by Rod Duncan
She’d just convinced herself that she must have imagined the move, when he stripped the pack again. This time two players folded and she never got to see the cards. But there could be no more doubt. It was a tapered deck, shaved to make one end narrower by a hair’s breadth. Simply turning one card around enabled the holder to strip it out with a stroke of the finger. Or, in this case, the stub of a thumb.
One of the men stood and drew back a fist. She’d left it too late. The men were shouting at each other. Everyone in the saloon was watching. She had to act, but surprise and indecision had paralysed her. Then Maria Rosa swept past. There was a heavy iron wrench in the mistress’s hand, held close to her skirts so the men wouldn’t see it coming. But the man who’d raised his fist now dropped it to his side. The fight was gone from him. The other two were still casting each other dark looks, but seemed more sullen than angry. One of them was swearing as they tramped out into the squally night.
“Gods protect us!” Maria Rosa hissed. “Why didn’t you call me?”
Elizabeth took her hand and led her back into the storeroom. “I saw something,” she said. “I’ve got to tell you.”
As it happened, there was no time to explain the details or why it was significant. For in marched Jago, as they’d feared. Elizabeth re-tied the cloth to cover the marks around her neck, as any real slave would do, though hers were merely painted on.
The two hours that followed were the most frightening she’d experienced on Newfoundland. The Patron’s men were following his lead, showing off in front of each other. At first she managed to position herself to avoid their hands. Then the one-armed giant by the door grabbed at her. She could have had the point of a knife pricking his groin before he knew what was happening. But a slave doesn’t do such things. So she stepped behind him, breaking his grip on her apron.
Jago threw his privileges around as if he’d been descended from the founding fathers. Perhaps, Elizabeth thought, he was loud precisely because of his family’s humble origins. As if brashness might one day yield respect. For his children, perhaps. Or for theirs. And who was going to stop him?
The one-armed gatherer had been left standing in the draft by the door. No food or drink were ordered for him, so she easily stayed clear. Until he came looking for her. From the bar, she ducked into the storeroom, her heart beating fast and strong. She could have called out for help, but that would have made trouble for Maria Rosa. Instead she wrenched the meat carving knife from the ceiling beam. He had to stoop to pass under the doorway lintel.
If she stabbed him, it would make more trouble still. But she wouldn’t need to. She backed away, ducking behind a sack of flour and a leg of ham. He pushed them aside as he advanced, leaving them swinging. She sidestepped right. He mirrored her move, as if they were dancing. But as he dipped his head to pass under the central beam, she jinked the other way, under the stump of his missing arm. His head hit the beam with a dull thud. She could have been away. She should have. But fear had made her angry. She wheeled, bringing the tip of the knife to his back, stopping him mid-turn, pressing hard enough for him to feel the prick of it.
“Want to lose a kidney as well as an arm?” she hissed.
As she stepped away, she knew it had been a mistake. He emerged from the storeroom, eyes fired with hatred. She rounded the bar, certain he was about to charge at her.
And then it happened: the rear door slammed open, bringing a waft of freezing air. And the thumbless man, hands raised above his head. Behind him followed a gatherer with a long knife.
The giant took one more furious look at her, then skulked back to his place by the door, playing the part of the dutiful gatherer.
The prisoner was made to kneel in the hearth. She watched his humiliation unfolding, relieved that they’d found a different victim to focus on, and guilty also for having thought such a thing. His name was Elias, Jago said. A man not to be trusted. That part was true enough, she thought.
When the doors of the Salt Ray Inn were finally bolted, Maria Rosa hugged her close. “What happened in the storeroom?” she asked. “The way he looked at you after! What did you do to him?”
Elizabeth broke free from the embrace and rushed to the hearth. The Patron had thrown Elias’s playing cards towards the fire, but they had scattered as they flew, many landing short. She gathered up the ones that hadn’t burned, then slid her fingers along the side, stripping out a few, which she then turned and put back so that all the shaved edges were in alignment.
“What is it?” Maria Rosa asked.
“That man was cheating,” Elizabeth said.
“That’s how he lost his thumbs in the first place,” said Maria Rosa.
“You know him, then?”
“I know of him. He was outlawed.”
“But he managed to get away?”
“I shouldn’t have let him drink here. It was a mistake.”
“If he got away, I need to speak with him.”
“It’s a bad idea.”
“He’s the first person I’ve met on Newfoundland who might be able to tell me how to escape!”
“He’s trouble. You don’t want to be seen with him. Big trouble. There’s no surer way to have a Patron notice you!”
“I need to talk with him!”
“And I forbid it! You’ll bring ruin to us both.”
Maria Rosa’s voice had grown shrill. Elizabeth could push no further.
“I know you want to protect me. But there’s no safety unless I can get away. And no escape without danger. I’ll be found one day, if I stay. So will my friends. The clock’s ticking.”
“There’ll be another path,” Maria Rosa said.
Elizabeth rubbed the backs of the cards. They might have had a wax coating once, but it had worn away, leaving the surface rough to the touch. “What if he were to come back?”
“He won’t.”
“But if he did… Would you give me permission to talk to him then?”
There was a hesitation. Then the mistress nodded.
Elizabeth knelt and began to position the playing cards around the hearth at odd angles, as if they’d fallen at random. “He’ll come tomorrow,” she said.
Chapter 10
If the wind hadn’t been north-easterly, Elizabeth might have made landfall in Nova Scotia, within the borders of the Gas-Lit Empire. Then she and her friends would have been safe. If fog hadn’t been surrounding the boat, they might have had a sense that they’d steamed a hundred miles too far north. Not that they could have done anything about it. They were down to the last few pints of oil by the time the keel scraped the Newfoundland shingle. There wasn’t enough left in the tank to take them across the straits.
But by another measure, they’d been lucky. The fog had also hidden them from view. It had muffled the sound of the engine. Otherwise they’d have been found and enslaved like so many shipwrecked sailors had been before them. The oath-wrights would have marked words around their necks, binding them to one Patron Protector or another.
Luck, then, had saved them. And yet luck had marooned them also. For, without the oath-marks of a Newfoundlander, no one would give them passage across the straits. But with those marks, they’d not be allowed to cross the border into the Free States of America.
There were three of them in the boat: Elizabeth, Julia and Tinker. Also the corpse of a fourth, a victim of their journey. They’d buried the body in a marsh just behind the beach. It was the only place with ground soft and deep enough. They’d said some words and cried, partly from sorrow. But also from relief, for they still believed they’d reached the safety of the American Free States.
A track ran parallel to the coast, following the top of the cliff. That took them southwest, which seemed the right direction. After an hour of walking they came upon a peasant man baling seaweed on the beach.
“How far to Nantucket?” Elizabeth asked.
“You’ll be slaves before tomorrow,” he said, then laughed, showing the stumps of yellowed teeth.
He put two fingers in his mouth and blew a piercing whistle. There was no one else in view, but Elizabeth and her friends turned and ran. On the path they’d been exposed, so they cut inland, climbing a hillside tangled with wind-twisted spruce. Once they thought they heard the voices of men in pursuit, far behind them and below. The land levelled off and they began to descend. The sounds of the sea faded, leaving only the hiss of the wind among the rocks and branches. At the bottom of a valley, they changed course again, following a stream, trying to lose their pursuers. But in the process they were steadily losing themselves.
By the dawn of the next day, they were cold and exhausted. They might have starved, Elizabeth, Julia and Tinker, but for another chance event. Staggering through that wilderness of bogs and woodlands, they heard a cry of distress, which seemed to be a child’s, but which proved to be an old woman, lying on the ground. She’d been collecting crowberry leaves when she’d caught her foot and fallen. Her ankle was swollen so badly that she couldn’t even crawl.
Some say that the wild lands are devoid of virtue. The truth is the opposite. Kindness and loyalty are empty words on a day of safety and comfort.
Elizabeth built a fire to warm the old woman, who was near to death. Through one night and one day they kept it burning, using the driest wood they could find, so as to make little smoke. When the woman had at last come back to full consciousness, she told them of a shepherd’s hut which they were able to help her to. From there, after two more days, she was able to send word via a peasant shepherd to her daughter in New Whitby, who was Maria Rosa, the mistress of the Salt Ray Inn.
On the morning after the incident with Jago and Elias in the saloon, Elizabeth was busy plaiting dough on a tray. She had three loaves already in the oven and three more on the rise. Fog had rolled in during the night, so the windows had to stay closed. Her eyes stung with the bitter fumes of baking yeast.
Elias No-Thumbs, the man who’d successfully escaped from Newfoundland, had not returned to the inn. Elizabeth had been certain he would. She’d put off cleaning the hearth in the saloon. But it would need to be done in the next hour if the place was to be made ready. It took time for a fire to warm the room through.
Thinking she’d heard a noise in the courtyard, she paused in her work. Then the handle of the rear door rattled. A shadow moved in the white outside the window. She rushed the last three turns of the plait, making a bad job of it, then hurried from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron as she went.
Maria Rosa was seated in the counting room, the ledger open on the table in front of her and the bag of coins and hack silver, which were last night’s takings.
“He’s here,” Elizabeth said.
“Where?”
“Outside.”
“You saw him?”
A knock came from the front door. Maria Rosa tilted her head, questioning.
“It is him,” Elizabeth said. “Trust me.”
She stood to the side, out of view, as the mistress pulled back the spyhole cover.
“What?”
“I was here last night,” Elias said, his voice muffled by the door.
“I saw it,” Maria Rosa said.
“Can I come in?”
The mistress hesitated. Elizabeth willed her to pull back the bolts.
Instead she said, “Why?”
“I left something.” The mistress hesitated again. “I’ll do any work you want to give me. A trade.”
“What work can a man do who’s no thumbs?”
Maria Rosa slid the spyhole cover closed.
“Let him in,” Elizabeth hissed.
“It’ll bring down a sword on both our necks!”
“Just open the door.”
“How did you know he’d come?”
“You promised!”
Maria Rosa turned her face away for a moment, then her hand went to the topmost bolt. Elizabeth ran to the storeroom, from where she could listen but not be seen.
“I thank you,” Elias said, when the door was open.
“Don’t,” the mistress said.
There were two safes in the counting room. One stood in the corner. It had two keyholes, a lever handle and an intricate pattern etched on the door. In short it was a conspicuous and expensive import. Elizabeth entered to find Maria Rosa kneeling before it, placing the coin bag on one of its shelves.
“Close the door,” the mistress said, getting to her feet.
Elizabeth did. “I told you he’d come.”
“And now what? He’s not going to tell you how he got away.”
“We can talk to him. I might discover something. What he’s doing for Jago, maybe.”
“We?”
“I.”
“It’s bad business. All the Patrons are dangerous. But Jago’s worse. You can’t know what a man like that will do next. How can I protect you, Elizabeth, if you won’t listen to me? You don’t understand this place.”
“How is he different?”
“He’s got no respect for practice and custom.”
“It’s not your job to protect me.”
“My debt won’t be paid till you’re safe across the water.”
Elizabeth extracted five playing cards from the sleeve of her blouse. She fanned them, one-handed, as if performing a trick. “We can use these. They prove he’s been cheating. We threaten to expose him. He can have the cards back if he tells us how he escaped.”
The mistress held out her hand. “Give.”
Elizabeth pulled back the cards. “Why?”
“Give them here now!”
“I don’t understand.”
“You try to blackmail him, and he’ll make it his life’s work to destroy you. And me. And your friends. And everyone who works here, if he can. He’s of the Blood. You never do that to a man of the Blood.”
“You told me they threw him out.”
“It’s their nature. They’re born to it. A mark on the skin can’t undo a lifetime of training. And he’ll have been schooled in fighting. Now give them to me!”
Elizabeth snapped the cards closed, passed them from one hand to the other, then held them out. She wasn’t practiced. A card sharp would have spotted the sleight of hand, or counted the number of cards to check. But not Maria Rosa, who accepted them with no comment.
She was bending, as if to place them in the corner safe but then seemed to change her mind. Instead, she stepped to the counting room’s cold hearth and knelt. Eight blackened bricks came away from the rear wall of the fireplace. She reached in with a key. A crude metal door swung out, revealing a void beyond. Two shelves stacked with the bags and documents that were Maria Rosa’s real wealth. In went the playing cards.
Elizabeth had keys for the corner safe. But not for this hidden one. While the mistress was replacing the bricks, she slipped back into her sleeve the single card that she’d palmed.
Cold meats were for the inn’s paying guests. Servants ate simple fare, as did the mistress. Barley soup, with carrots, turnips and onions, fortified with pork fat. Elizabeth ladled some into a bowl and tore a hunk from her new baked bread.
She found Elias in the scullery, washing his hands. He drank the soup straight from the bowl, slowly at first, as if he wasn’t hungry. He was tall for a poor man, though he’d been wealthy once. He had broad shoulders but his shirt hung loose. Hollowed cheeks made him seem aloof, yet they were not unattractive. He wasn’t the kind of man to be free with words, she thought. But she had to get him talking somehow.
He’d left the remains of the playing cards on the floor next to the basin.
“What will you do?” she asked, pointing to them.
“Buy a new pack,” he said, handing her the empty bowl. And then, “Has the mistress a flat file? A saw, maybe?”
Elizabeth stood in the rear doorway, hands on hips, barring the way. She’d watched him grubbing in the ash pit. Now he wanted to bring the end of a long bone into the saloon. His h
ands were covered in filth.
“What?” he said.
“You’re never coming in like that!”
She fired the words at him, deliberately sharp. A man of the Blood should have resented the tone. But there was no spark of reaction in his eyes. He seemed to expect a barmaid to look down on him. His shoulders dropped a fraction.
“What should I do?” he asked.
“Wait.”
She added an inch from the kettle to a bucket of cold water then carried it out into the yard. Not wanting to touch his hands, she placed the bar of soap on the cobbles. Obediently, he knelt to wash.
It was hard to imagine him as one of the haughty men who strutted along the tracks of New Whitby, vaunting the power of their Blood over peasants and traders. Perhaps his time of wandering had taught him humility. Maria Rosa might change her mind if she saw him like this. Or maybe the mistress was right and being an outlaw had just taught him to hide his true feelings.
When he was done, he stood, soap in hand.
“Empty the water into the drain,” she said.
Meekly he obeyed.
She sat on one of the chairs near the saloon fireplace and watched him work, running the bone along the blade of the saw. He’d reached the third cut before she understood what he was making.
“Did Jago take all your silver?” she asked, trying to start a conversation.
He didn’t answer.
“I’m sorry for you,” she said. And then, “Where did you sleep? I mean, since you’ve no money.”
His eyes were dazzlingly blue against that weather-beaten skin. “Are you offering?”
Feeling a blush starting to rise, she looked away. The sound of sawing resumed.
Perhaps the mistress had been right after all. His pride was still there, lurking under the surface. He was more dangerous for having learned to hide it.
He’d finished two of the cubes and was working on the third when Maria Rosa came to inspect. He expressed his indebtedness again, but the mistress brushed his words away. Elizabeth knew her well enough to understand what she was doing. Any ties that Elias No-Thumbs implied between them would be dismissed, coolly but not impolite.
