Numbers of small crustaceans, not nearly so fastidious in their habits, swarmed merrily over the carcass, and I saw several people, also armed with buckets, picking the larger crabs and crayfish off like ripe fruit. Ten million sand fleas had joined the circus, too, and I retreated to a safe distance, rubbing my ankles.
I glanced back down the beach, seeing that Jamie had risen now and joined the conversation—Duff was looking increasingly restive, glancing back and forth from the whale to his boat. Clearly, he was anxious to return to business, before the attraction should disappear altogether.
At last he succeeded in escaping, and scampered away toward his piretta, looking hunted. Jamie and Roger came toward me, but the little boys were clearly not ready yet to leave the whale. Brianna nobly volunteered to watch them both, so that Marsali could climb the nearby lighthouse tower, to see whether there might be any sign of the Octopus.
“What have you been saying to poor Mr. Duff?” I asked Jamie. “He looked rather worried.”
“Aye? No need of worry,” he said, glancing toward the water, where Duff’s piretta was rapidly pulling back to the quay. “I’ve only put a wee bit of business in his way.”
“He knows where Lyon is,” Roger put in. He looked disturbed, but excited.
“And Mr. Lyon knows where Bonnet is—or if not where, precisely, at least how to get word to him. Let us go a bit higher, aye?” Jamie was still pale; he gestured toward the stair of the tower with his chin, wiping sweat from the side of his neck.
The air was fresher at the top of the tower, but I had little attention to spare for the view out over the ocean.
“And so …?” I said, not sure I wanted to hear the answer.
“So I have commissioned Duff to carry a message to Mr. Lyon. All being agreeable, we will meet with Mr. Bonnet at Wylie’s Landing, in a week’s time.”
I swallowed, feeling a wave of dizziness that had nothing to do with the height. I closed my eyes, clutching the wooden rail that surrounded the tiny platform we stood on. The wind was blowing hard, and the boards of the tower creaked and groaned, feeling frighteningly insubstantial.
I heard Jamie shift his weight, moving toward Roger.
“He is a man, ken?” he said quietly. “Not a monster.”
Was he? It was a monster, I thought, who haunted Brianna—and perhaps her father. Would killing him reduce him, make him no more than a man again?
“I know.” Roger’s voice was steady, but lacked conviction.
I opened my eyes, to see the ocean falling away before me into a bank of floating mist. It was vast and beautiful—and empty. One might well fall off the end of the world, I thought.
“Ye sailed wi’ our Stephen, aye? For what, two months, three?”
“Near on three,” Roger answered.
Our Stephen, was it? And what did Jamie mean by that homely usage, then?
Jamie nodded, not turning his head. He looked out over the rolling wash of the sea, the breeze whipping strands of hair loose from their binding to dance like flames, pale in daylight.
“Ye’ll have kent the man well enough, then.”
Roger leaned his weight against the rail. It was solid, but wet and sticky with half-dried spray, where spume from the rocks below had reached it.
“Well enough,” he echoed. “Aye. Well enough for what?”
Jamie turned then, to look him in the face. His eyes were narrowed against the wind, but straight and bright as razors.
“Well enough to ken he is a man—and no more.”
“What else would he be?” Roger felt the edge in his own voice.
Jamie turned back toward the sea, shading his eyes with his hand as he looked toward the sinking sun.
“A monster,” he said softly. “Something less than a man—or more.”
Roger opened his mouth to reply, but found he could not. For it was a monster that shadowed his own heart with fear.
“How did the sailors see him?” Claire’s voice came from Jamie’s other side; she leaned over the rail to look around him, and the wind seized her hair and shook it out in a flying cloud, stormy as the distant sky.
“On the Gloriana?” Roger took a deep breath, a whiff of dead whale mingling with the fecund scent of the salt marsh behind. “They … respected him. Some of them were afraid of him.” Like me. “He had the reputation of a hard captain, but a good one. Competent. Men were willing to ship with him, because he always came safe into port, his voyages were always profitable.”
“Was he cruel?” Claire asked. A faint line showed between her brows.
“All captains are cruel sometimes, Sassenach,” Jamie said, with a slight tinge of impatience. “They need to be.”
She glanced up at him, and Roger saw her expression change, memory softening her eyes, a wry thought tightening the corner of her mouth. She laid a hand on Jamie’s arm, and he saw her knuckles whiten as she squeezed.
“You’ve never done other than you had to,” she said, so quietly that Roger could scarcely hear her. No matter; the words were plainly not meant for him. She raised her voice then, slightly. “There’s a difference between cruelty and necessity.”
“Aye,” Jamie said, half under his breath. “And a thin line, maybe, between a monster and a hero.”
102
THE BATTLE OF WYLIE’S LANDING
The sound was calm and flat, the surface barely ruffled by tiny wind-driven waves. And a bloody good thing, too, Roger thought, looking at his father-in-law. Jamie had his eyes open, at least, fixed on the shore with a sort of desperate intensity, as though the sight of solid land, however unreachable, might yet impart some comfort. Droplets of sweat gleamed on his upper lip, and his face was the same nacreous color as the dawn sky, but he hadn’t vomited yet.
Roger wasn’t seasick, but he felt nearly as ill as Jamie looked. Neither of them had eaten any breakfast, but he felt as though he’d swallowed a large mass of parritch, liberally garnished with carpet-tacks.
“That’s it.” Duff sat back on his oars, nodding toward the wharf ahead. It was cool on the water—almost cold at this hour—but the air was thick with moisture, and sweat ran down his face from his efforts. Peter sat silent on his own oars, dark face set in an expression indicating that he wanted nothing to do with this enterprise, and the sooner their unwelcome cargo disembarked, the better.
Wylie’s Landing seemed like a mirage, floating in a layer of mist above the water amid a thick growth of needlerush and cord grass. Marshland, clumps of stunted coastal forest, and broad stretches of open water surrounded it, under an overwhelming arch of pale gray sky. By comparison to the green enclosures of the mountains, it seemed uncomfortably exposed. At the same time, it was completely isolated, evidently miles from any other sign of human habitation.
That was in part illusion; Roger knew that the plantation house was no more than a mile from the landing, but it was hidden by a dense growth of scraggy-looking forest that sprang from the marshy ground like some misshapen, dwarfish Sherwood, thick with vines and brush.
The landing itself consisted of a short wooden dock on pilings, and a collection of ramshackle sheds adjoining it, weathered to a silver-gray that seemed about to disappear into the lowering sky. A small open boat was drawn up on the shore, hull upturned. A zigzag split-rail fence enclosed a small pen beyond the sheds; Wylie must ship livestock by water now and then.
Jamie touched the cartridge box that hung at his belt, either for reassurance, or perhaps only to insure that it was still dry. His eyes went to the sky, assessing, and Roger realized with a sudden qualm that if it rained, the guns might not be dependable. Black powder clumped in the damp; more than a trace of moisture and it wouldn’t fire at all. And the last thing he wanted was to find himself facing Stephen Bonnet with a useless gun.
He is a man, no more, he repeated silently to himself. Let Bonnet swell to supernatural proportions in his mind, and he was doomed. He groped for some reassuring image, and fastened on a memory of Stephen Bonnet, seated in the
head of the Gloriana, breeches puddled round his bare feet, blond-stubbled jaw slack in the morning light, his eyes half-closed in the pleasure of taking a peaceful crap.
Shit, he thought. Think of Bonnet as a monster, and it became impossible; think of him as a man, and it was worse. And yet, it had to be done.
His palms were sweating; he rubbed them on his breeks, not even bothering to try to hide it. There was a dirk on his belt, along with the pair of pistols; the sword lay in the bottom of the boat, solid in its scabbard. He thought of John Grey’s letter, and Captain Marsden’s eyes, and tasted something bitter and metallic at the back of his throat.
At Jamie’s direction, the piretta drew slowly nearer the landing, everyone on board alert for any sign of life.
“No one lives here?” Jamie asked, low-voiced, leaning over Duff’s shoulder to scan the buildings. “No slaves?”
“No,” Duff said, grunting as he pulled. “Wylie doesna use the landing sae often these days, for he’s built a new road from his house—goes inland and joins wi’ the main road toward Edenton.”
Jamie gave Duff a cynical glance.
“And if Wylie doesna use it, there are others who do, aye?”
Roger could see that the landing was well situated for casual smuggling; out of sight from the landward side, but easily accessible from the Sound. What he had at first taken for an island to their right was in fact a maze of sandbars, separating the channel that led to Wylie’s Landing from the main sound. He could see at least four smaller channels leading into the sandbanks, two of them wide enough to accommodate a good-sized ketch.
Duff chuckled under his breath.
“There’s a wee shell-road as leads to the house, man,” he said. “If anyone should come that way, ye’ll have fair warnin’.”
Peter stirred restively, jerking his head toward the sandbars.
“Tide,” he muttered.
“Oh, aye. Ye’ll no have long to wait—or ye will, depending.” Duff grinned, evidently thinking this funny.
“Why?” Jamie said gruffly, not sharing the amusement. He was looking somewhat better, now that escape was at hand, but was obviously in no mood yet for jocularity.
“The tide’s comin’ in.” Duff stopped rowing and leaned on his oars long enough to remove his disreputable cap and wipe his balding brow. He waved the cap at the sandbars, where a crowd of small shorebirds were running up and down in evident dementia.
“When the tide’s out, the channel’s too shallow to float a ketch. In two hours”—he squinted at the glow in the east that marked the sun’s rising, and nodded to himself—“or a bit more, they can come in. If they’re waitin’ out there now, they’ll come in at once, so as to finish the job and get off again before the tide turns. But if they’ve not come yet, they’ll maybe need to wait for the evening surge. It’s a chancy job, to risk the channels by night—but Bonnet’s no the lad to be put off by a bit o’ darkness. Still, if he’s in nay rush, he might well delay ’til next morning. Aye, ye might have a bit of a wait.”
Roger realized he had been holding his breath. He let it out and drew a deep, slow breath, smelling of salt and pines, with a faint stink of dead shellfish. So it would be soon—or perhaps not until after nightfall, or not until the next day’s dawn. He hoped it would be soon—and hoped at the same time that it wouldn’t.
The piretta slid in close to the wharf, and Duff thrust out an oar against one of the barnacle-crusted pilings, swinging the tiny boat deftly alongside. Jamie hoisted himself up onto the dock with alacrity, eager to reach dry land. Roger handed up the swords and the small bundle that contained their canteens and spare powder, then followed. He knelt on the dock, all his senses alert for the slightest sound of human movement, but heard nothing but the liquid singing of blackbirds in the marsh and the cry of gulls on the Sound.
Jamie rummaged in his pouch and pulled out a small purse, which he tossed down to Duff, with a nod. No more need be said; this was a token payment. The rest would be paid when Duff returned for them, in two days.
Jamie had waited to the last possible moment to make the arrangements, ensuring that Bonnet at least would be unreachable until after the meeting—the ambush—had taken place. If it was successful, Jamie would pay the rest of the money agreed; if it was not—Claire would pay.
He had a vision of Claire’s face, pale and drawn, nodding in stiff-lipped agreement as Jamie explained the arrangements to Duff. Her eyes had flicked to Duff, then, with the fierce yellow ruthlessness of a hawk about to eviscerate a rat, and he had seen Duff flinch at the implicit threat. He hid a smile at the memory. If friendship and money were insufficient to keep Duff’s mouth shut, perhaps fear of the White Lady would suffice.
They stood silently together on the dock, watching the piretta pull slowly away. The knot in Roger’s stomach tightened. He would have prayed, but could not. He couldn’t ask help for such a thing as he meant now to do—not from God or Michael the archangel; not from the Reverend or his parents. Only from Jamie Fraser.
He wondered now and then how many men Fraser had killed—if he counted. If he knew. It was a different thing, of course, to kill a man in battle or in self-defense, than to lie in ambush for him, planning murder in cold blood. Still, surely it would be easier for Fraser, what they meant to do.
He glanced at Fraser, and saw him watching the boat pull away. He stood still as stone, and Roger saw that his eyes were fixed somewhere far beyond the boat, beyond the sky and water—looking on some evil thing, not blinking. Fraser took a deep breath and swallowed hard. No, it wouldn’t be easier for him.
Somehow, that seemed a comfort.
They explored all the sheds briefly, finding nothing but scattered rubbish: broken packing crates, heaps of moldy straw, a few gnawed bones left by dogs or slaves. One or two of the sheds had evidently once been used as living quarters, but not recently. Some animal had built a large, untidy nest against the wall of one shed; when Jamie prodded it with a stick, a plump gray rodent-like thing shot out, ran between Roger’s feet, and sailed off the dock into the water with an unnerving splash.
They took up quarters in the largest shed, which was built on the wharf itself, and settled down to wait. More or less.
The plan was simplicity itself; shoot Bonnet the instant he appeared. Unless it rained, in which case it would be necessary to employ swords or knives. Stated like that, the procedure sounded altogether straightforward. Roger’s imagination, though, was unable to leave it at that.
“Walk about if ye like,” Jamie said, after a quarter-hour of watching Roger fidget. “We’ll hear him come.” He himself sat tranquil as a frog on a lily pad, methodically checking the assortment of weapons laid out before him.
“Mmphm. What if he doesna come alone?”
Jamie shrugged, eyes fixed on the flint of the pistol in his hand. He wiggled it to be sure it was firmly seated, then set the gun down.
“Then he does not. If there are men with him, we must separate him from them. I shall take him into one of the small sheds, on pretext of private conversation, and dispatch him there. You keep anyone from following; I shallna require more than a minute.”
“Oh, aye? And then ye come strolling out and inform his men ye’ve just done for their captain, and then what?” Roger demanded.
Jamie rubbed a hand down the bridge of his nose, and shrugged again.
“He’ll be dead. D’ye think he’s the man to inspire such loyalty as would make his men seek vengeance for him?”
“Well … no,” Roger said slowly. “Perhaps not.” Bonnet was the type to inspire hard work from his men, but it was labor based on fear and the hope of profit, not love.
“I have discovered a good deal regarding Mr. Bonnet,” Jamie observed, laying down the pistol. “He has regular associates, aye, but he doesna have particular friends. He doesna sail always with the same mate, the same crew—which sea captains often do when they find a few men who suit them well. Bonnet picks his crews as chance provides, and he chooses them f
or strength or skill—not for liking. That being so, I wouldna expect to find any great liking for him among them.”
Roger nodded, acknowledging the truth of this observation. Bonnet had run a tight ship on the Gloriana, but there had been no sense of camaraderie, even with his mate and bosun. And it was true, what Jamie said; everything they had learned suggested that Bonnet picked up assistants as he required them; if he brought men with him to this rendezvous, they were unlikely to be a devoted lieutenant and crew—more likely sailors picked at random off the docks.
“All right. But if—when—we kill him, any men with him—”
“Will be in need of new employment,” Jamie interrupted. “Nay, so long as we take care not to fire upon them, or give them reason to think we threaten them, I dinna think they’ll trouble owermuch about Bonnet’s fate. Still—” He picked up his sword, frowning slightly, and slid it in and out of the scabbard, to be sure it moved easily.
“I think if that should be the situation, then I will take Bonnet aside, as I said. Give me a minute to deal with him, then make some excuse and come as though to fetch me. Dinna stop, though; go straight through the sheds, and head for the trees. I’ll come and meet ye there.”
Roger eyed Jamie skeptically. Christ, the man made it sound like a Sunday outing—a turn by the river, and we’ll meet in the park, I’ll bring ham sandwiches and you fetch the tea.
He cleared his throat, cleared it again, and picked up one of his own pistols. The feel of it was cool and solid in his hand, a reassuring weight.
“Aye, then. Just the one thing. I’ll take Bonnet.”
Fraser glanced sharply at him. He kept his own eyes steady, listening to the pulse that had begun to hammer hard inside his ears.
He saw Fraser start to speak, then stop. The man stared thoughtfully at him, and he could hear the arguments, hammering on his inner ear with his pulse, as plainly as if they’d been spoken aloud.
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