| |
March 1756
West of Baltimore Town
TWO YEARS OF DODGING war arrows and scalping knives, and Thomas McQueen was to be reduced and laid waste by disease and injury.
Fearnought Farms lay the other side of the brown, winter crusted wood, but he was nae certain he could get there. His bones ached. His head fired hot. Icy clouds, stirring overhead, dressed him in a thin layer of snow.
He should have known better than to count on the warm spell of weather last week. He should also have realized his own limitations after the typhoid fever had caught hold of him. His desire to get home and to his maither’s healing hands had outweighed his good sense.
He nudged Dominic’s chestnut colored flanks. The horse eased forward. Fingal set a matching pace. Water droplets pearled atop fur as black as thick, aging pitch. The mountain cur’s jowls snapped, yet again, at a wayward snowflake.
They cleared the trees. The wind raked Thomas’ face. To his right and inside the cemetery fencing, snow dusted the top of a fresh mound of dirt like the sugar on his maither’s rum cake. Beside it, the earth gaped a wide hole.
His gut cinched tight.
Who had it been dug for? It could not be his maither, for they would have buried her near the center beside his aither.
William? Dear God, Issy? And if it was one of them, why was the grave so far from the rest?
He shifted his gaze downhill and to the house. No smoke lifted from the chimney. To the west, the chicken coop stood empty. The barn was shut tight. The tobacco fields had not yet been revived from winter’s death.
Fingal’s back stiffened. He set to baying. Thomas followed the dog’s gaze. A young boy, his shoulders dusted with a coat of snow and his pants too large by half, dashed from one tree to another.
“Hidey-ho!” Thomas croaked, then coughed.
The boy gave his feet wings and made for the house. Fingal shot forward. Thomas spurred the horse into a gallop. Clouds puffed from the boy’s mouth. Wooden shoes slid on a thin blanket of snow. The boy scrambled to the porch.
Thomas bothered not to slow the horse. He swung his right leg over Dominic’s neck and leaped onto the porch after the boy. His lungs heaved for air. His head swam. He and Fingal skated to the door.
It slammed closed. Fingal’s barking ratcheted upwards.
Thomas threw himself against the wood. The door flew open.
The boy darted left. Thomas seized his waist and hauled him against his chest. Arms thrashed. Legs pumped. Wooden shoes flew from the boy’s feet.
“I mean you no harm.” Thomas’ words slurred in his ears.
He would have laughed at the child’s efforts had he not been feeling so ill. After all, he had taken on worse. Laughter, however, was in short supply when a bed and food were so badly needed.
The boy slipped. Thomas clutched his fingers into the boy’s chest.
A rising? Beneath his hands?
By God’s teeth!
He tore the tricorn from the lass’ head. A mass of black curls assaulted his arms. His grip slacked. She crumpled to the floor and spun around on her rear. Moisture pooled in red swollen eyes like blood in a creek after a battle. Teeth bit into lips as red as a quivering sunset. And all that hair, black as over burnt wood, plunged over and around her shoulders.
A cold wind scraped his back. He hinged his knee upward and shoved the door closed.
“Who are ye?” he cried. “Why are ye pretending to be a boy?” He pointed toward the cemetery. “Did ye dig that grave up there?” He grasped her arm. ‘Twas spindly and just the right size for cracking in half. He yanked her to her feet.
Fingal whined.
Thomas hove the lass’ face to within inches of his. “And for God’s sake, where is my family?”
The lass shrank from him.
She is afraid I will take her.
Well, he had done some despicable things the past two years, but that had never been one of them. Even taking a lass for love was out of the question. He was too damaged, and her life would never know any peace.
Besides, this lass was about as far from loveable as any he had ever seen.
“If ye promise to not run off, I will let ye go.”
The lass shook her head. Cascades of hair crashed against and around his arm. His veins fired hot.
He could nae help it. He tightened his hold.
She winced.
Fingal barked and lifted his front paws in the air.
Thomas swept a deep breath into his lungs. The past two years, as well as his weakened state, had drained him of patience. If he held onto her much longer, he would snap her in half for no other reason than ‘twas a habit.
He yanked her to the central staircase. He shoved her to the second stoop. He grabbed the banister to his left, pressed his palm to the wall on his right, and hemmed her in.
Fingal wedged himself to the bottom step between them. He turned to stare at Thomas.
“Ye have my word, I will nae hurt ye.” As long as he kept his hands to himself.
As long as she did what she was told.
“I simply want to know where my family is.”
“Ta famille!”
Thomas reared backward.
A French lass? Here?
His blood heated.
He had to think before translating the words. “From where do ye come?”
“Je suis Canadienne.”
A Dhia. Dear God.
He fell against the wall. Of all the sprites to cross his path, it had to be an Acadian lass? He might not be able to keep from hurting her after all.
“Le Grand Dèrangement?” A cough threatened to burst from his throat.
She nodded.
Ach! It mattered little if she was a Neutral. They were all French to him.
“Je ne sais pas de votre famille,” she whispered.
How was it she was here in his house but knew nothing of his family?
And who was the grave for? How did he ask in French? “The serious? C’est pour qui?”
“Mon frere.”
Her brother?
And the burying was not yet finished, which meant only one thing. He shuddered.
The lass, sensing his question, raised her finger and pointed at the bedroom door behind him.
His stomach curled inward. He had nae time for wayward lasses and dead Frenchman, nor could his body do much more this day or he may well need a grave for himself.
And that was not an option. Not when so many lives hung in the balance.
He glared at the lass as if to say ye better not try to move. He slipped a glance at the door which led to the only other room on the main floor. He swallowed a cough rolling against his throat like the waves of a determined Chesapeake tide.
He cradled his aching left arm against his waist, whirled around, and grabbed the knob. He threw the door back on its hinges. On the bed lay the dead body of a larger than average Frenchman who looked very much, as far as Thomas could tell, like the lass. Same dark hair. Same slightly dark skin.
He turned back to her. “Your brother is nearly as large as me. How did ye plan on getting him up the hill?”
She shook her head. He translated his question into a halting sort of French.
She pointed upward. “Beni, Jesu.”
Blessed Jesus?
She touched her forehead, her chest, and her left and right shoulder.
“Ye prayed for help?”
She frowned.
“Vous avez priè pour obtenir de l’aide?” he asked.
“Oui.” She pointed at him.
So he was her answer to prayer?
He pushed the hair back from his forehead. Dirt and oil from days of grime and no bath ground into his hand. The last thing he wanted to do that day was bury a man. On the other hand, he had seen enough death the past two years to last several lifetimes, and he had nae wish to spend the night in the house with yet more.
“How long has he been dead?” he asked in French.
Her eyes watered. “Hier apres-midi.”
Yesterday afternoon?
He opened his mouth, then paused to rephrase the words into the French. “Ye were here all night and alone?”
She nodded.
Good heavens! The pity washed over him. ‘Twas not a familiar feeling, and he had forgotten the hopelessness that rode along of it. He liked it not, especially in regards to this lass. After all, were not the French responsible for destroying his life?
But even he had to admit that sitting all night with a dead body in a strange house would turn most people’s minds. Judging from the dark circles under her eyes and the strained lines to her face, she was not far from losing her own.
“We best get on with burying. The darkness comes ever closer.”
She stared at him.
He had to work to get those words into the French. His skill was limited to trappers and traders in the backcountry, and even that had been some time ago.
“I will get a pull wagon from the barn to cart him up the hill.” An itchy wave crawled into his throat. He doubled forward. Each cough further burned his chest. And how did he ask if she would stay here and not run?
“Toi.” He gasped and pointed at her. “Pas fuir?” He raised his palm, walked his fingers to the side, and pointed to the front door behind him.
“Non.” Her lips quivered. She swiped at her eyes.
Ach! If she did leave, ‘twould be to her death in such cold.
“Fingal.” He slapped his thigh. “Trobhad.”
The dog whined at the Gaelic command, spun around, and tossed his head to the girl’s lap.
“Fine.” Thomas was not amused. “Stay with her.”
A whimper eased from the dog’s throat. The girl lifted her fingers to the dog’s black head. She batted a pair of sodden eyelashes. “Merci.”
Was she thanking him for burying her brother or for leaving the dog?
And what did he care?
He swung around, jerked the door open, and staggered outside into the breath sucking cold.
For two years he had practiced revenge on the Natives and the French alike. Not one of them had been spared at his hand. This lass was the first.
He would make certain, if he did nothing else before he died, that she was the last.
––––––––
THE DOOR SLAMMED SHUT. The woodsman’s heavy footsteps juddered the porch. Then, the house stilled.
Elizabeth scratched the dog’s head. She was so tired. She had nursed Josuè for four days in the strange house. Last night, after he passed, she had lain awake on the cold floor here in the main room. She had cried herself dry from the grief and the fear. All the while the northern wind had assailed the house and scratched through the cracks, bringing along of it shadows past and present.
If she had braved her way through the dark cold that last night to what appeared to be the herb house between here and the barn, she might have found something to help. Instead, she had plied Josué with peppermint tea, using the last of the leaves she had brought with them from town. She had swathed his body with rags dipped in melted snow. And she had prayed.
It had not been enough.
She widened her eyes in an effort to awaken herself.
Heavy footsteps stomped their way across the porch. The door opened. Waves of wet, icy air rode over her. The woodsman stepped inside.
Dark circles rimmed his eyes. Brown, stringy hair brushed gaunt cheeks that sat atop a matted beard. A dingy blue hunting shirt hung from his frame, and the deerskin leggings could fit another man inside of the legs.
He lifted his foot and slammed the door closed. He clenched his fist before his mouth and doubled over with a cough. He might not live through the night. If she had little courage to help Josué, she had none to offer this man.
He lifted a fiery, ill gaze to her. “Ye will nae sicken. I am no contagious.”
She shrugged as if she understood not.
His mouth worked this way and that as he searched for the French. He finally pointed at himself, faked a cough, and pointed at her.
She nodded, even though getting sick was the least of her worries. As a matter of fact, death might be preferable to the loneliness threatening to take her mind. But rather than explain herself, she merely nodded. All she needed this man to do was help her bury her brother. She would then come back here, strip the sheets from the bed, and sleep. Tomorrow, she could decide what to do. She had Josué’s map, and she knew which way to go on the Patapsco Road just beyond the house.
Ten minutes later her brother’s stiff body lay balanced on the wagon just before the front porch. A snowflake stabbed her nose. She swiped it away. The man took the wagon handle and tugged.
She followed, Fingal at her side. Heavy wooden wheels gouged winding trails through the snow-dusted ground. The wind winched the woodsman’s cloak and hair upward. More scarecrow than man, he poled a walking stick over and over into the ground and pulled himself along.
A half an hour later and after two stops in which the man had to rest and catch his wind, they reached the cemetery. Inside the picketed fence, a bench guarded four wooden crosses. Overhead, arthritic branches creaked and groaned against winter’s ambush. The cold sliced her face.
She followed the man and the wagon through the gate, to the right, and to the hole in the corner. At the bottom, snow and ice garnished a soup of dead leaves. Maryland weather was as contrary as an English soldier. Last week, a warm spate had visited Baltimore Town. The sun had appeared in the sky, the ground had thawed, and birds warbled in the trees. Thus, Josué had thought them safe in leaving. Elizabeth had made the fatal mistake of agreeing, not that there had been much choice in the matter.
Now, they were back to snow and ice, Josué was gone, and she was alone.
The man pointed at Josué’s feet. “Toi.” You. He grabbed the shoulders.
She opened her mouth to say not yet, then caught the words in her throat. She shook her head. “Une minute.”
He frowned. “We do not have all day. The sky lowers and heaves as we speak.”
She furrowed her brows as if she did not understand.
He pointed upward, rained his fingers downward, grabbed his arms, and shivered.
She bit the laugh from her lip and forced a frown to her face. Then, harsher than earlier, she repeated herself. “Une minute.”
“Ach!” he swore. He grabbed the stick and leaned against it. He knifed an irritated loathing at her.
She cared not that he was impatient. She was the one who had watched her brother battle for his life the past week. She was the one who had spent all day digging the barely deep enough hole for his body. She was the one burying Josué a thousand miles from home without benefit of a priest or a funeral mass.
She was the one who was now alone and in a strange land, for her father was hundreds of miles away and knew not of her plight. Nor did he know of her fears, old and new.
She reached into the right-hand pocket of Josué’s coat she was wearing. Her fingers wiggled left and to the wooden crucifix. She pulled it out and kissed Blessed Jesu on the cross. She pulled the quilt back from her brother’s face and neck. She eased the string over his head. She pulled the crucifix down to rest over his chest and pulled the quilt back over his face.
She then prayed in French. “Eternal rest grant unto him, O Lord, and may perpetual light shine upon him. May he rest in peace. Amen.”
She crossed herself and lifted to her feet. The woodsman stood before her, his eyes riveted to the crucifix, his frown deep into his beard. Likely, he was not a religious man. None of these colonials seemed to be. In fact, hating Catholics was one of their favorite pasttimes.
She stepped around him. Between them, they lifted Josué’s body and laid him beside the hole.
The woodsman sighed. “We will have to roll him in.”
She nearly nodded, then corrected herself and sent him a questioning gaze. He pursed his lips and gestured what he meant.
She nodded. They slid Josué along last fall’s dead ground cover. At the edge, he teetered. Then, the body plunged into the hole and landed with a whooshy thud. A long, low whine crawled from the dog’s throat.
The man grabbed the shovel. He speared the loose soil, lifted the shovel upward, and tossed the dirt downward.
Her head dizzied.
What was she to do without her brother? He had been her protector and best friend, not just since Le Grand Dèrangement, but her whole life. She could remember not a time when Josué Johns was not there. He had been a greater constant than even her father, whose work often times took him away from home for weeks at a time.
The man cleared his throat. He pointed at her. He pointed at the mound of dirt beside him and pushed his hands forward.
He wanted her to help push the dirt into the hole.
He lifted a finger to the sky. “Pas becaucoup de temps.” Not much time.
Elizabeth swallowed the fear. How many times had she done so the past six months? How many more times would the life-changing dread walk with her to places she did not wish to go, only to leave her there and alone?
She knelt. Over and over she scraped the ground. Soil caked her fingers. Her muscles ached. Tears burnt furrows into her cheeks. Finally, there was nothing left but brown chunky morsels of dirt imprisoned in dry, brittle blades of grass.
“Vous lui tendent?” She prayed the man understood. She had not the strength to figure out how to mime will you tend him?
He lifted a pair of glassy eyes at her. “No. I will nae be here.” He shot his gaze upward in exasperation. “Je ne serai pas ici.”
Where was he going? Or was he certain he would die?
She trembled. She simply would not survive another night alone with a dead body, the shadow sounds and spirits jabbing at the little bit of bravery she had left. Nor did she have the strength to bury this man. He was larger than Josué even if his frame was emaciated and weak. She would simply be forced to walk away.
He staggered to his feet and made his way along the fencing and through the gate. Elizabeth grabbed the wagon’s handle and jerked it along behind her. Halfway down the hill, he stopped. His fingers gripped the stick. His back heaved from the effort to find a breath.
She should not have been so fearful as to hide behind the French and not use the English. ‘Twas obvious he could do her little harm in this shape, and maybe, if they could talk, he would seem less forbidding.
She would at least not be alone.
She hurried to him. At his side, she dropped the wagon handle and mimed making tea. “Pour votre toux.” For your cough. She pointed at his chest. He studied her a long moment, then whispered “Merci.”
He started down the hill, his cloak whipping around him like the stormy Atlantic waves that had chased her on the Leopard, his shoulders hunched forward as if he carried a sinful burden.
Please, Lord, send me someone that can help me bury Josué.
She had uttered those words just this afternoon as she had jumped and grabbed at the sod to pull herself out of the grave. She had barely made it down the hill when this man came over the rise and straight at her.
She lifted her gaze upward. “At least You are prompt.”
The woodsman spun around and stared at her. “What did ye say?”