Shadow of the Raven

by Tessa Harris

  “You seem most pensive,” he remarked finally, placing his knife and fork side by side on his empty plate.

  She had not realized that he, too, had been studying her, watching her slyly as she pecked at her food like a bird in summer. She managed a wan smile. As a young child taking its first steps, she felt herself toddling toward him, arms outstretched, and yet . . .

  “I have much to think about, sir,” she replied. She did not mean to sound impertinent, but she saw him arch a brow as he dabbed his mouth with his napkin.

  “Silkstone’s visit has disturbed you.” His perception, like his gaze, was always razor-sharp, thought Lydia. That was why he was at the top of his professional game, she told herself. Yet still she found his acuity unnerving. She could not hide her unease.

  “Yes, sir,” she replied. “I had wished to confront him, and yet I found myself locked in my room.” Her voice was tinged with reproach, but he countered her obvious disaffection with a disarming reply.

  “But, my dear, that was purely for your own protection. Did you not hear him shout your name? He tore in like a madman, intent on harming you.”

  It was true. She had heard Thomas call her name, more than once. He sounded furious, but what if he was desperate? What if those cries were not angry but anguished? What if her father was lying to her? After all, his whole relationship with her mother had been based on a lie. If he had lived under a pretense for all those years, then surely there was nothing to stop him from adding to his litany of deceptions and manifest untruths. And yet she had seen Thomas’s signature with her own eyes, been present when he had spoken with Dr. Cameron. Her mind kept traveling in circles, whirling ’round and ’round, unable to find its own path through the tangle of intrigue and deceit that engulfed her. For now she would keep her own counsel. After all, Richard was with her, and she would do nothing to jeopardize his presence again.

  “Yes. I am most grateful to you,” she replied.

  Thomas stayed on the hillside for a few moments longer after Maggie Cuthbert went on her way. It was a good vantage point. He counted upward of forty soldiers strung out along the fencing and could watch the dancers below, too. He guessed the rest of the company would be patrolling the estate’s perimeter. The band kept on churning out lively tunes and the revelers continued to stomp and clap in time. But of Adam Diggott and his men, there was no sign. He glanced to his left. The soldiers he could see were still being kept occupied watching the village girls below. The dissenters had sloped off to cause mayhem elsewhere on the estate, and he’d wager he knew where. Down the bank he slipped, leaving the common, unseen by revelers and soldiers alike. Mounting his horse, he headed for Raven’s Wood.

  In ten minutes he was approaching the shaded edge of the trees. Up ahead he could see others, too. Squinting into the shadows, he made out several people. He heard noises, too; dull thuds and sharp cracks broke into the spring air. He hurried forward to see what was going on, and there, in the gloom, he could make out dozens of men and women uprooting fence posts or hacking at them with axes. The main gate into Raven’s Wood lay chopped to pieces, and some of the women were gathering the shards into their aprons to use, Thomas presumed, for kindling. He strained his eyes to look down the line of fencing. As far as he could see along the boundary of the wood, people were vandalizing the stakes. The stronger men ripped posts from the ground as easily as rotten teeth from gums; others simply trampled on spars when they were flung to the ground, cracking them under foot. Some took obvious glee in the destruction, grunting and growling as they did so. Others were more workmanlike and methodical, settling into a rhythm of tugging, breaking, and throwing to the ground. All travailed with an intensity of purpose that came from knowing that their livelihoods were in peril.

  Thomas surveyed the scene with a quiet horror. He could not help but admire the villagers’ tenacity and ingenuity, yet his overwhelming immediate feeling was fear for these brave but, he felt, misguided souls, and the consequences of their actions. The infantrymen were stationed not half a mile away; one whiff of such insubordination and they would rally and train their muskets on the rebels. It would be just as he dreaded. The soldiers would fire. Blood would be shed, and Sir Montagu would be vindicated. The tyrant would enjoy nothing more than to see the village troublemakers dance on the end of a rope, and it seemed that soon his wish might be fulfilled. Thomas knew Adam Diggott would be somewhere at the center of this mass insurrection. He hurried along the lines searching for him. He dared not call out for fear of alerting the soldiers, so he zigzagged from man to man in his search. It did not take him long to find the coppicer himself, directing operations at the farthest gate.

  “Diggott!” Thomas panted in a hoarse whisper.

  The rebel’s head, still covered by his large-brimmed hat, shot up.

  “What in God’s name do you think you are doing?” hissed Thomas, keeping his voice low.

  Diggott snorted and pushed back his hat with his thumb.

  “I be doin’ what is right, Dr. Silkstone. These fences don’t belong ’ere, so we’re taking ’em down.”

  Thomas flung an arm in the direction of the soldiers by the common. “If they find out, they will shoot. There are women here. There will be no quarter!”

  Diggott, his ax in his hand, straightened his back and looked down on Thomas. There was strong liquor on his breath.

  “If we lose our rights, then we lose our way of life, Doctor. We got nothing more to live for.” He turned ’round and, shaking his fist in the air, he raised his voice. “Let the soldiers fire. We’re ready to be martyrs for our cause!”

  At the rally cry, the villagers all looked up. Some shouted “Aye!” in reply, and Will Ketch’s dog began to bark, but there were others who, fearing the infantry might be alerted by the outburst, slipped off silently, melting into the woods or sloping off down the hillside.

  “Do you want to rouse the redcoats?” Thomas asked incredulously.

  The coppicer turned and raised his ax above his head. “I’m past caring,” he chuntered, and he brought down his blade on the fencing rail, splitting it in two.

  Seeing it was fruitless arguing with Diggott, Thomas made his way back along the line. At each woman who remained, he stopped to ask if he could accompany her back to the common and out of harm’s way. He could see that some of them were frightened, but most refused his offer. They would stand by their menfolk, they told him. One woman, however, her skirt a buttercup yellow, insisted that her young daughter return with Thomas to the village.

  “You be goin’ now, Daisy. I’ll follow later,” she told her.

  Thomas took the girl’s hand. She was no more than ten years of age. He smiled at her, but she returned a frightened grimace. Together they began their descent toward the common as the destruction of the woodland fencing gathered momentum. Now more than ever, it was vital that the soldiers remained distracted, thought Thomas. He would do what he could to divert their attention. Lost in his thoughts, he was trying to formulate a plan when, halfway down the slope, a loud cry went up from below.

  “Turn out! Turn out!”

  The shrill notes of a bugle suddenly sounded and Thomas stopped in his tracks. He looked down at the little girl, her eyes wide in fear. The secret was out. The soldiers had been alerted. Soon they would be marching toward them. Thomas pulled the girl to him and together they rushed off the track and ducked behind a hawthorn bush.

  “Stay there. Don’t move,” he told her. He prayed the rebels would have heard the troops’ rallying cry. The sound would surely have carried across the hill, but he wanted to make certain they all had the chance to get away. Keeping off the main path, he began to climb up the slope once more toward the wood. The sound of his heart drummed in his ears as he went, but the pounding was soon joined by a louder, deeper beat. Wheeling ’round, he saw the infantry, marching two abreast up the footpath, carrying their muskets. At their head on horseback was the young officer. Summoning all his strength, Thomas renewed his efforts, scur
rying between the gorse bushes, until he reached the plateau at the edge of the wood. In the shadows, he could make out the few remaining commoners who still wielded their axes and mallets.

  Cupping his hands around his mouth, he called to them. “The redcoats are coming!” he cried. “Get away!” He flailed his arms wildly in the hope that those who saw him would heed his warning. One or two did, but the rest either did not, or would not. They remained hacking and breaking right up to the moment that the officer ordered his men to fan out, at the top of the plateau with the forest edge in full view. They did so, forming two lines, the first on one knee, the second standing close behind.

  The order was given. “Fix bayonets.”

  From out of the edge of the woods, Thomas watched horrified as figures suddenly emerged. First he made out Adam Diggott, but he was swiftly pursued by another dozen men. A clutch of women followed in their wake, so that the two sides were now lined up against each other, fewer than twenty yards separating them.

  “Come no farther!” shouted Adam Diggott. His cohorts raised their axes threateningly. “No farther,” he repeated.

  Captain Ponsonby, remaining on his horse, shouted back. “You have willfully destroyed property belonging to the Boughton Estate. Desist immediately in the name of King George.”

  Adam Diggott stood firm. “We will not move from what is rightfully ours. These woods belong to us!”

  There was a chorus of approval from the men at his side. Tensions were heightened. Ponsonby hesitated. He had not anticipated such willful disobedience. “Take aim,” he ordered.

  Thomas knew if he was to act, now was the moment. Revealing himself from behind his cover, he walked out between the two rows, his hands held aloft. The muskets suddenly trained on him, but he knew he must hold his nerve.

  “Captain Ponsonby!” he called.

  The young officer shot back, “Make yourself known, sir.”

  “I am Dr. Thomas Silkstone,” he replied. “I was at Boughton Hall this morning.”

  Ponsonby, nonplussed for a second, nodded an acknowledgment. For an instant tension slackened. “You may approach, sir.”

  Thomas began to walk toward the officer. His pace was measured. One sudden move and he knew a nervous soldier might fire his half-cocked musket. He had barely gone five steps, however, when he heard something whistle past his right ear. He ducked instinctively as a broken fence post came hurtling through the air toward the officer. It hit his horse’s flank, causing it to rear and let out a loud whinny. Will Ketch’s bitch began to bark, too, and more missiles suddenly began flying about through the air, pieces of flint and shards of wood. They rained down on the front row of the soldiers. One was hit on the head and he fell. Another caught Thomas on the shoulder and he dived for cover.

  Under attack, the young officer panicked. He had lost control of the situation. As the villagers approached, armed with their makeshift weapons, he gave the order.

  “Above their heads, fire!”

  The first volley cracked through the air and sprayed the trees, sending twigs showering to the ground, but the warning shots did nothing to dampen the villagers’ ire. For a moment they froze amid the musket smoke, the gunshots ringing in their ears, but Adam Diggott would not be deterred. Lifting his ax above his head, he gave his own battle cry.

  “Forward!” he shouted. There was no time for anyone to make their escape. He surged forward, together with half a dozen stalwarts, forcing the officer’s hand.

  “Fire!” cried Ponsonby. This time there was no mercy. The second line of musketeers aimed their shot right into the band of villagers that rushed toward them, their makeshift weapons held aloft. Some of the women began to scream and held back, calling to their men. Three fell instantly, but their fall did not make the others flinch. Three more men came hurtling toward the soldiers, brandishing axes as the troops reloaded. Another order, another volley, and they, too, fell. Keeping low to the ground, Thomas wiped his forehead with his palm and looked at it. It was covered in blood. It was not his own.

  The tang of gunpowder filled the air and the smoke quickly cleared to reveal the carnage. Thomas hurried to where the wounded villagers lay. Below the sobs and wails from the women, he heard low groans. He rushed toward a wounded man, lying facedown, a hole blown through his left arm. He turned him over. It was Zeb Godson. Nearby lay scrag-headed Josh Thornley, sprawled out, his eyes open and blood trickling from his mouth. Thomas could see that he had taken a ball in his chest and died instantly. Abel Smith, the fowler, lay nearby, a shot in his head. The bury man, Joseph Makepeace, had fared better. He was on his knees, clutching his side, but at first glance Thomas believed the wound was a graze.

  “Press against it,” he told him. “Stay still and help will come.”

  Next he checked the pulse of another man, whom he did not know. He was dead, too, his guts gaping, coiled like bloodied snakes on the ground below. By him, a red-spattered boy whom he presumed was his son sat rocking to and fro. He was in shock but, as far as Thomas could see, remained unhurt.

  Another casualty sat clutching his thigh, screaming in agony. As Thomas approached, he could see it was Will Ketch. It seemed he’d taken a ball above his knee, and the wound was bleeding profusely. His dog had not been so fortunate. It lay at his side, a shot in its head. A woman hurried over.

  “Your apron. Give me your apron!” ordered Thomas.

  The woman quickly obeyed, and Thomas began tearing the linen into strips. Securing a makeshift bandage around Ketch’s thigh, he instructed the woman to keep it tight until help arrived.

  A few yards away a burst of yellow caught Thomas’s eye. As twilight approached, the wind had got up and was catching the hem of a woman’s skirt. Hurrying to her, he turned her over to see that the color of her laced bodice was deep crimson. She had taken the full force of a shot to her chest. Suddenly, from somewhere behind him, he heard a plaintive cry.

  “Mamma! Mamma!”

  He turned to see the little girl he had left behind the hawthorn bush, running toward him. Seeing her mother covered in blood, she cried out and threw herself on top of her. Another woman bent low to comfort her. As Thomas rose, he was aware of someone at his shoulder. He turned to see Adam Diggott, blood trickling from a wound above his left brow. He had joined Thomas to lean over the dead woman. Both men eyed each other; Diggott’s lips trembled. Thomas returned his look with a mixture of pity and reproach. It was not his place to judge. He must put his emotions to one side. It was up to him to salvage as many shattered lives as he could.

  Suddenly he heard Ponsonby shouting another order.

  “Round up the rest!” the officer called from his mount. Even in the gloom, Thomas could see that the captain’s pristine white breeches were spattered with blood. He saw several of the soldiers run at full pelt toward the woods in pursuit of the few villagers who remained. Adam Diggott went easily enough when confronted. He and two other men knew it was futile to resist arrest and offered themselves up without a struggle.

  The sound of the musket fire had caused panic among the revelers on the common below. Many of the men began to surge up the slope. The soldiers who did not pursue the stray rebels remained to confront the villagers who now converged at the top of the hill. When some of the women saw the bodies on the ground, they began to scream hysterically.

  A sergeant tried to restore order. “Go back to your homes now,” he shouted above the din. “Go home.”

  The soldiers re-formed and stood firm, their bayonets fixed and their glare on the crowd. The atmosphere was as taut as catgut until, one by one, the men started to turn and descend toward the common.

  “Go home!” barked Captain Ponsonby. “And no charges will be pressed against you.”

  The crowd, shocked and dazed by what they had seen, poured slowly down the path. One or two jostled against the soldiers, but they were rebuffed and were reluctantly driven back.

  Thomas remained, checking on the wounded. An earlier plea for help from the soldiers had
gone unanswered. He felt overwhelmed, but he knew he must fight his own battle to stay calm. Ever since he arrived in England, he had needed to harden his heart to patients’ screams as they underwent surgery, but even he had not heard the like of the unearthly wails of the battlefield before.

  “I need help over here,” he called to Ponsonby. This time the captain rode over to him in person. “We need to move the injured. We should get them to the inn,” said Thomas, pressing hard on Zeb Godson’s arm to stem the flow of blood, as the woodsman groaned in agony.

  Even though it was growing dark, Thomas saw the young captain’s revulsion at the sight of so much blood. He turned his head, then nodded.

  “Very well.” He called to one of his men. “Sergeant, assign six men to help Dr. Silkstone care for the wounded,” he said, adding: “But make sure they don’t escape. They are all under arrest.”

  “Very good, sir.” The sergeant saluted, and soon those who were able to walk were being escorted down the hill, muskets at their backs, while a cart arrived to take the seriously wounded and the dead back down to the village.

  Thomas supervised the operation. Using the shirts of the injured and women’s aprons, he had managed to rig up tourniquets to stem the flow of blood, but it was clear to him that at least three wounded men would draw upon his chirurgical skills. He was about to climb up into the cart himself, when one of the soldiers who was ferrying the dead to the wagon called him over.

  “Doctor!”

  Thomas rushed over. Abel Smith, whom he at first had believed dead, was groaning; a low noise was issuing from his bristly beard. Grabbing a bandage from his case, Thomas was applying pressure to the head, when he heard a woman’s voice behind him. Turning, he saw Maggie Cuthbert.

  “You’ll be needing my help,” she called down to Thomas.

  He was glad of her offer. He had watched his father work in a field hospital in the Indian wars, and he knew that the more assistance that was given, the more lives could be saved. Swift action was the key to such traumatic injuries. He allowed himself to smile with relief.