Petals on the River

by Kathleen E. Woodiwiss

  “This time ye’ll die, bitch!” he hissed as his long, thick fingers slowly tightened around the slender neck. “An’ this time ye can be assured Mistah ‘Arper ain’t here ta save ye!”

  Shemaine clawed at his tightening hands, trying to pry them away from her throat, but she could not free herself from his grasp. Neither could she draw a breath. Though it seemed a useless effort, she fought valiantly on, seeking to break his stranglehold, but her strength began to slowly ebb, and her grip on his wrists slackened. The broad visage before her, the gaping faces of the people, even the sun in the sky became a dark, indistinct blur. Vaguely she became aware of someone, perhaps the hunchback, pushing through the crowd of onlookers. But the man seemed so very far away that she could not hope he would reach her in time to loosen the steely vise around her throat and save her from death. Her arms sagged listlessly to her sides as she gave up her feeble attempts. It would be over very, very soon.

  Gage had left the general store to see what the commotion was outside and had stepped near the crowd to peer over the shoulders and heads of those who buttressed the outer ring of onlookers. It was the sight of Shemaine hanging by her throat in the grasp of some brawny hulk of a beast that sent his temper soaring. With a savage curse he caught the nearest spectator by the scruff of the neck and threw him aside. Shoving others right and left, he pushed toward the core of the circle, scooping up the handle that Potts had thrown aside as he went. Reaching his goal, he drove the blunt end of the stick into the soft, protruding belly of the tar with enough force to double the man over with a loud grunt of pain, breaking the brute’s tenacious grip on the girl and sending him stumbling backward.

  Gage pivoted sharply to catch Shemaine as she crumpled forward. He promptly swept her up in his arms and searched her face, but she lay frighteningly limp within his grasp, having slipped into the netherworld of the unconscious. Her head lolled over his shoulder as he lifted her higher. After pushing and elbowing his way through the crowd, he almost ran with her toward the general store, where Andrew watched in trepidation from the door.

  The sound of running feet and a warning scream from Mrs. McGee made Gage step deftly aside just as the great oaf lunged forward to tackle him from behind. Meeting nothing firmer than thin air, Potts sailed past with arms flailing. For good measure, Gage planted a boot firmly on the man’s broad rear, sending him hurtling helplessly into the empty space beyond the boardwalk. Several feet away, Potts landed facedown in a large puddle of muck, which, in the preceding hours, had been liberally enriched with fresh manure from passing horses. Spewing out a mouthful of filth, he pushed himself to his hands and knees and struggled to rise. But his feet slipped and skidded on the slick bottom, and he pitched forward again, gulping more of the vile sludge. His second attempt was equally ineffectual and his third swiftly aborted. Loud, guffawing laughter soon accompanied his frustrated efforts to leave the muddy hole, and by the time he managed to extricate himself from the foul ooze, the crowd was in hilarious uproar. Heckling catcalls and cries of “Mudsucker!” liberally christened him as he trudged dripping and stinking down the street.

  “Sheeaim hurt, Daddee?” Andrew asked worriedly after following his father into the store.

  Gage laid Shemaine on a reclining leather chaise and knelt on one knee beside it. She had not yet roused from her oblivion, but she was breathing, and that gave him hope, small as it was. He glanced aside at his son, whose eyes were swimming with frightened tears, and tried to soothe the boy’s tender heart. “Shemaine will be all right, Andy. Don’t fret now.”

  Andrew sniffed and wiped at his tears as Mary Margaret and the storekeeper, Adam Foster, approached. The latter had scurried to pour water into a basin and now set it down on a small table beside the chaise. He stepped near Gage to look down at the girl, unconsciously blocking the boy’s view.

  “This is awful,” Mr. Foster fussed in a dither. Vexed by the incident, he continued his ranting in short, incomplete statements. “Attacking a woman in such a vile manner! Should be drawn and quartered!”

  Mary Margaret sighed ruefully. “A pity the punishment isn’t allowable here in the colonies.”

  Deterred from reaching Shemaine or his father, Andrew glanced aimlessly about the store until he detected a movement near the entrance. Peering intently into the shadows behind a collection of hoes, rakes and shovels that stood on end in a small barrel next to the door, he crept closer, thinking it might be a dog or a cat that had wandered into the store. Then his eyes began to adapt to the tenebrous gloom behind the equipment. They widened abruptly as he finally spied the darkly clad form crouching there in pensive silence. It was a ghastly being with short legs, long arms and shaggy tan hair hanging over a jutting brow. It was a truly monstrous sight for a young child to settle his gaze upon. Venting a terrified shriek, Andrew did an abrupt about-face and, tottering full tilt around the elders, threw himself against his father and clutched at him in desperation.

  Gage lifted his son in his arms and glanced around to see what had given the boy such a fright. Then his eyes lit on the deformed man who had lumbered forward into view, and he understood the reason for the child’s panic.

  “What is it, Cain?” Gage asked kindly, rising to his feet. “What do you want?” He was puzzled by the hunchback’s presence in the store, for Cain usually kept well away from strangers. He only came into the hamlet to barter with Mr. Foster or to have his mule shod by Hugh Corbin. Otherwise, the man was rarely seen.

  Cain shuffled forward warily despite the impediment of malformed legs, arms and shoulders that had hung askew from birth, but he paused in indecision as Andrew strained away and began to scream again in fright. Quieting his son with words of reassurance, Gage set him down beside Mrs. McGee, who took Andrew’s hand and led him to the back of the store to show him a jar of sweets.

  Tilting his head askance, Cain peered from a badly distorted face as the taller man approached. It was the first time Gage could remember ever being able to draw near the hunchback without seeing him scurry away. Perhaps, more than anybody, Cain realized how hideously ugly he was and preferred hiding himself. His nose was large and queerly pugged, his eyes set at odd angles beneath heavily shagged brows. His teeth were sparser and in a copious mouth that hung awkwardly agape, his tongue had a tendency to loll uncontrollably. Several jagged cuts and lacerated scrapes on his face still oozed blood, giving evidence of recent abuse.

  “Did you want something, Cain?” Gage questioned the man again.

  The hunchback lifted a large, hairy hand toward Shemaine, who had not yet revived. Then he gaped up at Gage again as he issued a garbled question. “Sha dawd?”

  Gage frowned a moment, trying to decipher the muddled speech. Then comprehension finally dawned. “No, she’s not dead. She just fainted. She should come around after a while.”

  Cain thrust his hand clumsily in the pocket of his thin, ragged coat and withdrew a pair of slippers which had fallen from Shemaine’s feet while she hung senseless in Potts’s grasp. “Har shaws.”

  “Thank you,” Gage replied, frowning in bemusement as he accepted the shoes. It was rare indeed that Cain displayed such concern for another or went out of his way to return lost possessions, especially when it meant that he would have to show himself to any of the villagers. “I’ll tell Shemaine that you brought them back. She’ll be grateful.”

  “Shamawn?”

  “Shemaine O’Hearn,” Gage pronounced carefully for the man’s benefit, unable to understand what had aroused Cain’s interest in the girl. In the nine years Gage had lived in the area, he had never heard the hunchback say as many words as he had managed to speak that day. A few villagers had expressed doubt that Cain could even talk, but that had been mainly the opinion of those who had kept their distance from the man, believing him demented.

  As an infant, Cain had been left on the doorstep of a half-crazed old woman who had lived by herself in a crude hovel in the woods. Because of his deformities, the elder had dubbed him Cain, for she
had averred the poor babe had been severely marked by a finger of God. Over the passage of years the previously feisty woman had become increasingly frail and finally succumbed before Cain’s ninth year. Thereafter the child had had to scrounge for his mere existence, but the hag had required Cain to work for his keep at an early age and had taught him how to trap, grub, and forage for food. He still lived in the woman’s hut, keeping to himself for the most part, but when he had a need for essentials that he couldn’t find in the woods, he would bring deerhides, rabbit fur and other pelts to trade with Mr. Foster. Even then, Cain took care to remain in the shadows and secret nooks where it was safe until the storekeeper gathered whatever supplies he had come in for.

  On rare occasions, and at the persistent urging of the storekeeper, the hunchback would relent and bring in wooden birds that he had a talent for carving, allowing them to be sold. But according to Foster, Cain disliked parting with them because he considered the sculptures his friends, and although Foster had promised Cain a goodly sum to encourage him, none had been forthcoming for some years now.

  With the possible exceptions of Mr. Foster, Mary Margaret, and Hugh and Roxanne Corbin, most of the townspeople were afraid of Cain and, if he happened near, were wont to shoo him away with brooms, sticks, rocks, or whatever else came readily to hand, but to Gage’s knowledge the man had never done anyone any harm. Indeed, from what he had heard and seen with his own eyes, he was convinced that Cain had far more reason to be afraid of the villagers, for the young toughs were prone to use him as a whipping boy to prove their manhood—or, Gage mentally jeered, the lack of it.

  A shadow fell across the doorway, and Gage glanced up to find Roxanne poised on the threshold in indecision. Though he was still stewing over her threats, he gave her a curt nod of recognition, deciding it was wiser by far not to antagonize her. At his stilted greeting, the hunchback shuffled awkwardly around to peer toward the portal.

  “Cain didn’t hurt her, did he?” Roxanne asked apprehensively, shifting her gaze toward the unconscious Shemaine.

  “As far as I know, Cain had nothing to do with the incident,” Gage replied stiffly. “The man who attacked her was a sailor from the London Pride. I’m not sure how it all started, but he seemed intent upon killing her.”

  Mary Margaret came forward with Andrew in tow. “I can tell ye what happened,” she volunteered. “I saw it all with me own eyes.”

  Although the elder had halted within easy reach of Cain, Andrew was almost oblivious to his presence, for he now had a sucker to hold and admire until his parent gave him permission to eat it.

  Gage was curious about the attack on Shemaine and directed his full attention upon the woman. “What did you see, Mary Margaret?”

  The elder gestured toward the couch. “That dear, brave girl thrashed that odious sailor with a stick after she saw him beating Cain, an’ she came nigh ta losin’ her life for it, too, despite all those drunken souls who were standin’ ’round watchin’ it all happen. Were I a man, I’d have given those clods a cuff or two ta bring them out o’ their senseless stupor! Ta be sure, they were sailin’ with six sheets ta the wind. Aye, an’ ‘tis sorry I am that the Irish are so fond o’ talkin’ an’ sippin’. The more they tipple, the more they prattle.”

  “Shemaine will be all right, won’t she?” Roxanne queried worriedly.

  Mary Margaret was amazed at her concern. “Aye, she’ll be as good as ever after a bit o’ rest an’ tender care.”

  Roxanne smiled rigidly, sweeping her gaze toward Gage. “You be sure and let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.”

  Gage couldn’t imagine himself being so foolish. Still, he found himself amazed anew at her change of moods. To say that she was erratic at times might have been an understatement. It all depended on her perspective, how she saw things that personally affected her. “No need to concern yourself, Roxanne.”

  Nodding a silent farewell to him and then to the elder, Roxanne stepped back from the door. Then she lifted her hand and beckoned to Cain. “Come along now before you get into more trouble.”

  The hunchback cast a glance toward Shemaine, then obediently left the store and scuffled along the boardwalk with his cumbersome gait, moving in the general direction of the blacksmith shop.

  “Poor soul.” Mary Margaret sighed, stepping to the door to watch him go. “He’s like a lost, mangled sheep searching for a shepherd to lead him. I think he’d be loyal to anyone who would befriend him.”

  “Do you find it unusual that Roxanne concerns herself over his welfare?” Gage inquired as he sat down on the couch beside Shemaine. He dipped a cloth into the basin of cool water and began to bathe the girl’s face as he awaited Mary Margaret’s response.

  The elder sighed and shook her head. “They’re both lost sheep, at odds with this hamlet and, I think, the world.”

  Floating slowly upward through an eerie fog, Shemaine became increasingly aware of a painful constriction in her throat. She swallowed, and then winced at the agony it caused her. Rolling her head on the leather cushion beneath her head, she opened her eyes a mere slit and tried to focus on the cherubic face that was braced on two small fists near her own, but her eyelids scratched like dry parchment against the tender orbs, causing tears to start.

  “Andrew?” she whispered raspingly. “Could you ask someone to fetch me a glass of water?”

  “Daddee?” The boy glanced up to find his father already leaning forward with a tin cup in his hand.

  “Here’s some water, Shemaine,” Gage said, slipping an arm beneath her shoulders and lifting her up. He was amazed once again at how light and fragile she felt against his arm. It was certainly a poignant reminder of just how long it had been since he had held a woman in his embrace. He pressed the cup to her lips and held it as she slowly sipped, as closely attentive to her as he had been to Andrew earlier that morning.

  Mary Margaret came near and leaned on her cane as she contemplated Shemaine over the top of Andrew’s head. She was relieved to see some color returning to the girl’s cheeks, for she had begun to worry that some permanent damage had been done. “That was a very brave thing you did, me girl, takin’ up for Cain, but I must say ye were also very foolish, considerin’ the size o’ that buffoon ye attacked.”

  “Cain?” Shemaine wheezed. Her brows, gathered in confusion, for she was unable to remember anyone by that name. “Who . . . ?”

  “The hunchback, dearie.” The elder supplied the information with a pitying smile. “His adoptive mother thought the name suited him.”

  Gage set the cup aside and lowered his bondswoman back to the cushion. Reasonably assured that she hadn’t been harmed beyond repair, he couldn’t keep still any longer about her moment of folly. “Why didn’t you call me and let me handle the matter, Shemaine? I wasn’t so far away that I couldn’t have heard you, had you done so.” He leaned forward to command her attention with a stern frown. “I won’t have you risking your life like that again, do you hear?”

  Shemaine felt like a child being reproved by her father. It didn’t make her feel any better knowing he was right. It was unsettling to realize just how foolhardy she had been and what the consequences might have been if she hadn’t been snatched away. Potts could have killed her. Still, she was pricked by her own lack of consideration for Gage. He would have been hard-pressed to find the funds to buy another bondswoman. Indeed, he might have been left for some time without a nursemaid to tend his son.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Thornton. I fear I lost my head when I saw Potts beating that poor man,” she apologized contritely. “I should have been more careful and considerate of the great sum you have invested in me. I shall strive to be more thoughtful in the future.”

  Gage was incensed at her faulty conjectures. “Do you honestly think the forty pounds I paid for you is worth more than your life?” he asked angrily. “ ‘Tis the foolishness of endangering yourself that I speak of. Who was that man, anyway? Don’t tell me he’s the one you warned me about.”
>
  “Aye, Jacob Potts, the sailor from the London Pride,” Shemaine answered in a hoarse croak. “Before I left the ship, he vowed to kill me.”

  “He very nearly did!” Gage retorted tersely, exasperated with her because she had blindly ignored the man’s threats and attacked him, in all probability provoking deeper grudges. For her own peace of mind, he hoped it wouldn’t be too long before the tar put to sea again.

  Shemaine was unable to remember anything beyond the shadowy haze that had swept over her and was curious to know how she had managed to be so lightly scathed after Potts’s assault. “What made him stop?”

  “Mr. Thornton saved ye, dearie,” Mary Margaret answered in Gage’s stead. She had listened attentively to his scolding and was pleased that he actually seemed to feel a genuine concern for the girl and not his own purse. Living so near the village, she had been privy to all the ugly rumors that had cast him as a cold, insensitive man, but she had reserved her opinion, preferring to see irrefutable proof before condemning him as many in the hamlet had relentlessly done. In spite of the gossip, she had grown rather fond of the cabinetmaker throughout the years, adopting him into her heart as she would a son, which she had never been fortunate to have. She found it difficult to imagine herself being such a poor judge of character that she would have come to admire a murderer. “Ye should’ve seen his handsome self plowin’ through all those men ta get ta ye.”