Revenge and Retribution (The Graham Saga)

by Anna Belfrage

  For a tenth of a second, Jacob came to a stop. Up went his pistol, down went one of the Burley men, and Jacob roared. Yet another stop, the musket was levied and fired, and one more man hit the ground. Alex cheered, thinking – no, hoping – that maybe things would turn out alright.

  Matthew burst out of cover. Alex followed. Jacob was only yards from the men. A musket – no, three muskets, all of them aimed at Jacob. Her son was still yelling, his discharged musket held like a club. Something slammed into his chest. His whole body jerked, spine bending to absorb the shock. In slow motion he fell. His arms flew out, his head jerked backwards before tipping heavily forward to topple with the rest of him towards the ground. Alex heard somebody screaming and realised it was her, or was it Matthew? Her husband’s voice rose in a cracked howl, Daffodil began to bark, and all Alex could see was her son, lying face down in the grass. Someone laughed. Matthew aimed his musket at Philip Burley while Alex raised her gun at the gut of the closest man, tripping in her haste to get to her son.

  It shouldn’t be this quiet, Alex thought. How come she couldn’t hear anything, and what was she supposed to do now? She blinked, thinking that at any moment Jacob would get to his knees and shake his head, but he lay so still, so very still, and what was that seeping through the back of his shirt? Faintly, she heard Sarah, turning clumsily towards the sound. Her daughter was screaming, crying Jacob’s name out loud, fighting and spitting like a wild cat when Philip yanked her as a shield between Matthew and himself. Alex was unaware of intentionally pulling the trigger, but suddenly the man before her had a flower of red across his chest, and he looked so surprised, staring at her with an open mouth as he fell. Just like that, the volume switch was flicked back on, and Alex found herself drowning in screams and raised voices, the far-off neighing of horses and, most of all, the sound of her man’s voice.

  *

  Swiftly, Matthew had assessed the situation. There was no way he could rescue Sarah on his own, not against four armed men. Unless… Dear Lord, give him the strength to do this.

  “Don’t harm her, let her go!” He swung his musket to aim at Walter Burley instead, freezing the man in his movements.

  “And why would we do that?” Philip sneered, pressing the blade of his knife hard enough that a line of blood appeared across Sarah’s windpipe.

  “Let her go, and I’ll go with you,” Matthew said, ignoring the gasped exclamation from Alex. Walter Burley laughed and said something in a low voice to Philip who laughed back and closed a hand over Sarah’s left breast.

  “She’s been well ridden, Graham, thoroughly ploughed and planted with Burley seed. A nice little ride. Biddable, if you know what I mean.”

  “Let her go,” Matthew repeated, avoiding looking at his daughter. “Take me instead.”

  Philip Burley stood very still, eyes darting from Matthew to Alex, to the dog. Matthew cocked his weapon, and Walter paled. Aye, him at least he would kill. A short, terse conference between the brothers, the knife at Sarah’s throat was lowered, and she was pushed to land a couple of yards in front of Philip.

  Philip Burley raised his pistol, aiming at Sarah’s uncovered back, and nodded. “Come on then,” he said, and Matthew had no idea where he was to find the courage to do this.

  *

  Alex had stood mute throughout this exchange. She stumbled towards her husband. Stop him, a voice screamed inside her. Stop him, don’t let him do this, they’ll kill him! She tried to catch his eyes, but all he did was hand her his pistol, still managing to keep his musket levelled at Walter.

  “No,” Alex groaned, “no.” She stepped up close to Matthew and took his hand, clasping it hard. I love you, she said silently. God, how I love you!

  He gripped her back and for a moment his fingers circled her wrist, his pulse flowing as seamlessly as always into her. And then he let her go, taking that first step towards the Burleys, still with his musket held high.

  “No,” he said when Daffodil made as if to follow him, and for an instant his bright hazel eyes met hers, a lifetime encapsulated in one last look.

  Alex felt her heart being yanked out of her body with every step he took away from her. How could this be happening, and why the fuck couldn’t the little minx do as she was told? If she had stayed at home instead of sneaking off into the forest, Alex wouldn’t be watching her man advance towards certain death. A sound halfway between a howl and a whimper escaped her lips, and there was Sarah stumbling towards her, but all Alex could see was her Matthew, and she had no idea what to do when Walter Burley raised his gun, except to dumbly raise her pistol at his brother.

  “No, little brother,” Philip said. “I think not.” He shared a look with his brother and slow smiles spread across their wolfish faces.

  Matthew had come to a stop and at Philip’s curt command he lowered the musket, throwing it far into the bushes on the side. He stood still as Philip came over to him with a rope, allowed himself to be tied up.

  “What? No glib comments today, Mrs Graham?” Philip jeered. “No witty repartee?”

  Alex bared her teeth – that was all she could do.

  Philip laughed, called for horses. Once again, he shared a look with Walter, and once again they smiled.

  “Want to come along?” Philip asked, making as if to come for Alex. Sarah had somehow retrieved Jacob’s musket, and when Philip approached, she swung it at him, shrieking like a flayed cat. Philip laughed and shrugged.

  “We’ll deal with you later.” He swept Alex a mocking bow and returned to his waiting men.

  Alex raised a shaking hand to her hair, tried to catch Matthew’s eyes, but he wouldn’t look in her direction, and then Philip was on his horse, and she saw to her horror that there was a halter round Matthew’s neck, and she understood that they would make him run while they rode. He’s too old, she groaned inside, far too old – fifty-five and beautiful and strong, but too old for this. She wanted to call out that she loved him, had loved him since long before she was born, would love him well after her death, but there was no air in her lungs, and so she just stood and watched as the Burleys rode off, dragging Matthew in their wake.

  *

  The silence was back: a bubble that enveloped her and protected her, assuring her none of this was real. But she only had to twist her head to see her fallen son, and there the branches still swayed from where the Burleys had ridden off, with Matthew their captive. Don’t look at her, she cautioned herself, not now. Don’t look at her and let her see what you’re thinking! It isn’t her fault, Alex, of course it isn’t… Yes it is! Damn her for being disobedient! She kept her face averted from Sarah, stumbling instead to her boy.

  She couldn’t stand. Her legs gave way, and she was crawling towards him. She rolled him over, and still she hoped that his eyes would fly open at her touch, but there was no life in the slack face, and his beautiful eyes were turning the colour of slate. But his hair still wafted in the breeze, and when she bent her head to him, she could smell him: the drifting scents of soap and herbs, of his sweat and of sun-warmed skin. She cradled him to her chest, she rocked him, she crooned his name. She told him how much she loved him, and all the things she wanted – no, needed – to say to Matthew spilled out of her mouth, and she didn’t really know who it was she was holding, whose heavy head lolled against her breast.

  Dead. Her son was dead, and soon her man would be as well. It surged through her, a deep visceral hatred that jolted like electricity through her veins. She threw her head back and screamed. “Jacob Alexander Graham! My son, You hear? My beautiful son, and You let them take him!” There was no reply. Of course not, she thought bitterly. There never is, is there?

  She sank together like a deflated balloon, shielding his face from the sun, kissing his brow, his cooling cheek and the long, curving mouth. Why, oh why hadn’t she forced him to leave? Why had she not insisted that he go and live the life he planned to live, so far from her but at least alive?

  “I’m so sorry,” Alex sobbed, “so sor
ry that you didn’t get to meet your daughter.” Daughter… She lifted her head. There was a girl close by that needed her, flesh of her flesh, blood of her blood, but she was so angry with her, no matter how innocent she was, now that Jacob was dead and Matthew… She swayed to her feet, stumbling in the direction he had disappeared.

  “Matthew,” she whispered, and wished she could die on the spot.

  “Mama?” Sarah’s choked voice slashed through Alex. Her daughter, the girl they made aboard the ship from Scotland to Maryland. Matthew would never forgive her if she didn’t take care of his lass – their lass, their beautiful daughter. Alex opened her arms, and a shaking, shivering Sarah was in them, a crying, snot-faced Sarah that wept and cursed, that spoke in long unintelligible sentences, and Alex didn’t want to hear. Thank heavens, she couldn’t understand it all.

  It was good to hold her, to feel her warm and alive, and standing with Sarah in her arms, her recriminations shrivelled. Her little girl, alone with those vile men…

  At length, Sarah quieted, raising her face to look at Alex. Damaged she might be, and bleeding and bruised, but her eyes blazed blue in their hollows. “Are you just going to let them take him?” She stepped out of Alex’s arms, moving carefully, as if every movement hurt.

  “And what can I do?” Alex sank down to the ground. Matthew, thudded through her head, Matthew, Matthew, Matthew.

  “We go after them. We go after them and make them pay.” Sarah scowled and straightened up.

  “It’s too late, he’s already gone.” But maybe… Alex had heard no shot, and the glance that had flown between the Burley brothers spoke of anticipation – not of killing, but of hurting. She looked at her daughter, a silent determination growing in her gut.

  “We go after them,” Alex said, having no idea how they would ever find them, and then she saw Daffodil, snout still raised in the direction his master had disappeared.

  Less than ten minutes later, they set off. Behind them in the glade, Jacob had been dragged to lie in the shadow, lovingly wrapped in a blanket. A lock of thick blond hair escaped his temporary shroud, lifting in the wind, and Alex just had to go back, smooth it down, kiss his face one more time before pulling the thin grey wool to cover him.

  Alex and Sarah each carried a musket, and Daffodil stood by Sarah’s side, as large and yellow as his long dead grandsire, Narcissus.

  “Are you sure?” Alex swept Sarah’s hair back. “Can you do this?”

  Sarah’s eyes filled with tears and a tremor rippled through her. “I have to.” Her hands whitened on the worn stock of her father’s musket. “I must.” She swallowed.

  Alex examined her piercingly. “Yes, I suppose you do.” With a nod towards the point where the Burleys had disappeared, she began to move. “So do I,” she added, throwing one last look at the blanketed shape of her beautiful, sun-kissed son.

  *

  It was hot, and it was full of flies, and why on earth had they decided to do without the horses?

  “They’ll hear a horse, and in this it’s just as fast to walk,” Sarah said. “The trees grow so close together, and the shrubs and thickets make it difficult going for a horse.”

  “And for a human,” Alex muttered, concentrating on her discomfort rather than on the image of Matthew being dragged through this. Daffodil moved back and forth before them, his tail wagging like a steady metronome as he followed the scent of his master. Sarah looked a sight. From where she walked behind her, Alex had the time to study her, see the telltale stains of blood and other things on her grey shirts. But the girl walked steadily, light on her feet, even if one eye was swollen almost shut, her lower lip bitten through and her ears…

  “What…?” Alex stopped her. “What did they do to your ears?”

  Sarah’s hands flew up to cover them, an ugly red mottling her face.

  “Sarah?” Alex cupped her face. “Sweetheart?”

  “They used them to hold me still,” Sarah groaned, and her eyes shimmered with tears. “When I… I tried to…” On her knees, she whispered, her mouth serving one bulging crotch after the other, and she was choking; she couldn’t breathe through her nose, so she’d tried to pull free. Walter Burley had shoved the man in front of her aside, gripped her ears and twisted them until she gasped. “Like that,” he had said, grinning, and the other men had laughed, and all of them had done the same.

  Alex listened in horror and dragged her daughter into a long, wordless hug.

  “They’ll pay,” she vowed, and the despair that lay like molten lead in her stomach glowed an angry red.

  Chapter 37

  He was dead. From the first step he took towards Philip Burley, Matthew knew he was dead. It was just a matter of time and place. He had supposed they would shoot him on the spot, and had at first felt a soaring relief at the unexpected reprieve, but now, stumbling after them with a noose that tightened round his neck, he was no longer so sure if this was a reprieve.

  An hour later, the Burleys drew their horses to a halt. Matthew sank down in a crouch, panting heavily. He heard one of the brothers laugh, but kept his face hidden in his tied arms, grateful for his broad-brimmed hat in the glaring sun. Someone jerked at the halter, sending him sprawling on his back. Another jerk, and Matthew had to scramble to get back on his feet.

  “Tie him to one of the trees,” Philip said, and Matthew was pulled to stand while the rope around his neck was thrown across a branch above him.

  “We could hang him,” Walter suggested, biting into a piece of bread.

  “We could.” Philip dragged a hand through his shock of dark hair. He sauntered over and tightened the rope, obliging Matthew to raise himself on the balls of his feet. “Not yet, I think.” He drove his fist into Matthew’s face. Matthew staggered, the noose tightened, and he could hear himself fighting for breath, loud dragging sounds until he got his bound hands up to loosen the rope, standing now on tiptoe.

  The men settled down to breakfast, reclining in the shade while Matthew stood uncomfortably beneath his tree. His head swam with thoughts and images: Jacob crumpling to the ground, Alex’s hissed, pleading ‘no’ behind him, the way her fingers had tightened like a vice around his own in that last silent farewell. His Alex, and now he would never hold her again. Sarah…what had they done to her, and how was she to be healed? Alex would know, he comforted himself. Alex would safeguard all of their bairns and see them into adulthood. Not Jacob. He suppressed a sob. No weeping, he told himself. If you begin to weep, you won’t be able to stop. Alex, he moaned deep inside, my woman, my heart.

  “Alex,” he whispered, and then he pushed her away. All of them he pushed away, locking them down behind mental doors. Here stood Matthew Graham, no longer husband or father, only a man that knew he was to die, and desperately wanted to live.

  It was easier not to think of everything he was about to lose when he was being hurt, he concluded some time later, lying in a groaning heap at Philip’s feet. He could barely breathe, the punch to his stomach having knocked all air out of him, and when he had fallen into the rope, he had actually thought that now he would die, surprised that it should hurt so much when the rough hemp burnt into his skin. But now he was on the ground, and he was being heaved back up to stand and wait for the next punch. This time, he fought back, raising his tied hands high and driving them hard into Philip’s face. Blood spurted, and Burley cursed with pain, causing Matthew momentary satisfaction before a fist slammed into his back, felling him once again to the ground.

  That is when true hell began for Matthew. Philip was kneeling before him, forcing his head up to meet his light eyes, and in them Matthew saw a promise that made him quail.

  “You’ll pay for this.” Philip touched his bleeding, broken nose.

  Matthew’s fists were hoisted high above him, his shirt was torn off his back, and Philip picked up a whip and advanced on him, a small smile on his face.

  “There are many ways to hurt a man.” Philip Burley walked slowly around Matthew. “Don’t you agree?”<
br />
  “I’m not in a position to disagree,” Matthew retorted with a bravado he didn’t at all feel.

  “No, I would say that you most certainly aren’t.” Philip dragged the whip over Matthew’s chest, grinning at his instinctive recoil. He raised his hand and brought the leather down across Matthew’s face. Matthew gasped when his lip burst apart like a ripe plum, dribbling blood down his chin.

  Philip stood staring at his back for some moments and let the whip tickle its way down the bared spine. “Flogged before?”

  Matthew didn’t reply, concentrating on keeping himself as still as possible. The whip flew, repeatedly it flew, and Matthew hung helpless, twirling in his ropes as Philip raised weal after weal, returning to slash some of them open with a second blow.

  “Does it hurt?” Philip inquired.

  “Uhh.” Blood was running in slow rivulets down Matthew’s back to collect along the lining of his breeches, it was dripping off his face, and his wrists were ringed with bracelets of blood where the rope cut into the skin.

  Philip laughed softly. “It has only begun, Graham. Inch by inch of your body, we’ll cover in pain – for Will, for Stephen, for having us outlawed.”

  “And still I won’t regret it,” Matthew slurred.

  “Oh, I think you will,” Philip said in a voice that made Matthew quake.

  A hand took hold of his belt buckle, and his breeches were taken off him, as were his stockings and boots. Matthew kicked wildly, and Walter punched him in the stomach.

  “You won’t need such where you’re going. Indian slaves go naked.” Walter circled him, trailing a suggestive hand over the bared buttocks.

  Matthew cursed at him, telling him to get his hands off him, or else…

  “Or what?” Walter taunted. “Your daughter has a very nice little cunt,” he said in a voice as unemotional as if he were commenting on the weather. “A bit tight at first, but my brother and I have opened her well. Did you know she’s as fair between the legs as she is on her head?”