Dedicated Villain

by Patricia Veryan

  Japhet, who had followed Mathieson but stayed out of sight, now came running to join them, tears streaking his cheeks. Between them, they got MacTavish onto his feet again, and Mathieson pulled the sick man’s arm across his shoulders.

  Mrs. Dunnigan asked anxiously, “Why are you crying, son?”

  “I laughed so hard I ache,” sighed the boy. “Captain, when you said that about your nickname being Second, I wonder I didn’t bust a blood vessel!”

  MacTavish chuckled feebly. “Yes—that struck a chord with me. Something Charles Albritton told me, but I cannot think—Jupiter! Wasn’t Lambert the officer involved in that business with Merry Carruthers?”

  “He was a captain then,” grinned Mathieson. “Poor block was clumsy as be-damned. Nigh got himself drummed out of the service.”

  “And he likely blames you! You everlasting lamebrain, you had to taunt him with your ‘Second Innings!’ If he’d recognized you … !”

  “Hasn’t got the brains. Still—you’d best keep your sharp eyes on ’em, Japhet. If they turn towards St. Peter’s, Heywood will have to take over as Sir Roger. I’ve pushed La Belle Luck about as far as I dare tonight!”

  In response to the lieutenant’s wave, Patchett rode up to join him.

  “You said you had searched their caravans before, sergeant?”

  “Yessir. Only there was more to look through then, because—”

  “Because they’ve taken all their paraphernalia to the church for their play. Obviously. Who inspected the pirate’s treasure chest? You?”

  There was contempt in the drawling voice and the sergeant, who had already conceived a deep dislike of this handsome young officer, said stiffly, “Captain Lake, sir. And right thorough he was, if—”

  “Were there other big men among ’em?”

  “Mr. Ford—er, I think his name was Ford.”

  “Your thought is erroneous. His name is Bradford, so the woman told me. A poor memory is not an aid to advancement, sergeant. Go on.”

  “Mr. Bradford—sir,” said the sergeant, drawing a steadying breath, “is a very large gentleman, and—”

  “I count myself a gentleman, Patchett, and dislike being grouped with the member of a troupe of common actors. Correct, if you please.”

  ‘Cap’n Lake,’ thought the sergeant, ‘why’d you go and leave us with this pretty sod?’ “Sorry, sir. A very large man, sir.”

  “Hmmnn. Has he any resemblance to the regrettable Sir Roger? Don’t gape like a trout, man! Ah, but perhaps I used big words. I must not overestimate you, must I? Let me put it to you again. Does Bradford in any way look like Innings?”

  Thinking balefully of what he’d like to do with a couple of big words, the sergeant answered, “Not at all, sir. Mr. Bradford is an older gen—er, man. About fifty, I’d think.”

  “I see. And a man might make himself appear older, but I doubt could make himself younger …” He drew rein, and the sergeant threw up his arm, halting the troop.

  Lambert turned in the saddle and looked back to where, dimly against the brightening sky, the tower of St. Peter’s soared heavenwards. “No other large men among ’em?”

  “One big cove, sir. Name of—ah, Cuthbert, as I recall. But—a much bigger frame than Sir Roger.” Patchett hesitated, watching the perfect profile cautiously. “P’raps we should go and see that play, if he looked like someone you know, sir?”

  “Twas not his looks, exactly …” Half of Lambert’s mind was on the dinner he’d bespoken at a picturesque old inn they’d passed that morning, the proprietor of which had a daughter with a pair of saucy dark eyes and a dimple. It would be an hour’s ride at least, and he had no desire to delay any longer. But … “There was something about the gentle Sir Roger,” he murmured. “Some mannerism or feature … I cannot quite place …”

  “They could tell us in the village where Sir Roger lives, sir. Likely it’s not too far, and you might enjoy the play they put on. It’s a nice play and—”

  “Shakespeare, at the very least, eh?” sneered Lambert, aware that Patchett would be only too glad to go back.

  “Well, no. Nothing clever, sir, but the ladies is pretty. It’s about this milkmaid who—”

  Lambert shuddered. “Spare me. At all events, it was likely just a similarity to someone I’ve met at sometime, and of no real importance.” And dismissing Sir Roger Innings from his mind, he rode on.

  The sergeant waved to the troop and followed, his lips silently mouthing a pithy and profane assessment of his superior officer.

  14

  Mathieson was so deeply asleep that his awakening was very gradual. Something was strange, but he could neither think what it was nor be greatly concerned, for he was warm and drowsily comfortable. There came by stages memories of yesterday; the delicious episode with Fiona in the cemetery; his bluffing of Lambert; and his wild dash back to St. Peter’s where he had arrived in time to rescue a pale and panicked Heywood from taking over his role in the second act. Fiona’s relief when he’d limped in had touched his heart, but there had been no time then to say anything more than that the soldiers had gone and Mrs. Dunnigan and MacTavish were unharmed. Later, when the red coach and the two largest caravans rolled up the hill to collect them, their scenery and properties, there had been need for caution because the vicar and the more influential local landowners had gathered around with what Mathieson had come to term “the three c’s”—criticism, condescension, and congratulations—and it had been some time before they’d been able to escape.

  On reaching the campsite Mathieson had been astonished by the complete restoration of order. There was no sign of the military upheaval; everything was neatly put away; MacTavish was asleep in Gregor’s bunk; and Mrs. Dunnigan had hot cider waiting for the weary troupe. In response to his incredulous, “How a’plague did you manage to get it tidied up so fast?” the lady had merely replied with a coy smile that she did not propose to share her secrets. Oilcloth had been stretched between the roofs of Lady Clorinda’s and Bradford’s caravans to create a small shelter from the damp night air, and in front of it a fire had been built. They’d gathered there in the warm good fellowship that comes from shared danger and hardship, enjoying the cider, slices of cold pork and cheese, and hunks of fragrant, buttered bread.

  Japhet had come back from tending the horses and proceeded to regale them all with a highly dramatized account of the incident with the dragoons. Their fury over the rough treatment accorded MacTavish cooled a little when Mathieson’s arrival was described, and by the time the tale was told the campsite rang with laughter. It was a rare experience for Mathieson to win praise and admiring looks from other men, and Japhet’s obvious hero-worship, the awareness that he had done something that would have pleased Maman, and above all else, the loving pride in a pair of sparkling green eyes had not been hard to bear. He smiled faintly, hearing again the laughter and teasing, recalling the smell of the fragrant woodsmoke, seeing the firelight dance on one vivacious and lovely face.

  It was very noisy in the caravan. Disturbed, Mathieson turned over and gave a startled shout as he was flung to a floor which jolted and shook and bounced under him. Fully awake at last, he realized that the back window was alternately a pale grey square or criss-crossed by the dark shadows of tree branches. It was, it would appear, the beginning of dawn, but they were moving—and moving very fast.

  Pauley’s head came over the edge of the upper bunk and peered down at him. “What’re ye doin’ awie doon there, laddie?”

  “We’re moving,” said Mathieson redundantly.

  “Aye. We are, that.”

  Heywood’s bunk was empty. Mathieson clambered to his feet, moved erratically to the back door and saw the dark shapes of horses and a following vehicle. He made his way to the front, pulled the curtain aside and peered through the window which someone had taken the time to clean. Heywood, muffled to the ears, was driving the team. Mathieson opened the narrow door, drawing an indignant complaint from Pauley. The air was cold and damp. Math
ieson snatched up his blanket and wrapped it about him. “Thad,” he shouted. “What’s to do? Did the troopers come back?”

  “Not that I’m aware.”

  “Then why are we travelling at night?”

  “Got a long way to go, dear old boy.”

  “But—”

  “SHUT THE BLUIDY DOOR!” yowled Pauley.

  Mathieson closed the door. “Apologies, Alec. What’s happening? Am I allowed to know?”

  The snore that answered him was as loud as it was unlikely. He gave a resentful grunt but made no attempt to pursue the matter, for if Pauley had been told to say nothing, he could say nothing. Mathieson reached for his clothes and managed with some difficulty to get dressed. Shivering, he groped under his bunk for his boots, was flung to one side as the caravan swayed wildly, and grabbed instinctively at the supporting post quite forgetting the protruding nail. The nail wasn’t there. Puzzled, he ran his fingers up and down the post, but it was perfectly smooth. It had been there yesterday. Now it was gone. With all that had transpired in these busy hours it seemed unlikely that anyone would have found the time to attend to an incorrectly driven nail. But—beyond doubting, it was not there.

  He pulled his boots on, noted absently that his ankle was much less painful, and, having wrapped his cloak about him, clambered through the narrow door and sat beside Heywood. The single caravan in front of them was the largest of their train, the property waggon in which four of the set pieces were stored. If he knew MacTavish, the Scot would have insisted on driving.

  The sky was grey, the great dark clouds which skulked below the overcast warning of rain to come, and a chill wind sent occasional gusts to agitate the treetops.

  “Lovely morning,” he said ironically, peering about at the dark loom of hills, broad meadows, and endless meres and streams that reflected the dull skies.

  “Charming,” responded Heywood.

  There were few signs of human habitation and none of other vehicles. They thundered over a long bridge. The water below was rapid and full of whitecaps. If it was the Severn, they had turned east. He asked, “Where are we? This doesn’t look like Chester.”

  “Avoided it.”

  Avoided it … Mathieson frowned. “Good God! Was that the Dee? Are we in Wales, then?”

  Heywood pointed the whip ahead, and again to the left, and, dimly, Mathieson glimpsed the proud loom of mountains.

  “Stop,” he demanded. “I must go and see about Rump.”

  “Can’t, dear boy.” Heywood pulled back his shoulders in an involuntary gesture of weariness. “But never fear, Japhet will take care of him, and we’ll have to pull up again thoon at all eventh, to retht the cattle.”

  “You look properly out of curl. How long have you been driving?”

  Heywood turned to reveal a drawn face but a bright grin. “Half the night. We left just before one o’clock, which you’d know had you not been ath one dead.”

  “Then why did you not waken me, you clod? Here—let me take the ribbons for a while.”

  “Never be tho eager! You’ll have your turn. Ah! Rob ith pulling off. Alleluia!”

  The caravans slowed and turned aside into a meadow that sloped gradually downward from the lane. A line of elms loomed up and they drove along behind the trees until there was small chance of being seen by any passing travellers.

  Mathieson clambered down at once and limped back along the line. The caravan directly behind them was Bradford’s. By some illusion of the half-light, it appeared to have grown taller. Torrey, stretching wearily in the driver’s seat, gave him a cold stare and sneered, “Have a good sleep, did you?”

  “Yes, I’m ashamed to admit. You did not, I take it.”

  “No. Nor did I snore while the women did the work.”

  “You are of the true nobility,” smiled Mathieson, and walked on, wondering what that gibe had meant.

  The next caravan was the one now occupied by Fiona, Elizabeth, and Moira, my lady having moved in with Mrs. Dunnigan. Dismayed to see his love on the driver’s seat, Mathieson hastened to lift her down and only in the nick of time avoided the teeth that the near horse snapped at his shoulder. “Hey!” he cried, bringing his hand down smartly on the black’s nose. He had never been attacked by any of the animals in the past, and he’d thought Rump the tallest, if not the largest of their horses, but this big brute was as tall, certainly. He dismissed a momentary confusion as Fiona reached out to him, and he caught her in his arms.

  He was a man of fastidious habits, and knowing his beard grew rapidly, was not surprised when she giggled and told him he looked like a hedgehog. “Never mind about that,” he said, setting her down and pressing a quick kiss on her brow. “How dared they make my Tiny Mite drive whilst I snored?”

  “Sssh!” she said, smiling up at him, one hand still on his chest. “You had earned your sleep. And we took it in turns, Beth and I. Besides, I think your bristles are very—”

  “Very what, you wretch?”

  “Masculine,” she said with a yearning look.

  He took up her hand and kissed it. How intrepid was this slip of a girl. Cold and wet and her fingers red and pinched by the reins, but not a murmur of complaint, her dauntless chin held high and proud, her eyes full of love for him. He was so damnably unworthy … With an effort he overcame the need to hug her closer. “Never say my lady drove also?”

  “No, for she could not quite manage the reins. But she sat beside Beth, and then stayed with me for a little while. Oh, Roly. Is it not exciting? Do you think we shall manage to—” She checked as MacTavish walked up, leaning on Bradford’s arm.

  Both men looked weary and owly eyed, but MacTavish seemed to have recovered from his ordeal of the previous evening. He smiled at Mathieson and asked in his quiet fashion that Fiona waken Miss Torrey and her cousin and come to the last caravan. “We’re to have a council of war, ma’am, but there’s no need to disturb Lady Clorinda.”

  Mathieson handed Fiona up the back steps, and waited for her. In a moment, Japhet and Gregor hurried past carrying buckets of water for the horses. The boy grinned at Mathieson and told him that Rumpelstiltskin had already been watered down and was “full of frisk.” Fiona came out again, and they walked on together, contriving to touch hands, and to exchange glances when they fancied themselves unobserved, these silent communications saying as much as any spoken words, so that Mathieson was sorry when they came to the end caravan. This was the second largest of their vehicles and it seemed to him that it had been thoroughly scrubbed, for the red roses painted on the sides no longer carried the dust and mud splashes accumulated during their long journey, and were marred only by the evidences of yesterday’s rain.

  Despite MacTavish’s consideration of her, the absence of motion had awoken my lady, and she joined them and took her place at the top of the rear steps of the caravan when they all were gathered there. MacTavish sat one rung below her. Four chairs were set out for the ladies, who managed to appear only slightly rumpled, and the men stood around looking tired, unkempt, and unshaven. Mathieson drifted to the rear, consumed with curiosity, but convinced they would talk more readily if the outsider among them was not too visible.

  Mrs. Dunnigan and Moira began to hand out mugs of cider and ale, and plates of sliced pork pie, cheeses, and pickles were passed around.

  “My dear friends,” my lady began. “Thanks to your hard work, courage, and endurance, we have reached the last stage of this journey. Rob MacTavish will tell you where we go from here, but before he has his say, I want to explain something to those of you who, having no very clear idea of what has been planned, played your parts—” she paused, smiling through the laughter “—with unquestioning loyalty.”

  Mathieson threw a narrowed glance at MacTavish, wondering if he was to be permitted to hear this, but the Scot did not look his way, and mildly astonished, he returned his attention to my lady.

  “You all know” she went on, “about the Committee, and why we are here. What you may not know is that, b
ecause of the ever-present danger of arrest and because few men or women can endure unbroken against torture, no one member of the Committee knew every detail of our plans. Rather, we each knew a part only. My part was to devise the coded messages which told the final location to which the treasure was to be delivered. But I did not—still do not—know the temporary locations where the treasure was deposited, and—”

  MacTavish said firmly, “Your pardon, ma’am. But I’ll finish, if you please.”

  He glanced around the intent faces and explained, “I interrupt because Lady Ericson would doubtless make nothing of her own part in all this, and that I’ll not stand for.”

  Applause rang out; my lady made an impatient gesture of dismissal, but she blushed and a faint pleased smile hovered.

  MacTavish continued. “You all know how bravely this little lady has striven for our Cause and our people. I would be dead long since had it not been for her and Ligun Doone, who risked their lives to smuggle me oot o’ Bonnie Scotland after Culloden. Lord knows how many other fugitives have survived thanks to her unselfish and unceasing heroism. But—not content with all she has done, she insisted upon volunteering to become a member of our troupe.” He took up Lady Clorinda’s hand and touched it to his lips. “Ma’am, I think you cannot know how deeply we all love and honour you.”

  There was an emotional chorus of “Aye’s” and expressions of affection and gratitude. Poor Lady Ericson was overwhelmed, and, having commandeered her son’s handkerchief, in a muffled voice from the depths of it, told MacTavish that he was a wretch and to stop making her into a watering pot and “get on with it!”

  “Aye,” said Gregor. “Tell us the noo what happens next, Robbie.”

  MacTavish nodded. “As my lady said, we’ve reached the final step. Last night when the dragoons came, I was awaiting the arrival of the men who have helped me in my own assigned task—the gathering of the treasure.”

  “That must have been a prodigious chancy business,” put in Bradford. “You’ve told us very little, Rob, but we all know it was no easy task for you to accomplish so much so soon.”