Fighting the urge to close my eyes. I tried to keep them unnaturally open, using the muscles in my forehead to pry the lids up. The blood loss would make me more and more tired with each passing minute. I could not rest for more than a few seconds at a time. I needed to get to the village. I thought of the McGreevys’ cottage not far away, however any one of the three could be responsible for my predicament. Agnes McKinney’s cottage lay beyond. I would still have to travel unseen through the McGreevys land to reach her. I did not want to bring more danger to her lonely doorstep. She suffered enough, and perhaps at the hands of the excise officer.
The best place to find shelter and help would be the village. People would be conducting their daily business. Others would stop at the Thistle. I clenched my jaw and stood. Squeezing my eyes shut as a wave of dizziness rendered my faculties useless. I opened my eyes once again and focused on one point until the fuzzy edges in my sight refocused. I could not risk taking the main road. Instead I would move through the forest, as a ghost from the New World, invisible and one with the wilderness around me. The edge of the fens where the trees grew at larger intervals would aid in my progress. I tried to keep hidden and take advantage of the relatively clear path.
Concentrating on my steps I tried to jog through the brush with as much fleetness of foot as I could muster. After a mile, the energy to stay focused began to drain away quickly and my steps grew heavy. I tripped over an exposed tree root, unable to right myself or put my arms out to brace my impact. My face collided with the frozen ground and I coughed mud and dirt out of my nose and mouth with great heaving breaths. I wanted to give up. I wanted my will to be broken, yet my heart still beat with irritating regularity. I stood clumsily once again and dragged my broken body towards the village.
Tears threatened to completely impede my vision as the first of the village houses became visible over the horizon. Smoke from peat fires burned lazily into the sky, unmindful of my cold, aching limbs and throbbing injury. Like the steam engines I adored. My legs pumped with regular fits, right and left. My hope of receiving help before the village grew slim, as the buildings grew larger and my blurred eyes spied none around in the flat light. Walking through a small cottage back garden, a dog barked through the back door furiously needing to investigate the intruder, I paused for a moment, however, none came to the door. No aid here. I continued with an increasingly shuffling gait.
I found the street after walking through a pathway at the side of the house. Still, not a soul roamed the road. All appeared to be industriously conducting their business by the warmth of a fire. A mad thought seized my consciousness. The sign of the Thistle lay a couple houses down, yet if I lay down in the road here. Eventually one of the villagers would find me. But I could not take the chance it might be the knave who injured me. I fought the growing tiredness, the loss of vision and stumbled the last steps to the Thistle. Leaning on the door, I used my good shoulder to press down onto the opening mechanism.
The weight of my body thrust the door wide. The wooden portal banged off the wall with force. I fell to the floor with a shudder so hard it made my teeth chatter. I curled into a ball. Knowing I had done everything in my power to save my life. A moment’s suspended silence followed my arrival in the taproom, after which my ears filled with the sounds of men shouting, astonished noises escaping their lips, chairs scraping and boots stomping quickly towards me.
I released a sigh as an arm reached out and rolled me over. “It’s the captain, in a native costume. He’s been hurt.” The person doing the speaking unceremoniously poked at the bandage over my injury. “Bad I think, better get the barber.”
More shuffling of feet and the door opened, the cool breeze swept across my body, a familiar voice sounded in my ear. “Och, Captain, I am nae even going tae ask about the clothes until yer better. It’s the sort of friend I am.” Beathan grunted as he lifted me from the ground, not an easy feat even for the big man. “I’ll take him tae a room upstairs. If ye dinnae mind.”
After being set on a soft mattress, I listened to the orders shouted above my head and decided I needed to try and regain some of my dignity. Opening my eyelids slowly, as they felt bruised, I looked around the room. Beathan spoke with the innkeeper. They whispered their conference. I cleared my throat several times before I could get any words out past my chapped lips. The room felt overly warm, yet my skin felt overstretched.
Beathan stepped to the end of the bed and started to pull my moccasin boots from my feet. “Dinnae try tae speak, Captain, the barber is on his way.” He closely inspected the footwear. “I think I might need a pair of these.”
I smiled and my bottom lip cracked, I licked the blood away, annoyed. “You will have to get a nice Indian girl to make a pair for you.” Beathan rounded the bed and helped me to sit up, I let my head fall to my chest, momentarily dizzy.
“Yer in a right state once again.” Beathan helped me pull off the deerskin and fur jacket and what remained of the linen shirt underneath. My bare skin shivered for a minute, as he inspected the bandage. “This looks mighty serious, what the hell happened?”
Sheepishly I kept my voice low. “I went out into the fens to inspect the site of the explosion. Someone must have thought I was more trouble alive than dead and they shot me. The bullet went clean through, however as you can see the bleeding has not eased.”
“Yer a damned bull-headed man, Captain Clyde-Dalton. After all the warnings we gave ye over nae venturing intae the fens.” Beathan stared into my face and I tried to look defiantly back at him. “Well, who could of imagined ye get yerself shot? Might only hae been one of the lads on the hunt. However this has the stench of the McGreevy boys on it. I am going to hae a word with them.”
The sound of rushing steps echoed in the corridor and a small man with a leather case peered intae the doorway, a smile on his face. I thought he would probably smile even if it were the end of the world. “Ah, Captain, my favourite patient. Let’s see what ye hae done tae yerself now.”
My eyelids lowered to half-mast at the implication. I felt my lips turn down. The last thing I wanted was for the barber to get too familiar. I nodded at him as he came into the room and set his tools down. I looked at Beathan. “Two shots fired, one right above my head and this one. If it were a hunter, they would have checked their kill.”
Beathan studied me for a moment, eyes unreadable. He shifted to let the barber through and the other man began to unwind the bandage. Clucking like a woman the whole time. Finally Beathan sighed. “Did ye see who it was?”
I winced as the barber pulled the linen from the poorly clotted wound. “No, the blighters came up from behind me. I did not see anything, only heard the shots. I found some cover in the woods when I finally made the tree line. I do not know if the shooter was long gone or let me go.”
“I am going tae hae tae wash the wound thoroughly. It might sting.” The barber’s cheery voice grated. “Yer lucky the bullet went straight through, merely a flesh wound.”
Sniffing loudly at the obnoxious man. I focused on Beathan. “I am not saying the shots might not have been an accident, but whoever was out there did not reveal themselves to help. I am sure there was someone else in the woods, watching the whole scene.”
“At least ye came through in one piece.” Beathan glanced at the barber. “We can nae hae another excise man meet his demise up here in Markinch. The wrong people will start tae talk.” His laugh rang out in the empty room and he sobered immediately. “And the next time ye decide tae go off on and investigate. Take someone with ye.”
I wanted to protest. My vulnerable position made me bite back the words. It appeared I was destined to look the fool in the Highlands, years of experience in the military drained away and I became a boy again. “I do not believe I need to go out and inspect the explosion site again. Someone did a good job of cleaning up any evidence.”
“A shame you did nae find anything after going tae all this trouble.” Beathan eyed my fur-lined buckskin trousers. “I
thought a couple of the auld lads might hae fits when ye fell through the door. A real native in the Thistle.”
I could not help but grin in response to Beathan’s mirth. It must have been quite a sight, and I had not thought of it until now. “I only wore the clothes because they are warmer than my frock coat, hose and boots. Plus the moccasins are supposed to help me stalk through any terrain unseen.”
“Maybe in the New World, Captain. Perhaps they lost some of their magic here in the Highlands.” Beathan took a deep breath and appeared to be gathering his thoughts. After a moment, he pulled a chair out from the wall and settled his large frame. He watched the barber ready a needle and thread and looked at my face. “The Scotch trade attracts many different folks. We hae a new guard fur our Scotch delivery intae Glasgow. It’s a rough city and we decided two would be better than one.”
Wincing again as the barber slowly stitched my wound closed, I tried to follow Beathan’s story. Perhaps it had something to do with the McGreevy. I needed the distraction from the low cheerful humming of the barber.
“I mentioned our new excise man was a Sassenach, newly returned from Boston. During the course of the interview, the new guard admitted he had recently come back from Boston. One of his qualifications for our position being his recent time spent with the Boston Militia.” Beathan watched for my reaction.
A hatred so powerful it turned my stomach rose to the surface from the place it must have been hiding for the past few weeks. The barber patted my arm and reminded me to relax or the stitches would end up being uneven. I needed to concentrate on not jumping from my seat. “Where is this fellow now?”
Beathan waved one of his hands, indicating I should relax. “The man is halfway tae Glasgow, I hope, with his precious cargo. He told me a story before he left of the scariest moment in his life, one he will never forget. The scene is etched across his brain.” Lowering his voice. “The incident involves ye specifically.”
I relaxed onto the bed. The barber grew quiet and reached for one of the jars in his case. Opening the lid, a foul smell permeated the room. I looked at him and the ointment disdainfully, and he smiled back. “Smells terrible tae be sure, but it will keep the infection out.”
Probably scare away anything coming within a foot’s radius, I thought to myself. So Beathan knew my secret. He knew of my imprisonment. I steeled myself for the same approbation I faced in Boston. “How much of the story did he tell you?”
Understanding lit Beathan’s expression. “Only the parts he knew. The army must have done a good job in covering up yer marriage tae the native girl. The man did nae mention it. He only told of how the Boston Militia was returning from an ill-advised failure of a siege at Port Royal. The militia commander, John March, tried tae take the fort twice and failed. His troops starving and weak, the English army based in Boston were forced tae rescue the motley crew before disaster struck.”
I closed my eyes. I had lived the rest of the story. Hearing it from someone made my face wrench to keep the sorrow at bay. The stupid mistakes leading to the deaths of at least a hundred souls, it made me shake with anger. The barber patted my shoulder awkwardly.
Continuing in a low voice. “On the march back from Port Royal, the French attacked a small settlement near Boston, the inhabitants a group of native women. Their men fighting or working fur settlers in Boston, only a few escaped.”
The vision of Onatah’s body, lying lifeless among the rest of her village, her limbs and bloated stomach, so beautiful in life made grotesque in death. Came before my eyes. Rubbing a hand over my eyes, a shuddered sob escaped before I could stop it. It was the first time I had cried with grief for her.
“The man did nae have any idea of the carnage carried out while the militia was away.” Beathan steadily recounted the story, as I forcefully rubbed the moisture from my eyes. “The militia were only happy tae be home, until a madman attacked them at their supper. Dressed as an Iroquois warrior, he went straight fur John Marsh, only tae be held back at the last minute by another Indian companion. However, the attacking man was not an Indian. He was a white man, with eyes as cold and dark as hell, intent on killing the militia commander and an inch from succeeding. It took five men tae hold him down, all suffering injuries in the process. The new guard, he swears the man is ye, and it took him week’s tae sleep through the night after the incident. Says ye became the Devil himself, risen up from Hell tae extract vengeance fur John Marsh’s mistakes.”
“I wish I had been,” I spoke quietly. Tears gone, I felt refreshed. “The bastard got away with his stupidity, while my wife and her folk lost their lives. He only received a minor reprimand. Marsh went on with his life. I was sent to the stocks, imprisoned and quietly shipped back to London.” I looked Beathan straight in the face. “Are you going to spread this tale?”
The barber inspected his handy work, with a grim smile. “I will be around the cottage tae check the bandage tomorrow. Yer exhausted now and I suggest ye get some much needed rest. I’ll send the innkeeper up with some food.” He turned towards the door and stopped for a moment. “All consultations are confidential.”
Beathan shook his head as we both watched the small man disappear out the door, before he looked back at me. “I dinnae see why ye are so afraid of the truth getting out, ye were seeking vengeance fur yer own. This is something Highlanders understand well. We would never sanction ye for it, however I am yer friend. So I will keep yer secret.”
I sighed with relief and gratitude. The events of the day and Beathan’s story both worked to pull at the rest of my energy and I lay back on the covers of the bed. “Thank you, Beathan, I want to move on. I think, and this story will always drag at my heels.”
Chapter 11
I spent a restful night at the Thistle, regaining my strength and contemplating the identity of the gunman. Experience taught me anyone could shoot a gun under pressure, but to be a good marksman one needed practise and nerve. The attacker might have missed the first shot. Aimed directly through my skull, however they met their mark in my arm with the second, from enough distance and in such a hiding place, as I could not spy them among the snow-covered hillock. Something of a mystery brewed here in Markinch, and now an attempt on my own life; I needed to resolve the matter quickly.
I borrowed some ill-fitting clothes from one of the innkeeper’s son’s and went out of the Thistle early. Unable to sleep any longer, feeling somewhat refreshed. I kept my arm tucked close to my chest in order not to move it unduly and walked down the main street towards my cottage. I watched a few workers make their way towards Deoch before the work whistle, a few doffed their caps in my direction, most ignored my presence. I halted at the front gate of the cottage and watched them pass. For the most part they remained silent. Others spoke in low tones, more to preserve the silence of the morning rather than any need for privacy. Each sported a plume of white cloud where their warm breath mingled with the cold air.
The chilly temperature finally prompted me to move. The light jacket provided by the innkeeper no match for the weather and my fur-lined buckskins, folded under one arm, needed a good working through. They had become stiff from yesterday’s soaking. I braced myself before opening the door. Freya had refrained from visiting me at the inn last evening, however she made her displeasure known by speaking loudly at the bottom of the stairs of my foolish adventures. Oil lamps lit in the drawing room indicated her presence.
The door latch clicked behind me, and a shrill woman’s voice came from the kitchen. “Captain, I can nae say how relieved I am tae know ye made it through the fens once again.” Freya’s plump frame filled the doorway to the dining room. “Och, well, I can see ye made it out in one piece, but ye smell as if ye fell straight back intae the bog. Get yerself upstairs and I will warm some water. I am surprised the innkeeper put up with the stench of ye.” Freya’s nose wrinkled and she pulled a linen square from a pocket in her apron.
Frowning, I dropped the deerskin clothes on the floor and lifted my arm. I snif
fed the inside of my armpit. Heather and maybe a bit of old sweat, nothing to cause true alarm, yet I also could smell something. I looked down at the clothes on a heap on the floor.
She looked down at them too, stepped forward and leaned down, sniffing gently. “What in the name of the good Lord do ye hae there, Captain? Its nae ye, it’s this mouldy pile of who knows what. I will throw it out fur ye.” She made to pick up the items keeping them the furthest from her body as possible.
With the promise of a few days ago to be kinder to Freya in the back of my mind, I kept my voice as even as possible. “Freya, my wife made me those clothes. They are in a bit of state at the moment, however they have sentimental value. They need to be aired and oiled properly.” I felt proud of not losing my temper.
My buckskin coat now occupied the space between us. Freya looked from the garment to me incredulously. “Clothing, this is nae fit fur a savage, Captain, and it smells tae high heaven. I can nae believe anyone could stand wearing such a thing.”
“You cannot throw them out. They are my belongings and I do not care if you think they smell.” I ground out as I made to take the shirt from her. “I will lock them in a trunk upstairs and deal with them later if they offend your proper sensibilities.”
I suppose the thought of having the garments locked away where they might moulder and become even worse prompted Freya to make a compromise. “I shall hang them up in the barn, shall I? There is a fairly dry space in the back where they will be safe enough.” She grimaced and picked up the trousers and walked back towards the kitchen. “I hae some porridge on the fire. I will bring a bowl out fur ye.”
Scotch Rising Page 15
