I wonder now if his conscience was pricking him. Perhaps he was troubled by the floggings he’d dealt out or the blacks he’d killed. Perhaps he found me good company because I was too wary of sparking his temper to say a word. He knew that I never spoke if I could possibly help it—especially not to the other lags.
It briefly crossed my mind that he was a bugger, working up to the lunge, but I soon dismissed this notion. Though he might have been lonely, it wasn’t for a boy’s behind. The fact is, I could have been a stuffed bear for all the regard he paid me as he rambled on. I would stand there studying the furniture for an hour at a time. I learned the pattern of the wallpaper by heart. I came to know every creaky floorboard, every stick of furniture, every crack in the ceiling.
But now, on reaching the threshold, I freeze.
This room isn’t as I remember it. The door-jamb is splintered. The window is cracked. Sprays of blood decorate the wall, the writing desk, the cushions on the settee. There are pools of blood on the carpet; flies buzz around. A clock ticks on the mantelpiece under the Queen’s picture—which has been shot at, to judge from all the smashed glass.
The brackets that hang between the clock and the picture are empty. Carver’s taken this gun, too.
‘Holy Christ,’ Rowdy croaks behind me. His hand comes down on my shoulder. ‘Ye shouldn’t be lookin’ at this,’ he says. ‘Go and feel under Barrett’s pillow. The pistol might be in his bed.’
He steers me back into the hallway. Why does he think me so squeamish? Where does he think I’ve been for the last eighteen months, Kensington Palace?
But it might be true that Mr Barrett kept a pistol close while he slept, so I retrace my steps to his bedroom, where I toss his pillows and thrust a hand beneath his feather mattress. I even search the drawers of his campaign chest, which are full of wonderful things: silk cravats, satin waistcoats, a pair of spectacles, a silver-backed looking glass, a snuff box, a bottle of laudanum…
But no duelling pistol.
‘Tom!’ Rowdy calls to me from the parlour. He sounds excited. In the hallway I pass Nellie pecking at a piece of broken glass.
‘What?’ I ask, from the threshold of the front room.
Rowdy has opened up Mr Barrett’s little card table. I never realised there was a box concealed beneath its inlaid top, which Rowdy has somehow pushed aside, like a hinged lid, to reveal a host of small compartments containing cards, dice, loose coins, whist-markers, a pencil-stub…and a pistol.
‘I thought to meself, “Well now, I’ve heard that gentlemen sometimes duel over a game o’ cards”,’ Rowdy explains with a grin. ‘See here—there’s a hidden lever.’
Once again he gives me the carbine. Then he takes possession of the pistol, which is a beautiful thing, though very old-fashioned.
I can’t see any balls or powder.
‘It should take a musket ball,’ Rowdy murmurs. ‘They generally do.’ With a wry smile and a tilt of his head, he asks, ‘Would ye spare me a cartridge, like a good lad?’
There are only four left. When Rowdy sees ’em cradled in my palm, he knits his brow. ‘Two each?’ he suggests meekly, and I nod. Two each plus the one in the carbine. Five shots in all.
‘These won’t take us far,’ Rowdy says as he loads his pistol. ‘Five shots! I’ll wager Carver’s got fifty-five.’
Yes, but we have other things. Better things.
I turn on my heel.
‘Where are you going?’ asks Rowdy.
‘To even the odds.’ When I head for the door, he follows me like a faithful mastiff—down the steps, across the yard, towards the stables. The light is fading fast. ‘Go and make a fire in the kitchen,’ I tell him.
‘But—’
‘Do it.’
‘Tom, we’ll not be stayin’.’ Rowdy stops in his tracks. ‘How can we? Carver could be headin’ this way—’
‘The fire’s for him.’ I doubt that Rowdy understands, but he has faith enough to submit. While I trudge past the cool-room he retreats to the kitchen. The flies are growing sluggish as night falls, but I can hear ’em through the cool-room’s closed door, humming. Somehow they’ve got inside.
I don’t want to think about what’s in there. I have to keep a clear head.
The stable door is open. Rowdy has dumped Woodbine’s saddlebags on the floor and left her saddle draped over the edge of the nearest stall, which is empty. For some reason, he’s put Woodbine in the very farthest box; it stands hard against the southern wall, well away from the entrance. He’s rubbed her down but hasn’t covered her with a blanket. He’s given her hay but not oats, unless she’s eaten them already. Those saddlebags need repacking.
First things first, though. I need a lantern.
Mr Barrett always kept a very tidy stable. The lanterns have their own hooks, well away from the hayloft. Sacks and barrels are piled near the hayloft, and tools hang on the opposite wall, near Woodbine’s haunches: an awl, a mallet, an axe, a pitchfork. Four sets of double-irons also hang there, and one of ’em is mine. I remember the relief of it when Mr Barrett struck ’em off—top-irons first, then leg-irons—threatening to put ’em back on again should I ever disobey him.
Beside the irons, hung high, are the leghold traps. Two of ’em are bear traps, bought in case the blacks gave Mr Barrett any trouble. I don’t think he’s ever set ’em, though they must have cost a pretty penny. Perhaps the raids have done what he hoped the traps would do.
I have to climb onto a milking stool to reach the lower trap, which is so heavy that it nearly topples me. I cry out but keep my footing—and give Woodbine a soothing pat when she tosses her head, startled by my voice. She needs a blanket.
I’ll leave the lantern here and send Rowdy back for the saddlebags.
Not wanting to lay any kind of trail, I have to carry the bear trap to the kitchen instead of dragging it. My arm still hurts, so I tote the trap on my back, stooping like a river porter. Smoke trickles from the kitchen chimney, barely visible against a darkening sky. Birds are calling. Flies are settling.
Inside, a burning lamp glows on the kitchen table. Rowdy is hunched over the hearth, feeding sticks into a fresh fire.
He turns at the sound of my footsteps. ‘What in God’s name is that?’
‘A bear trap.’ The whole room shakes when it hits the floor. ‘You should fetch the saddlebags,’ I tell him, reaching for the poker. ‘And give Woodbine some oats. They’re in the cask with the pewter pot on its lid.’
‘Tom—what are ye doin’?’ Before I can answer, Rowdy starts babbling nervously, ‘Why do we need a fire? Why show Carver we’re here? We can’t stay. He’ll gut us if we do. We have to leave.’
‘Not yet.’
‘Tom—’
‘Go and fetch the bags. Now.’
He does as he’s told. Somehow I’m training him, the way I trained Gyp.
Gyp.
She’s lying over there, wrapped in a blanket. I’m sorry, girl. I’m so sorry.
‘Carver will pay,’ I promise her as I pry up a floorboard with the edge of the poker. A hard yank and the nails yield.
Now for the next board.
‘Remember that trap I laid for the wild dogs?’ I remind Gyp, using the poker like a pump-handle. Once. Twice. And there’s another board raised. ‘Well, Carver is a wild dog and I’m going to lay a trap for him.’
One more should do it. The joists creak—the wood strains—the nails flex.
There.
The trap is so big it needs a special clamp to force open its jaws. Luckily that’s roped to the peg, so all I have to do is unknot the rope and apply the clamp.
Do I have the muscle? Perhaps I should ask Rowdy.
‘Remember how I hung a strip of my shirt above the dog-trap?’ I ask Gyp. She was there, of course; she saw what I did. ‘Well—I’m going to do the same here.’
I climb onto the table, unhook the pot-rack and discard the last two pots still dangling from it. Then I fetch a ball of cooking twine and begin to hang o
ther things from the rack: a couple of knives, a couple of spoons, a meat skewer, a teacup, a pan-lid, a salt cellar. I’d hang Lady Jane in her cage if she wasn’t so heavy.
Lady Jane. I must let her out.
There’s rope in one corner, but to thread it over the rafter I have to move the table and put a chair on top, then stand on the chair and push the weft of the rope over the warp of the rafter. Luckily, the pot-rack doesn’t have to be hung very far from the door—and the roof is quite low where it meets the lintel.
Bits of bark shower down onto my head.
‘Tom?’ The door swings open to reveal Rowdy on the threshold, clutching a saddlebag under each arm. He stares at the pot-rack ‘What are ye—?’
‘Stop!’ My voice is sharp. He freezes, one foot suspended over the hole in the floor.
When I point at the hole, he looks down and gasps.
‘I need you to open the trap for me,’ I tell him, jerking my chin. The trap is lying under the table, jaws firmly shut.
But he doesn’t even look at the trap. He doesn’t seem to hear me.
‘What the hell is that?’ he asks, his eyes on the jingling, jangling, glittering objects that sway and dance as I hoist the pot-rack towards the roof.
‘A distraction,’ I reply.
‘From what?’
‘From the trap.’ I nod at the hole I’ve made. ‘Once you’ve opened its jaws, I’ll put it down there. Carver won’t see it if he’s looking up.’
Rowdy stares at the hole. Then he stares at the trap. Then he says, ‘And just what d’ye plan to bait this trap with?’
I frown at him. Surely he must know the answer to that question? The fire is crackling. The lamp is burning. The pot-rack chimes gently.
‘Us,’ I say.
10
MY MOTHER had many friends, but they were all women, so they didn’t come to her funeral. Instead they lined High Street and drew their shawls over their heads when her coffin passed.
My father was too drunk to carry the coffin. His friends did it for him. Among them was the landlord of the Mackerel’s Eye and an old tosspot called Browne, who died the following spring. I can’t remember who else was there; it was a long time ago. But they were very kind, for all they were seedy ne’er-do-wells who spent their nights robbing coverts and their days in the local beer shop.
My grandmother bought mourning clothes for Jack and me from a slopseller in Thetford. She sold them again straight after the funeral, but I was glad to wear a respectable suit when I buried Ma. We couldn’t afford much else; there were no mutes, carriages, flowers or plumed horses. Since it was winter, I couldn’t find a single wild blossom to lay on her grave.
Nine men came to church, not including the vicar. He despised my father and his friends, and my father despised him back. My father called clergymen ‘the King’s lackeys’. He said they preached charity from one side of their mouths while they sermonised against poaching from the other. He said they didn’t care if you starved as long as you didn’t steal.
The service was very brief, though the vicar had time to commiserate with my mother on the hard life she’d led, glaring at my father all the while. It was the last time I ever set foot in that church. My mother had gone there on occasion with Jack and me, but I took against it after she died. It was never a place I felt welcome. I would step over the threshold and worry that I smelled bad.
At the graveside my father swayed like a poplar in a high wind. He saw me crying and told me I had to be a man now. I was all of eight years old.
I’ve wrapped Gyp in two blankets and tied ’em with twine. I’ve picked lavender and wattle flowers. But I didn’t make a headboard.
If I mark the grave, Carver might find it. And if he finds it, he’ll ravage it.
That’s why I’ve dug it out here, on the very edge of the southern paddock. Gyp liked this place. She liked following trails through the forest ferns and gathering sheep in the long grass. She won’t be lonely, either; you can see the kitchen from where I’m standing. At least, you can see it during the day.
Now all I can see is one shining window and the faint, pinkish glow above it, where the smoke is leaving the chimney. And I can see Rowdy’s lantern. He’s heading this way.
My own lantern is shedding a pool of light on the raw, chopped earth at my feet.
‘I’ll come back,’ I promise Gyp. ‘I’ll come back with a headboard. And more flowers.’ The wattle and lavender are buried with her because I can’t risk Carver seeing ’em. I’ll have to stamp the grave down hard and strew it with leaves. But not until I’ve filled it.
When the first spadeful of dirt thudded onto Gyp’s flanks, I thought the sound would break my heart. Even now, with the pit almost filled, I’m still wiping away tears.
Poor Gyp. My poor girl. All alone down there in the dark.
‘Right!’ Rowdy stops just a few feet away and lifts his lantern. With his face washed, his hair combed and his white shirt gleaming under George Trumble’s Sunday coat, he looks like a different man. A fine, fair, respectable man.
I can see why he was able to pass false coin in pubs.
‘Packed and saddled. Traps laid. Tree climbed. Dog laid to rest,’ he announces. ‘We need to go. The moon’s full enough to see by.’
‘You’re a good talker.’ Leaning on my spade, weary and woebegone, I find myself pleading with him. ‘Will you say a few words? For Gyp?’
He frowns at me, puzzled. ‘Eh?’ he says.
‘Something religious. As a vicar would.’
Rowdy seems taken aback. ‘Chrissake, lad, I’m Catholic!’ he exclaims, and retreats a step. ‘That dog was a Protestant—ye only had to look at her.’
‘Please.’
He hesitates. I stare at him. At last he sighs and throws a quick glance over his shoulder.
‘All right,’ he growls, ‘but we’d best be quick.’
He sets down his pistol and his lantern. Crosses himself. Folds his hands together. ‘Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,’ he says, his voice low and serious, ‘through the valley o’ the shadow o’ death this faithful dog’s spirit now runs free, huntin’ with the angels, may she always find a warm place by the Lord’s fire and keep faithful watch o’er His lambs, amen.’
‘Amen.’ That was beautiful. My voice cracks as I stammer, ‘Do—do you truly believe she’s with the angels, now?’
Rowdy gazes down at me. His face softens. ‘Dog like that? Where else could she be?’
‘You liked her, didn’t you?’
He blinks. ‘’Course I did.’
‘You picked her up.’ I daresay you stopped for me because you lacked a sharp pair of tracker’s eyes. But you needn’t have stopped for Gyp. You could have left her on the road, but you picked her up. ‘Thank you.’
I hold out my hand. Rowdy shakes it, smiling his crooked smile. ‘I only wish I could have saved her,’ he says, retrieving his lantern and pistol. He turns to go.
I pick up my spade and start scraping the last of the loose dirt onto the grave mound.
Rowdy stops short. ‘You’ve done all ye can, Tom,’ he urges. ‘We have to leave.’
Not yet. Not until this grave is hidden.
‘Tom!’ He grabs me, but I shake him off and continue to push the dirt around, my bad arm aching.
‘If Carver finds Gyp, he’ll do something horrible,’ I say.
‘If Carver finds us, he’ll do somethin’ worse!’
Worse than hanging us from the hayloft lift-beam? Worse than sticking a pole up our backside and roasting us?
I’m patting the mound of dirt with my spade to flatten it when Rowdy loses his temper.
‘Christ, but you’re a stubborn little bastard!’ he snaps. ‘Well, I’m not about to be gutted for the sake of a dead dog!’ He waves his gun at the stables. ‘That horse in there is saddled and ready. Soon as I reach her, I’ll count to a hundred. If you’re not headin’ back by then, I’ll leave without ye.’
He pauses for a moment, as if expecting me to ans
wer. I don’t. Instead I lay down my spade and pick up a handful of dead leaves.
With an impatient noise, he turns on his heel and stomps off.
If he does ride away, he’ll take the road to town on Mr Barrett’s horse, in George Trumble’s coat. Even if Carver doesn’t catch him, the townfolk’ll likely string him up as a thief and a cutthroat. He was new to the farm, so they won’t know him. Won’t trust him.
They know me. I was twice in town with Mr Barrett. If I tell my tale they might believe it, though most free folk are disinclined to trust a lag. And what if they decide it was me killed Charlie and Jim and the Trumbles? What if they think Rowdy killed Mr Barrett for his shirt and his horse and the contents of his saddlebags?
Scattering bark and leaves over the grave, I can see little hope for either of us. Even if we survive Carver, who’s to say we’ll survive the troopers, or a hanging judge? I’ve heard about the magistrates in this colony. They’re worse than the ones in England. They treat lags like mad dogs.
Of course, Rowdy might be able to talk us out of gaol, with his quick tongue. Either that or he’ll talk us into an ambush. Perhaps I’d fare better without him; off the road, away from Mr Barrett’s shirt and horse. Perhaps I should leave him to his own devices.
It would pain me, though, I confess.
‘If I had you with me, I wouldn’t need Rowdy,’ I whisper to Gyp, but she can’t hear me. I’m all alone save for the beasts that rustle overhead in the branches. Opossums, I’ll wager.
This grave still looks sadly bare; I should dig out some clumps of grass and plant ’em on top. By the time they wither, Carver won’t be around to see it.
I pick up the spade and head towards the tree-line, where a few small holes won’t be noticed. I have to tread carefully, though. Very, very carefully.
I’m just about to loosen the first clod when I hear a scream of pain.
The first day I met him, Rowdy Cavanagh told me he’d been apprenticed as a lad to a fanstick maker, but that his master’s cruelty had driven him away. He also told me that during the three years he’d spent uttering counterfeit coin, he had passed some eighty pounds’ worth of false guineas and received back a good sixty pounds in change. He said the trick of it was to hold the landlord’s eyes, so that any coins exchanged would go straight into the cash drawer unregarded. He said he had always kept his mouth moving, his teeth flashing and his hands busy while he joked, laughed and teased his way to success. Sometimes he’d pretend to be ill, or angry, or shocked from having come from an accident. Sometimes he’d rattle the barmaids by kissing ’em.
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