The Outlaw and the Upstart King

by Rod Duncan

  “Don’t look!” she shouted as Charity began to lag behind.

  Then they were at the crater, with the new cliff ahead of them. In one place the remnants of the ridge made a shallower downward slope. More a scramble than a climb.

  “Here,” she called.

  Charity shook her head. “I can’t do it. The drop’s too big.”

  “Then close your eyes. I’ll place your feet and hands. But do it now! For Elias.”

  Her stomach churned. She told herself it was true, in a way. Elias might be dead, but he would want her to escape.

  Charity sat, her feet over the edge.

  “Now turn around. We’re going to make it. Just think of him.”

  One of Elias’s ears seemed blocked. A punctured eardrum, he thought. He could hear some real sounds, but mostly it was just a whining in his head. Standing to one side of the storehouse door, he felt the edge of the ripped metal. It had been punched through, jagged as a blade. It was only glycer-fortis that could have done it. That meant it had to be Jago.

  If Elias stepped through, he’d block out the daylight. He’d be seen, but he’d not see them. Nor would he be able to see any of the weapons.

  “I am a dead man,” he said, mouthing the words, touching the truth of them.

  Then he stepped through the jagged mouth and immediately to the side, out of the light, expecting the cut of a sword in any case, but not wanting to make it easy. No hearing. No sight. Helpless as a newborn. Waiting for the killing blow.

  His eyes began to adjust. Surfaces and edges loomed from blackness. Only oath-wrights had ever been permitted inside the stone towers. He’d somehow imagined there’d be a single space of great height with shelves and ladders reaching up. But from the black, he began to make out a low ceiling supported by beams and an empty circular space. The only feature was a recess opposite, the entrance to a staircase built into the thickness of the wall. He began to climb, placing his feet on the worn steps, deaf to any sound he might be making. Halfway around the first turn, he caught the glow of a light shining down from above. Yellow light. A candle or an oil lamp.

  In this light he saw the body of another oath-wright sprawled over the stairs, head low, feet high, shoulder hard against the outer wall. No blood. Head twisted around at an unnatural angle.

  Elias patted down the robes, searching for a weapon, finding nothing. He stepped over the body, holding the knotted rope, ready to swing it. An entrance came into view and a room beyond. A round table stood in the centre and shelves lined the walls. There was a ladder on wheels, like in a library. By the glow of the lamplight he saw sword hilts where books might have been. A ledger lay open on the table. He stepped towards it, out of the shadow of the stairs.

  The light flickered at the edge of his vision. A blow caught him on the back of his shoulder, a sudden weight crushing him down. He fell. Someone was on his back. A pain like hot metal bit into his body. It seemed a knife stab. He rolled, throwing his attacker’s balance. Not a knife. A fist.

  Jago reached down and grabbed his hair. Elias felt his head being pulled up from the flagstones. Then slammed back down.

  He became aware of nausea and voices swimming above him, a clatter of metal. Each sound was like a blow to his head. He opened his eyes to see roof beams and the underside of a table.

  Logan stepped over him, arms laden with muskets. They crashed onto the table top. Elias winced.

  “He’s awake,” Logan shouted.

  Everything hurt. His head. His back where it touched the floor. Logan’s boot, jabbing him in the thigh.

  Jago’s face came close. It seemed upside down. “What did you do? What. Did. You. Do?”

  Elias tried to ask what he meant but at first only breath came from his mouth.

  “At the dice game. Why did Calvary leave?”

  “You… You left.”

  “That’s not an answer.”

  “Shorry, Patron.”

  Jago moved too swiftly for Elias to react. An open-handed blow to the cheek. Lights flashed inside his head.

  “I’m the King of Newfoundland. Say it.”

  “You…”

  “Say it!”

  “You’re King. Of Newfoundland.”

  “Why did Calvary run?”

  “I told him.”

  “Did his men go with him?”

  Elias found himself nodding. Jago stood to his full height then brought down a fist. The blow landed in Elias’s gut. He curled on his side, trying to breathe.

  “They’ll be coming,” Jago said. “Pick them off the cliffs as they climb down. Shoot anyone who tries to get off the Island.”

  Logan bowed. “Yes, sire.” He gathered up an armful of guns and powder, then left, staggering under its weight.

  Elias lay still, eyes open, listening to the whisper and click of the tamping rod as Jago slid bullets into musket after musket. The Calvary clan would be unarmed.

  “Where are your men?” Elias asked, not expecting an answer.

  The rhythm of Jago’s work didn’t change. “Some dead. Some I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. I’ve an army on the way.”

  “You killed your own people?” Even as Elias said it, he understood the cold logic. Jago had slipped away. If his men had gone too, the other Patrons would have smelled danger.

  “That woman of yours,” Jago said. “I’ll think of something interesting for her. And everyone you’ve ever loved. But you – for your betrayal, I’m going to cut off your arms and your legs and I’m going to keep you alive. I’ll cut off your tongue. Your ears. Your nose.” The words came flat, as if describing some mundane plan.

  The rope lay on the flagstones near the stairway. They must have kicked it away from him. Jago tapped gunpowder from a horn into another pan then brought down the cover and picked up the next musket. As a king he would bring such terror as had never been seen, even in the lawless land.

  Elias rolled onto his back, bringing his arm closer to the heavy rope. Jago had summoned all his ambition and cruelty into this one act of slaughter. But he had a weakness. He wanted to live. Elias had no such vice. He hoped for death. He longed for it. He rolled again, onto his other side.

  “Trying to crawl away on your belly?”

  “No,” Elias said. “No, Patron.”

  Businesslike, Jago stepped from the table. “Who am I?”

  “An upstart Patron.”

  “King. Of. Newfoundland.” With each word a kick landed on Elias’s back.

  He rolled again, as if trying to get away from the blows. The end of the rope lay inches from his face. As Jago’s boots scuffed away, Elias took the rope in his thumbless grip. If he stood, the man would knock him down. So he rolled back to face the table. Summoning all his strength, he swung his arm forwards. The rope whipped over the floor, snapping around Jago’s ankle. Then he spun his body away, the rope pulled tight. Jago crashed to the ground.

  Elias heaved his body over again, tangling himself in the rope, but dragging the Patron, keeping him from the balance he’d need to stand. Jago was trying to kick free. One more pull. Elias braced his free arm over the topmost step of the spiral stairs.

  Jago roared in anger. Elias launched himself down the stairs head first. The rope brought him to a wrenching stop. Jago had grabbed hold of the edge of the doorway. But Elias was standing now, the rope wrapped around his shoulders.

  He dived again into the void. The rope gave. He fell head-first, knowing he’d break his neck. Welcoming it. But the first impact was soft. His feet arced over his head and crashed down. He’d landed on the dead oath-wright.

  Jago shouted again. But this time a bark of pain. Worming free of the rope, Elias clambered back up the stairs. The upstart king lay cradling his right arm. Even in the shadowed stairway, Elias could see the spar of broken bone jutting from the sleeve. He put his foot down on Jago’s chest, pinning both arms. Then he looped the rope around the neck and twisted it tight.

  Jago stared up at him. They were still the eyes of a king, outrage
d at such rebellion. Then they were frightened. Elias twisted the rope again. The eyes became unfocused. They flickered. Elias pressed down with all his weight, emptying the lungs. He pulled the twist tighter and tighter until there was no possibility of life remaining.

  Through the receding whistle in his damaged ears, he heard the sound of a gunshot. Then another. And another. He let go of the rope and ran.

  Elizabeth and Charity had been halfway across the wave-washed remains of the rock ridge when Logan appeared above them and took aim. They rushed forwards, coming in tight under the cliff, kneeling low, keeping a buttress of rock between themselves and the mouth of his gun.

  A wave rolled in, sluicing the tumble of rocks. Elizabeth gasped at the shock of the icy water rushing up to her chest. Bobbing her head out from the cliff, she caught a glimpse of him looking down. She was back against the rocks before he could aim. Another wave washed over them.

  “We’ll freeze to death,” she said.

  Charity pointed down the cliff line. “You can climb up there.”

  “He’ll see me.”

  “I’ll keep him looking this way.”

  “But you’ll freeze,” Elizabeth said.

  Charity looked her in the eyes. “That bomb… I know you told me he’s safe. I don’t blame you for lying. But he was at that table.”

  Elizabeth took her hand. “Come with me. If we get beyond the next headland, he won’t be able to see us at all.”

  “We’d freeze,” Charity said. “But without me you might do it. The thing is, if it happens that I die, I shouldn’t much mind.”

  Elizabeth’s fingers were growing numb. Much longer and she wouldn’t be able to climb at all. “I’ll come back,” she said, then waded off through the surge of another wave, feeling it push her and then pull as it drew away. A shot echoed off the cliffs. She looked back and saw Charity ducking her head back in close to the rocks. The water deepened with each step. The foam of the next wave reached her shoulders. Her feet slid on the submerged rocks as it crashed into her. She might still be in Logan’s view, but any further and the sea would have her.

  Weed covered the rocks. But the barnacles were sharp enough to give grip. She could no longer feel how hard she was holding onto them. Three footholds up and she was clear of the water. The weight of sodden clothing pulled down but she was climbing. A trickle of blood ran down her arm. Logan came into view, musket aimed down to where Charity crouched. He fired again.

  Hand over hand, Elizabeth climbed. A crevice ran up the last few feet of the cliff, making a line of holds like a ladder. Heaving herself over the top and onto the grass, she saw him grab another musket from a pile by his feet. He must have heard her because his aim swung.

  Behind him, a figure darted from the storehouse doorway. Elias must surely be dead. But there he was. Or his ghost. Shouting a battle cry.

  Logan spun to face this new enemy. He fired and missed. Elias was still advancing. Logan grabbed another musket.

  Men were running across the Island towards the cliffs. Calvary’s men.

  Logan’s aim swung from Elias to the Island and then to Elizabeth. Her eyes met his along the length of the barrel. She was about to throw herself to the side.

  But Elias shouted, “Jago’s dead.”

  Logan lowered the musket and let it fall. He seemed bewildered, as if unable to believe. Then he pulled a pistol from his belt, put it to the side of his own head and fired.

  Chapter 40

  Calvary’s men lifted Charity up the cliff. She emerged blinking, as if startled to be alive. And shivering, which meant the cold had yet to take her. Had she been smaller it would surely have gone worse.

  Elizabeth watched as the woman set eyes on Elias, then walked towards him, amazed it seemed. They held each other while Calvary’s gatherers clambered up the cliff and swarmed around the stone towers, taking guard.

  Charity’s husband and brother came charging down the slope, and would have been run through, but Elias managed to call out in time and the guards stepped aside. Charity stripped off the wet things there in the open and warm cloaks were wrapped around her.

  After that, Elias fell. When his trouser leg was ripped away they found a long splinter of wood embedded in his calf. How he’d walked at all was a mystery. Elizabeth eased it out while Charity’s husband poured spirits into the wound with a delicate hand.

  The road was long and slow. When Elizabeth’s turn came to ride with Elias in the back of the cart, she found him drifting in and out of sleep. His forehead felt hot. But there was nothing she could do to help. When her watch was nearly over, he opened his eyes and she was able to give him a drink of water.

  “The gun,” he whispered.

  She stroked his forehead. It was cooler than before. “You must rest.”

  “But I’m dying.”

  She proffered the cup. “Drink.”

  He pushed it away, spilling it. “Listen! Your gun! Your father’s gun. I saw it in the Yukon.”

  He’d been delirious in his fever. Mumbling from time to time. Making no sense. But this felt different. Her stomach clenched. “You must rest,” she said again.

  “There was a man,” he said, quieter now. “With your gun.” Then he closed his eyes. This time his sleep seemed more peaceful. But his words churned in Elizabeth’s mind.

  The fever was gone by the following morning. But he seemed too weak and in too much pain to bother with questions. Through the days of the journey, his wound began to heal. But still Elizabeth found herself holding back.

  Tinker came running out to meet them as they approached New Whitby, wearing that same carefree smile, as if he’d never had a doubt that she’d be safe. But he submitted to her hug and kisses, so he must have had some idea of what they’d risked.

  “Come,” he said, taking her hand.

  They ran ahead into town, then off on the track to the Salt Ray Inn, where Maria Rosa opened the door and took her inside.

  There stood Julia, her fair hair bright in the darkness of the saloon.

  Some great deeds must be done in ignorance, for understanding their greatness at the time would make any move impossible. But standing there with Julia and Tinker together again and new roads opening up, Elizabeth did understand. The terror of all the things that might have gone wrong came rushing at her. And the uncontainable joy of reunion. As she embraced her friend, she wept.

  “I’ve missed you,” Julia said. “There are no words to say how much.”

  The house in New Whitby had grown cold and Elias found himself shivering. The first thing the men did was set a fire in the kitchen stove, heaping logs as if they cost nothing. Even when it was blazing, the floor seemed to suck the heat away.

  “Show me the glycer-fortis,” Elizabeth said.

  He gave her the green glass jar and watched as she held it up to the light.

  “How many days?” she asked.

  “Ten if I’m careful. Twelve, maybe. But I’m not going to have my last days full of pain. I’m not going to cut back. I want to chop wood and carry barrels and eat food and sleep in a bed with Charity, as if that’s the way it’s going to be forever. Even if it’s just a week. And I don’t want you to treat me any different or talk about it or anything.”

  “I understand,” Elizabeth said, then handed the jar to Charity, who turned and marched from the room.

  Elias set off in pursuit but her husband caught his arm. “You’re staying in the warm,” he said.

  That evening there was a knock and Charity’s husband opened the door to the mistress of the Salt Ray Inn, a crock in her arms. A fair-haired woman was with her, and Tinker. Each carried a serving platter.

  Elizabeth beamed. “Dear Julia, meet Elias, my friend.”

  They shook hands, he and the woman Elizabeth had risked so much to protect. It seemed a formal greeting.

  Elias, Maria Rosa and Elizabeth were given the three chairs. The rest of them sat on blankets in front of the fire. The crock contained a creamy fish stew, the platter
s were piled with roasted vegetables. Elias couldn’t remember a finer feast, though he’d eaten at the tables of the Patrons in his youth.

  “Salt Ray Chowder,” Maria Rosa said, with evident pride.

  They’d eaten only half the feast, but when he asked for more, Charity merely kissed his brow and took away the bowl.

  “No more for the dying man?” he asked.

  His words hurt her, he could see that. “You’re going to live,” she said.

  “Then give me my medicine.”

  But she would not.

  He woke in the night and found himself lying on his side. There was pain. Somewhere. Charity began rubbing his back before he’d properly thought that he might be dying. The fire was still blazing in the stove, his bed had been made up in front of it. Elizabeth was there as well, bending over him and holding out the cloak pin. A fist seemed to be squeezing around the raw flesh of his heart. He couldn’t lift his hand, so opened his mouth and let her wipe a smear of the poison under his tongue. The chemical buzz filled him. The fist loosened its grip but didn’t release. He rolled onto his back.

  “Not enough,” he whispered.

  Charity’s thumbs were massaging the sides of his head. He closed his eyes. The women were whispering together: anxious voices. He couldn’t tell what they said.

  He woke again around dawn with the same fist of pain. But worse. They had to prise open his mouth. His sweat felt cold even though the fire blazed just a few feet away.

  Half-asleep, he heard the clank of copper and water being poured nearby. Daylight from the small kitchen windows lit rising steam. Charity was undressing him. Then strong hands lifted him by shoulders and ankles. He was in the air and then they were lowering him into the copper bath. In the first seconds, he thought the shock of the hot water would kill him. Then he began to relax into it and the fist slackened its grip.

  Through that day and the next he got used to them carrying him from the fire to the bath and back, eating the small meals that Julia brought over from the Salt Ray Inn: morsels and soups. It all seemed tasteless. Then he thought they might be increasing the dose of glycer-fortis because his head started to clear and for a time he found himself not focused on his own heartbeat.