THE BATTLE OF WYLIE’S LANDING
THE SOUND WAS CALM and flat, the surface barely ruffled by tiny wind-driven waves. And a bloody good thing, too, Roger thought, looking at his father-in-law. Jamie had his eyes open, at least, fixed on the shore with a sort of desperate intensity, as though the sight of solid land, however unreachable, might yet impart some comfort. Droplets of sweat gleamed on his upper lip, and his face was the same nacreous color as the dawn sky, but he hadn’t vomited yet.
Roger wasn’t seasick, but he felt nearly as ill as Jamie looked. Neither of them had eaten any breakfast, but he felt as though he’d swallowed a large mass of parritch, liberally garnished with carpet-tacks.
“That’s it.” Duff sat back on his oars, nodding toward the wharf ahead. It was cool on the water—almost cold at this hour—but the air was thick with moisture, and sweat ran down his face from his efforts. Peter sat silent on his own oars, dark face set in an expression indicating that he wanted nothing to do with this enterprise, and the sooner their unwelcome cargo disembarked, the better.
Wylie’s Landing seemed like a mirage, floating in a layer of mist above the water amid a thick growth of needlerush and cord grass. Marshland, clumps of stunted coastal forest, and broad stretches of open water surrounded it, under an overwhelming arch of pale gray sky. By comparison to the green enclosures of the mountains, it seemed uncomfortably exposed. At the same time, it was completely isolated, evidently miles from any other sign of human habitation.
That was in part illusion; Roger knew that the plantation house was no more than a mile from the landing, but it was hidden by a dense growth of scraggy-looking forest that sprang from the marshy ground like some misshapen, dwarfish Sherwood, thick with vines and brush.
The landing itself consisted of a short wooden dock on pilings, and a collection of ramshackle sheds adjoining it, weathered to a silver-gray that seemed about to disappear into the lowering sky. A small open boat was drawn up on the shore, hull upturned. A zigzag split-rail fence enclosed a small pen beyond the sheds; Wylie must ship livestock by water now and then.
Jamie touched the cartridge box that hung at his belt, either for reassurance, or perhaps only to insure that it was still dry. His eyes went to the sky, assessing, and Roger realized with a sudden qualm that if it rained, the guns might not be dependable. Black powder clumped in the damp; more than a trace of moisture and it wouldn’t fire at all. And the last thing he wanted was to find himself facing Stephen Bonnet with a useless gun.
He is a man, no more, he repeated silently to himself. Let Bonnet swell to supernatural proportions in his mind, and he was doomed. He groped for some reassuring image, and fastened on a memory of Stephen Bonnet, seated in the head of the Gloriana, breeches puddled round his bare feet, blond-stubbled jaw slack in the morning light, his eyes half-closed in the pleasure of taking a peaceful crap.
Shit, he thought. Think of Bonnet as a monster, and it became impossible; think of him as a man, and it was worse. And yet, it had to be done.
His palms were sweating; he rubbed them on his breeks, not even bothering to try to hide it. There was a dirk on his belt, along with the pair of pistols; the sword lay in the bottom of the boat, solid in its scabbard. He thought of John Grey’s letter, and Captain Marsden’s eyes, and tasted something bitter and metallic at the back of his throat.
At Jamie’s direction, the piretta drew slowly nearer the landing, everyone on board alert for any sign of life.
“No one lives here?” Jamie asked, low-voiced, leaning over Duff’s shoulder to scan the buildings. “No slaves?”
“No,” Duff said, grunting as he pulled. “Wylie doesna use the landing sae often these days, for he’s built a new road from his house—goes inland and joins wi’ the main road toward Edenton.”
Jamie gave Duff a cynical glance.
“And if Wylie doesna use it, there are others who do, aye?”
Roger could see that the landing was well situated for casual smuggling; out of sight from the landward side, but easily accessible from the Sound. What he had at first taken for an island to their right was in fact a maze of sandbars, separating the channel that led to Wylie’s Landing from the main sound. He could see at least four smaller channels leading into the sandbanks, two of them wide enough to accommodate a good-sized ketch.
Duff chuckled under his breath.
“There’s a wee shell-road as leads to the house, man,” he said. “If anyone should come that way, ye’ll have fair warnin’.”
Peter stirred restively, jerking his head toward the sandbars.
“Tide,” he muttered.
“Oh, aye. Ye’ll no have long to wait—or ye will, depending.” Duff grinned, evidently thinking this funny.
“Why?” Jamie said gruffly, not sharing the amusement. He was looking somewhat better, now that escape was at hand, but was obviously in no mood yet for jocularity.
“The tide’s comin’ in.” Duff stopped rowing and leaned on his oars long enough to remove his disreputable cap and wipe his balding brow. He waved the cap at the sandbars, where a crowd of small shorebirds were running up and down in evident dementia.
“When the tide’s out, the channel’s too shallow to float a ketch. In two hours”—he squinted at the glow in the east that marked the sun’s rising, and nodded to himself—“or a bit more, they can come in. If they’re waitin’ out there now, they’ll come in at once, so as to finish the job and get off again before the tide turns. But if they’ve not come yet, they’ll maybe need to wait for the evening surge. It’s a chancy job, to risk the channels by night—but Bonnet’s no the lad to be put off by a bit o’ darkness. Still, if he’s in nay rush, he might well delay ’til next morning. Aye, ye might have a bit of a wait.”
Roger realized he had been holding his breath. He let it out and drew a deep, slow breath, smelling of salt and pines, with a faint stink of dead shellfish. So it would be soon—or perhaps not until after nightfall, or not until the next day’s dawn. He hoped it would be soon—and hoped at the same time that it wouldn’t.
The piretta slid in close to the wharf, and Duff thrust out an oar against one of the barnacle-crusted pilings, swinging the tiny boat deftly alongside. Jamie hoisted himself up onto the dock with alacrity, eager to reach dry land. Roger handed up the swords and the small bundle that contained their canteens and spare powder, then followed. He knelt on the dock, all his senses alert for the slightest sound of human movement, but heard nothing but the liquid singing of blackbirds in the marsh and the cry of gulls on the Sound.
Jamie rummaged in his pouch and pulled out a small purse, which he tossed down to Duff, with a nod. No more need be said; this was a token payment. The rest would be paid when Duff returned for them, in two days.
Jamie had waited to the last possible moment to make the arrangements, ensuring that Bonnet at least would be unreachable until after the meeting—the ambush—had taken place. If it was successful, Jamie would pay the rest of the money agreed; if it was not—Claire would pay.
He had a vision of Claire’s face, pale and drawn, nodding in stiff-lipped agreement as Jamie explained the arrangements to Duff. Her eyes had flicked to Duff, then, with the fierce yellow ruthlessness of a hawk about to eviscerate a rat, and he had seen Duff flinch at the implicit threat. He hid a smile at the memory. If friendship and money were insufficient to keep Duff’s mouth shut, perhaps fear of the White Lady would suffice.
They stood silently together on the dock, watching the piretta pull slowly away. The knot in Roger’s stomach tightened. He would have prayed, but could not. He couldn’t ask help for such a thing as he meant now to do—not from God or Michael the archangel; not from the Reverend or his parents. Only from Jamie Fraser.
He wondered now and then how many men Fraser had killed—if he counted. If he knew. It was a different thing, of course, to kill a man in battle or in self-defense, than to lie in ambush for him, planning murder in cold blood. Still, surely it would be easier for Fraser, what they meant to do.
He glanced at Fraser, and saw him watching the boat pull away. He stood still as stone, and Roger saw that his eyes were fixed somewhere far beyond the boat, beyond the sky and water—looking on some evil thing, not blinking. Fraser took a deep breath and swallowed hard. No, it wouldn’t be easier for him.
Somehow, that seemed a comfort.
THEY EXPLORED ALL the sheds briefly, finding nothing but scattered rubbish: broken packing crates, heaps of moldy straw, a few gnawed bones left by dogs or slaves. One or two of the sheds had evidently once been used as living quarters, but not recently. Some animal had built a large, untidy nest against the wall of one shed; when Jamie prodded it with a stick, a plump gray rodent-like thing shot out, ran between Roger’s feet, and sailed off the dock into the water with an unnerving splash.
They took up quarters in the largest shed, which was built on the wharf itself, and settled down to wait. More or less.
The plan was simplicity itself; shoot Bonnet the instant he appeared. Unless it rained, in which case it would be necessary to employ swords or knives. Stated like that, the procedure sounded altogether straightforward. Roger’s imagination, though, was unable to leave it at that.
“Walk about if ye like,” Jamie said, after a quarter-hour of watching Roger fidget. “We’ll hear him come.” He himself sat tranquil as a frog on a lily pad, methodically checking the assortment of weapons laid out before him.
“Mmphm. What if he doesna come alone?”
Jamie shrugged, eyes fixed on the flint of the pistol in his hand. He wiggled it to be sure it was firmly seated, then set the gun down.
“Then he does not. If there are men with him, we must separate him from them. I shall take him into one of the small sheds, on pretext of private conversation, and dispatch him there. You keep anyone from following; I shallna require more than a minute.”
“Oh, aye? And then ye come strolling out and inform his men ye’ve just done for their captain, and then what?” Roger demanded.
Jamie rubbed a hand down the bridge of his nose, and shrugged again.
“He’ll be dead. D’ye think he’s the man to inspire such loyalty as would make his men seek vengeance for him?”
“Well . . . no,” Roger said slowly. “Perhaps not.” Bonnet was the type to inspire hard work from his men, but it was labor based on fear and the hope of profit, not love.
“I have discovered a good deal regarding Mr. Bonnet,” Jamie observed, laying down the pistol. “He has regular associates, aye, but he doesna have particular friends. He doesna sail always with the same mate, the same crew—which sea captains often do when they find a few men who suit them well. Bonnet picks his crews as chance provides, and he chooses them for strength or skill—not for liking. That being so, I wouldna expect to find any great liking for him among them.”
Roger nodded, acknowledging the truth of this observation. Bonnet had run a tight ship on the Gloriana, but there had been no sense of camaraderie, even with his mate and bosun. And it was true, what Jamie said; everything they had learned suggested that Bonnet picked up assistants as he required them; if he brought men with him to this rendezvous, they were unlikely to be a devoted lieutenant and crew—more likely sailors picked at random off the docks.
“All right. But if—when—we kill him, any men with him—”
“Will be in need of new employment,” Jamie interrupted. “Nay, so long as we take care not to fire upon them, or give them reason to think we threaten them, I dinna think they’ll trouble owermuch about Bonnet’s fate. Still—” He picked up his sword, frowning slightly, and slid it in and out of the scabbard, to be sure it moved easily.
“I think if that should be the situation, then I will take Bonnet aside, as I said. Give me a minute to deal with him, then make some excuse and come as though to fetch me. Dinna stop, though; go straight through the sheds, and head for the trees. I’ll come and meet ye there.”
Roger eyed Jamie skeptically. Christ, the man made it sound like a Sunday outing—a turn by the river, and we’ll meet in the park, I’ll bring ham sandwiches and you fetch the tea.
He cleared his throat, cleared it again, and picked up one of his own pistols. The feel of it was cool and solid in his hand, a reassuring weight.
“Aye, then. Just the one thing. I’ll take Bonnet.”
Fraser glanced sharply at him. He kept his own eyes steady, listening to the pulse that had begun to hammer hard inside his ears.
He saw Fraser start to speak, then stop. The man stared thoughtfully at him, and he could hear the arguments, hammering on his inner ear with his pulse, as plainly as if they’d been spoken aloud.
You have never killed a man, nor even fought in battle. You are no marksman, and only half-decent with a sword. Worse, you are afraid of the man. And if you try and fail . . .
“I know,” he said aloud, to Fraser’s deep blue stare. “He’s mine. I’ll take him. Brianna’s your daughter, aye—but she’s my wife.”
Fraser blinked and looked away. He drummed his fingers on his knee for a moment, then stopped, drawing breath in a deep sigh. He drew himself slowly upright and turned toward Roger once again, eyes straight.
“It is your right,” he said, formally. “So, then. Dinna hesitate; dinna challenge him. Kill him the instant ye have the chance.” He paused for a moment, then spoke again, eyes steady on Roger’s. “If ye fall, though—know I will avenge you.”
The nail-studded mass in his belly seemed to have moved upward, sticking in his throat. He coughed to shift it, and swallowed.
“Great,” he said. “And if you fall, I’ll avenge you. A bargain, is it?”
Fraser didn’t laugh, and in that moment, Roger understood why men would follow him anywhere, to do anything. He only looked at Roger for a long moment, and then nodded.
“A rare bargain,” he said softly. “Thank you.” Taking the dirk from his belt, he began to polish it.
THEY HAD NO timepiece, but they didn’t need one. Even with the sky shrouded in low-lying clouds and the sun invisible, it was possible to feel the creep of minutes, the gradual shift of the earth as the rhythms of the day changed. Birds that had sung at dawn ceased singing, and the ones who hunted in morning began. The sound of water lapping against the pilings changed in tone, as the rising tide echoed in the space beneath the wharf.
The time of high tide came and passed; the echo beneath the wharf began to grow hollow, as the water started to drop. The pulse in Roger’s ears began to slacken, along with the knots in his gut.
Then something struck the dock, and the vibration juddered through the floor of the shed.
Jamie was up in an instant, two pistols through his belt, another in his hand. He cocked his head at Roger, then disappeared through the door.
Roger jammed his own pistols securely in his belt, touched the hilt of his dirk for reassurance, and followed. He caught a quick glimpse of the boat, the dark wood of its rail just showing above the edge of the wharf, and then was inside the smaller shed to the right. Jamie was nowhere in sight; he’d got to his own post, then, to the left.
He pressed himself against the wall, peering out through the slit afforded between hinge and door. The boat was drifting slowly along the edge of the dock, not yet secured. He could see just a bit of the stern; the rest was out of sight. No matter; he couldn’t fire until Bonnet appeared on the wharf.
He wiped his palm on his breeks and drew the better of his two pistols, checking for the thousandth time that priming and flint were in order. The metal of the gun smelled sharp and oily, in his hand.
The air was damp; his clothes stuck to him. Would the powder fire? He touched the dirk, for the ten-thousandth time, running through Fraser’s instructions on killing with a knife. Hand on his shoulder, drive it up beneath the breastbone, hard. From behind, the kidney, up from under. God, could he do it face to face? Yes. He hoped it would be face to face. He wanted to see—
A coil of rope hit the dock; he heard the heavy thump, and then the scramble and thud of someone springing over the rail to tie up. A rustle and a grunt of effort, a pause . . . He closed his eyes, trying to hear through the thunder of his heart. Steps. Slow, but not furtive. Coming toward him.
The door stood half-ajar. He stepped silently to the edge of it, listening. Waiting. A shadow, dim in the cloudy light, fell through the door. The man stepped in.
He lunged out from behind the door and flung himself bodily at the man, knocking him back into the wall with a hollow thud. The man whooped in surprise at the impact, and the sound of the cry stopped him just as he got his hands round a distinctly unmasculine throat.
“Shit!” he said. “I mean, I—I—I beg your pardon, ma’am.”
She was pressed against the wall, all his weight on her, and he was well aware that the rest of her was unmasculine, too. Blood, hot in his cheeks, he released her and stepped back, breathing heavily.
She shook herself like a dog, straightening her garments, and tenderly touching the back of her head where it had struck the wall.
“I’m sorry,” he said, feeling both shocked and a complete prat. “I didn’t mean— Are you hurt?”
The girl was as tall as Brianna, but more solidly built, with dark brown hair and a handsome face, broad-boned and deep-eyed. She grinned at Roger and said something incomprehensible, strongly scented with onions. She looked him up and down in a bold sort of way, then, evidently approving, put her hands under her breasts in a gesture of unmistakable invitation, jerking her head toward a corner of the shed, where mounds of damp straw gave off a fecund scent of not-unpleasant decay.
“Ahhh . . .” Roger said. “No. I’m afraid you’re mistaken—no, don’t touch that. No. Non! Nein!” He fumbled with her hands, which seemed determined to unfasten his belt. She said something else in the unfamiliar tongue. He didn’t understand a word, but he got the sense of it well enough.
“No, I’m a married man. Would ye stop!”
She laughed, gave him a flashing glance from under long black lashes, and renewed her assault on his person.
He would have been convinced he was hallucinating, were it not for the smell. Engaged at close quarters, he realized that onions were the least of it. She wasn’t filthy to look at, but had the deep-seated reek of someone just off a long sea voyage; he recognized that smell at once. Beyond that, though, the unmistakable scent of pigs wafted from her skirts.
“Excusez-moi, mademoiselle.” Jamie’s voice came from somewhere behind him, sounding rather startled. The girl was startled, too, though not frightened. She let go of his balls, though, allowing him to step back.
Jamie had a pistol drawn, though he held it by his side. He raised one eyebrow at Roger.
“Who’s this, then?”
“How in hell should I know?” Struggling for composure, Roger shook himself back into some kind of order. “I thought she was Bonnet or one of his men, but evidently not.”
“Evidently.” Fraser seemed disposed to find something humorous in the situation; a muscle near his mouth was twitching fiercely. “Qui êtes-vous, mademoiselle?” he asked the girl.
She frowned at him, clearly not understanding, and said something in the odd language again. Both Jamie’s brows rose at that.
“What’s she speaking?” Roger asked.
“I’ve no idea.” His look of amusement tinged with wariness, Jamie turned toward the door, raising his pistol. “Watch her, aye? She’ll no be alone.”
This was clear; there were voices on the wharf. A man’s voice, and another woman. Roger exchanged baffled glances with Jamie. No, the voice was neither Bonnet’s nor Lyon’s—and what in God’s name were all these women doing here?
The voices were coming closer, though, and the girl suddenly called out something in her own language. It didn’t sound like a warning, but Jamie quickly flattened himself beside the door, pistol at the ready and his other hand on his dirk.
The narrow door darkened almost completely, and a dark, shaggy head thrust into the shed. Jamie stepped forward and shoved his pistol up under the chin of a very large, very surprised-looking man. Seizing the man by the collar, Jamie stepped backward, drawing him into the shed.
The man was followed almost at once by a woman whose tall, solid build and handsome face identified her at once as the girl’s mother. The woman was blond, though, while the man—the girl’s father?—was as dark as the bear he strongly resembled. He was nearly as tall as Jamie, but almost twice as broad, massive through the chest and shoulders, and heavily bearded.
None of them appeared to be at all alarmed. The man looked surprised, the woman affronted. The girl laughed heartily, pointing at Jamie, then at Roger.
“I begin to feel rather foolish,” Jamie said to Roger. Removing the pistol, he stepped back warily. “Wer seid Ihr?” he said.
“I don’t think they’re German,” Roger said. “She”—he jerked a thumb at the girl, who was now eyeing Jamie in an appraising sort of way, as though sizing up his potential for sport in the straw—“didna seem to understand either French or German, though perhaps she was pretending.”
The man had been frowning, glancing from Jamie to Roger in an attempt to make out what they were saying. At the word “French,” though, he seemed to brighten.
“Comment ça va?” he said, in the most execrable accent Roger had ever heard.
“Parlez-vous Francais?” Jamie said, still eyeing the man cautiously.
The giant smiled and put a callused thumb and forefinger an inch apart.
“Un peu.”
A very little peu, as they shortly discovered. The man had roughly a dozen words of French, just about enough to introduce himself as one Mikhail Chemodurow, his wife Iva, and his daughter, Karina.
“Rooshki,” Chemodurow said, slapping a hand across his beefy chest.
“Russians?” Roger stared at them, flabbergasted, though Jamie seemed fascinated.
“I’ve never met a Russian before,” he said. “What in Christ’s name are they doing here, though?”
With some difficulty, this question was conveyed to Mr. Chemodurow, who beamed and flung a massive arm out, pointing toward the wharf.
“Les cochons,” he said. “Pour le Monsieur Wylie.” He looked expectantly at Jamie. “Monsieur Wylie?”
Given the eye-watering aroma rising off all three of the Russians, the mention of pigs came as no great surprise. The connection between Russian swineherds and Phillip Wylie was somewhat less obvious. Before the question could be gone into, though, there was a loud thump outside, and a grinding noise, as though some large wooden object had struck the dock. This was succeeded immediately by a piercing chorus of bellows and squeals—mostly porcine, but some of them human—and female.
Chemodurow moved with amazing speed for his size, though Jamie and Roger were on his heels as he shot through the door of the shed.
Roger had barely time to see that there were two boats now tied up at the wharf; the Russian’s small bark, and a smaller open boat. Several men, bristling with knives and pistols, were swarming out of the smaller boat onto the dock.
Seeing this, Jamie dived to one side, disappearing out of sight round the edge of a smaller shed. Roger grabbed his pistol, but hesitated, not sure whether to fire or run. Hesitated a moment too long. A musket jammed up under his ribs, knocking out his breath, and hands snatched at his belt, taking pistols and dirk.
“Don’t move, mate,” the man holding the musket said. “Twitch, and I’ll blow your liver out through your backbone.”
He spoke with no particular animus, but sufficient sincerity that Roger wasn’t inclined to test it. He stood still, hands half-raised, watching.
Chemodurow had waded into the invaders without hesitation, laying about him with hands like hams. One man was in the water, evidently having been knocked off the wharf, and the Russian had another in his grip, throttling him with brutal efficiency. He ignored all shouts, threats, and blows, his concentration fixed on the man he was killing.
Screams rent the air; Iva and Karina had rushed toward their boat, where two of the invaders had appeared on deck, each clutching a slightly smaller version of Karina. One of the men pointed a pistol at the Russian women. He appeared to pull the trigger; Roger saw a spark, and a small puff of smoke, but the gun failed to fire. The women didn’t hesitate, but charged him, shrieking. Panicking, he dropped the gun and the girl he was holding, and jumped into the water.
A sickening thud wrenched Roger’s attention from this byplay. One of the men, a short, squat figure, had clubbed Chemodurow over the head with the butt of a gun. The Russian blinked, nodded, and his grip on his victim loosened slightly. His assailant grimaced, took a tighter hold on the gun, and smashed him again. The Russian’s eyes rolled up into his head and he dropped to the dock, shaking the boards with the impact.
Roger had been looking from man to man, searching urgently amid the melee for Stephen Bonnet. Look as he might, though, there was no trace of the Gloriana’s erstwhile captain.
What was wrong? Bonnet was no coward, and he was a natural fighter. It wasn’t thinkable that he would send men in, and hang back himself. Roger looked again, counting heads, trying to keep track of men, but the conclusion became stronger, as the chaos quickly died down. Stephen Bonnet wasn’t there.
Roger hadn’t time to decide whether he was disappointed or relieved by this discovery. The man who had clubbed Chemodurow turned toward him at this point, and he recognized David Anstruther, the sheriff of Orange County. Anstruther recognized him, too—he saw the man’s eyes narrow—but didn’t seem surprised to see him.
The fight—such as it was—was wrapping up quickly. The four Russian women had all been rounded up and pushed into the largest shed, amid much screaming and shouting of curses, and the fallen Chemodurow was dragged in as well, leaving a disquieting smear of blood along the boards in his wake.
At this point, a pair of well-kept hands appeared on the edge of the dock, and a tall, elegantly lean man pulled himself up from the boat. Roger had no difficulty in recognizing Mr. Lillywhite, one of the Orange County magistrates, even without his wig and bottle-green coat.
Lillywhite had dressed for the occasion in plain black broadcloth, though his linen was as fine as ever and he had a gentleman’s sword at his side. He made his way across the dock, in no great hurry, observing the disposition of matters as he went. Roger saw his mouth tighten fastidiously at sight of the trail of blood.
Lillywhite gestured to the man holding Roger, and at last, the bruising pressure of the gun-muzzle eased, allowing him to draw a deep breath.
“Mr. MacKenzie, is it not?” Lillywhite asked pleasantly. “And where is Mr. Fraser?”
He’d been expecting that question, and had had time to contemplate the answer.
“In Wilmington,” he said, matching Lillywhite’s pleasant tone. “You’re rather far afield yourself, are ye not, sir?”
Lillywhite’s nostrils pinched momentarily, as though smelling something bad—which he certainly was, though Roger doubted the reek of pigs was causing his disedification.
“Do not trifle with me, sir,” the magistrate said curtly.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Roger assured him, keeping an eye on the fellow with the musket, who seemed disposed to resume jabbing. “Though if we’re asking that sort of question—where’s Stephen Bonnet?”
Lillywhite gave a brief laugh, a sort of wintry amusement coming into his pale gray eyes.
“In Wilmington.”
Anstruther appeared at the magistrate’s elbow, squat and sweaty. He gave Roger a nod and an ugly grin.
“MacKenzie. Nice to see you again. Where’s your father-in-law, and more important—where’s the whisky?”
Lillywhite frowned at the sheriff.
“You haven’t found it? Have you searched the sheds?”
“Aye, we looked. Nothing there but bits of rubbish.” He rocked up onto his toes, menacing. “So, MacKenzie, where’d you hide it?”
“I haven’t hidden anything,” Roger replied equably. “There isn’t any whisky.” He was beginning to relax a little. Wherever Stephen Bonnet was, he wasn’t here. He didn’t expect them to be pleased at discovering that the whisky was a ruse, but—
The Sheriff hit him in the pit of the stomach. He doubled up, his vision went dark, and he struggled vainly to breathe, fighting a flash of panic as he relived his hanging, the black, the lack of air . . .
Bright floating spots appeared at the edges of his vision, and he drew breath, gasping. He was sitting on the dock, legs splayed out before him, the Sheriff clutching a handful of his hair.
“Try again,” Anstruther advised him, shaking him roughly by the hair. The pain was irritating, rather than discomfiting, and he swiped a fist at the Sheriff, catching him a solid blow on the thigh. The man yelped and let go, hopping backward.
“Did you look on the other boat?” Lillywhite demanded, ignoring the Sheriff’s discomfort. Anstruther glowered at Roger, rubbing his thigh, but shook his head in answer.
“Nothing there but pigs and girls. And where in fuck’s name did they come from?” he demanded.
“Russia.” Roger coughed, clenched his teeth against the resulting burst of pain, and got slowly to his feet, holding an arm across his middle to keep his guts from spilling out. The Sheriff doubled a fist in anticipation, but Lillywhite made a quelling gesture toward him. He looked incredulously at Roger.
“Russia? What have they to do with this business?”
“Nothing, so far as I know. They arrived soon after I did.”
The magistrate grunted, looking displeased. He frowned for a moment, thinking, then decided to try another tack.
“Fraser had an arrangement with Milford Lyon. I have now assumed Mr. Lyon’s part of the agreement. It is altogether proper for you to deliver the whisky to me,” he said, attempting to infuse a note of businesslike politeness into his voice.
“Mr. Fraser has made other arrangements,” Roger said, with equal politeness. “He sent me to say as much to Mr. Lyon.”
That seemed to take Lillywhite aback. He pursed his lips, and worked them in and out, staring hard at Roger, as though to estimate his truthfulness. Roger stared blandly back, hoping that Jamie wouldn’t reappear inopportunely and put paid to his story.
“How did you get here?” Lillywhite demanded abruptly. “If you did not travel on that boat?”
“I came overland from Edenton.” Blessing Duff for the information, he waved casually over his shoulder. “There’s a shell road back there.”
The two of them stared at him, but he stared back, undaunted.
“Something smells fishy, and it isn’t the marsh.” Anstruther sniffed loudly in illustration, then coughed and snorted. “Phew! What a stink.”
Lillywhite disregarded this, but went on looking at Roger with a narrowed eye.
“I think perhaps I must inconvenience you for a little longer, Mr. MacKenzie,” he said, and turned to the Sheriff. “Put him in with the Russians—if that’s what they are.”
Anstruther accepted this commission with alacrity, prodding Roger in the buttocks with the muzzle of his musket as he forced him toward the shed where the Russians were imprisoned. Roger gritted his teeth and ignored it, wondering how high the Sheriff might bounce, if picked up and slammed down on the boards of the dock.
The Russians were all clustered in the corner of the shed, the women tending solicitously to their wounded husband and father, but they all looked up at Roger’s entrance, with a babble of incomprehensible greetings and questions. He gave them as much of a smile as he could manage, and waved them back, pressing his ear to the wall of the shed in order to hear what Lillywhite and company were up to now.
He had hoped they would simply accept his story and depart—and they might still do that, once they satisfied themselves that there really was no whisky hidden anywhere near the landing. Another possibility had occurred to him, though; one that was making him increasingly uneasy.
It was clear enough from the behavior of the men that they had intended to take the whisky by force—if there had been any. And the way Lillywhite had held back, concealing himself . . . it wouldn’t do, obviously, for a county magistrate to be revealed as having connections with smugglers and pirates.
As it was, since there was no whisky, Roger could report no actual wrong-doing on Lillywhite’s part—it was illegal to deal in contraband, of course, but such arrangements were so common on the coast that the mere rumor of it wasn’t likely to damage Lillywhite’s reputation in his own inland county. On the other hand, Roger was alone—or Lillywhite thought he was.
There was clearly some connection between Lillywhite and Stephen Bonnet—and if Roger and Jamie Fraser began to ask questions, chances were good that it would come to light. Was whatever Lillywhite was engaged in sufficiently dangerous that he might think it worth killing Roger to prevent his talking? He had the uneasy feeling that Lillywhite and Anstruther might well come to that conclusion.
They could simply take him into the marsh, kill him and sink his body, then return to their companions, announcing that he had gone back to Edenton. Even if someone eventually traced the members of Lillywhite’s gang, and if they could be persuaded to talk—both matters of low probability—nothing could be proved.
There was a lot of thumping and banging outside, gradually succeeded by more distant calling, as the sheds were re-searched, and the search then spread to the nearby marsh.
It occurred to Roger that Lillywhite and Anstruther might well have intended to kill him and Jamie after taking the whisky. In which case, there was still less to prevent them doing it now; they would be already prepared for it. As for the Russians—would they harm them? He hoped not, but there was no telling.
A light pattering rang on the tin roof of the shed; it was beginning to rain. Fine, if their powder got wet, they wouldn’t shoot him; they’d have to cut his throat. He went from hoping that Jamie wouldn’t show up too soon, to hoping fervently that he wouldn’t show up too late. As to what he might do if and when he did show up . . .
The swords. Were the swords still where they had left them, in the corner of the shed? The rain had grown too loud for him to hear anything outside, anyway; he abandoned his listening post and went to look.
The Russians all looked up at him with mingled expressions of wariness and concern. He smiled and nodded, making little shooing gestures to get them out of the way. Yes, the swords were still there—that was something, and he felt a small surge of hope.
Chemodurow was conscious; he said something in a slurred voice, and Karina got up at once and came to stand by Roger. She patted him gently on the arm, then took one of the swords from him. She drew it from its scabbard with a ringing whoosh that made them all jump, then laugh nervously. She wrapped her hands round the hilt and held it over her shoulder, like a baseball bat. She marched over to the door and took up her station beside it, scowling fiercely.
“Great,” Roger said, and gave her a broad smile of approval. “Anyone pokes his head in, take it off, aye?” He mimed a chopping motion with the side of his hand, and the Russians all made loud growling sounds of enthusiastic support. One of the younger girls reached for the other sword, but he smiled and indicated that he would keep it, thanks anyway.
To his surprise, she shook her head, saying something in Russian. He raised his eyebrows and shook his head helplessly. She tugged on his arm, and made him come with her, back toward the corner.
They had been busy during the brief period of their captivity. They had moved aside the rubbish, made a comfortable pallet for the injured man—and uncovered the large trapdoor installed in the floor, meant to be used by boats coming under the wharf at low tide, so that cargo could be handed directly up into the shed, rather than unloaded onto the dock.
The tide was going out now; it was a drop of more than six feet to the water’s dark surface. He stripped to his breeks and hung by his hands from the edge of the trapdoor before dropping in feetfirst, not wanting to risk a dive into what might be dangerous shallows.
The water was higher than his head, though; he sank in a shower of silver bubbles, then his feet touched the sandy bottom and he launched himself upward, breaking the surface with a whoosh of air. He waved reassuringly at the circle of Russian faces peering down at him through the trapdoor, then struck out for the far end of the wharf.
FROM HIS PERCH ON the roof of the shed, Jamie assessed the magistrate’s way of moving, and the manner in which he fondled the weapon. Lillywhite turned away, his hand nervously caressing the hilt of his sword. A long reach, and a good bearing; quick, too, if a little jerky. To wear a sword under these circumstances suggested both a habit of familiarity with the weapon and a fondness for it.
He couldn’t see Anstruther, who had pressed himself back against the wall of the shed, under the overhang of the roof, but he was less concerned with the Sheriff. A brawler, that one, and short in the arm.
“I say we kill them all. Only way to be safe.”
There was a grunt of dubious assent from Lillywhite.
“That may be—but the men? We do not wish to put our fate in the hands of witnesses who may talk. We could have dealt with Fraser and MacKenzie safely out of sight—but so many . . . perhaps we may leave these Russians; they are foreigners and seem not to speak any English. . . .”
“Aye, and how did they come here, I’d like to know? I’ll warrant they wasn’t caught up in a waterspout and set down here by accident. Someone knows about ’em, someone will come looking for ’em—and whoever that someone is, he’s got some means to talk to ’em, I’ll be bound. They’ve seen too much already—and if you mean to go on using this place . . .”
The rain was still light, but coming down steadily. Jamie turned his head to wipe the moisture out of his eyes against his shoulder. He was lying flat, arms and legs outspread like a frog’s to keep from sliding down the pitch of the tin roof. He didn’t dare to move, just yet. The rain was whispering out on the Sound, though, puckering the water like drawn silk, and making a faint ringing noise on the metal around him. Let it rain just that wee bit harder, and it would cover any noise he made.
He shifted his weight a little, feeling the press of the dirk, hard under his hipbone. The pistols lay beside him on the roof, likely useless in the rain. The dirk was his only real weapon at the moment, and one much better suited to surprise than to a frontal attack.
“. . . send the men back with the boat. We can go by the road, after . . .”
They were still talking, low-voiced, but he could tell that the decision had been made; Lillywhite only needed to convince himself that it was a matter of necessity, and that wouldn’t take long. They’d send the men away first, though; the magistrate was right to be afraid of witnesses.
He blinked water out of his eyes and glanced toward the larger shed, where Roger Mac and the Russians were. The sheds were close together; the gaps between the staggered tin roofs no more than three or four feet. There was one shed between him and the larger one. Well, then.
He would take advantage of the men leaving to move across the roofs, and trust to luck and the rain to prevent Lillywhite or Anstruther from looking up. Crouch above the door to the shed, and when they came to do the deed, wait just until they’d got the door open, then drop on the magistrate from above and hope to break his neck or at least disable him at once. Roger Mac could be depended on to rush out and help deal with the Sheriff, then.
It was the best plan he could contrive under the circumstances, and not a bad one, he thought. If he didn’t slip and break his own neck, of course. Or a leg. He flexed his left leg, feeling the slight stiffness of the muscles in his calf. It was healed, but there was no denying the slight weakness remaining. He could manage well enough, walking, but jumping across rooftops . . .
“Aye, well, needs must when the Devil drives,” he muttered. If it came to smash and he ruined the leg again, he’d better hope the Sheriff killed him, because Claire surely would.
The thought made him smile, but he couldn’t think about her now. Later, when it was finished. His shirt was soaked through, stuck to his shoulders, and the rain was chiming off the tin roofs like a chorus of fairy-bells. Squirming cautiously backward, he got his knees under him and rose to a crouch, ready to drop flat again if anyone was looking up.
No one was on the dock. There were four men besides Lillywhite and the Sheriff; all of them were out in the soft ground to the south of the landing, poking through the waist-high grass in a desultory fashion. He took a deep breath and got his feet slowly under him. As he swiveled round, though, he caught a flicker of movement from the corner of his eye, and froze.
Holy Christ, there were men coming out of the wood. For an instant, he thought it was more of Lillywhite’s doing, and then he realized that the men were black. All but one.
Les Cochons, the Russian had said. Pour le Monsieur Wylie. And here was Monsieur Wylie, coming with his slaves to collect his pigs!
He lay down on his belly again and squirmed over the wet metal, eeling toward the back of the shed roof. It was open to question, he thought, whether Wylie would be better disposed to help him or to run him through himself—but he did suppose the man had some stake in preserving his Russians.
THE WATER WAS COLD, but not numbing, and the pull of the tidal current wasn’t great yet. Still, the injury to his throat and the searing of the canebrake fire had left him much shorter of breath than he used to be, and Roger found himself obliged to bob to the surface and gasp for air with every three or four strokes.
Ruby lips, above the water, he sang ironically to himself, blowing bubb-les soft and fine . . . He drew in a gulp of air, and trod water, listening. He had headed toward the south side of the landing first, but had heard voices above, and so reversed direction. He was just under the north edge of the wharf now, hidden in the deep shadow by the Russians’ boat.
The smell of pigs was overwhelming, and he could hear muffled thumps and grunts from the hold, coming through the wood beside him. Christ, had they sailed that tiny craft all the way from Russia? It looked it; the wood was battered and dented.
No sound of voices nearby. It was raining hard, shushing into the Sound; that would help cover any racket he made. Ready, steady, go, then. He took a great lungful of air and launched himself into the rainy light beyond the landing.
He swam desperately, trying not to splash, expecting a musket ball between the shoulder blades every moment. He blundered into the weeds, felt the grasp and slash of sawgrass on arm and leg, rolled half-over, gasping, salt burning in the cuts, and then was on his hands and knees, crawling through the growth of marsh plants, black needlerushes waving over his head, rain pounding on his back, the water lapping just below his chin.
He stopped at last, chest heaving with the need for air, and wondered what in hell to do next. It was good to be out of the shed, but he hadn’t a plan for what happened now. Find Jamie, he supposed—if he could, without being caught again.
As though the thought had drawn attention to him, he heard the slosh and swish of someone walking slowly through the marsh nearby. Searching. He froze, hoping the rain would cover the sound of his breath, loud and rasping in his ears.
Closer. Damn, they were coming closer. He fumbled at his belt, but he had lost the dirk, somewhere in his swimming. He got one knee up under his chin, braced himself to spring and run.
The grass above him swept suddenly away, and he leaped to his feet, just in time to avoid the spear that sliced into the water where he’d lain.
The spear quivered in front of him, six inches from his face. On the other side of it, a black man gaped at him, eyes saucered in amazement. The Negro closed his mouth, blinked at him, and spoke in tones of deepest accusation.
“You ain’t no possum!”
“No,” said Roger, mildly. “I’m not.” He brushed a trembling hand down his chest, assuring himself that his heart was still inside it. “Sorry.”
PHILLIP WYLIE LOOKED a great deal different at home, Roger thought, than he did in society. Attired for pig-catching in loose breeks and a farmer’s smock, damp with rain, and minus any trace of wig, paint, powder, or patches, he was still elegantly slender, but looked quite normal, and reasonably competent. He also looked somewhat more intelligent, though his mouth did tend to keep dropping open, and he did insist on breaking into Jamie’s account with questions and expostulations.
“Lillywhite? Randall Lillywhite? But what can he—”
“Concentrate, man,” Jamie said impatiently. “I’m telling ye now, and I’ll tell ye more later, but he and yon sheriff are like to be carving up your Russians like a set of Christmas hams, and we dinna go and tend to the matter this minute.”
Wylie glared at Jamie, then looked suspiciously at Roger, who was standing under the cover of the forest, half-naked, soaking wet, and covered with blood-streaked mud.
“He’s right,” Roger croaked, then coughed, cleared his throat, and repeated it, more firmly. “He’s right; there’s not much time.”
Wylie’s lips compressed into a thin line, and he exhaled strongly through his nose. He looked round at his slaves, as though counting them; a half-dozen men, all carrying stout sticks. One or two had cane-knives at their belts. Wylie nodded, making up his mind.
“Come on, then.”
Avoiding the telltale crunching of the shell-road, they made slow but steady progress through the marsh.
“Why pigs?” He heard Jamie ask curiously, as he and Wylie forged ahead of the group.
“Not pigs,” Wylie replied. “Russian boars. For sport.” He spoke rather proudly, swishing his own stick through the thick grass. “Everyone says that of all game, the Russian boar is the fiercest and most wily opponent. I propose to release them in the woods on my property and allow them to breed.”
“Ye mean to hunt them?” Jamie sounded mildly incredulous. “Have ye ever hunted a boar?”
Roger saw Wylie’s shoulders stiffen under his damp smock at the question. The rain had slackened, but was still coming down.
“No,” he said. “Not yet. Have you?”
“Yes,” Jamie said, but wisely didn’t amplify the answer.
As they drew near the landing, Roger caught a glimpse of movement beyond. The smaller boat was pulling away.
“They’ve given up looking for me or the whisky, and sent their men away.” Jamie wiped a hand down his face, slicking the rain off. “What say ye, Wylie? There’s no time to lose. The Russians are in the main shed, on the wharf.”
Once decided, Wylie was no ditherer.
“Storm the place,” he said shortly.
He waved a hand, beckoning his slaves to follow, and headed for the landing at a trot. The whole party swerved onto the shell-road, thundering toward the wharf with a noise like an avalanche. That ought to give Lillywhite and Anstruther pause in their murdering, Roger thought. They sounded like an approaching army.
Barefoot, Roger kept to the marshy ground, and was in consequence slower than the rest. He saw a startled face peer out between the sheds, and quickly withdraw.
Jamie saw it too, and gave one of his wild Highland cries. Wylie jerked, startled, but then joined in, bellowing “Get out of it, you bastards!” Thus encouraged, the Negroes all began shouting and bellowing, waving their sticks with enthusiasm as they charged the landing.
It was something of an anticlimax to arrive on the wharf and find no one there save the captive Russians, who narrowly missed beheading Phillip Wylie when he imprudently shoved open the door to their prison without announcing himself.
A brief search of the Russian boat and the surrounding marsh turned up no trace of Lillywhite and Anstruther.
“Most like they swim for it,” one of the Negroes said, returning from the search. He nodded across the channel, toward the tangle of the sandbars, and fingered his spear. “We go hunt them?” It was the man who had discovered Roger, evidently still eager to try his luck.
“They didn’t swim,” Wylie said shortly. He gestured at the tiny beach near the landing, an empty stretch of oyster shells. “They’ve taken my boat, blast them.”
He turned away, disgusted, and began to give orders for unloading and penning the Russian boars. Chemodurow and his family had already been taken off to the plantation house, with the girls alternating between amazement at the black slaves and coy looks at Roger, who had retrieved his shirt and shoes, but whose breeches were still plastered to his body.
One of the slaves appeared from the shed with an armful of discarded weaponry, recalling Wylie temporarily to the duties of a host.
“I am obliged to you for your help in preserving my property, sir,” he said to Jamie. He bowed, rather stiffly. “Will you not allow me to offer you and Mr. MacKenzie my hospitality?” He didn’t sound thrilled about it, Roger noted, but still, he’d offered.
“I am obliged to you, sir, for your help in preserving our lives,” Jamie said with equal stiffness, returning the bow. “And I thank ye, but—”
“We’d be delighted,” Roger interrupted. “Thanks.” He gave Wylie a firm handshake, surprising him very much, and grabbed Jamie by the arm, steering him toward the shell-road before he could protest. There were times and places to be on your high horse, he supposed, but this wasn’t one of them.
“Look, ye havena got to kiss the man’s bum,” he said, in response to Jamie’s mutterings, as they slogged toward the forest. “Let his butler give us a dry towel and a bit of lunch, and we’ll be off while he’s still busy with his boars. I’ve had no breakfast, and neither have you. And if we’ve got to walk to Edenton, I’m no doing it on an empty belly.”
The mention of food seemed to go some way toward restoring Jamie’s equanimity, and as they reached the semi-shelter of the wood, a mood of almost giddy cheerfulness had sprung up between them. Roger wondered if this was the sort of way you felt after a battle; the sheer relief of finding yourself alive and unwounded made you want to laugh and arse about, just to prove you still could.
By unspoken consent, they left discussion of recent events—and speculation as to the present whereabouts of Stephen Bonnet—for later.
“Russian boars, for Christ’s sake,” Jamie said, shaking himself like a dog as they paused under the shelter of the wood. “And I doubt the man’s ever seen a boar in his life! Ye’d think he could manage to kill himself without going to such expense about it.”
“Aye, what d’ye think it must have cost? More money than we’ll see in ten years, likely, just to haul a lot of pigs . . . what, six thousand miles?” He shook his head, staggered at the thought.
“Well, to be fair about it, they’re more than only pigs,” Jamie said tolerantly. “Did ye not see them?”
Roger had, though only briefly. The slaves had been herding one of the animals across the dock as he’d emerged from the shed with his clothes. It was tall and hairy, with long yellow tushes that looked nasty enough.
It was emaciated from the long sea-voyage, though, its ribs showing and half its bristly pelt rubbed bald. It had obviously not got its landlegs yet, staggering and careening drunkenly on its ridiculous small hooves, eyes rolling, grunting in panic as the slaves shouted and poked at it with their poles. Roger had felt quite sorry for it.
“Oh, they’re big enough, aye,” he said. “And I suppose once they’re filled out a bit, they’d be something to see. I wonder how they’ll like this, though, after Russia?” He waved a hand at the damp, scrubby wood around them. The air was moist with rain, but the trees blocked most of the downfall, leaving it dark and resin-smelling under the low canopy of scrub oak and scraggy pines. Twigs and acorn caps crunched pleasantly under their boots on the sandy earth.
“Well, there are acorns and roots aplenty,” Jamie observed, “and the odd Negro now and then, for a treat. I expect they’ll do well enough.”
Roger laughed, and Jamie grunted in amusement.
“Ye think I’m jesting, aye? Ye’ll not have hunted boar, either, I suppose.”
“Mmphm. Well, perhaps Mr. Wylie will invite us to come and—”
The back of his head exploded, and everything disappeared.
AT SOME POINT he became aware again. Aware mostly of a pain so great that unconsciousness seemed immensely preferable. But aware too of pebbles and leaves pressing into his face, and of noises nearby. The clash and thud and grunt of men fighting in earnest.
He forced himself toward consciousness, and raised his head, though the effort made colored fireworks go off inside his eyes and made him want very badly to throw up. He braced himself on his folded arms, teeth gritted, and after a moment, his vision cleared, though things were still blurred.
It took a moment to make out what was happening; they were ten feet or so beyond the spot where he lay, with bits of tree and brush obscuring the fight. He caught a muttered “A Dhia!” though, among the panting and grunting, and felt a sharp pang of relief. Jamie was alive, then.
He got to his knees, swaying, and stayed there for a moment, his vision winking in and out of blackness. When it steadied, his head had fallen forward and he was staring at the ground. His sword lay a few feet away, half-covered with scuffed sand and leaves. One of his pistols was with it, but he didn’t bother with that; he couldn’t hold it steady, even if the powder were still dry enough to fire.
He scrabbled and fumbled, but once he’d got his hand wedged into the basket of the sword’s hilt, he felt a little better; he wouldn’t drop it, now. Something wet was running down his neck—blood, rain? It didn’t matter. He staggered, clutched a tree with his free hand, blinked away the blackness, took another step.
He felt like the boar, unfamiliar ground shifting and treacherous under his feet. He trod on something that rolled and gave way, and he fell, landing hard on one elbow.
He turned awkwardly over, hampered by the sword, and found that he had stepped on Anstruther’s leg. The Sheriff was lying on his back, mouth open, looking surprised. There was a large rip in his neck, and a lot of blood had soaked into the sand around him, rusty and stinking.
He recoiled, and the shock of it got him on his feet, with no memory of having stood up. Lillywhite’s back was to him, the linen of his shirt wet and sticking to his flesh. He lunged, grunting, then flung back, beat, riposted . . .
Roger shook his head, trying to clear it of the idiotic terms of swordsmanship, then stopped, gasping with pain. Jamie’s face was set in a maniac half-grin, teeth bared with effort as he followed his opponent’s weapon. He’d seen Roger, though.
“Roger!” he shouted, breathless with the fight. “Roger, a charaid!”
Lillywhite didn’t turn, but flung himself forward, feinting, beating away, lunging back in tierce.
“Not . . . stupid . . .” he gasped.
Roger realized dimly that Lillywhite thought Jamie was bluffing, trying to make him turn around. His vision was flickering round the edges again, and he grabbed for a tree, gripping hard to stay upright. The foliage was wet; his grip was slipping.
“Hey . . .” he called hoarsely, unable to think of any words. He raised his sword, the tip trembling. “Hey!”
Lillywhite stepped back and whirled around, eyes wide with shock. Roger lunged blindly, with no aim, but with all the power left in his body behind it.
The sword went into Lillywhite’s eye, and a slithering crunch ran up Roger’s arm, as metal scraped bone and went through to something softer, where it stuck. He tried to let go, but his hand was trapped in the basket-hilt. Lillywhite went stiff, and Roger could feel the man’s life run straight down the sword, through his hand, and up his arm, swift and shocking as an electric current.
Panicked, he jerked and twisted, trying to get the sword free. Lillywhite spasmed, went limp, and fell toward him, flopping like a huge dead fish as Roger wrenched and yanked, vainly trying to free himself from the sword.
Then Jamie seized him by the wrist and got him loose, got an arm around him, and led him away, stumbling and blind with panic and pain. Held his head and rubbed his back, murmuring nonsense in Gaelic while he puked and heaved. Wiped his face and neck with handsful of wet leaves, wiped the snot from his nose with the wet sleeve of his shirt.
“You okay?” Roger mumbled, somewhere in the midst of this.
“Aye, fine,” Jamie said, and patted him again. “You’re fine, too, all right?”
At length he was on his feet again. His head had gone past the point of pain; it still hurt, but the pain seemed a separate thing from himself, hovering somewhere nearby, but not actually touching him.
Lillywhite lay face-up in the leaves. Roger closed his eyes and swallowed. He heard Jamie mutter something under his breath, and then a grunt, a rustling of leaves, and a small thud. When Roger opened his eyes, Lillywhite was lying face-down, the back of his shirt smeared with sand and acorn hulls.
“Come on.” Jamie got him under the arm, pulled the arm over his shoulder. Roger lifted his free hand, waved it vaguely toward the bodies.
“Them. What should we do with . . . them?”
“Leave them for the pigs.”
Roger could walk by himself by the time they left the wood, though he had a tendency to drift to one side or the other, unable to steer quite straight as yet. Wylie’s house lay before them, a handsome construction in red brick. They picked their way across the lawn, ignoring the stares of several house-servants, who clustered at the upstairs windows, pointing down at them and murmuring to one another.
“Why?” Roger asked, stopping for a moment to shake some of the leaves from his shirt. “Did they say?”
“No.” Jamie pulled a soggy wad of cloth that had once been a handkerchief from his sleeve and swished it in the ornamental fountain. He used it to mop his face, looked critically at the resultant streaks of filth, and soused it in the fountain again.
“The first I knew was the thud when Anstruther clubbed ye—here, your head’s still bleedin’. I turned round to see ye lyin’ on the ground, and the next instant, a sword came at me out o’ nowhere, right across my ribs. Look at that, will ye?” He poked his fingers through a large rent in his shirt, wiggling them. “I ducked behind a tree, and barely got my own blade out in time. But neither of them said a word at all.”
Roger pressed the proffered handkerchief gingerly to the back of his head. He sucked air through his teeth with a hiss as the cold water touched the wound.
“Shit. Is it only that my head’s cracked, or does that make no sense? Why in Christ’s name try so hard to kill us?”
“Because they wanted us dead,” Jamie said logically, turning up his sleeves to wash his hands in the fountain. “Or someone else does.”
The pain had decided to take up residence in Roger’s head again. He was feeling sick again.
“Stephen Bonnet?”
“If I were a gambling man, I’d put good odds on it.”
Roger closed one eye in order to correct a tendency for there to be two of Jamie.
“You are a gambling man. I’ve seen ye do it.”
“Well, there ye are, then.”
Jamie ran a hand absently through his matted hair, and turned toward the house. Karina and her sisters had appeared at the window, and were waving ecstatically.
“What I want verra much to know just now is, where is Stephen Bonnet?”
“Wilmington.”
Jamie swung round, frowning at him.
“What?”
“Wilmington,” Roger repeated. He cautiously opened the other eye, but it seemed all right. Only one Jamie. “That’s what Lillywhite said—but I thought he was joking.”
Jamie stared at him for a moment.
“I hope to Christ he was,” he said.
AMONG THE MYRTLES
Wilmington
BY CONTRAST WITH FRASER’S RIDGE, Wilmington was a giddy metropolis, and under normal circumstances, the girls and I should have fully enjoyed its delights. Given the absence of Roger and Jamie, and the nature of the errand they were bound upon, though, we were able to find little distraction.
Not that we didn’t try. We lived through the creeping minutes of nights broken by crying children and haunted by imaginations worse than nightmare might be. I was sorry that Brianna had seen as much as she had, after the battle at Alamance; vague imaginings based on fear were bad enough; those based on close acquaintance with the look of ruined flesh, of smashed bone and staring eyes, were a good deal worse.
Rising heavy-eyed amid a crumple of discarded clothes and stale linen, we fed and dressed the children and went out to seek what mental respite might be found during the day in the distractions of horse-racing, shopping, or the competing musicales hosted once a week—on successive evenings—by Mrs. Crawford and Mrs. Dunning, the two most prominent hostesses in town.
Mrs. Dunning’s evening had taken place the day after Roger and Jamie left. Performances upon the harp, violin, harpsichord, and flute were interspersed with recitations of poetry—at least it was referred to as poetry—and “Songs, both Comick and Tragick,” sung by Mr. Angus McCaskill, the popular and courteous proprietor of the largest ordinary in Wilmington.
The Tragick songs were actually much funnier than the Comick ones, owing to Mr. McCaskill’s habit of rolling his eyes up into his head during the more lugubrious passages, as though he had the lyrics written on the inside of his skull. I adopted a suitably solemn expression of appreciation, though, biting the inside of my cheek throughout.