The Muse and Other Stories of History, Mystery, and Myth

by Lillian Stewart Carl

  Fraser turned away from the rim of lamplight, into the darkness, feeling not relief but a greater sense of duty than before.

  He was no longer obliged to reveal the results of his deductions. Their preliminary steps had been sufficient to lead Gideon and Cato, and through them Dabney, to the truth. And now Harrington, caught in the tightest of cleft sticks, chose anger over compassion. It would take a braver man than he, one much less mindful of his social relations, to defy the terrible truth that the population in bondage equaled or even surpassed that population that was not.

  Everyone, Fraser thought, slaves and masters alike, were caught in the same snare. As was he. If he could only escape by gnawing off his own foot, then so be it. He would betray the respect due his host, not to mention the laws of the country. There were higher laws to follow.

  He slipped as quietly as he could off the veranda and around the corner of the house.

  * * * * *

  The light from the bonfire flickered on the walls of the kitchen, and the embers in the hearth emitted an orange glow like a desert sunset. The lights highlighted the planes of Mason’s face and reflected in his adamantine eyes. Behind him, Venus hastily piled food into a bundle, placing on top a copy of the Bible.

  “You realize your flight is as good as a confession,” Fraser said.

  “If by flying I can save the hand of justice from falling upon my relations, then I am content. Thank you for your warning, sir. As for Cato and Gideon—well, I must forgive them for making their own beds as soft as they can.” Mason’s generous lips curved in a wry smile.

  Venus’s indignant harrumph was less charitable. “They had no call to speak up. They’ll know what they done, you got my word on that.”

  “You meant for Pollard’s death to be thought an accident?” Fraser asked Mason.

  “So I did. I have you to thank, I believe, for revealing the truth of the matter?”

  “I shall not apologize.”

  “Nor should you. The Lord brought you, and Cato as well, here at just this time, to teach me the wages of playing judge and executioner, and to show me my future path.”

  “Could you not have waited to carry out your plan until we were gone?”

  Mason shook his head. “No. It was yesterday that Pollard’s brutality reached its last straw. He beat my younger brother, my half-brother, my mother’s other child, almost to death for no reason other than to make an example of him. I shall not apologize, either.”

  Younger brother, Fraser repeated silently. A dusky sibling who was not Harrington’s son, and was deemed a lesser being because of it. He drew several coins from his pocket and pressed them into Mason’s hand. “Make your way to Philadelphia, and there seek out the Society of Friends. They will help you in your escape.”

  Mason bowed with the grace and dignity of the native Egyptians, be they Fraser’s wealthy hosts or fellahin tilling their fields below the broken statues of long-fallen pharaohs. “Again, sir, I am in your debt. I shall suffer my exile now, but in time, I promise you, I shall return to this land, and bring my brethren out of bondage.”

  Venus, her luminous eyes shining with tears, handed Mason the bundle. “Go, my son. Godspeed.”

  Fraser turned away from their parting, slipped silently from the kitchen, and walked slowly back to the great house whose walls were built of bricks and blood. As yet no sounds of pursuit came from there, but then, why would Harrington call out pursuers, when he thought that Mason would come when summoned, all unsuspecting.

  What Fraser heard were the voices of the people gathered around the fire. The swaying rhythm of their song was punctuated by soft claps, and its chorus seemed to his ear like a zephyr stirring the oppressive darkness: “Let my people go,” they sang. “Let my people go.”

  Author’s Note

  “Way Down in Egypt’s Land” first appeared in Thou Shalt Not Kill, edited by Anne Perry, Carroll & Graf, 2005.

  My assignment was to write a mystery based on a Bible story. I dithered a long time over this, but finally settled on the story of Moses, which does, after all, include his murder of the Egyptian overseer. I did some research into Pharoah Akhnaten’s reign, planning to just write a straightforward story set in Egypt. And then I saw how I could transpose the story to another setting.

  I set the story in old Virginia, an area I was already familiar with after my visits to Colonial Williamsburg. I chose the period right after the turn of the nineteenth century, because it was during that time that many of the rules and customs of slavery became entrenched. Again, I needed an outsider to tell the tale, one who could cast a cold eye on the justifications of the plantation owners. This time around the outsider is not just British, but Scottish, whose experiences in his own country give him some extra perspective.

  I actually found in my own library a book titled The Plantation South, an anthology of original letters and diary entries from the time period. This book once belonged to my father, and had probably been lurking on my shelves for thirty years without being opened. But it was just what I needed—along with a copy of the Bible itself.

  Over the Sea from Skye

  A story of alternate history

  From James Boswell’s Journal of a Tour of the Kingdom of Scotland with Samuel Johnson: Kingsburgh, Isle of Skye, September 12, 1773.

  We arrived late in the afternoon at the house of Allan MacDonald of Kingsburgh. He himself received us most courteously, and after shaking hands supported Mr. Johnson into the house.

  Kingsburgh was quite the figure of a gallant Highlander. He wore his tartan plaid thrown about him, a vest with gold buttons and gold buttonholes, and tartan hose. He had jet-black hair tied behind, covered by a large blue bonnet with a knot of black ribbon like a cockade.

  He conducted us into a comfortable parlor with a good fire, and a dram of admirable Holland’s gin went round.

  By and by supper came, and there appeared his spouse, the celebrated Miss Flora. She was a little woman, of a mild and genteel appearance. To see Mr. Samuel Johnson salute Miss Flora MacDonald was a wonderful romantic scene to me. Indeed, as indicated by Kingsburgh’s garb, which was quite a la mode, time has healed the enmities between the kingdoms of Britain. In time I imagine the infant Prince of Wales will assume both thrones, as did his ancestor James VI of Scotland when he became also James I of England.

  Mr. Johnson spoke to Mrs. MacDonald of the Duke of Cumberland’s visit to Skye in 1746. “Who was with the Duke? We were told in England there was one Miss Flora MacDonald with him.”

  Said she with a secret smile, “They were very right.”

  * * * * *

  Armadale, Isle of Skye, April 18, 1746.

  Hearing the slow approach of hoofbeats to her stepfather’s house, Flora threw her shawl around her shoulders and went out. Donald, the ghillie, was already waiting outside the stable door.

  Sea birds called raucously above the Sound of Sleat. To the east the mountainous mainland faded into a pale spring twilight. The horse and man who appeared from the gloaming seemed so worn and weary they might have served as figments of nightmare. It was Allan, Flora saw. She stepped forward and held the bridle as he slid from the saddle with a groan.

  There had been talk between their families, distant relations, that they should marry. As yet Flora evaded this notion, thinking Allan a man of great charm but little judgment. Now, though, she took note of the grave sobriety lining his features and raised her hand to his shoulder. “What of the rebellion, Allan? Is it over?”

  “Aye,” he said, “tis over. Six days ago we made the crossing of the River Spey just beyond Ruthven, intending to catch Prince Charles before he gained the sanctuary of Inverness. But he turned, and the Highlanders came down upon us from the heights beyond the river before we’d had the opportunity to form up, let alone bring our artillery to bear.”

  Flora could see the scene: The flood of screaming men, unbreeked, unwashed, undeterred, armed with swords as tall as themselves. No surprise they overwhelmed soldiers bo
ught by pay, not principle. Soldiers who had only the one shot before their muskets were rendered nothing more than props for bayonets. That tactic had defeated Generals Cope at Prestonpans and Hawley at Falkirk. Now it defeated William Augustus, Duke of Cumberland, King George II’s third son and a general who had proved himself in the Continental wars.

  “If only the Prince had delayed his attack until we reached smoother ground near Inverness. If only he had refused in his pride to take the advice of Lord George Murray, who is by far the superior strategist. If only two French ships had not slipped through the blockade and landed money and supplies . . .” Allan shook his head. “Well, such exercises in supposition are best left to historians.”

  With that Flora could only agree. “Cumberland and his army are retreating toward England, I suppose.”

  Allan’s laugh was edged with bitterness. “The MacPherson levies denied His Grace the river crossing and the road south. He has fled west into the mountains, running like a rabbit rather than honorably surrender his sword to the victor.”

  “Perhaps he feared for his life.”

  “His life is hardly in so much danger as the Prince’s life would have been, had the situation been reversed. Charles has put a price on Cumberland’s head, in a fit of mordant humor, I wager, but still he ordered his men to spare the wounded and release the captives. And so you see me here, at your mercy, Cousin.”

  How have the mighty fallen, Flora told herself, thinking more of her crestfallen cousin than the English duke. Handing the reins of the horse to Donald, she guided Allan inside and sat him down before the aromatic warmth of the peat fire in the parlor. To the maid waiting in the hall she said, “Betty, bring bread, cheese, and porter.”

  Then Flora took the coat, its brave scarlet stained and torn, from Allan’s shoulders. He folded his long, lean limbs into a chair and rested his head against its back. “The Pretender—the Prince Regent, I should say—has entered Edinburgh, to even greater applause than last year’s acclamation. Strange, is it not, how many who kept back a welcome then are now flocking forward with one?”

  “Is it so strange that few would commit themselves to Charles’s rash enterprise until that enterprise became victory?” And rash it was, Flora told herself. Even if during the forty years since the Union England had dealt with Scotland as though it were a backward colony, to go to war seemed far from sensible. “Even supposing Prince Charles to have the right, it might have been very generous for one to support him at every risk, but it was not wise. Not until now.”

  “And now he has received the surrender of the Castle, had his father proclaimed King at the Mercat Cross, and called a Parliament. That will not last, he and his kind, they have little use for Parliaments. Soon the old days will be back again, tyranny at home and a hostile neighbor assuring our poverty.”

  Betty brought food and drink. For several minutes Allan refreshed himself, whilst Flora admired the play of the firelight on his unshaven cheeks and the lock of black hair that hung forlorn over his brow. At last he set aside the empty cup, wiped his mouth, and asked, “Where are your mother and her husband?”

  “He is commanding the government militia on Uist. She has gone to visit Lady MacDonald at Monkstadt and your mother at Kingsburgh and intends to return tomorrow.”

  “Ah.” Allan summoned a smile, less radiant than his usual one, tense and uncertain.

  She let him hold her small, clean hand in his large, rough, dirty one. It seemed the least she could do for a warrior so grievously disappointed.

  * * * * *

  Armadale, Isle of Skye, April 19, 1746

  Marion MacDonald sat quietly, her hands folded in her lap, her countenance knitted in thought. “Well then. Did the Prince proclaim his father James VIII of Scotland only, or James III of Britain as well?”

  “Does it matter?” Allan asked. Cleaned, rested, and in a new suit of clothes—Flora’s stepfather’s shirt and breeks fit him tolerably well—he had reclaimed some of his usual ease of manner. Still, Flora sensed that her spirited cousin writhed beneath the unaccustomed mantle of defeat.

  “Aye, it does matter,” her mother said. “James might well overreach himself if he claims the throne of Britain entire.”

  “The Stuarts have never hesitated to overreach themselves. But perhaps the Prince learned by his swiftly aborted incursion into England that he has little support outwith our own Highlands.”

  “Indeed, the present ruling family, of Hanoverian origins or no, has the possession of the united Crown and with it, perhaps, as much right as the deposed Stuarts. But this issue has been decided. It no longer concerns us.” Marion’s maternal eye moved from one to the other of the young people before her. “Now. Allan, I spoke with your parents at Kingsburgh . . .”

  Flora’s ear caught the sound of hoofbeats and voices from outside. Quickly she put down her sewing and went to the door.

  Unlike yesterday’s tender spring evening, this evening was coming on dark and swift. A cold chill wind churned the sea. White gulls looked like flecks of paper swirling up against the clouds massed in the northwest, clouds colored the deep purplish-black of a bruise.

  One last fragile ray of sun illuminated the approaching party, a lad from the village walking before three men on horseback. All three wore red coats like Allan’s, save these were decorated with bits of gilt braid. And the heavy-set man in the middle was bedecked with medals. “. . . the edge of the world,” he was muttering, his face set in a supercilious scowl. “Beastly country, savage mountain passes, not a decent inn to be found . . .”

  Allan’s hand grasped Flora’s shoulder and his voice whispered in her ear, “I’ll be damned—I beg your pardon, Cousin, but it’s the Duke himself.”

  “Come here? To us? He must find himself in dire straits, then, and in need of succor.”

  Behind them both Marion gasped. “The beds need airing and the best china washing. . . .” Her footsteps receded into the house.

  His errand completed, the lad sidled toward the gate in the wall surrounding the house. Then he took to his heels and disappeared toward the village. Flora rendered her best curtsey and Allan his best bow. “Allow me to make introduction. I am Allan MacDonald and this lady is Flora, my cousin of the same name. Your Grace is welcome in my uncle’s house.”

  “Fort Augustus fallen to the rebels,” grumbled the Duke, “and Fort William as well, garrisons incompetent, should have hanged the lot of them . . .” He clumped loudly to the ground. Again Donald came forward and led the horses away, their hanging heads and rough foam-flecked coats making of them a pitiable sight.

  The men appeared in little better health, their hats and the wigs beneath battered and worn, their chins unshaven, their clothing soiled—surely those were bits of heather clinging to the scarlet cloth. The taller of the two aides introduced himself as Felix Scott, the smaller as Neil Campbell. He added, “Are my kinsman Argyll’s troop of men in the area, Mr. MacDonald? We must send a message to them as soon as possible.”

  Flora supposed Campbell of Argyll’s militia was in the vicinity. It had been patrolling Skye for the government for some time now. So had His Majesty’s ships been patrolling the Minch and the Inner Sound. She did not expect them to withdraw now, not when Prince Charles’s victory would spur the French to even greater threats against the island of Britain.

  Before she could answer Allan said, “I’ll send the ghillie to make enquiries.”

  Flora contented herself by saying, “Your Grace, Captain Campbell and Lieutenant Scott, please come inside and warm yourselves by the fire.”

  The young officers bowed politely and walked into the house. The Duke eyed Flora in what she could only describe as an insolent manner. And yet the greenish tint of his jowls indicated that the crossing from the mainland had been rough. How indeed, had the mighty fallen, a king’s son sleeping rough in the heather, his enemies pressing close behind. With a pang of pity she curtsied again.

  The Duke of Cumberland thumped into the parlor, threw hi
mself into Marion’s best chair, and called loudly for brandy.

  Flora and her mother hurried back and forth, bringing biscuits, brandy, and whiskey, and by and by serving a supper of roasted turkey, collops of venison, vegetables, bread, cheese, rum, and porter.

  Allan played the host, and Scott and Campbell were as deferential to the ladies as to the Duke himself. But as night fell, the candles were lit, and the claret and punch went round the table, Cumberland’s face grew redder and more truculent. Even after Flora and Marion retired to the parlor and sat down with their sewing, they could hear his every blustering word.

  “We faced genuine soldiers at Fontenoy and Dettingen. The Pretender’s vaunted clansmen are but savages. I am told they live an idle sauntering life among their acquaintances and relations, and are supported by their bounty. Others get a livelihood by blackmail, receiving moneys from people of substance to abstain from stealing their cattle. The last class of them gain their expenses by robbing and committing depredations. And they have the uncommon gall to rise up against the hand that seeks to civilize them!”

  “Better you should ask why our relations must live in such an unhappy state.” Allan said. Her cousin was well into his cups, Flora realized with a sinking heart.

  Cumberland asked nothing. “And the Young Pretender himself, what unmitigated cheek to place a price upon my head! Why your barbarian countrymen staged ambuscades from every hilltop!”

  “King George placed a high price on Prince Charles’s head,” said Allan. “The very poverty that you deride, Your Grace, makes such a reward desirable, and therefore places your life in danger.”