by P. N. Elrod
The feeling lasted until I saw a blur with a man’s shape stirring under some trees just ahead.
“Andrews?”
The voice was pitched to a carrying whisper. Unrecognizable. I slowed, but kept coming.
“Mr. Andrews?”
I gave out with a grunt of affirmation and hoped it would be well received.
“Are you all right?”
Another grunt. I came closer. The shape clarified itself, separating out from the dense shadows where it had been crouching. Roddy Finch.
I strode forward without thought. A terrible humming seized my brain, or perhaps I was the one humming and unaware of it. I know that for several seconds I could hear nothing else.
Roddy asked another question. At least, I saw his mouth forming words and the expression on his face suggested he was making an inquiry. I was unable to answer.
Andrews? I read the name from his lips.
My swift approach and continued silence alarmed him. He wavered between running and risking another question.
And while he hesitated I bore down upon him like a storm.
I threw away Andrews’s musket. Roddy saw something of the motion and heard its landing, but could make no sense of it. He raised his own weapon, but had left it too late. I plucked it from his hands as one might take a stick from a young child. He turned to run, but to my eyes he seemed to move exceedingly slow. I caught him by the coat collar and lifted him from the ground.
My hearing returned. The screech he made went right through me. I did not pause, jerking him right off his feet and sent him flying down the path. He landed in a stunned heap some yards away.
Behind me, someone yelled his name.
I almost turned to look, but instinct had the better part of me, and instead I dropped.
Once more I was deafened, but from without, not within, as something roared close overhead. The sweet reek of powder smoke engulfed me, stung my eyes. I was just able to see a young man emerge from the trees, very close. Halfway to my feet, I sprang at him. He was fast. He swung the musket barrel at my head as hard as he could.
I got my arm up just in time or he’d have smashed my skull. The hard jolt of the heavy iron knocked me right over. I roared from the pain, but lurched to my feet regardless, blood boiling. He struck again, brutal and cursing, and I had no choice but to use the same arm as a shield. He caught me just below the elbow and the agony was so sudden and so awful that I knew the bones had shattered under the blow.
As I fell away, he dashed past to Roddy and frantically urged him to run. Roddy was too slow and needed help finding his feet.
“Come on, come on!” his rescuer cried desperately.
Like two drunks attempting to support one another, they staggered, then started in the right direction.
No . . . he would not get away from me.
My right arm dangling loose and shooting white-hot darts straight to my brain, I reeled over just in time to catch one of them as they passed.
Roddy.
I used my weight and extra height and bore him down. His companion was bowled out of the way by my rush, but recovered and turned on me. Like Roddy before him, he seemed to be moving slowly—that or I was moving that much faster. This time when he swung the musket I was ready and caught it with my left hand. A snarl and a vicious wrench and it was mine.
He was startled, but also of a mind to fight. Doubling over, he butted me in the stomach with his head. It pushed me backward a few paces and hurt, but was nothing compared to my arm. He followed up with two quick fists, but the results were disappointing. I felt them, but they hardly seemed worth notice. Next he tried to take back his musket, and we played an uneven tug-of-war for its possession. I held tight.
His breathing was ragged, his poxy face gone red and dripping sweat. I could smell the stink from his bad teeth as his next turn of attack brought us both down and rolling. Now he bit and kicked like a fury, but I kept hold of the weapon and, by God, I wasn’t going to give it up. Had he been thinking, he might have used my bad arm against me by striking at it, but he’d lost his temper and his reason. I got the musket between us and used it to ward off his fists. This bruised and slowed him, then Roddy’s unsteady voice rang out.
“They’re comin’! Run for your life!”
I heard a confusion of sounds, then the man beating at me was abruptly gone.
“Run for it!” yelled Roddy. He was on his feet and the other man pelted past him. He shambled forward to follow.
No. . . .
I discarded the musket as a useless weight and threw myself on him. We came down with a groan. When he attempted to crawl away, I put a knee into his side, stopping him.
“Mr. Barrett! Mr. Barrett!” called Nash. He and his men blundered up, drawn by the shot, but uncertain of the right direction.
I started to speak. There was no air in my lungs. I replaced it, but as I did so the thought occurred that bringing Nash over would seal things forever for Roddy. This boy that I had known all my life would go straight to the gallows. My own death aside, they would certainly hang him for stealing back his father’s horses. Though there was probably no direct evidence against him, men had died before for less.
“Mr. Barrett! Where are you, sir?”
We’d played at Rapelji’s school, worked there, helped one another. We’d not been especial friends, but he had known me. And for all that, he’d still been able to coolly raise his musket and send me bloody into this waking nightmare. He’d put my family through untold grief, put me through hell itself.
But they would hang him.
Oliver had once persuaded me to Tyburn to see some murderers pay for their crimes. It hadn’t been pretty. The family of one man had hurriedly come forward to seize his legs and pull down as hard as they could to speed the progress of the strangling rope and end his sufferings. The sight had been sickening, though I’d been assured that the fellow more than deserved his punishment. Now I looked down at Roddy Finch and in my mind placed him at those gallows, his feet twitching and his neck stretching and his tongue thrusting from blue lips and his face turning black. . . .
If I called now, it would be out of my hands and the law would run its course. It would be the same as though my drawing the rope over Roddy’s head myself.
“Mr. Barrett!”
I’d known him all my life . . .
“Mr. Barrett!”
. . . and he’d known me.
I stood. The humming had returned to my brain. “We’re here, Lieutenant Nash! I’ve another prisoner for you.”
* * *
The way we were seated on the ground, lined in a row, surrounded by glowering Hessians, anyone would think that we were all prisoners. Andrews and Roddy both had their hands tied, and I was in virtually the same immobile condition because of my injured arm. I was weak and shaken. It hurt abominably. One of the soldiers had kindly improvised a sling from my neckcloth, and another tried to tempt me with a flask of something that smelled terrible. I thanked him and politely refused. To them, I was the hero of the hour, but their admiration was rather lost on me because of my extreme pain.
Nash made a show of going after the other rebel, but without my help he had no chance of catching up. And I had no need or desire to help. We had Roddy Finch and that was the end of it for me.
The discarded firearms were recovered and one proved to be identical to those that the Hessians carried. They concluded it had been taken from the dead man, along with its accouterments and his meager supply of coin.
“A good night’s work,” said Nash, when he returned and was informed of this discovery. “You’ve done the Crown a great favor with your assistance, Mr. Barrett. I’m sure it will not go unrewarded.”
Now our positions to aid one another had been reversed, though I had no doubt he would still expect some monetary token from my father later.
/> Father . . . .
The urge to go home seized me, stronger than ever, now that the chase was past. Elizabeth had been disappointed, but understood; she would not be charitable over additional delays.
“Thank you, Lieutenant. I would take it as a great kindness if I might be allowed to return to my sister.”
He’d only been waiting half the night to hear those words and promptly volunteered his horse for my use. I declined. The effort of getting into the saddle would be too much for my arm. I was able to walk and said as much, preferring my own legs to being jostled around on a horse’s back. After trading hats again with the surly Andrews, I set off, slowly leading the way for the rest. Since the object was to reach the road rather than go back on our own tracks, I struck off in a different direction to find it. Once there, they could make their own way back to Glenbriar.
Of the other men who had been at their post with Hausmann, we saw no sign. Andrews and Roddy refused to answer questions on the subject. Nash was not optimistic.
“Probably murdered as well,” he said. “If that’s the case, then hanging will be too good for these two.”
“Andrews is a soldier,” I pointed out.
“More’s the pity, he’ll probably just be interned as a prisoner of war, which can be worse than hanging from what I’d heard. The other fellow is no soldier, though, which makes him either a spy, a thief, a murderer or all three. He’ll hang.”
Roddy heard him clearly—Nash made no effort at discretion—went white, and stumbled as though his legs lost strength. His guard held him up.
“Steady, lad,” said Andrews, who had had his gag removed. “You’re a proper soldier of Congress, and I’ll swear to it in any court they please to call. You’ll live to fight another day.”
“Ha!” said Nash.
Very likely I would never see Roddy again after this night. He would simply cease to be. I enjoyed no feeling of triumph for his capture. I wanted him punished, but the punishment itself had become a distant abstraction. Someone else would handle the details of prosecution and execution. My only concern was to patch up the damage he had inflicted upon my life.
We might have done better to retrace our steps, for it took us an hour to reach the road again, and even longer to return to the point where we’d left it. I was weary Those bottomless reserves were turning out to be finite, after all, eaten up by my pain.
In the far distance, as we rounded a long curve, we saw several lanterns bobbing about and many men moving about. The fellow Nash dispatched for reinforcements had returned, and they were gathered around the spot where Hausmann had fallen.
“That’s Da’s wagon and team,” Roddy exclaimed when we got close enough for them to see details.
True enough, and rather ironic. It was being used to carry Hausmann’s body back to Glenbriar. They’d already shrouded him in a blanket. The thing robbed him of face and form. God, I must have looked like that as well. I was glad Elizabeth was not here to see it.
Andrews and Roddy were given over to others to guard and Nash busied himself with issuing orders and receiving news. The missing men had turned up on their own. They’d heard the shot that had killed Hausmann and given futile chase, but lost themselves in the dark.
They’d wandered back sometime earlier, drawn by the lights and noise of the others.
“That’s good,” Nash concluded. “It seems that you and that lad are the only casualties. If you wish, I’ll have them take you back to The Oak and find a doctor for you.”
“Thank you, but I’m sure Dr. Beldon, who lives at my home, will see to things.”
“Yes, of course. I’d forgotten about him. I imagine he’s still out looking for your . . . ah. . . .” Here he trailed off, in sudden doubt over what he should say next.
“For these two,” I completed for him, indicating the prisoners. “I hope he hasn’t come to harm. Please do tell your men to keep a lookout for him and send him home as quick as may be. He’s a lean fellow with popping eyes, favors a black coat and stockings.”
“Yes, some of us know him from his visits to The Oak. I’ll see to it.” Nash recovered from his discomfiture, his altered memory secure once more. He insisted on providing an escort, so I found myself bracketed by two men who were instructed to take me to the door of the Montagu house. Each had a lantern, but our progress was slow They understood that I was to be given every courtesy and interpreted that to mean setting a regal pace out of consideration for my arm. It pleased me well enough; I didn’t feel like going any faster.
The thing had swollen rather badly. The sleeve of the coat I wore was snug around the injury. I was not looking forward to Beldon’s ministrations for this. Not that I lacked confidence in his ability as a physician, but it would hurt damnably.
Though thankfully not suffering from fever, my mouth was dry I thirsted, and knew that water would not quench it. I need blood, I thought without abhorrence or surprise.
But once the idea jumped into my head that thirst increased tenfold.
My throat constricted and my tongue thickened as it scraped the roof of my mouth. My lips felt like salt and sand. The fingers of my good hand curled and twitched. My very bones seemed to burn with new pain around the break. Much as I wanted to see Father, it would have to wait. I could not tolerate this dreadful need for long.
I walked faster. The soldiers made no comment and kept up. They’d become an inconvenience and would have to go. I tried to recall the words I’d need to dismiss them, but the insistent thirst was too distracting. The phrases that kept coming up in my tumbled mind were either French or Italian or Latin.
As the Montagu house finally came into view, I paused and attempted to tell the men that I no longer required their assistance. My nervous state of mind, combined with my limited German, made it difficult to get the idea across. One of them knew a bit of English, though, so between us things were finally made clear. They looked somewhat worried for me, for I was fidgeting and the longer they lingered, the harder it was to conceal my anxiousness. With many a backward glance, they finally left, their pale lanterns swinging as they went. I managed to remain in one spot just long enough for them to walk a goodly distance, then whirled around to run toward the stables.
The building was unfamiliar to me and smaller than our own, but the smells and routines were identical. I eased open the door and slipped inside, my eyes eagerly searching the dimness within.
Mrs. Montagu’s carriage stood just inside, a lovely bit of work that she kept polished for her rides to church and village. She had only the one coachman, who also served as groom, but he’d be asleep in the slave quarters now. The horses, a pair of matched bays out of the same bloodlines as my own Rolly, were quite unguarded.
The animals already sensed my approach, stirring in their boxes. I picked the quieter of the two and moved in next to him. His ears flicked back in doubt and he bobbed his head. I spoke to him soothingly and let him get my scent until he was used to me. It was not easy to stand there calming him while feeling so agitated. The ache in my throat and belly were great, and I had to suppress an unnaturally powerful urge to dive in and instantly slake that need.
Finally, the animal stood still and I was able to go on. My earlier experience with Rolly helped. This time my bite was more shallow, my control of the flow more certain. The effect of the blood, however, was the same. I gratefully and rather greedily drank my fill, relishing the warmth and rich taste. It was better than the sweetest water, better than the best wine, more sustaining than any food.
And healing. Some of the grinding agony in my broken arm receded. It was far from being whole—the swelling remained—but the promise of recovery was there. I could even move the fingers again, though little more than that.
The small wounds I’d made on the horse clotted over. The blood staining my mouth and chin was minimal; I could easily clean that off if I could just find. . .
Damn the men. Not put off by my dismissal, they’d doggedly returned, whether out of curiosity or a dedicated obedience to their commander to see that his orders were correctly carried out.
I swiped at my mouth. Blood on my hand now. The damned stuff was everywhere. There was no time to brush it away, they were already coming around to look in the box.
They stopped short as the lantern light fell upon me where I crouched in the straw. Each of us gave a start, they with surprise, me with sudden shame and fear. I turned my face from them, but it was too late. They saw the blood and my eyes—which were doubtless flushed scarlet after my feeding. Nora’s had always done so.
“Blutsäuger!” one of them whispered with awe and horror.
The word had no meaning for me, but I knew the sound of terror. I pushed my own away and raised myself to slowly face them.
The older of the two backed off, making a recognizable witch sign against me with his hand. He invoked God’s name in a hasty muttered prayer and kept going. His companion was too shocked yet to move.
“It’s all right,” I said, but it was hopeless to think I could calm them as I’d calmed the horse. I offered a placating hand, a wasted and foolish gesture. There was blood on it.
The older one recoiled, shouted a warning at his friend, and fled. He crashed against the edge of the doorway in his haste, but did not stop. The noise got through to the other fellow, who started after him.
I rushed to the opening and watched them retreat in panicked haste across the yard and on toward the beginnings of the lane. They’d probably run straight back to their company and pass along God knows what story. There was absolutely nothing I could do about it, either. I might possibly catch up with them, try to influence them, but what needed to be said to change their memories was beyond my limited German vocabulary.
