Instead, he found a pair of scissors in a small drawer in the sideboard desk to help pry up the lid. Inside the drawer were also needles and thread, all still in their original kits. Kate was not keen on the womanly arts, he knew.
At least she knew that much about being a lady.
He broke the scissors in the attempt, but managed to push up the lid clumsily. The cask was half full of pickles. The brine splashed onto his shoes and when he tried to stop the sloshing, the roll of the ship just made it worse.
Outside, the wind had come up. The waves in the harbor were not high, but more now than they were. The ship rocked gently, but with insistence. He swallowed down bitter acid in his throat, and fought back the heave, but there was still nothing left in his stomach.
He pushed the cask away from him, but when the ship lurched again, the whole thing tipped over. The deluge of green pickle bombs in a vinegar wave splattered his shoes and stockings and on up to his knees.
He swore, and then the overwhelming aroma caught him. He started heaving and could not stop. He ran, cursing in his mind for that’s all he could manage above the noise of the old hag viciously laughing.
He ran down the plank and was just turning the corner when a sharp report tore the wood by his face. The splinter sliced into his cheek, but he kept on running.
“Did you get the blackguard?” Mr. Whayles said from his lean over the rail.
“No, he got away. I’m not as good with this as your little girl Katie,” said his cousin, who handed back the musket. “Best go see what the buzzard was after.”
“I knew he’d come around this way. He meant no good, I’m sure. Best we keep him far enough away from Mattie’s little girl.”
Mr. Whayles’s spit and said only, “Aye.”
Standish slipped into a warehouse and slithered through the maze of crates before he stopped to administer his face. It stung, but there was not much blood. He put his handkerchief to the wound and started wiping his shoes on the straw lying all around the floor.
“You been findin’ anyting good dere, guv?” a small voice said from the darkness. “Whatcha been lookin’ fer?”
“What’s that? Who’s there?”
“Been watchin'. You been doin’ no good, I be tinkin’.”
“Come out of there,” he ordered.
Nothing happened.
“I know your voice, Percy Van Tooten. Come out now and talk to me man to man.”
The little boy, maybe ten, sauntered out with his fingers in the waistband of his tattered pants like he was master here. He had been a cabin boy on a Dutchman and had jumped ship over a year ago. He now made a lucrative living, along with is ragged group of mates, on the dockside doing errands for people like Ambrose Standish. The boy didn’t come too close though, and Standish figured the boy was now alone.
“Been stingin’ a bit, dat dere spot o’ blood on yer face, guv.”
“It’s just a sliver, nothing a bit of brandy couldn’t cure,” Standish said.
The lad’s eyes brightened up wide with the mention of liquor.
“You want some?” Standish pulled the flask from his pocket.
The lad licked his lips, but shook his head no.
“No? Suit yourself.” Standish took a drink, and then poured some on the handkerchief.
“Been tinkin’ I need ter git some counter-fried air,” the boy said.
Standish smirked. “Counter-fry . . . countrified? You mean country air? Wharf life got you down?”
“Been tinkin’ I need a bit o' stake ter see me dere in all da right style, guv. Got an auntie lives dere and she been workin’ on der farm. Tink I’d like to work on der farm too. But how does I git dere, ya see?”
“It’s good for a man to think. I wish you well. What do they say here—cheerio, pip-pip, and tally-ho? Have a good time shoveling manure.”
The little boy giggled. “No, guv, been tinkin’ I needs ter be tellin’ some tings for I goes.”
Standish stiffened. “Telling things?”
“Be tellin’ some bad tings.”
“Bad things? Who would listen to the likes of you?”
The little boy settled himself onto a crate and smiled with a mouth missing teeth. Standish took another long pull from the flask, his eyes never leaving the boy. Then he belched. The smell must have reached the boy, for he again licked his lips.
“Sure I can’t interest you in a sip?”
“Got no time for dat, need ter take some counter-fr— countery-air, I sez.”
He was a sharp lad, Standish had to give him that.
“So you did. It’s been a pleasure doing business with you, lad,” Standish said. “A finer rat there never could be.”
“Been wantin’ some scratch ‘fore I goes. Else been tellin’ what t’is I been seein’.”
Standish stiffened. Just what is it that the wharf rat saw? He had been very careful here. Even so, they wouldn’t take the boy’s word over his, surely?
He could take no chances. Besides, people would talk, and he didn’t need that kind of attention.
Not now. Not now. Not— Standish put his hand to his temple when he heard his grandmother laugh. Then he glanced at the boy nervously. Did the boy hear it too?
The boy stood again, nervously shifting from foot to foot as if he might take off running any minute. But he said, “Don’t be needin’ all dat much, guv. Just a horse wid a cart dat’s covered ‘gainst der ole windy-blow and don’t let no rain ter come in on me head. Dat and some coin fer keep of der horse all da way dere, an’ some after too fer me auntie. Some shoes and some food ‘fore I goes would be fine. Hot buns come mornin’, and some bread and cheese, and some meat pies ter goes along. Apples be nice and a bottle o’ wine. Dat to begin. Maybe for me and my lads ter go wit me.”
“Sure, Percy, happy to help.” Standish began to pour more brandy on the handkerchief, but his shaking hands spilled the liquor, and as he tried to screw on the top, he dropped the flask to the floor.
Out of a short life of desperate habit, the little boy jumped on the small thing of value. Standish moved, quick as a snake, and grabbed him by the neck before the boy could stand up again.
The struggle was short. He shook the boy, and broke his thin little neck before all the wind was choked out. Standish tossed the body aside, then rolled it behind a crate with his foot.
He mumbled, “The only way for more than one to keep a secret is if all but one are dead.”
His grandmother was now thankfully silent.
Danger could make any man into a lion, he thought. Self-preservation was always the natural order of things. It had always been so with Standish, though people had so often underestimated him. Especially Katherine Senlis.
He took another drink of brandy, straightened his jacket and vest, and then sauntered out of the warehouse and down the quay.
It was quite late by the time he made it past the patrols and into the Blue Dolphin Inn. They were waiting and looked like they had been for some time.
“We must talk, senor,” one said under his breath.
Standish said, “I thought our business was at an end.”
The men exchanged glances.
He added, “You are attracting too much attention.”
They glanced around them then, and Standish pointed to an empty table in the corner. He couldn’t stop sweating, and he wondered just how much showed on his face of where he’d just been and what he’d just done.
By the time the Spanish left, he was a good deal richer, or would be soon. It all fit in with his plans for finding Kate anyway. It seems his luck had changed.
He rubbed his temples, trying to clear away their last words: “If you betray us, we will know it.”
They would kill him.
Good enough for a baby killer. It was his grandmother who said it.
He mumbled, “Shut up. The boy was not a baby, he knew well enough the game he was playing.”
Some glanced over at him. Standish glared back and they turned a
way. He added under his breath, “Percy van Tooten was the bastard son of a whore who never knew which dick belonged to his father.”
The same with your father before, he thought. Standish grabbed the passing bar keep’s wrist and ordered him to bring him a drink. The man took offense and was slow to react.
Standish ordered, “Now!”
A few men rose and left the tavern. It got quiet again.
His grandmother’s voice came back: You will have to kill them too.
He mumbled, “Not until they pay me.”
The old hag snorted, but said no more.
The bar keep brought him a drink. The man didn’t move until Standish threw him a coin, then another, and handed over his flask as well. He said, “Fill it.”
As he felt in his coat pocket for the flask, he also found the packet again. He would take the message to the Spanish spy in Gibraltar. There would be no face-to-face meeting, and he credited them with that final show of wisdom, at least.
He was to have no recognition, no knowledge of who their spy might be. Leave off the packet in a time and place to be specified later, and then he would receive his payment.
Fair enough. But no harm in finding out what was in the dispatch along the way. You never know what might be useful. And for that, they had showed no wisdom at all.
Could be trap. Was that his grandmother again? No, the old hag was too stupid for that. But still, the point was well taken.
“What to do, what to do,” Standish mumbled, then laughed.
More got up and left the inn.
* * * * *
CHAPTER 22- Plan of Attack
Kate lost track of how many days she had been gone by the time Friendly Jose plodded down from the mountains and back into San de Luz. When she slid off the mule, her feet made little dust clouds as she landed. Friendly Jose’s tail swished at a fly and caught her in the face, but she didn’t notice so much anymore.
The priest came out to greet them, and Kate was glad to see him.
“I was beginning to think you were not coming back,” the Padre said.
“I had business and pleasure.”
“And it all went well?”
She took a deep breath and looked all around at the town. It was much larger than Albe San Marie. Kate wondered how she had ever thought this place to be small. She let her breath out slowly.
She said, “The discontented man finds no easy chair.”
“Aesop?” he said.
“Benjamin Franklin.”
He nodded, “For that, I am sorry. You look done in. Long journey, lass?”
“Long enough,” she said.
He took the reins of Jose and started to lead him away. But he called back, “Sleep in the rectory, there’s a cot behind the door near the pull rope. I’ve been saving it there for you since you left.”
Kate thought she would have trouble sleeping in the middle of the day. The siesta habit never quite took with her. But when she lay down, lay still on something soft, she felt how truly weary the dry, dusty journey had been. She was glad to be back, but already she missed the little village on the side of the mountain—and the people in it. Kate fought back a sigh and forced her eyes closed.
In a moment, she slept.
* * * * *
Spring, 1774,
Senlis Family Compound, New York colony
The Frenchmen kicked down the door to their house and poured through as fast as they could. She heard crashes, and Katie knew they must have broken her mother’s big jars. There would be plenty of trouble for that, didn’t she know that for sure.
Then from inside, there came yelling.
Trouble enough. “Told you,” someone murmured.
But when some of the warriors headed for the house as well, Katie cried out, “Mama must run! They come with the French!” She screamed it over and over.
But it was drowned out by the war whoops of the raiders as they disappeared into the house. In a moment or maybe an hour—however long it had been—Katie’s throat hurt so much that while she still screamed, not much sound came out. And worse, her mother must not have heard the warning.
Frustrated, angry, frightened, Friendly Joe was no longer any comfort at all. But Katie could not move, she was trapped here. Her legs hurt where she sat on the branches, the needles poked at her skin. The smell of the sap, something she had loved so much, was now most sickening.
Or maybe that was the burning: some of the houses, the bodies, and the blood.
Friendly Joe was the only place she had; she knew that her mother would want her to stay here. She was thankful, at least, that the braves and the French did not look up in the tree. She might have been a coward at first, but she could still help her mother and brothers when she got the chance.
She looked around, but there was nothing to throw, and what else could she do? Frustrated, she kicked out her legs in silent tantrum and nearly lost her balance.
Katie could hear her mother now, sometimes pleading, sometimes scolding. They argued in French, those dark men in pants, with her mother inside the house. None of the native braves were inside with them now: They had been banned by the Frenchmen and were now too busy ransacking the other buildings again.
Frustrated, some began carving at the bodies of those already fallen. Fallen. Not moving. Dead. Many of those people she knew very well. Now they were nothing but ragged flesh, just like on the talons of the owl only a few hours before.
But others were strangers and always would be now. She would never meet them at all. All dead, she was sure. With so much blood, they had to be dead.
Someone said in a singsong whisper: “Dead, all dead, too much red. Flesh and blood, making mud.”
Someone giggled, Katie put a hand to her mouth, but the sound continued there in her mind somehow.
The noise of the arguing inside suddenly stopped. A few braves moved towards the house in question. The Frenchmen burst through the door, swearing, waving their arms. Katie could see they were fighting amongst themselves.
The braves spoke to the French, but they did not reply. Then the braves challenged with anger, and soon they too argued with some of the French . . . and then with one another.
But there was no sight or sound of her mother.
Suddenly, a brave pulled his war axe from the sling behind his back and struck at a Frenchman once, then again. The first blow must have been fatal; the blade split the Frenchman’s face from the forehead to his nose. The second blow was just anger and good measure.
Another Frenchman shot the brave in the face, and a battle began amongst the raiders. It didn’t last long, the braves had few guns, but there were many more of them. Two more Frenchmen fell, but they were only wounded.
One staggered away from the group with both hands to his head. Another had collapsed to one knee and was holding his shoulder. The others quickly held their hands up, offering submission.
Time stalled for a moment, the braves were still as stones.
Finally, one of them grunted, pointed at the French corpse, spat toward it, then walked away. The warrior who was shot was moaning now, surprisingly not dead. But there was only a bloody pulp where his chin had been. His eyes were wild with pain, but he could not cry out for his mouth was only a gaping hole. The sound was like something an animal would make.
A few others helped him to the edge of the woods. The Frenchmen took their fallen comrade. In a moment, they were all gone from sight. Nothing was left. No braves . . . no Frenchmen . . . no brothers either . . . no one but the dead.
Already flies buzzed around the bodies that were strewn around the compound. Katie could see the black throbbing haze forming above the bloody mounds, and she put her hands to her ears to drown out the drone.
“Mama?”
The word came out as only a rasp, and the sound of the flies seemed louder. Katie rubbed at the hot crustiness in her eyes from too many tears. But there were no tears left now, her eyes were so dry they hurt, and she was so alone.
; She started to hum, then to sing. But not words, only little grunts of sound, like the noise of a little animal.
A bird called somewhere. Crows. One landed below, then bobbed over to perch on top of a dead man. It started to pluck away at the eyes.
Katie started screaming then, and this time she did not stop. It didn’t last long; she passed out in the cradle of Friendly Joe, worn down with fear, pain and exhaustion.
When Kate woke again, she felt very cold. The sun was nearly down. At first she thought the darkness was just how life was now. But it was only the night. At least she couldn’t see the dead people any longer, even if she could still hear the flies.
But it was the weeping that drew her down from the tree. She thought it might be their spirits. At least that was company.
It took her a long time and much effort to get down. Her legs and arms were sore and stiff. She walked just as clumsily towards the back porch outside of their kitchen. The garden was trampled there. All the pretty spring flowers were broken over and wilting. The rows hoed for planting were not really there anymore.
Katie walked painfully up the porch steps, but stopped in the doorway. She couldn’t go in.
A voice from inside exclaimed, “Katie, oh my God! Mon petite, my little baby!”
Katie smiled at her mother, just a little. She knew that her mother was now an angel, and that was a good thing to be. Her mother was talking to her from Heaven, though it looked very close indeed. She thought to reply, to explain what had happened, but angels in Heaven already know everything.
Perhaps her brothers were there too, but she didn’t see them, didn’t hear them either. They were noisy, she’d know if they were near. Were they cold too?
Katie wrapped her arms around herself, but it didn’t help. When warm, desperate arms wrapped around her, the little girl sobbed in such desperate sorrow, that it was all too much, and she just faded away.
* * * * *
The priest was calling her name as he shook her shoulder.
Kate opened her eyes.
The Wilde Flower Saga: A Contrary Wind (Historical Adventure Series) Page 23
