During the evening, Derrick ate at the local pub with other students but again returned to his lonely room. He considered going to a show, for there were many of them. He also thought he should take time during the day to browse the bookshops. If Margaret enjoyed Gulliver’s Travels, maybe she would like Robinson Crusoe, too.
A cloud of gloom hovered over him as he reminded himself he would never see her again.
The next morning, Derrick learned from one of the other students that the body of a highwayman had been obtained. In fact, a great deal of whispered gossip and speculation centered on how the body came into Hunter’s possession. Was the highwayman originally destined for the gallows?
Derrick refused to get involved in the pointless discussion. He headed directly to the autopsy room. As Dr. Hunter’s newest student, he received a guaranteed spot closest to the esteemed surgeon, but he arrived before anyone else. Two men lugged the dead body into the room and laid it on a table.
“Where’s Dr. Hunter?” one of them asked.
“Visiting his patients,” Derrick replied.
They left. Derrick stared at a corpse clothed in finery rivaling anything Anthony had worn on the Prosperity.
A short time later, Dr. Hunter arrived and glared at the body. “I instructed them to remove the clothing and they usually do—if the deceased happens to be a woman.”
He asked Derrick to assist him and take off the clothing. As the surgeon laid out his tools, Derrick unbuttoned the highwayman’s bloodstained coat. A shot at close range directly into the heart had killed the man. Derrick had seen plenty of wounds exactly like this one on the battlefield.
He thought again of his horrible dream. He couldn’t save them all. He was only human.
Did science hold the answer? Nobody lived forever—unless they believed in the promise Christ had made. He didn’t, though he knew the hope of Christ’s offer was powerful. Without it, life’s grim realities became meaningless. Since Julian’s death, he had no hope.
When he pulled off the coat of the corpse, a small book dropped to the floor. Bending over, he picked it up and frowned. He opened the volume and his heart nearly stopped.
For Margaret McGowan,
The sweetest girl in Leedsville.
With all my love.
Frances
This was Margaret’s book of verse. He turned the page. Philip Freneau, the oft-proclaimed poet of the Revolution, a man who had spent time on a British prison ship, had written the poems.
His throat closed up. He had placed Margaret and Mrs. Ulery in a coach. This highwayman was dead. Had a coachman shot him? How did he wind up with Margaret’s book?
Was Margaret injured?
“Where did this highwayman die?” he asked.
“Near an old town called Great Leighs,” Dr. Hunter answered as he continued to prepare for the dissection.
“Is it on the road leading to Sudbury?”
“Yes, I believe it is.”
“Who shot him?”
“I don’t know.” The surgeon smiled. “But he has a magnificent chest wound. Right through the heart. Whoever did it either had excellent aim or got lucky.”
Derrick’s pulse raced. He remembered Margaret’s words at the time the British ship overtook them.
I have used a fowling piece to kill ducks at one hundred yards.
“Do you know where I can rent a horse—a fast one?” he asked.
Dr. Hunter gave him directions to a reputable stable and questioned why he was in such a hurry.
“This book belongs to a young woman I met on the boat. Her grandfather was the Earl of Broadcraft—”
“The old earl?” Dr. Hunter raised his eyebrows.
“Yes, she was to going to the estate.”
“The earl was a great man, though when he learned of his daughter’s death, it was quite a blow.”
“I handed his granddaughter and her companion into a coach headed to the estate. If this highwayman has her book...”
“The coachman probably killed the robber,” the surgeon interrupted.
“I cannot know if that is so. I must find out if Margaret is safe.”
“Go. I’ll wager another corpse will be available to dissect when you return.”
Derrick shuddered as he hastened away.
* * *
Margaret did not stop praying until Mrs. Ulery reined in the horses in front of an inn named St. Anne’s Castle.
“How is he?” Mrs. Ulery asked when she opened the door to the coach.
“He passed out several miles back,” Margaret answered. “I’m afraid…” She bit her lip.
“He saved our lives,” Mrs. Ulery stated. “We must do all we can for him. I’ll get help.”
“He mentioned a barber…his brother…”
“If he’s in this town, I’ll find him.” Mrs. Ulery dashed away.
Margaret continued pressing on the wound with the blood-soaked scrap of cloth. She remembered her brother-in-law’s sermon about faith. He said she only needed a little faith—a small amount, the size of a mustard seed. With a tiny bit of trust in the Lord, she or anyone else could move a mountain.
She didn’t want to move a mountain. She simply wanted Finney to live.
Mrs. Ulery soon returned with the barber and two other men.
The barber was indeed Finney’s brother. He and his helpers carry the injured man off to his home.
“He saved our lives,” Margaret stated. “If we can help in anyway...”
“You’ve brought him here. I am beholden to you.” He bowed his head. “I’ll send my boys to take care of the horses. Poor beasts look like they’re done in.”
Margaret had not stopped trembling since they met up with the highwaymen. Everything had happened so fast. Were they safe now? Would the thief wake up and come after them to avenge the death of his fellow robber?
Mrs. Ulery carefully wrapped up her whiskey bottles. Margaret picked up the sack with their few possessions and her reticule. They had no trunks and no clothing, but they had their lives. She said a quick, silent prayer for Finney before she walked into the inn and asked for a room.
“Do you know this inn is haunted?” The innkeeper’s expression resembled a mask of stone.
“The ghosts will not wake me up,” Mrs. Ulery quipped.
“I need to wash and lie down,” Margaret said. “Later, we’d like something to eat. You may ask one of the ghosts to bring it up on a tray.”
“The ghosts don’t do any work,” the innkeeper stated with all seriousness.
“You must not have trained them properly,” Mrs. Ulery remonstrated.
“Where are your trunks?” the innkeeper continued.
“We left them next to the bodies of the highwaymen,” Margaret explained.
“One was dead, but the other man would be likely to wake up at some point,” Mrs. Ulery stated.
The innkeeper raised his eyebrows, “You’ve no trunks in the coach?”
“Are you deaf?” Mrs. Ulery clearly lost her patience. “We left our trunks a good five miles back. If you want to fetch them, go ahead. Otherwise, I trust there is a clever seamstress in this town.”
“Mrs. Bost is an excellent seamstress,” the innkeeper boasted.
“Fine, we shall pay a call on Mrs. Bost,” Mrs. Ulery promised.
Once situated in a simple room, Margaret washed away the blood and some of the mud. Mrs. Ulery poured herself a tumbler full of whiskey.
“You may join me if you like,” she offered. “I strained my arm. I worried I might break it again, but I believe I’ve been lucky.”
“My trunk contained all my remedies,” Margaret sighed. “I will need to find an apothecary in this town.”
“You probably need to settle your nerves.”
“I’m sure a good hot cup of tea will help,” Margaret said. “Perhaps I shall ring for one of the ghosts.”
Mrs. Ulery laughed. “I’ve read a great many books about travel, but none of them seemed half as exciting as the trip
we’ve experienced.”
“I shudder to think what will happen on our return.” Margaret longed to see home and all her dear ones again, but she thought of Derrick, too. “Is London as dangerous as the countryside?”
“Thieves are everywhere,” Mrs. Ulery shrugged. “It was sheer luck that dreadful hooligan believed I had a strand of pearls in my pocket.”
“You saved us with your deception. Though I fear for Finney.”
“As do I.”
“While I am skilled at baking, I never dealt with many criminals.”
“Some of them are cunning, and those are the dangerous ones,” Mrs. Ulery mused. “However, the young men who waylaid us were as dumb as posts.”
“But they were armed,” Margaret reminded.
“Fortunately, they had poor aim.”
“You didn’t know that,” Margaret accused.
“Yes, I did,” Mrs. Ulery protested. “The sign of a good marksman is steady hands, and those men waved their pistols about like a couple of jugglers.”
“Why did you call me your lady?”
“I thought if they believed you were an aristocrat they would be less likely to kill you.”
Margaret shuddered.
* * *
Mrs. Ulery slept like a log. Margaret lay in bed listening to the creaks and groans of the old inn. She worried about purchasing more clothing and supplies for their journey. Should she send men back to retrieve their trunks? Would she be forcing them into danger? If the road was well traveled, by now the body of the highwayman had been found. A passerby may have already confiscated the trunks.
She mourned the loss of the book of verse Frances had given her. She had nothing else from Frances except memories, and those seemed to be fading away.
Thanks to Mrs. Ulery’s quick thinking, the highwayman’s inattention, and a hard wooden splint, she still had the bank notes. How much would she have left after replacing a few necessities?
She slipped out of bed as dawn tinted the sky and gazed out the window on the street below. At least it wasn’t raining, but they had much to do, and somehow they must obtain a ride in another coach.
Once Mrs. Ulery arose, they breakfasted before going in search of Mrs. Bost, who turned out to be an excellent seamstress with several suitable outfits ready-made which needed only minor adjustments. She promised to complete everything by the following day.
“Perhaps the ghosts are working for her,” Mrs. Ulery commented.
Margaret smiled. Despite her consumption of strong spirits, Mrs. Ulery proved to be a wonderful traveling companion.
They visited the town apothecary with his dubious ointments and elixirs. Margaret usually made her own, but since she had nothing, she took a chance on a few of his concoctions.
A joiner nearby had an available trunk. Mrs. Ulery professed her willingness to share it.
“As long as my whiskey is safe,” she noted.
Margaret wondered whether Mrs. Ulery expected her supply to last for the entire journey.
The innkeeper told them a stage traveled through town on the way to Sudbury on a regular basis.
“Not as fancy as your coach, for it’s the regular mail run,” he informed them. “As long as there’s room, you can get on—but it depends on how much space is needed for the letters. If the stage is full, you’ll have to wait for the next one.”
“I hope no one decided to post anything this week,” Mrs. Ulery said.
Margaret asked the cost of the fare on the stage. It was considerably less than hiring a coach. “Why didn’t the solicitor tell me to take the stage?”
“The granddaughter of an earl does not ride with the mail.”
Margaret counted her bank notes. “A thrifty granddaughter does.”
As the sun dipped lower on the horizon, they called upon Finney to ask how he had fared. His brother had removed the bullet and bandaged the wound.
“The boot on his leg slowed down the ball,” his brother, Ham, explained. “Otherwise, it might have cracked the bone in half. As it is, there’s a small dent in it.”
Poor Finney slipped in and out of consciousness. He seemed to recognize Mrs. Ulery at one point for he gave her a smile. “A woman…with spunk.”
“A man with courage.” She patted his hand with tears in her eyes.
Margaret prayed for him.
As they left, Ham asked, “Where was his assistant?”
“I don’t know,” Margaret told him. “I didn’t realize he was supposed to have another man with him.” However, she remembered Derrick had asked the same question.
Ham shook his head. “A foolish mistake. The highwaymen are becoming bolder.”
“How many are there?” Margaret squeaked.
“There’s no telling. Not everyone wants to make an honest living,” he explained.
Margaret bit her lip as her anxiety mounted. She told herself the Lord had gotten her this far. With the help of His grace, she would reach Broadcraft Hall and, afterward, return to little Leedsville.
The women ate a light supper in the tavern room at the inn. Several noisy patrons sat a few tables away, downing tankards of ale and laughing.
“Oh, ’e was ’appy, ’e was. ’E’s one of those resurrectionists. Picked ’im up yesterday while ’e was still fresh. ’E’ll get paid plenty for that corpse.” A ruddy man laughed. “Gives ’em to a surgeon in London.”
Margaret choked on her stew.
Mrs. Ulery patted her on the back. “Don’t let their talk trouble you, my dear.”
“How gruesome,” Margaret whispered once she was able to speak again.
“I suppose that’s what Dr. Fortune would call science,” the older woman remarked.
Margaret’s appetite vanished.
When they retired to their room, Mrs. Ulery sewed a new cap for herself. Margaret darned her socks.
“Perhaps I should purchase a pistol,” Mrs. Ulery commented.
“Those who live by the sword…” Margaret quoted from the scripture.
“A pistol is not a sword,” Mrs. Ulery insisted.
“Pistols did not exist in Biblical times,” Margaret went on.
“Which means there isn’t a commandment against owning a pistol.”
“It’s a weapon intended to kill or maim, exactly like a sword,” Margaret explained. “Therefore, the words of the Lord apply to the pistol as well as the sword.”
“I don’t want to meet up with another highwayman.” Mrs. Ulery sighed as she tied off her thread.
“Neither do I.” Margaret shivered. During the war, even little Leedsville had had its troubles. After all, a few Tories had kidnapped her because they wanted Jonas, her pig. However, the men drank like lords and she’d easily escaped while they slept.
Mrs. Ulery crawled into the bed and fell into a deep slumber within minutes. Margaret stared at the ceiling and listened to the wooden beams creak and groan. The small scratching of mice in the walls came to her ears. Outside, a slight breeze rustled the leaves on the trees and crickets sang in the grass.
Nothing unusual came to her ears. However, her head ached, which made rest impossible. She was unable to gauge if this misery resulted from the blow she had received from the British sailor, or if the pain grew from the constant worries whirling around and around in her mind.
She got out of bed, dampened a cloth in the basin, wrung it out and placed it on the back of her neck. The tepid temperature did not alleviate her headache. Rising again, she dipped the cloth in the water, wrung it out and slid into the bed once more. This time she put the warm rag over her eyes.
She prayed and eventually fell asleep dreaming of home and family.
The next morning, the women went to the seamstress to pick up their new clothing. They packed everything in their single trunk, including Mrs. Ulery’s whiskey. They sat to wait for the stage.
It arrived later than expected, full with both people and mail with no space available for a trunk and two women. They were refused a seat.
Marg
aret sat on the lid of the chest on the side of the road and fought against despair. “We’ll never get there.”
“Is this the young lady who is always talking about trust in the Lord?” Mrs. Ulery chastised. “When everything is easy, trust is a simple matter.”
Margaret took in a deep breath and stiffened her spine. The widow was right. Now was not the time for despair. “Let’s call upon Finney and see how he’s doing.”
“Why don’t you mix up some of your ointment for him? The one even Dr. Fortune thought had merit,” Mrs. Ulery suggested.
They spent time purchasing the necessary ingredients from different shops and asked if the innkeeper had a pot they might use. He said they were welcome to borrow his pot if they gave him a portion of the ointment. The deal seemed fair enough to Margaret.
She mixed a large batch and filled three jars with it. One to keep, one for the innkeeper, and one for Finney.
When they visited the ailing coachman, he looked no better than he had the day before. In fact, he looked worse. Margaret put her hand on his forehead. His fever soared.
“I don’t want to cut off his leg,” his brother sniffed. “He doesn’t want me to cut if off either. Driving horses is all he knows.”
Margaret asked to have a look at the wound. Ham nodded his assent.
She unwrapped the bandages. The man’s skin glowed red around the injury and pus oozed from the lesion. Her heart quailed at the sight, but she managed to maintain a calm demeanor.
“I’ll clean it out and pack it with this ointment,” Margaret said. “Please get some cool water. We’ll try to bring the fever down.”
Mrs. Ulery worked beside her, and they did as much as possible to help the man, but only the Lord knew whether he would be able to recover.
They ate with Ham’s family. His thin wife looked like a reed ready to break in the wind. Their sons were young and healthy, though one appeared to be a simpleton.
Margaret wrote down the ingredients for her ointment, though she knew it might not cure Finney. He remained in grave danger from the infection.
The wife could not read, but Ham and his oldest son, Theo, were capable.
“He saved our lives,” Margaret told Ham. “I am sorry this happened to him.”
Patriot's Pride Page 13
