Whither Thou Goest (The Graham Saga Book 7)

by Anna Belfrage

  “Fair?” she chortled, and he kissed her hungrily until she stopped laughing and wound her arms around his neck instead.

  Chapter 44

  Matthew was cleaning his musket and instructing Adam in the fine art of gun maintenance when the troop of six unfamiliar men came trotting down his lane. Matthew regarded them with caution, eyeing their uniform clothing, their sashes and hats, the swords that hung at their sides, and the muskets that were carried with casual ease. Soldiers of sorts, he concluded, and a little tremor flew up his spine. Matthew Graham had no fond memories of the English soldiers in Cumnock.

  “Master Graham?” the apparent leader said once the horses had been halted.

  “Aye.” He shoved Adam in the direction of the house. “Tell your mama we have guests.”

  “We are here on account of one Charles Graham.”

  “Charlie? What would you want with him?” Out of the corner of his eye, Matthew saw a bright red head appear in the stable door, just as quickly retracted.

  “So, he is here, is he?” The man dismounted, beckoned for his companions to follow suit.

  “I didn’t say that, did I? I just asked what business you might have with him.”

  “Charles Graham is a convicted rebel. We are here to ensure justice is carried out as it was laid out.”

  “Oh aye? On what authority?”

  The man produced a deed and handed it over. “Lord Calvert will not have it, a traitor here, in the colony.”

  Matthew finished reading the document, a tersely worded document instructing him to surrender his traitorous nephew to these men so that he could be shipped back to Barbados and live out his sentence.

  “Who told you he’d be here?” Matthew asked, handing back the deed.

  “Lord Calvert was informed by the Governor of Barbados that you took it upon yourself to steal him away.”

  “I didn’t steal him. I bought him.”

  “You attempted to pervert the course of justice,” the man flared, “and that, Master Graham, we cannot condone.”

  By now, Matthew had been joined by Mark and Ian, both of them carrying guns. The troop of six shuffled on their feet, their leader giving Matthew’s sons but a cursory nod.

  “So,” the man said, “where is he?”

  “Not here. Wee Charlie has seen fit to leave. He yearned for home, I reckon.”

  “You’ll not mind us verifying that he’s not in residence, I trust.”

  “As a matter of fact, I do,” Matthew said, “but I’ll not stop you.”

  The leader sent off his men to search the farm, commenting that Charles Graham should be easy enough to spot, what with his uncommon height and red hair, and to Matthew all of this brought back uncomfortable memories of those repeated, humiliating searches of Hillview in Scotland. However, these men were far more polite, and when they came back empty-handed, Matthew’s shoulders eased down from their uncomfortable stiffness. He had no idea where Charlie was hiding, but it would seem the lad had chosen wisely.

  “We might be back,” the spokesman said once the troop was horsed again.

  “Aye, you might,” Matthew muttered to his back as the horses ambled out of sight.

  “They didn’t believe you, did they?” Mark said.

  “Nay, lad, I think not.” Matthew sighed. He had no desire to end up in an altercation with the colonial administration, but neither could he give up Charlie.

  *

  Adam came back just before supper after a walk in the woods, and told Matthew that their previous visitors had made camp a mere mile or so from the house. “And I saw two or three of them slinking through the woods, like.”

  “Ah,” Matthew said, throwing a worried look at where Charlie was sitting huddled together and with his hat on, despite being indoors.

  “We’ll have to dye his hair,” Naomi said.

  “Dye my hair?” Charlie straightened up from his slouch.

  “Black or such,” Naomi said.

  “Black?” Alex sounded doubtful. She pulled off Charlie’s hat, tugged her fingers through the bright red hair. “You know how to do this?”

  Naomi assured them that she did, and a few minutes later, the women had placed Charlie on a stool, busy with his hair.

  “Hmm.” Matthew inclined his head this way and that as he studied the end result.

  “What?” Charlie’s hands flew to his hair, now an impressive…purple? Aye, Matthew sighed, the lad’s hair was now an unfortunate deep purple rather than black.

  “At least it’s not red,” Alex said, laughter bubbling through her voice.

  “Nay, that it’s not. A nice colour,” Mrs Parson put in, “if somewhat unusual.”

  “Unusual? How unusual?” Charlie glared at Naomi.

  “I didn’t know, did I?” Naomi said. “I thought it would be the same to dye hair as to dye wool – and Mother always used red maple bark to make wool black.”

  “But it’s not.” Alex laughed, and Charlie flew up, demanding that someone bring him a looking glass.

  Come morning, the purple notes had faded somewhat, leaving Charlie with hair that at a distance could pass for dark grey. Fortunately, as it turned out, because all day the troop remained close, silent shadows that made no attempt to hide their presence as they studied the comings and goings on the Graham farm.

  “It’s not as I can ask him to leave, is it?” Matthew said when Alex complained about all this. “Where would the lad go?” He speared yet another baked onion, crunching through it before speaking again. “They’ll grow bored soon enough. Let’s hope it rains – that will drive them back home even sooner.”

  That night, they were woken in the small hours by frantic knocking on their front door.

  “Let me in, let me in! For the love of God, please let me in!”

  Matthew bounded down the stairs in only his shirt, grabbed his musket, and opened the door. One of the troop fell inside, breeches undone, barefoot and unarmed. He was covered in blood, an arrow protruded from his back, and every breath was accompanied by a rattle.

  “Indians,” he said through bloodied lips, “dear Lord, so many Indians!”

  “Where?” Matthew closed the door with a bang, handed Alex a pistol, and waved for Charlie to secure the back door.

  “Up there…” A long digit pointed up the lane. Matthew cursed, told Adam to fetch his breeches and the extra pistol.

  “No.” Alex stood before the door. “No way. You’re not going out there.”

  “I have to,” Matthew said. “They need help.”

  “Help?” Their guest began to laugh – nay, wail. “There’s nothing you can do to help them. Oh God, oh God, please…” There was a gurgle, a long wheeze and just like that, the poor man died.

  *

  The carnage was such that Matthew gagged. The air buzzed with blowflies, lengths of gut hung from the disembowelled men, mouths had frozen into silent screams, baring teeth, mutilated tongues, and, in one case, a severed cock that had been rammed down the unfortunate’s gullet. All five had been scalped – while alive, Matthew suspected.

  “Christ have mercy!” Mark’s eyes slid this way and that, as if attempting to find something to rest his gaze on that was not spattered with blood.

  “Wolves,” a voice said from the shadow of the trees, and Qaachow came out to stand beside them. “Twice they have raided our villages, leaving a trail of blood and tears behind.”

  “Wolves? Rabid wolves, I’d say.” Matthew clenched his hand round the stock of his musket.

  “Cornered wolves,” Qaachow corrected with a slight stretching of his lips. “Soon.”

  “How many?” Matthew asked, seeing before his mind’s eye how his home was overrun by these savages. As of tonight, they’d sleep in the big house, all of them.

  “Here?” Qaachow shrugged, called out something in his own tongue. Matthew took a step back when Samuel appeared with his bow in hand. The lad gave him a brief smile before going over to stand by Qaachow.

  “Eight, I count it
to,” Samuel replied in English, studying the gruesome scene with far more dispassion than Matthew liked.

  “You shouldn’t be seeing such. Your mama would not like it.”

  “My son must see,” Qaachow said. “A man must learn everything he can about his enemies before he sets out to hunt them.”

  “Hunt them?” Matthew had to clear his throat. “You mean to take an untried lad with you?”

  “Untried?” Qaachow shook his head, placing a hand on Samuel’s shoulder. “White Bear is blooded. Two nights back, he killed his first man, did you not?”

  Samuel nodded, a wide smile on his face that had very little to do with the darkness in his eyes.

  “He’s but a lad!” Matthew exploded.

  “You keep on saying that, and I keep on reminding you that to us he is almost a man.” In a low voice, Qaachow said something to Samuel that had him melting back into the shadows. “I don’t risk my sons needlessly,” he added before following the lad out of sight.

  “Not a word to your mama,” Matthew told Mark as they made their way back home, “about wee Samuel, I mean.”

  Mark was still green about the mouth, but inclined his head to show he’d heard.

  “…so as of today, I want us all to sleep here,” Matthew said, shoving his half-eaten breakfast away from him. Mark and Naomi nodded, Agnes was sent off by Alex to arrange for pallet beds, and Charlie was looking animated for the first time in weeks, loudly insisting that he should be included in the riding sentry.

  “Hmm,” Matthew said, looking about for paper and ink. He had to write to the Governor and to the elders in Providence. These Indian savages could suddenly decide to move south.

  “I can handle both gun and sword – I’m a gentleman.”

  “Hmm,” Matthew repeated, which only served to inflame Charlie further, long fingers raking through his dyed hair as he repeated that he was a man, he’d seen battle and blood, had he not? Matthew raised a brow, dipped his quill in the ink, and concentrated on his letters.

  Charlie would not let the subject go, and once the letters were written, sanded, folded and sealed, he accompanied Matthew and Mark out into the yard.

  “I’m quite the marksman,” he insisted.

  “Oh aye?” Mark sounded unimpressed. He handed Charlie a flintlock, called for Adam to set up some targets. Matthew and Mark shared a grin. A flushed Charlie returned the flintlock some minutes later, muttering about not being used to rifled barrels, and the target had been hit.

  “Notched,” Mark corrected, reloaded, raised the gun, and blasted a hole straight through the middle of the wooden block.

  “I still want to ride. You need me,” Charlie said. With a little sigh, Matthew acquiesced, and suggested Charlie grab some sleep before setting out after supper with Mark. He left them to their target practice, and followed the promising scent of baking buns to the kitchen.

  “I’m not sure I follow you,” Alex said to Matthew, and slapped his hand away when he reached for a third bun. “You don’t like Charlie riding out because he might be hurt?”

  “That band of renegade Indians is ruthless.” Beyond ruthless, Matthew shivered, more like maddened beasts.

  “And just so that I understand, you allow our sons to ride sentry duty, you ride it yourself, but your nephew must somehow be protected?”

  “It isn’t his land, is it?” Matthew replied, matter-of-factly.

  “No,” Alex said, “but one could argue he’s living here, for free. We’ve given him clothes and a place to sleep, we feed him, and you’ve even advanced him spending money – not that there’s much to spend it on here.”

  “I’ve gone to very much trouble to see him safe. It would be a trifle unnecessary to have him come to harm here.” Matthew edged closer to the workbench and pretended a great interest in the four large trout presently being stuffed with fennel and parsley, one arm stretching out behind Alex’s back to grope for another bun.

  “If you don’t put it back, you’ll go without supper,” Alex said without turning around. “I don’t want you to go fat on me.”

  “Fat?” Matthew hastily returned the bun. “I don’t have a pound of fat on me.” He grabbed at her arse and squeezed a bit too hard. “You on the other hand…”

  “Huh!” Alex shoved him out of the way to place the fish to cook on the hearth, and gave him a basket of buns to take down to Betty and Ian. “And tell Ian he’d best move Betty up now – I’ve already made up the bed in Sarah’s room.”

  Matthew cursed when he cracked his head against the lintel of the cabin door, ducked exaggeratedly, and stepped into a small circle of light from the single candle burning on the table. The rest of the cabin was sunk in gloom, weak daylight filtering in from the one unshuttered window. Ian placed a finger to his mouth in a hushing gesture, and stood to draw the bed hangings closed round his sleeping wife and child.

  “She’s so tired. She always is.” Ian shook his head at the proffered basket.

  “Give her time, son.” Matthew counted back in his head. Little Grace was not quite a fortnight old, and while the wean had recovered from the ordeal of birth, her mother was constantly wan, shuffling as she performed the few chores Ian and Alex would let her do.

  Ian poured them both some beer and regarded his mug morosely. “Will she ever recover?”

  Matthew didn’t know what to say. Alex had privately voiced to him that it would be ages before Betty was back to normal – if ever.

  Ian studied him silently and turned away. “I was a right daftie.”

  “The two of you.”

  “And now she will never want to again, will she? And it will be like Simon and Joan, she in constant pain, unable to take him into her, and he, well, he had to find release elsewhere.” Ian dug his fingers into his scalp and moaned. “Except that I don’t want to. I want only her, Da.”

  “Give her time,” Matthew repeated, “and it isn’t like with Joan, is it? My sister had a canker gnawing at her insides, an evil growth that slowly sapped her life away.” His son didn’t reply. He just buried his face in his hands. “It’ll be fine, lad.”

  “I’m no mindless bairn, Da.”

  Ian poured them both some more beer, listening with a distracted expression while Matthew told him about the Indians and his decision to have them all sleep in the big house for now. Ian promised he’d bring Betty over once she was awake, and after a second or two of silence, Matthew got to his feet, clasped Ian’s shoulder, and left.

  Ian remained where he was. The little cabin was agreeably quiet, a drowsy peace sinking over him as he sat and stared into the embers in the hearth. He could hear the wean’s soft snuffling, how Betty said something to their daughter, and he straightened up, squaring his shoulders and arranging his face into an expression of unperturbed calm.

  A long-fingered hand touched his cheek, wild fuzzy hair tickled his face, and Betty sat herself carefully down in his lap, arms coming round him to press his face against her swollen breasts.

  “I want you too,” Betty breathed, and her fingers combed their way through his hair.

  Ian groaned and wrapped his arms around her.

  “It will be fine,” Betty said, echoing his father.

  And Ian believed her – he had to. Before he could reply, the door banged open, and the cabin was full of children, high voices laughing and demanding food. Betty ignored all three of them, gripped Ian’s face hard between her hands and kissed him – a soft, warm promise of future nights, a kiss that tasted of milk and honey, and faintly of cheese.

  “You haven’t cleaned your teeth,” he reproached once she let him go.

  “And did you care?”

  “No,” he whispered, and kissed her again.

  *

  Next morning, Charlie and Mark rode in well after dawn, the latter grim, the former looking as if he’d had his heart scared right out of his chest. Charlie gripped the musket so hard his fingers had whitened, and nearly fell off the horse when Mark told him they were home.

 
; “What happened?” Matthew asked, eyes flying up and down his son to ensure he was safe and sound.

  “A skirmish just to the west of the Ingram place,” Mark answered, still in the saddle. Matthew knew his son. For all his light words, Mark was much affected, hands spread wide on his thighs to stop them from trembling.

  “A skirmish?” Charlie croaked. “They must have been twenty – no, thirty at least!”

  “Fifteen or thereabouts, I would say,” Mark said, “but it was difficult to see in the dark.” He dismounted, nodded a thank you at Adam who had appeared to take the horses, and smiled in the direction of Naomi. “They’d been up by the Peterson farm,” he explained, and Charlie’s face took on a pasty look when Mark described the total destruction of the primitive homestead.

  “All of them?” Alex asked, coming to join them. “Even the children?”

  “All,” Mark confirmed, and his normally light eyes were dark with recollection. “We wouldn’t be here if it hadn’t been for Qaachow.” Naomi snuck up to stand in his arms. Mark kissed the top of her head, tightened his grip on her, and nodded for Charlie to continue.

  “They were all around us,” Charlie said. “Martin Chisholm was riding first, and we saw his horse rear and he flew off, and I was sure he was dead.” He cleared his throat and looked with admiration at Mark. “You rode your way through them to get to him, and then Robert was there, and I managed to kill one of them, I think.” He had never killed a man before, he said in a thread of a voice, at least not to see him fall before his eyes. Charlie clutched the musket to him, took a deep breath, and continued with his story. “I suppose it was but a matter of minutes, age long seconds when we were thronged by the Indians, and I…well, I was certain we would die, no matter that Mark and Robert were standing back to back and giving as good as they got.”