Revenge and Retribution (The Graham Saga)

by Anna Belfrage

  “Does he speak English?” Alex interrupted.

  “Not so that you’d know,” Carlos replied. “A few words, no more.”

  “But then how do they talk?” Matthew had settled himself on the floor, long legs stretched out before him.

  “Your son is forbidden to speak English, and even Qaachow only talks to him in their own language, ignoring him if he asks something of him in English.” He smiled crookedly. “It worked. In less than a month, Samuel was speaking brokenly in their language.” Nor was the boy allowed to mention his family. He had a father and a mother now, Qaachow and Thistledown, and he had a brother and a tribe. In general, the Indians were reluctant to punish their children with force, and in his time at the Indian village, Carlos had only seen a child beaten twice – both times Samuel, and both times for the same reason: for insisting that he was a Graham.

  “Dear Lord,” Matthew whispered.

  “Qaachow aims to make him forget. The boy is watched carefully, and any mention of you, any word of English carries an immediate retribution. White Bear – Samuel – accompanies his Indian father and brother everywhere; his days are filled from morning to evening with Indian things and Indian rites. He must not speak of God, or Jesus Christ. He must think himself an Indian first, because that is what he is destined to become: a brave among the remnant Susquehannock – now adopted by the Iroquois.”

  “No!” Alex was on her feet. “No, he isn’t. He’s coming back in a year.” She threw a pleading look in the direction of Matthew. “He is, isn’t he?”

  “Aye, of course he is, lass.” But Carlos could see the large man didn’t believe what he was saying, and from the way Alex’s face fell together, she could see it too.

  Carlos hastened on with his story. “He’s struggling, working hard to retain his identity, and the few times we have spoken have been of you, of his Christian faith.” He looked away. The Indians might hesitate to punish children with violence, but not men. He squeezed the bridge of his nose hard, took several steadying breaths.

  “And you weren’t allowed to speak to him of such, were you?” Matthew said. “Is that why…your leg?”

  Carlos just nodded. And he had squealed like a pig, which made them laugh and do it again.

  “I know he says your names every night, and I have urged him to say the Lord’s Prayer at least once every day.” He hitched his shoulders. That was what he had been able to do for the boy. “Otherwise, he’s well cared for, his foster mother ensures he’s fed and clothed, that he keeps himself clean, and that he has somewhere to sleep. I think she loves him, and I also think she is ashamed. I can see it in the way she looks at White Bear.”

  “Samuel,” Alex corrected him.

  “Samuel,” Carlos acquiesced.

  “And how did you fare?” Matthew asked. “With your missionary intent.”

  Carlos blinked. What did Matthew Graham care about the expansion of the Catholic Church? And then he realised his host was attempting to change the subject, and a quick look at Alex made him realise why. The woman had her hand pressed to her mouth, blue eyes bright with unshed tears.

  “Oh, that.” Carlos silently said a decade, his eyes on the whitewashed ceiling above him. “They mostly laughed, and then one of their elders sat beside me one evening and described in great detail what had happened to the last missionary to their people – may God rest his soul.” Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Alex relax now that they had left the topic of Samuel, sinking down to sit beside her husband. He wiggled his feet – yes, his feet, because he could still feel the limb that was no longer there – wondering why the Indians had brought him back instead of leaving him to die of his infected wounds.

  “And will you go back out there?” Alex asked. “Return to try and spread the Gospel?”

  For an instant, Carlos thought she might be taunting him, but realised that she wasn’t. She was genuinely curious. He sat up, patting at where his foot should have been. “It would be impossible, I think.” All of him sang with relief. He had tried; he had lost a limb in his endeavours. He could go back to other things, and yet be met with respect.

  Someone called for Alex, and she was on her feet in an instant. “I’ll be back to check on you in a couple of hours,” she said as she left.

  Matthew stood, massaging his lower back. “He isn’t planning on returning him within the year, is he?”

  “No,” Carlos said, “I think not. He intends for Samuel to become a man with his own son, three years or so from now.” He jumped when Matthew smashed his fist into the wall.

  “Oath breaker,” he spat. “May your balls shrivel on you.” He looked down at the priest. “You won’t tell his mother. She doesn’t need to know – not yet.”

  “I won’t,” Carlos promised, although it was his private opinion this was an unnecessary protective measure – Alex already suspected as much. “And maybe he’ll change his mind.”

  “Qaachow doesn’t change his mind – not unless someone makes him.” At the door, a thought seemed to strike Matthew, and he turned to Carlos. “How far from here is the village, do you reckon?”

  “Two days? I’m not sure.”

  “And you wouldn’t find your way back, I suppose?”

  “No, I don’t think I could.” Carlos felt entirely useless when the big man closed the door behind him.

  *

  “Talk about a futile gesture,” Alex said to Matthew when he found her in the smoking shed, inventorying the damage. “God! I hate those damn raccoons,” she continued, studying the neat little paw marks that showed exactly how the canny little creatures had gotten in. From the roof came the sharp sound of a hammer driving nails in place, and Mark was reinforcing the undermined corner, rolling stone after stone into place. “And my best ham as well, bloody gourmets.”

  “Gourmets? Don’t you mean gourmands?”

  “No, I know the difference, okay? And these raccoons are gourmets, going for the high quality stuff only.” She glared in the general direction of where she suspected the bandits lived and wagged a finger. “You just wait. I’m going to set Lovell and Daffodil on you.” She handed down ham after ham for Matthew to check for bite marks or paw prints, double-checked, and returned them to the rafter hooks. “Don’t you agree?” she demanded at length.

  “That the raccoons are gourmets?” Matthew sounded confused.

  “No,” Alex said with exaggerated patience. “That it was a bloody futile gesture. For Carlos to go with the Indians.”

  “Aye, in retrospect, but it took a lot of courage at the time.”

  “Hmph,” Alex snorted. She got off the stool she had been balancing on and regarded the reordered shed. She glanced at her husband. She very badly wanted to ask him if he truly believed Samuel would be home come autumn, but she wasn’t sure she wanted to hear his reply, so she didn’t.

  *

  It was late afternoon before Alex found the time to check on her convalescent. The fever was back, but Mrs Parson was not unduly concerned. The poor man was weakened after his recent experiences, and a mild fever was only to be expected.

  Carlos slept, sprawled on his back. His dark hair lay in damp feathers against his white brow, and the long lashes shadowed a heart-shaped face that would have been far too feminine if it hadn’t been for the strong brows and sharp nose. Just like Isaac, Alex shuddered; this man is an identical twin to my future son. How the hell do you know? her mind sneered. A safe enough bet, Alex countered, because the priest was a throwback – throwforward? – on bloody Ángel. She rested her head against the wall behind her and closed her eyes. These last few days… Christmas had gotten lost in it.

  She woke when Carlos shook her. Alex sat up abruptly, making her head swim.

  “Are you alright?” Carlos asked.

  Alex managed a smile. “Too tired, too much upheaval these last few days.”

  “Yes.” Carlos reclined back against his pillows. “I imagine it must have been.”

  “Here.” Alex gave him the cup o
f willow bark tea she had come in with. “It will help with the headache.”

  “How do you know I have a headache?”

  “I see it in how you tilt your head and squish your eyes together – just like Isaac does.”

  “Isaac?”

  “Did, I mean,” Alex corrected herself. “Isaac is gone since very many years.” Without a further word, she left.

  *

  On New Year’s Eve, Matthew came to find her and placed an object in her hands.

  “For me?” Alex held the small package in her hand.

  “I thought…” He cleared his throat. “I haven’t given you much through the years, have I?”

  “Yes, you have, I have a whole collection of your wooden miniatures.” In her chest, in their bedroom, safely tucked away they lay: carvings mostly of her, but every now and then of one of their children or a rose, or a horse… One for every birthday, for every Christmas, for every important event in their lives.

  “Aye well.” Matthew looked very embarrassed. “Not quite the same thing. I wanted you to have something you can carry with you, like.”

  “Oh.” Alex turned the wrapped little square round and round.

  “Won’t you open it?” Matthew asked, kneeling down beside her.

  “I…” She felt ridiculous admitting this, but this was the first time she could remember ever having received a wrapped present in this time, and just to hold it, unopened, made her recall long ago birthdays and Christmases. “I just want to savour it a bit,” she said, but her fingers were already working on the knot.

  Her finger shook as she ran it over the little locket. In gold, he told her proudly, and look, on the lid he’d had their initials engraved, while inside… He opened it, to show her a miniature braid, his and her hair wound together.

  “Thank you.” She held out the pale blue ribbon from which it hung. “Will you put it on?”

  Chapter 33

  “For a first-time surgeon, I must say I did a pretty good job,” Alex commented to Mrs Parson, before they straightened up from their detailed study of Carlos’ leg.

  “Aye. Nice and neat around the edges… It won’t chafe much once we get him fitted with a peg”

  “A peg?” Carlos sat up.

  “Better than living your whole life on crutches,” Mrs Parson said. “Makes it easier to piss, no?”

  “Makes it easier to do a whole lot of things. Stand, for example.” Alex wiped her hands on her apron.

  Carlos placed a careful hand on his stump. “Which is a good thing if I can. With the exception of confession, most of my priestly works calls for me to stand.”

  “Or kneel,” Mrs Parson reminded him, “and that won’t be easy for you, getting down and up again.”

  “Let’s cross that bridge when we get there, shall we?” Alex helped Carlos off the table.

  She handed him his crutches, opened the door, and waited while he stumped off to enjoy the surprisingly warm February sunshine and the company of Sarah. For some reason, Sarah had developed a protective fondness for Carlos, and these days she was mostly to be found in deep conversation with the priest, Ruth more or less forgotten.

  “I don’t like it,” Matthew said. “That wee priest is enticing my lass away from our faith.”

  “Don’t be silly, Carlos wouldn’t do something like that. And it isn’t as if Sarah has expressed all that much interest in religion recently, is it?”

  “She once wanted to become a nun,” Matthew reminded her.

  “That was years ago, when she was a child! No, Sarah is using Carlos to hone her man-baiting skills.”

  “Man-baiting?” If possible, Matthew’s face grew even darker. “I won’t have my lasses grow into cock-teases!”

  “Not like that. More to see how far she can get with simpers and dimples and the odd widened eye.” Alex threw an oblique look in his direction. “Generally quite far.” She batted her eyelids at him.

  “Hmph,” Matthew replied, but the left-hand corner of his mouth twitched.

  *

  Just in case, Matthew found the time to talk to his youngest daughter, suggesting they take a walk through the budding woods. Sarah was clearly delighted to be spending time only with him, and even more so when he handed her his new rifled flintlock to carry, on the off chance that they see something to kill.

  “Not much chance, mind you,” Matthew said. “The winter has been hard on the wildlife.”

  He watched as his daughter loaded and wadded, ramming the shot forcefully into the muzzle.

  “Fifteen seconds,” he said approvingly. “Well done, lass.”

  Sarah went a becoming pink at his praise, and just like that, he was transported back to Scotland very many years ago. Her mother used to go that pleasing colour, he collected with a private smile, and the lass standing before him was very much like her mama, with the exception of her hair – straight and fair where Alex’s was curly and dark.

  “So, do you like the wee priest then?” he asked, before whistling Viggo back to heel.

  “Like him? Aye, well enough. Mostly, I feel sorry for him – but he does that very well himself.” She grinned – a flash of white teeth that made him smile back. “I don’t mean to sound uncharitable,” she went on, “but he’s back here, with us. And Samuel…” She hesitated, threw him a blue look.

  Where Alex on occasion would raise the subject of Samuel with their bairns, he was incapable of doing so, his windpipe, lungs and stomach shrinking just at the mention of his son. He cleared his throat, formed his mouth round his lost lad’s name. “Samuel…” he prompted.

  “He’s out there, alone and without us. I don’t think he’d be whining overmuch about a leg!”

  Matthew smiled sadly. How easy to dismiss the loss of a limb as peripheral when you stood strong and healthy like she did. He suspected Samuel would mind very much should he find himself so diminished, his future life permanently curtailed, but chose not to say so.

  “Is that what you speak of? His leg?”

  “No.” Sarah looked away, long fair lashes shielding her eyes.

  “Not his leg then, so what? His beliefs?” Matthew narrowed his eyes at her.

  “At times,” Sarah said, with a little shrug.

  Just like her mother, his daughter was a bad liar, and from the way her eyes flitted from side to side, her hands tightening round the musket, he concluded they spoke more than occasionally about the papist priest’s beliefs. Besides, he’d heard her himself, a few days back, telling the younger bairns of St Lucia and St Catherine, of visions from God and martyrdom. No, he didn’t like this, and for a lass as impressionable as his Sarah, these stories of strong devout women who gave up everything – at times even their lives – for the sake of their faith must be like downing a quart or two of heady wine.

  “Mostly we talk about Samuel,” Sarah said, bringing him tumbling back from his excursion into issues of faith to the truly important matter in his present life.

  “And what has he told you?” He sounded pathetically eager – he could hear it himself.

  Sarah hitched her shoulders. She knew how Samuel was dressed; that he carried a wee tomahawk at his belt; that at times he and the other lads were led out to stay alone in the night. Very often Samuel, Carlos had said, describing how he was given a meagre supply of food and water before being taken away to commune alone with the spirits of the night.

  “No fire?” Matthew asked in a strangled voice.

  “Nay, I don’t think so. He said how once Samuel was left alone for three nights running.” In punishment, Carlos had said. The boy had once again insisted he wasn’t an Indian.

  Matthew hid his feelings at what she was telling him, deciding he was going to have a long talk with the priest once they got back, hungry for ever insignificant aspects of his lost lad’s life, even if hearing some of it might rip his guts apart.

  “A rite of passage, he called it,” Sarah said, turning to look him in the face. “What does that mean, Da?”

  “It’s a
step on the way to becoming a man,” Matthew answered. An Indian man, he gulped. Oh God, what had he done, giving his son in the keeping of the heathen?

  *

  If one daughter was fluttering like a curious moth around the dangerous flame of papist beliefs, the other was busy with her own spiritual advancement, spending hours each day on her Conversion Narrative. Alex was a bit doubtful to all this praying and meditating, and was not at all happy when she realised Ruth got up well before dawn to read through the Bible text set for her daily study. By Julian, no less, in a document that Ruth kept folded in the Bible he had given her.

  “It isn’t uncommon,” Matthew said when she discussed this with him. “And appropriate, in someone in love with a minister.”

  “And do you think she’s doing this out of genuine devoutness or just to impress Julian?”

  “To impress him, of course.” Matthew nabbed the last piece of cake and stuffed it whole into his mouth, chewing industriously. “But I dare say some of that reading will rub off.”

  “As long as she doesn’t go all fanatical on me,” Alex grumbled, using her finger to chase the last of the crumbs.

  They were sitting alone in the kitchen, the space weakly lit by the glowing embers in the hearth and the thick tallow candle on the table. The whole house slept around them, and if Alex closed her eyes, she imagined she could hear the rhythmic breathing of the wooden structure. She was very aware of Matthew’s eyes on her, and from below her eyelashes, she looked back at him.

  He was beautiful in the light cast from the candle, his features highlighted by light and shadow. Here and there, his hair still glinted a deep chestnut, and on the table, his hands lay open against the worn wood. She felt a foot slide up her leg, and across the table, his eyes met hers.

  She stood, raised her skirts and undid her garter ribbon, peeling off the thick knitted stocking in a way that would have made Marilyn Monroe jealous. Matthew nodded at her other leg, watching with the intent gaze of a hawk as she slid her hands up, pulled at the bright red ribbon, and slowly bared her skin. He beckoned her over to where he was sitting, shoving back his chair to allow her to squeeze herself between him and the table.