She levelled it at him and he looked up. “No, Bess,” I said quickly.
Her eyes gleamed in a way I had seen twice before, when she shot and killed the redcoat, and when she told the story of Mad Dog Tim’s hanging. Her finger tightened on the trigger.
“The flint is done for,” I reminded her.
“The flint is perfect, as you very well know,” she replied, her words squeezing through tightened lips.
“Bess, you do not know what you are doing. He is no ordinary deserter. He has good reason to hate the redcoats as well. Let us talk. We can decide downstairs.”
Henry knelt there, shoulders heaving in silent sobs. How I wished he would stop his snivelling, that he would stand up and be a man!
“Get up,” I said, pushing him with my foot. “Go down the stairs.”
We followed him down. He looked to me to know where he should go. I pointed to the floor, near the fire but not too close.
“Sit. And listen. Do not speak. And do not move.” He pulled his knees up to his chest and hugged them, sniffing frequently. I had never seen such a miserable face. But what did he have to be anything other than miserable about? What choices or chances did he ever have?
I acquainted Bess with all that I knew about him. As I did so, I avoided looking at him. He repelled me. I detested his thinness, his crawling poverty, his drivelling weakness. I hated the way he had crept back here like a mole driven into its hole at the first sign of light.
How I wished, above all, that he would go and that I did not have to think about him.
Once Bess had heard his story, why he was running from the redcoats, how desperate he was to take meagre flour to his mother and sister, even though it would not remedy their poverty, she burned with a different fervour. She forgot how close she had been to shooting Henry Parish dead, and in her desire to wreak vengeance on the redcoats she would do anything, however dangerous, however misguided. I suppose, too, she recognized his poverty and would not stand by while richer men made it worse. No doubt, her father would have felt the same, and burned with equal fervour.
“We will help you!” she said. “We will help you escape. Tonight you must stay here and tomorrow … tomorrow we shall make a plan.”
She thought that by aiding Henry, she would be fighting against the redcoats, I could see that. What they wanted, she wanted to take from them. And so, foolishly, thinking nothing of herself – or of me – she was prepared to risk everything for a boy who should mean nothing to her.
And yet, I knew that she was right. We had to help Henry Parish. It was the honourable thing to do.
Bess, though a girl of low station, was as brave and as honourable as any gentleman I had met. Braver and more honourable than many.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Tired though I was, at first I could not sleep. My head throbbed and my bones ached in places where they had not before. And I did not know what would happen the next day, how we could help Henry escape. I confess I hoped he would escape far away from here, and never return. His home was many miles away, he told us, to the north-west, by Carlisle. Almost in Scotland. He named the place but I did not know it. I hoped that once there, he would never find his way back here.
I was considering only myself, I admit that.
I did not know for certain why he deserved our help. His troubles were not ours. He could indeed bring danger upon us, great danger. And he had done little enough to show bravery or honour. Running away for the sake of a few pounds of flour? How might that have helped his mother and sister? They would have eaten it within days and then where would they be? Still hungry and their son and brother with a price on his head.
He was foolish. He was foolish, cowardly and weak.
We made him sleep in the small room up the stairs, under the eaves. It was colder up there, without the fire, and probably damp, but safer. Safer for us, that is. Nor did I wish him to be able to slip out during the night and steal one of the horses. Bess slept in her bed in the smaller of the two downstairs rooms, after taking the chill off the mattress by use of a warming pan filled with embers from the fire. I was content with a horse-hair bolster and a pile of blankets on the floor by the hearth.
Before Bess had gone to her bed, we had briefly talked about the next day, while she stitched the tear in my sleeve. My head was heavy with exhaustion and I contributed little. After her recent illness, I do not know where Bess found the strength to talk so late.
She had some idea of using the horses and taking Henry to the nearest staging post, giving him some clothes, disposing of his redcoat’s uniform, and sending him on his way home. As far as I was concerned, whether he reached home or not, I would perhaps never discover, and would care little to know. As long as I never saw him again.
I am not proud of such thoughts, but I could not warm my heart to Henry Parish. He had brought nothing but trouble until now and I believed that he would bring nothing but trouble in the future.
But Bess’s plan was the only one we had. Little was I to know that she had wasted her breath in speaking of it.
Eventually, I slept, though when I woke I did not feel refreshed. I woke in the Stygian gloom of that February morning. No, I realized, the day was the first of March. A new month. Spring would be on its way soon. Light and warmth would return to the land, new life. A new life for me, too.
But why had I awoken so early? Nothing stirred in the cottage. I strained my ears. It seemed that something had woken me, but what?
Carefully, pushing back the blankets and forcing my stiffened joints to move, I began to stand up. A sound. Outside. Horses! Many horses. I leapt to my feet, wide awake now. Stumbling in the darkness, I dragged on the clothes Bess had given me, tugging on the woollen stockings and fumbling with the buttons on the unfamiliar breeches, slipping my feet into the well-worn shoes which were only a little too big, pulling on the jacket.
The sound of hoofbeats came closer. What were they doing here at this time, so early in the morning? Perhaps they would go past the cottage; perhaps they were not minded to come here; but, indeed, I could not think where they might be going if not here.
With my heart pounding, I hurried to the room where Bess slept. “Bess! Bess!” I whispered urgently. “Hurry! You must rise. Now!”
At once, she grasped the urgency of the situation. We could both hear the horses now, and the shouts of men, orders being given. I left Bess to dress herself and ran back into the other room, where I stood, unable to decide what to do. There was not sufficient time to warn Henry – I could only pray he had heard. But how would that help? He could not escape now.
Should I light a lamp or not? Would it be better if I could see, or better if they came into near darkness? But before I could act, a loud banging shook the door. Hurrying to it, I slid the bolts open. What else could I do? If we did not open it, they would merely force it.
Redcoats, not militia. I knew immediately that they were looking for Henry. Why else could they be here? Suddenly the full enormity of our danger hit me like a fist in the chest. Henry was upstairs. What if they searched? And, of course, they would. And when they did, they must find him.
What would they do with him then? What would they do with us?
Chapter Forty
Six men had burst into the cottage, just as Bess came into the room, wrapping a cloak tightly round her crumpled dress, her hair a tangled mass tumbling about her face and shoulders. I saw her teeth clench, her jaw tighten, as she saw the redcoats. I hoped she would do nothing foolish.
“What is your business here?” I demanded, trying to sound strong and innocent. Two of them carried storm lanterns, which swung their orange glow, sending shadows flitting around the room like giant ghosts. The cold air rushed in, bringing fresh snow. I shivered.
They filled the room, huge and loud with their bright jackets, their white-edged tricorne hats scattering water as they shook them. Their muscles bulged like ships’ ropes in their tight white breeches. Some – four at least – carried muske
ts, ugly bayonets fixed at the end.
One of the men – an officer from his markings, cruel from his arrogant sneer – spoke, after a pause in which he seemed to be deciding whether I was worth regarding. Did he not know? Did he not recognize that I was no journeyman, no person of the lowest order?
“Where is your father? Where is the householder?” Water dripped from his orange moustache.
“This is our home,” I said boldly. I had no time to think. I could only react to whatever came to pass. But I tried desperately to think, to form a plan. I did not look at Bess. She was silent, for which I was thankful.
The officer laughed. “Two children! What age are you, lad?”
“Sixteen,” I lied. “We are brother and sister. Our father is at sea. With His Majesty’s ships.” I had no plan to tell such lies. Did I blush as I did so? Did they see my trembling?
“Brother and sister? This is your sister, eh? By gad, what a sister!” And the officer walked over to Bess, slowly, knowing he could take as much time as he wished. He stood in front of her, his chest puffed out and his mouth slightly open, looked at her face, let his eyes wander down her body. As he put out his hand and with a finger touched her hair, I began to leap forward but I was held, grabbed by two of the soldiers. I could smell their sweat and the doughy scent of their hair, caked in damp flour as it was. I thought of Henry and why we were all here.
Was it all for this? Was the appearance of a soldier’s hair more important than a starving family?
“Do not move, boy!” snarled one.
“Not while a gentleman is examining your wares,” sneered the other. Two of the other soldiers started picking objects up and dropping them. They opened every cupboard door, sweeping contents aside as if what they sought could be hiding in there. Or as if it mattered nothing, as long as they caused as much damage as possible.
I could not watch all of them, could not tell where to keep my eyes.
One picked up a keg of beer, opened the bung with his teeth, and drank from it noisily, tipping his throat far back, so that the muscles in his neck moved like a caterpillar. His skin was covered in ugly red spots. I said not a word. I wanted only to protect Bess and I cared nothing about the beer. A taste of the bitterest anger flooded my mouth. I could almost smell it, almost sense blood on my tongue as I struggled to hold myself back. But if the worst came to the worst, then I would fight. Even if it meant pain or death – because I could not honourably let them harm Bess. And I could not have borne to watch that myself.
The officer’s finger curled round a tress of Bess’s cascading black hair and played with it, one side of his mouth turned upwards in a smile. I could not bear it. I strained against my captors’ arms, but the more I struggled the more they laughed and the more they dug their iron-strong fingers into my flesh.
Still she looked down and said nothing, but I could see her shoulders heaving as she gathered breath to speak. She must not! She would only make it worse.
“What do you want?” I asked. “What do you want from us?”
“We are searching for a deserter,” said the officer, still playing with Bess’s hair. “But I warrant the deserter will wait. We are in no hurry. We know he cannot be far away. Perhaps he is here even now? Perhaps, at this very moment, he crouches upstairs, cringing like some frightened cur. We have the cottage surrounded. He cannot go far.” The officer looked towards the stairs as he said this.
“There is no one here!” I said. “We would not harbour a deserter! Our father fights for the King! If a deserter came here, we would turn him in.”
“What about you, girl? Would you turn in a poor young boy? Or would your woman’s heart soften and take him to your … breast?” And as he said this, his finger traced softly the edge of her jaw, slipping down her neck and slowly sliding round her throat.
The other men laughed, urging him on with lewd gestures and sounds. One man walked past Bess and dropped something at her feet.
“Oh, how foolish of me!” he said, looking at the others for encouragement. And he bent down, slowly, until he was on his hands and knees behind her. He stretched his hand underneath her skirt, reached until he could touch her ankle. Bess raised her knee – I saw her skirts move – and stamped down hard on his hand. She was wearing her pattens, and his cry of pain as the sharp edge caught the bones of his hand was satisfying in the extreme.
Furious, the man stood up, shaking his hand. Another man laughed. The officer spoke again, his moustache trembling. “She has spirit, your sister. She should be doing her part to serve His Majesty’s army. Soldiers have their needs and a girl of such spirit as this would be of great service indeed.”
The man’s finger was now at the very edge of her cloak, where she held it wrapped around her body. A moment more and his fingers would be sliding inside her garment. I struggled and strained, trying to kick my captors, but their strength was too great.
Still she did not look up.
Then the officer’s finger slipped beneath her cloak. And in one fluid movement, Bess gathered her breath, raised her head, stared into his gaze, and spat. Her spittle hit him between the eyes and dripped down his nose. Everything froze, silent and still, Bess’s fury matched only by the officer’s menacing quiet.
I could not blame her. But I wished she had not done it.
Chapter Forty-One
Now a soft noise rose from the men, a sort of thrill, the thrill of men who are about to strike, whose blood is up, who are ready to kill.
Into the waiting air, the officer spoke, softly, oozing menace. And yet, beneath the softness was the strength of an iron chain: “You will be sorry for that. When we find the deserter, you will be sorry. Do you know the penalty for helping a deserter? For being a traitor? I can shoot you. I can say that I shot you while you protected the deserter. But before I do that, I can do with you whatever I wish. No one will know or care. And my fellow soldiers may have their turn with you too. We have been long away from our women and we may use you as we wish. In the name of the King’s army. For the good of our country. You will, at least, know you played your part. And your brother will be witness.”
Bess stood, her shoulders heaving with anger. But she dropped not her gaze. Her black eyes blazed.
She spat again. This time he hit her, his hand lashing out against her cheek, flicking her face aside as though it were a wasp. She whipped her head back again and stared at him defiantly, her eyes wild.
“I have never hit a lady,” he said, his voice shrill now, sharp as a rapier, “but then, you are no lady.” Turning on his heel, he barked orders to the men: “You two, remain with them. Let them move not one step. The rest of you – search the place. Leave no corner unturned. And when you find him, it is my right to shoot him.”
A soldier grabbed Bess. Another held me, locking my arms behind me so that I could not move without wrenching the muscles in my shoulders. The men dispersed, loudly throwing items aside, once more smashing objects needlessly on the ground.
The officer cried, “No, leave the girl’s sleeping place to me. It would be of no surprise were we to find the wretch snivelling in her bed, keeping it warm for her.” And he strode into the other room, where I watched the bedclothes being hurled aside.
It did not take long to search the two rooms downstairs. Now, only the room under the roof was left. What could we do? I know I felt little for Henry Parish but these men had insulted Bess, had used me like a child or a dog, had treated Bess’s home as though it were no better than a cow shed. I had begun to grow my own hatred of them and their cruelty, their arrogance, their unconcern for others.
And now, I would do anything for them not to catch Henry Parish.
But what could I do? I looked at Bess. She did not look at me. Was she trying to devise a plan? Did she fear for herself, or me, or Henry Parish? Or was her hatred of the redcoats raging so furiously that she could make no plan at all?
Two men began to climb the stairs, one behind the other in the narrow space, their bayonets he
ld fixed in front of them.
“Stop!” ordered the officer.
What now? Surely they must search upstairs! He walked over to us, his sword swinging against his thick thigh. I stared at his chest. I noticed a stain on it, of grease or gravy perhaps, and I had a sudden picture of him laughing and drinking and burying his face in a piece of roast venison, dripping a thick port sauce from his chin before wiping his mouth on the table cloth. And he cared about the theft of some flour by a poor boy whose mother was starving? The injustice of it came to me suddenly, like a full moon appearing unexpectedly from behind a cloud, lighting up the darkness in a strange glow.
This is not right, I thought. Surely this was not what God intended? Surely this was human error and greed? “Blessed are the meek. Blessed are the poor. It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle, than for a rich man to enter the Kingdom of Heaven.” I had heard these things many times: never had their true meaning come to me as it did now.
And as these new thoughts occurred to me, my hatred grew further. And I prayed, as I had never prayed before, that somehow, somehow, Henry Parish would be saved.
The officer was standing in front of me still, looking at me, not at Bess. Perhaps he sensed that he would get nothing from her, no show of fear. Well, he would get no show of fear from me either, however I felt inside.
He spoke. “We know the boy is here. We found a vagrant, who informed us. After some … persuasion. Of the harsher variety. He would have us believe that the girl knew nothing about it. Clearly, she has a way with men, that he would choose to endure pain rather than blame her.” He looked briefly at Bess, his lips parted slightly, a sneer on his face, then back at me. “When we find him, as you know we shall, your sister’s charms will help her not one jot.” And he barked his order, “Men! Do your duty! And remember, I want him alive.”
The Highwayman's Footsteps Page 13
