Thomas nodded; he was one of the few Matthew had told the whole sorry tale that had ended with an innocent man hanging for the murder Jones committed down in Jamestown.
Matthew was sorely tempted to plunge his dirk in the broad back some horses ahead of him – sink it in and twist it until Dominic Jones shrieked in pain. He eyed Jones’ band of companions and spat in the dust. The four Burley brothers – Philip, Stephen, Walter and Will – shadowed Dominic like half-tame wolves, their light eyes nailing into any man that came too close. Unkempt, with an air of savagery to them that had most of the men avoiding them, the brothers kept to themselves, always sitting to the side with Jones.
Every now and again, Matthew caught Philip Burley studying him, eyes travelling up and down Matthew in a way that made all of him crawl. Matthew spat again; unsavoury, the lot of them! The youngest was recently bearded, but with the same avaricious look in his eyes as his older brothers and a constant dim-witted smile on his face. There was something unnerving about them; even more when Matthew realised the Burley brothers had a tendency to follow him around. Four against one... Matthew swallowed.
There was a yell from behind them, there were several calls for help and pandemonium reigned, the small group of militia overrun by a party of Indian braves. Before Matthew and Thomas had managed to bring the men to order, the attack was over, with two men lying thrown to the ground and their horses and muskets gone.
“To show us what they can do, should they want to,” Minister Walker said.
“Aye, and to show us what they chose not to do. They’re still alive,” Matthew pointed out, earning himself an approving nod from the minister.
“Yes, Brother Matthew, very much so.” Their nominal commanding officer called a halt and had the two wounded men helped to their feet and inspected for damages.
“Not much more than bruised pride,” Thomas said in an aside to Matthew.
*
“Why are we doing this?” one of the Burley brothers said several hours later. “Why don’t we ride into the closest Indian village and pay them back in blood?”
“For shame,” Minister Walker said. “We’re not here to spill the blood of innocents.”
“One dead Indian is as good as another dead Indian,” Philip Burley voiced, receiving murmured approval from the other young men. “They’re driving off our people from their land, and in some cases they’ve even killed colonists.”
“And raped the women,” another man said, “and you know what they do to the children: they carry them off into slavery.”
“Three colonists,” Minister Walker retorted, “and it could be argued the Indians were provoked. And as to the stories of rape and pillage, so far they have proved unfounded.” He stepped closer to the fire, and Matthew was yet again impressed by how such a small man could exert such confidence and leadership, simply in the way he modulated his rich, carrying voice. In his dark coat, his old-fashioned white collar that he insisted on wearing no matter weather or occasion, he looked every inch the man of God he was, a man who wouldn’t countenance the slaughter of innocents however heathen they might be.
“We ride to find the perpetrators and bring them to justice,” Minister Walker said, “and that’s what we’ll do.”
There was a lot of grumbling among the men who were all of them beginning to tire of this impossible cat and mouse game. November had been for the most part bearable, but since the advent of December the nights had become colder, and every day men would turn to gaze at the skies, sniffing for the first sign of snow.
Dominic objected this was a waste of time. “I can’t spend the whole winter chasing elusive Indians. I have a business to run, and every day away is costing me a small fortune. So why don’t we capture a few, string them up and leave them to rot as a deterrent?”
“Or enslave them,” Philip Burley said. “That might even make us some money.”
“We will not lower ourselves to killing innocent men,” Minister Walker said, “nor will we take them into slavery.”
“Easy for you,” Dominic Jones muttered. “You get paid – by us, no less – no matter where you are. But the rest of us suffer financially. Besides, they’re all savages. Despicable heathens, the lot of them.”
“Mr Jones! For shame!”
“Well, they are. There is only one use for them, and that is as slaves.”
“Hear, hear,” someone called out.
Dominic expanded his chest further. “A week; I’ll not give this nonsense more than one more week. I have other matters to attend to.”
“Let me remind you that you’ve signed up to serve for as long as necessary,” Matthew said. “All of us have.”
“Ah, the redoubtable Mr Graham has spoken,” Jones smirked. “The difference being that while I have business interests to protect, you have but a small farm lost in the wilds.”
“Most of us do,” Matthew said.
“And I say it is time we end this business so that we can all return home – in a week, not a month.”
Some of the men muttered their agreement; all of them no doubt harbouring a niggling feeling of unease that while they were here, halfway into Virginia, the Indians might in fact be back home, harming their families. Matthew sighed; he’d spent endless, sleepless nights worrying about Alex and his bairns.
“We will do what we set out to do,” Minister Walker said. “And we will do it no matter how long it takes.” He sank his eyes into Dominic Jones. “That goes for all of us, Mr Jones.”
Dominic gave the minister a cold look and shouldered through the assembled men.
*
Some days later, they made camp in a grassy hollow, and after an agreeable evening spent with Thomas and the two Chisholm brothers, Matthew was lying in his pile of blankets, attempting to ignore the fact that his bladder was on the verge of bursting.
Finally, he bowed to the inevitable and stood, moving in the direction of the lines of horses. The sentry by the fire nodded, and Matthew ducked below the lines and walked some feet away to piss. Too much salted pork, too much beer and too little else... He longed for one of Alex’s winter stews, with thick chunks of carrot and cabbage and meat, all of it liberally spiced with thyme and garlic. He almost smacked his lips together, but was shaken out of his daydream by the sound of twigs snapping. He crouched and remained unseen when Dominic Jones passed by only a couple of feet from him, moving stealthily in the direction of the camp. As always, he was tagged by the feral Burley brothers. Matthew frowned. Where had they been and why did they smell of smoke?
*
Late next morning, the militia company came upon a small homestead. The men gaped in horror at the scene in front of them, and several of the younger men vomited, while the elder sat in a silent ring upon their horses and surveyed the carnage.
“Ah, Jesus sweet,” Thomas groaned, “what have they done?”
“See?” Walter Burley’s voice shook with indignation. “Are these not innocents, Minister Walker? Have they not been slaughtered like lambs despite doing no harm?”
There was a loud sound of assent from the shocked men. What had been a small, thriving farm was a smouldering ruin, the chimney stack the single remaining structure that exceeded three feet. By what had been the door was the charred corpse of a man, and halfway to the stable a bairn lay curled up on her side, dead. Her fair hair lifted in the cold December wind, long tendrils snaking round her head. The stable was burnt to the ground, and from the heavy stench in the air, it was obvious its inhabitants had gone up in smoke with it.
“This is wrong,” Matthew murmured to Thomas. “This isn’t the work of Indians.”
“Matthew! How can you defend those accursed heathens when confronted by this?”
“They didn’t do it. They would’ve taken the beasts. And look at the bairn, Thomas. A wee fair lass... They wouldn’t kill such a one. They’d carry her off and se
ll her.”
Thomas gave him a thoughtful look and went back to studying the desolation before him. “So what do you think happened?”
“Tinder to the powder.” Matthew pursed his mouth. Was this why Jones had smelled of smoke?
“Don’t be ridiculous. White men do this? For your own sake, I suggest you don’t repeat these follies elsewhere.” Thomas nudged his gelding in the direction of the minister, leaving Matthew sitting quite alone on Moses.
Thomas avoided Matthew for the coming days, restricting himself to the odd polite word, no more. Matthew felt somewhat abandoned, but concentrated on the few tasks he had. He heeded Thomas’ advice and kept his suspicions to himself. He was no fool and had no wish to end up with his throat slashed. Besides, it seemed to him that Jones and the Burley brothers hovered that much closer to him, five pairs of eyes following him everywhere he went. So he made a point of spending most of his time with the Chisholms, and at night he lay back to back with a silent Thomas, his dirk held in his hand.
“Why the knife?” Thomas asked one morning, thereby normalising their friendship.
“I don’t like the way he’s watching me.” Matthew nodded in the direction of Jones.
“He’d be a fool to try anything,” Thomas said.
“Oh, he won’t, he’ll set his wolves on me.”
Thomas eyed the Burley brothers and looked back at Matthew. “We sleep in turns.”
*
Late in the afternoon a week later, their scouts returned in a state of agitation and told them they had come upon an Indian camp some miles off.
“And they didn’t see you?” Minister Walker asked.
“No,” one of them said. “We counted to twenty braves – and they’re driving several heads of cattle.”
“Thieves!” someone hissed.
“Murderers,” someone else added, and the whole company was on their feet, demanding that they go and wipe these heathens off the face of the earth.
“We arrest them and take them back with us.” Minister Walker sank his eyes into the by now mounted men. “No killing!”
It was a bloodbath. Too late, the Indians noticed their presence, and then the militia was upon them, fuelled by weeks of anger and fear and by those haunting images of the destroyed homestead.
Minister Walker’s cries that they must take them alive went unheard, and no matter that Thomas and Matthew shouted themselves hoarse, the men ignored them, bashing heads with unloaded muskets, slashing at unprotected bodies with their drawn swords.
A sword flashed to Matthew’s right. Philip Burley bore down on him, and Matthew parried the blow. Stephen appeared on his other side, herding him deeper into the heaving mass of men. Two swords, one to his right, one to his left, and Matthew was fighting for his life, parrying, thrusting and ducking. The tip of Stephen’s sword nicked Matthew’s thigh; Philip’s blade near on severed his arm. In the distance, Matthew could hear Thomas screaming his name. He stood in his stirrups, Moses skittered to the left, and Matthew brought his sword down. It glanced off Stephen’s raised blade and struck Stephen full in the face.
Stephen shrieked, hands on his bleeding face. Philip screamed a curse. His horse barged into Moses, his blade swished through the air, narrowly missing Matthew’s head. Moses snorted and reared. Matthew parried yet another thrust from Philip and set his heels to Moses in an attempt to evade Philip’s determined attack. The horse took a leap, crashed into the bay mare belonging to Jones. Moses neighed and reared again. Matthew was nearly unseated, and only his instinctive grab for the pommel kept him astride.
A hand closed around his boot. Matthew tried to kick loose, but to no avail. A determined yank, and Matthew was pulled off his horse. More Burleys! Goddamn, there was Walter, and the young, grinning face before him was Will, brandishing an evil-looking knife. Matthew scrabbled away. Will giggled and came after, and for all that they were surrounded by men, men that screamed and cursed and fought, all Matthew could see was Will, now poised to pounce like a human cat. Matthew rose to his knees. Will lunged, and Matthew’s arm moved of its own accord, the sword severing Will Burley’s windpipe. Merciful Lord! Warm blood cascaded over his hand, and here came Walter, screaming his brother’s name. Matthew crawled backwards, looking for his horse.
Someone screeched him in the ear, there was a stinging pain high up on his arm, and Matthew turned, coming up in a crouch with his sword held high. Only yards from his face was the muzzle of a pistol, and on the other side of it grinned Dominic Jones. For an instant, Matthew thought this was his last moment, and then Thomas barged into Dominic from behind. Matthew launched himself to the side, the gun went off, and the ball whizzed by Matthew’s head to bury itself in the back of a dying brave.
*
“Of course not!” Dominic protested. “You’re misconstruing what you saw, Mr Leslie. It may have appeared that the gun was levelled at Graham, but in truth it was pointed at the Indian behind.”
“Who was already mortally wounded, lying face down.” Thomas was shaking all over, his eyes blazing with dislike as they stared at Jones. Matthew dragged a hand over his face. The damned Burleys had melted away like mist into the forest and God knew where they might be by now, having left behind the body of their brother. “You set those brothers on Matthew,” Thomas continued, “and had I not seen that Walter Burley pull Matthew off his horse, he would’ve been dead by now!”
“That is a very serious accusation,” Minister Walker broke in. “We all saw the brothers set upon Brother Matthew, but from there to implicate Mr Jones... Vermin, those brothers, unstable all four of them, and even as a minister I can’t say I much regret the death of one of them.”
A consenting murmur rose from the older men.
“They’ve been living in Jones’ pocket since the day they joined up,” Thomas said, “and I saw how the gun was levelled point-blank at Matthew.”
“At the Indian behind him,” Dominic insisted.
“Well, maybe that’s what Dominic is most comfortable with,” an unknown man piped up. “He prefers to shoot them when they’re already dead.” Nervous laughter flew through the small knot of men surrounding them.
“Or drunk,” someone else added, and the laughter spread, making Jones’ face shift into a deep red at these slurs on his courage.
By morning, most of the company had left, a spontaneous disbanding that had Minister Walker sighing loudly before concluding it was maybe for the best. Matthew was tightening Moses’ girth when out of the corner of his eye he saw Dominic Jones approaching. He continued with what he was doing, ears strained in the direction of Jones to ensure he wasn’t caught by surprise. Matthew adjusted the stirrup leathers, fussed with the harness and turned to face Jones, who was leaning back against a tree some yards away.
“What?” Matthew demanded.
Dominic just shook his head. “Thinking of how things could have been.”
“Unhappy, are you?”
“Not particularly.” Dominic straightened up from his reclining posture. He gave Matthew a malicious look. “Sooner or later they’ll get you, Graham. Those Burleys have an axe of their own to grind with you now.”
Matthew’s guts heaved. He took a steadying breath, took two.
Dominic snickered. “Tenacious, the lot of them. And vindictive – very vindictive.” He backed away when Matthew advanced. “Now, now, this isn’t my fault. You’re the one who slit Will’s throat and nearly killed Stephen.”
“And why is that? Because you set them upon me!”
“Proof, Graham,” Jones sneered. With that he turned and left.
Chapter 32
“He’s doing poorly today,” Mrs Parson commented to Alex, who glanced in the direction of Magnus’ room and sighed. She could almost see the headaches rolling in over him, and at times they were painful but bearable, while sometimes they seemed to spike into cruel shards that left h
im blind and incapable of moving.
“There’s not much we can do, is there?” Alex looked out of the window at the dull grey skies and made a face. Eight weeks Matthew had been gone, and she was increasingly restless, spending far too many hours looking up the lane to where she hoped to see Moses materialise. Every night, she woke to a racing heart and a sweaty shift after yet another nightmare featuring Philip Burley, and at times she was convinced it would be Philip, not Matthew, who came riding down their lane. And God help them if that were to happen…
“Nay, nothing but help him with the pain,” Mrs Parson said, recalling Alex to the present. Mrs Parson wrinkled her nose at the sweet, cloying smell of yet another pipe of cannabis that drifted through the half-closed door. “That helps.”
“Stoned out of his head,” Alex muttered. “Of course it helps.” She smiled at Jenny, who appeared from outside, balancing a bucket of milk.
“The last, I think.” Jenny set the pail down. “It was a struggle to get this much out of her.”
Mark stuck his head into the kitchen and announced there were horses coming, and for a moment Alex thought it might be Matthew, before realising that of course it wasn’t, as in that case Mark wouldn’t have looked so unimpressed.
“Who?” she asked.
Jenny mumbled something under her breath. Elizabeth’s recurring visits were somewhat of a strain on all of them, her daughter included.
“It’s because she’s worried about you,” Alex said. “Now that you’re with child, she wants to check up on you.”
“She’s bored, is what it is,” Mrs Parson said. “Yon Mary is no fun to bully on account of her being a meek and insipid person, wee Celia is besotted with her son and breeding again, and apart from her husband she doesn’t have many to converse with.”
“She doesn’t converse,” Jenny said. “She hectors.”
A Newfound Land (The Graham Saga) Page 28
