the idea by now, and whether or not Mrs. Beardsley had any interest in the house and its contents, it didn’t seem right to leave it at the mercy of marauding raccoons and squirrels, to say nothing of anything larger that might be attracted by the scent of Mr. Beardsley’s final exit. On the other hand, I really had no desire at all to approach the empty house.
“Get on the horse, Sassenach.”
Jamie strode across the yard, slammed the door somewhat harder than necessary, then came back—walking briskly—and swung into the saddle behind me.
“Hup!” he said sharply, and we were off, the glow of a rising half-moon just visible above the trees.
It was perhaps a quarter mile to the head of the trail, the ground rising from the hollow in which the Beardsleys’ farmhouse stood. We were moving slowly, because of the goats, and I watched the grass and shrubs as we brushed through them, wondering whether they seemed more visible only because my eyes were adapting to the dark—or because the moon had risen.
I felt quite safe, with the powerful bulk of the horse under me, the sociable natter of the goats around us, and Jamie’s equally reassuring presence behind me, one arm clasped about my waist. I wasn’t sure that I felt quite safe enough to turn and look back again, though. At the same time, the urge to look was so compelling as almost to counter the sense of dread I felt about the place. Almost.
“It’s no really a rowan tree, is it?” Jamie’s voice came softly from behind me.
“No,” I said, taking heart from the solid arm around me. “It’s a mountain ash. Very like, though.” I’d seen mountain ash many times before; the Highlanders often planted them near cabins or houses because the clusters of deep orange berries and the pinnate leaves did indeed look like the rowan tree of Scotland—a close botanical relative. I gathered that Jamie’s comment stemmed not from taxonomic hairsplitting, though, but rather from doubt as to whether the ash possessed the same repellent qualities, in terms of protection from evil and enchantment. He hadn’t chosen to bury Beardsley under that tree from a sense either of aesthetics or convenience.
I squeezed his blistered hand, and he kissed me gently on top of the head.
At the head of the trail, I did glance back, but I could see nothing but a faint gleam from the weathered shingles of the farmhouse. The mountain ash and whatever might—or might not—be under it were hidden in darkness.
Gideon was unusually well-behaved, having made no more than a token protest at being double-mounted. I rather thought he was happy to leave the farm behind, too. I said as much, but Jamie sneezed and expressed the opinion that the wicked sod was merely biding his time while planning some future outrage.
The goats seemed inclined to view this nocturnal excursion as a lark, and ambled along with the liveliest interest, snatching mouthfuls of dry grass, bumping into one another and the horses, and generally sounding like a herd of elephants in the crackling underbrush.
I felt great relief at leaving the Beardsley place at last. As the pines blotted out the last sight of the hollow, I resolutely turned my mind from the disturbing events of the day, and began to think what might await us in Brownsville.
“I hope Roger’s managed all right,” I said, leaning back against Jamie’s chest with a small sigh.
“Mmphm.” From long experience, I diagnosed this particular catarrhal noise as indicating a polite general agreement with my sentiment, this overlaying complete personal indifference to the actuality. Either he saw no reason for concern, or he thought Roger could sink or swim.
“I hope he’s found an inn of sorts,” I offered, thinking this prospect might meet with a trifle more enthusiasm. “Hot food and a clean bed would be lovely.”
“Mmphm.” That one held a touch of humor, mingled with an inborn skepticism—fostered by long experience—regarding the possible existence of such items as hot food and clean beds in the Carolina backcountry.
“The goats seem to be going along very well,” I offered, and waited in anticipation.
“Mmphm.” Grudging agreement, mingled with a deep suspicion as to the continuance of good behavior on the part of the goats.
I was carefully formulating another observation, in hopes of getting him to do it again—three times was the record so far—when Gideon suddenly bore out Jamie’s original mistrust by flinging up his head with a loud snort and rearing.
I crashed back into Jamie’s chest, hitting my head on his collarbone with a thump that made me see stars. His arm crushed the air out of me as he dragged at the reins one-handed, shouting.
I had no idea what he was saying, or even whether he was shouting in English or Gaelic. The horse was screaming, rearing and pawing with his hooves, and I was scrabbling for a grip on anything at all, mane, saddle, reins. . . . A branch whipped my face and blinded me. Pandemonium reigned; there was screeching and bleating and a noise like tearing fabric and then something hit me hard and sent me flying into the darkness.
I wasn’t knocked out, but it didn’t make much difference. I was sprawled in a tangle of brush, struggling for breath, unable to move, and unable to see anything whatever beyond a few scattered stars in the sky overhead.
There was an ungodly racket going on some little distance away, in which a chorus of panicked goats figured largely, punctuated by what I took to be a woman’s screams. Two women’s screams.
I shook my head, confused. Then I flung myself over and started crawling, having belatedly recognized what was making that noise. I had heard panthers scream often enough—but always safely far in the distance. This one wasn’t far away at all. The tearing-fabric noise I’d heard had been the cough of a big cat, very close at hand.
I bumped into a large fallen log and promptly rolled under it, wedging myself as far into the small crevice there as possible. It wasn’t the best hiding place I’d ever seen, but might at least prevent anything leaping out of a tree onto me.
I could still hear Jamie shouting, though the tenor of his remarks had changed to a sort of hoarse fury. The goats had mostly quit yammering—surely the cat couldn’t have killed all of them? I couldn’t hear anything of Mrs. Beardsley, either, but the horses were making a dreadful fuss, squealing and stamping.
My heart was hammering against the leafy ground, and a cold sweat tingled along my jaw. There isn’t much for invoking raw terror like the primitive fear of being eaten, and my sympathies were entirely with the animals. There was a crashing in the brush near at hand, and Jamie shouting my name.
“Here,” I croaked, unwilling to move out of my refuge until I knew for certain where the panther was—or at least knew for certain that it wasn’t anywhere near me. The horses had stopped squealing, though they were still snorting and stamping, making enough noise to indicate that neither of them had either fallen prey to our visitor or run away.
“Here!” I called, a little louder.
More crashing, close at hand. Jamie stumbled through the darkness, crouched, and felt under the log until his hand encountered my arm, which he seized.
“Are ye all right, Sassenach?”
“I hadn’t thought to notice, but I think so,” I replied. I slid cautiously out from under my log, taking stock. Bruises here and there, abraded elbows, and a stinging sensation where the branch had slapped my cheek. Basically all right, then.
“Good. Come quick, he’s hurt.” He hauled me to my feet and started propelling me through the dark with a hand in the small of my back.
“Who?”
“The goat, of course.”
My eyes were well-adapted to the dark by now, and I made out the large shapes of Gideon and the mare, standing under a leafless poplar, manes and tails swishing with agitation. A smaller shape that I took to be Mrs. Beardsley was crouched nearby, over something on the ground.
I could smell blood, and a powerful reek of goat. I squatted and reached out, touching rough, warm hair. The goat jerked at my touch, with a loud “MEHeheh!” that reassured me somewhat. He might be hurt, but he wasn’t dying—at least not yet; the body under my hands was solid and vital, muscles tense.
“Where’s the cat?” I asked, locating the ridged hardness of the horns and feeling my way hastily backward along the spine, then down the ribs and flanks. The goat had objections, and heaved wildly under my hands.
“Gone,” Jamie said. He crouched down, too, and put a hand on the goat’s head. “There, now, a bhalaich. It’s all right, then. Seas, mo charaid.”
I could feel no open wound on the goat’s body, but I could certainly smell blood; a hot, metallic scent that disturbed the clean night air of the wood. The horses did, too; they whickered and moved uneasily in the dark.
“Are we fairly sure it’s gone?” I asked, trying to ignore the sensation of eyes fastened on the back of my neck. “I smell blood.”