Fairer than Morning (24 page)

“Hush,” she said gently. The logs hissed in the fire. “Let's not speak of it.”

He set his mug down by his foot. “I have written something for you.”

She was tongue-tied, both flattered and shy.

“Would you like to hear it?”

“Of course.” She smiled.

He lowered his eyelids in concentration, then spoke quietly, looking into her eyes. “Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? Thou art more lovely, and more temperate.”

She giggled.

“What's the matter?” he said innocently. “Don't you want me to tell you the rest? I worked very hard composing it.” The way he bit his lip to keep from smiling gave him away.

“Oh, please do.”

“Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May . . .” As he went on, the mirth that bubbled up in her brought something else—oddly, it was still romantic to have him recite those immortal words, looking at her as if he were composing them himself on the spur of the moment. He finished the sonnet and cocked his head, his eyes narrowing adorably. “What do you think?”

“Ravishing,” she said. “And I wrote one for you.”

“Out with it.” He rested his hand on the log and leaned closer to her.

“Good nature and good sense must ever join—” she began.

He continued, “To err is human—”

“To forgive—”

“Divine.” His last word breathed close to her ear. A shiver went down to her core; she closed her eyes.

“You always loved Pope,” he said, still bent very close.

“He is so witty, one must love him or hate him.” She opened her eyes and tilted her head up to meet his gaze.

“But I preferred Byron.”

“I remember. You were the scandalous one. We certainly didn't hear Byron in school.”

“But I only told you the virtuous poems.”

“Such as?”

“Let me think a moment.” In profile, his lips pursed as he thought. He was the kind of man who deserved to be sculpted. She wanted to touch him just to reassure herself that he was real flesh.

“Eternal spirit of the chainless mind
 
.
 
.
 
.” he whispered again to her. She enjoyed his closeness, but something nagged at her about this poem.

“Brightest in dungeons, Liberty, thou art!”

Now she remembered. It was “The Prisoner of Chillon.”

He went on, “And when thy sons to fetters are confined
 
.
 
.
 
.”

Confined, imprisoned. Like Will Hanby. How could she laugh, spout poetry, and go courting, having left him to poverty and beatings, if not worse? She sat up straighter, wishing Eli would stop.

But he did not. “To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless gloom
 
.
 
.
 
.”

Will's body sprawled in the gray gloom of Master Good's barn recurred to her like a slap in the face. She jumped up, murmuring that she was overheated, and walked away from the fire. She heard Eli a step behind her, then he caught up.

“I have offended you,” he said. He laid a hand under her elbow and walked with her.

“No,” she said. “An unpleasant memory. But it's no fault of yours.” Smiling halfheartedly, she strolled with him in full view of the others, as if admiring the fire from a distance.

“Tell me what has disturbed you.” His tone was pleading and the softness of his eyes almost dissolved her guard. But she remained silent, preferring to hold his arm and soak in the comfort of his presence. She did not know how he would respond to the story of Will. She did not intend to share it with him.

As she walked, the warmth of the fire dissipated from her clothing, and the cold of the afternoon seeped back in its place. When she remarked on the cold, Eli was happy to return to their seat by the fire and chat with the others. Ann stared into the leaping flames.

She had a fire to warm her on this cold day. But Will did not. She could not continue her life as if she never saw his plight. His lonely face had printed its image on her mind's eye, a constant reminder that her inaction had been no better for him, in the end, than cruelty.

Twenty-Three

W
ILL KNEW HE HAD COME MILES AND MILES.
S
OME
time ago the sting of blisters had begun, but now his feet grew numb from the endless walking and cold.

The night was still dark, and the hard-packed road twisted narrow through the tall slender trees. He had seen no one since the bridge. No one else was fool enough to travel in near-darkness, when the world lay asleep.

He was so thirsty. He wished the patches of snow from a few weeks back had lingered, but then he probably would have frozen to death by now.

He thrust his hand into his pocket. The slices of beef were there, cold and hard. He fumbled one out and gnawed on it as he walked, as if he could draw moisture from it as well as sustenance. His mouth was dry. There was no water in him to wash down the food. He swallowed with difficulty and put the remainder back in his pocket.

He was growing dizzy, but he would not stop. He took out the beef again and bit off a piece to hold in his mouth. The flavor gave him something to focus on besides the effort of walking. He clenched his teeth and closed his eyes for a few steps, breathing every other stride. He had to stay conscious and moving.

But the dizziness was growing worse. The road lurched under him; he stumbled and fell to his knees. The sharp pain in his already lacerated palms cleared his head.

He stood up again and moved forward, but the road soon started swaying as it had before. He could not give up. He would keep moving. The edges of his vision darkened, making the night even dimmer. He concentrated on that pale ribbon of road stretching ahead, but his head drooped until he could only see his feet moving over the dirt and gravel.

The circle of blackness closed in on him; he fought, but it was no use. His feet slowed. His knees gave way. The hard road turned as soft and welcoming as a feather bed. His vision was only a pinprick, and then it winked out.

He coughed, choking, spluttering. He was on his back; he rolled to his side. Liquid sprayed from his mouth. He could breathe again. The sharp smell of whiskey penetrated his fog; it burned on his tongue.

He opened his eyes. It was still dark, though less so than before. Above him loomed the silhouette of a crouching man. It was over, then. Failure fell on him like a lead weight.

“You're in sorry shape, young'un,” the man said. Will could not focus his eyes. The man was a stranger, just an indistinct shape against the starry sky.

“Someone's used you pretty ill, I'd say.” The man whistled through his teeth. “When blood paints straight lines on back of a body's shirt, it's a pretty good guess how it got there.”

Will stared dully ahead. Then his stripes must have reopened enough to bleed. At least enough to stain his dirty shirt. He couldn't feel much.

The man's big arm burrowed under Will's ribcage and hoisted him to his feet. Will's legs dangled; he was barely able to get his feet under him.

“The gods have smiled on you tonight,” the man said almost under his breath, hauling Will a few paces across the road. Will lifted his head to see a wagon before him.

“I've tasted the sweetness of a good flogging myself, courtesy of the navy,” the man said. “But since we're a ways from the sea, I know it ain't the navy that gave you yours. Get yourself up. Look lively.”

He snagged a burly arm under Will's leg and pushed him over the sideboard of the wagon. Will was barely able to cushion his tumble with one arm.

He heard the man climbing up to the driver's seat. “A bad master, no doubt. So I won't ask your name, nor will I give you mine. It's better that way. Here you go.”

Something thumped against Will's gut. He brought his hands down to it; it was a canteen. The idea of water revived him, and by great concentration he managed to raise himself on one arm. He unscrewed the cap with awkward fingers. Putting the neck to his lips, he drank the cool, sweet liquid in gulp after gulp. His hand shook.

“Don't you be wasting it now,” the man said gruffly.

Will lowered the canteen and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. Fully conscious for the first time, he looked at the stranger. The man had a black beard like a pirate in a storybook. It bristled out over his huge chest. He wore an old brown vest; his arms were like hams bulging under plain shirt sleeves. No wonder he had been able to toss Will around like a rag doll.

“I'm going to the National Road,” the pirate-man said. “Then to Brownsburgh.”

“I need to go west, not east,” Will said. “But I'd be obliged if you'd let me ride with you to the National Road.”

“That I will,” the man said. He turned around and picked up the reins, clucking and slapping them against the horse's back. The wagon lurched forward, and Will swayed back against the side.

“It'll take us a few hours,” the man said over his shoulder. “If you're continuing on foot, you'd better sleep. There's a blanket under you.”

Will felt the fuzzy roughness under his fingers. He shifted and pulled the wool blanket from beneath his legs.

“I can't thank you enough, sir,” he said.

“You just joined the brotherhood of the whip,” the man said. “Now you help some other poor bleeding blackguard when it's your turn.”

“Yes, sir.”

No one could have slept in the bumping wagon under normal circumstances, but Will's exhaustion was like nothing he had ever known. As soon as he lay on his side and pulled the blanket over him, he fell into a fitful doze.

A rough jolt against the side of the wagon awoke him. He sat up.

Some time had passed; the pale gold of dawn had come. In its light, he saw that dew lay on the grass under the trees. Dew, not frost. The wagon had stopped. Before them lay a much wider road, liberally packed with gravel. He saw a wooden post next to the wagon with a few numbers carved into it.

The big man turned around. “The National Road. You're sure you want to get out? I'm going this way.” He pointed left. “It's a mite easier than walking.”

“I need to go west.” Will rubbed his eyes. “But I thank you.” He pushed off the blanket and climbed off the back of the wagon, trying not to groan when his tortured feet hit the road.

“You remember now, brother,” said the pirate-man. Nodding his head in farewell, he clucked to the horse and steered to the left. Will watched the wagon roll away for only a moment before setting out on stiff legs in the other direction.

Now that it was light, he had to be vigilant for the sound of other travelers around the bends in the road. A number of times he plunged into the woods, concealing himself while a horseman or coach passed. On one of those occasions, he found a little brook. Everyone knew not to drink from the rivers near Pittsburgh, but out here in the country the water smelled fresh where it trickled over its bed of pebbles. He savored its coolness.

The spring sunlight was weak. It was still too cold for his thin coat; he wrapped his arms over his chest as he trudged on. The sun moved higher in the sky. He kept on doggedly, though he had finished his meat hours before and his stomach protested. He had passed through the weakness and fatigue; now he continued as if some external force powered his legs, though they should not by rights have been able to support him. He was surprised by it.

But eventually, as the sun began to sink again over the trees, even this inexplicable surge of strength faded. The terrain had swelled into soft hills. The road ran between them as they rose on all sides, but even the slight slope in the road made him slow to a snail's pace.

He did not know if he should crawl into the woods to lie down and sleep in the growing dusk. He feared that he might not be able to get up again, with no food and his increasing fatigue. He kept walking, very slowly. It was getting dark. He could not continue much longer without food and rest. He could not tell if he shook from fatigue or cold.

He stepped off the road into the trees. He had to stop, he had no choice. His limbs refused to obey him now. He would have to sleep and pray that it did not get cold enough overnight to kill him. He looked around in vain for a warmer spot. Perhaps if he piled up leaves, there, next to the fallen tree. A quick vision of his rigid body rotting into the leaves should have made him shudder, but he was too tired.

He sat down on the log and waited to gather his strength so he could make a bed of leaves. A light glimmered then, through the trees, up the hill away from the road. It was not the flickering orange of a fire. It was a lantern, still and steady. The hill was quiet.

He stood up in a daze. The voice of his father echoed in his head.
I will lift my eyes up unto the hills, whence comes my help
.

He had to go to it. He knew then, with a certainty, that even if he survived the night, he would not be able to continue tomorrow without eating and drinking.