MacFarlane's Ridge (42 page)

He cocked an eyebrow at her quizzically. “I can see your religious education is sorely lacking. Tis simply a church, if it matters. But I suspect most o’ the dragoons will be of the Anglican persuasion.”

“Cam, what exactly did he say?” cut in Wanda.

Frustrated, Cam flopped against the door. “He told me to go --- “

“No, I mean verbatim. What were his exact words?” Wanda pressed.

Cam closed her eyes. “If you need to… no, he said If you and your man need to get out of Fort Wyndham, go to the church and pray. I’m not sure how that helps though.”

Wanda was thinking hard, nostrils flaring. “Robert?” she called.

“Aye?”

“You’re a Catholic, aren’t you? How do you guys pray?”

“Begging your pardon?”

“How do you pray?” she repeated. “Don’t you do the whole down-on-your-knees and cross-the-chest routine?”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “I fail to see, ye redheaded pagan biddy, what that has to do wi’ this.”

“He said you and your man, Cam, not just you. I bet if we get in there and hunker down on our knees, we might just find what we need,” grinned Wanda, fingering the crystal at her neck.

Cam stared at her, and across the corridor, Rob laughed at the absurdity of the idea. “Aye, and I suppose wee little Lieutenant Clarendon is going to hear my confession for me while the two of ye clamber about on the floor looking for a hidey-hole?”

“Well, no, that would be foolish,” admitted Wanda. “But I figured even Wayne Sinclair might be willing to let a condemned man have some time alone with his God.”

Rob considered this for a moment. “What about the two of ye? Cameron’s not Catholic, obviously, and I dinna even wish to know who or what you pray to, Wanda Mabry.”

Wanda rolled her eyes, and was on the verge of saying something unpleasant when Cam cut in. “Ambrose Meador,” she said abruptly.

“What?” frowned Rob.

“Ambrose Meador. He wears a crucifix. He must be Catholic too,” she mused. “Ambrose is a big guy, you saw him. Between the two of you, you could get out of the church and come back and get us. And we can’t leave him here. I owe him one,” she murmured.

Wanda beamed at her. “Very good, Cam, I like.”

Robert shook his head. “Ye’re assuming that there is a way out o’ the church, and that Ambrose and I will be able to find it, and then come get ye with nobody raising a stramash about it.”

“A what?” Cam asked blankly.

“A stramash,” he snapped. “A fuss. A commotion.”

“Oh,” she said meekly.

“What about the window?” suggested Wanda. Cam turned to look, and Wanda was standing on her toes at the back of the cell, peering outside. “This one looks out onto the woods. There’s nothing back here at all; it must be the rear of the fort. If you and Ambrose could get out and pull us through the window, we’d be home free.”

“I canna say for sure, but it might work,” frowned Rob. “D’ye think ye can work that window a bit loose?”

“Mmm. I can try,” murmured Wanda, who pulled a pair of silver scissors from her skirt and began digging in the masonry around the barred window.

Cam’s eyes widened. “Where in the hell did you get those?”

“Stole ‘em. They were in Wayne’s desk. I thought they might come in handy some time,” Wanda murmured. She had her tongue stuck partway out, and was working diligently, jabbing at the crumbling walls.

Cam looked up and across the corridor at Robert again. “What do you think?”

He nodded. “I suppose I’d rather be shot escaping than hanged without a fight, aye?”

She smiled ruefully. “Me too.”

Sinclair, Stave and Tumblesby brought Peyton Basham and Ambrose Meador back to the prison wing an hour later.

“Lieutenant Clarendon,” Robert said formally.

Wayne looked up, mildly startled. “Yes?”

“I would like to ask one favor of ye, seein’ as how we’re all about to die anyway.”

Sinclair smirked slightly, then regained his composure. “And what might that be?”

Rob cleared his throat and glanced about uncomfortably. “You asked me the other night if I had made peace wi’ my God.” He lowered his eyes. “I wish to spend my last few hours in church.”

Wayne squinted at him. “And why on earth should I grant you that?”

Cam flung herself against the small window in the door. “No, Robert! Please don’t leave me here! Robert, I need you!” she wailed.

Sinclair’s eyes flickered towards her momentarily, and then he shrugged. “Very well, then, if you feel it will make your death any more pleasant. Tumblesby, take Mr. MacFarlane back to the church.”

Rob nodded his thanks, and then, as an afterthought, said, “Meador? I believe ye’re a Catholic like myself?”

“Hm?” grunted Meador, surprised.

“Dinna ye feel the need for absolution before ye meet your maker?” pressed Rob.

“Um..Reckon Ah do,” nodded Ambrose Meador, slightly puzzled.
“Then perhaps the Lieutenant wouldna’ mind so much if ye came with me to pray an’ ask for forgiveness for our sins,” Rob said passionately.

Wayne looked from Robert’s serious face to Ambrose Meador’s inherently vacant one, and waved a hand dismissively. “Fine, then. You both go.”

Tumblesby led the two men out of the cell, and Rob turned and looked at Cam. “Goodbye, Cameron Clark.” He turned on his heel and strode down the corridor. Cam promptly burst into tears, and flung herself to the floor, sobbing.

“Wayne,” called Wanda, peeking out. “Can I have a favor too?”

“No, Wanda. You’re a bitch and I don’t like you,” he snapped.

“Please?” she asked gently. “Don’t you even want to know what it is before you say no?”

He frowned back at her, arms folded across his red coat. “Go on. Make it fast.”

She blinked owlishly, then pointed across the hall. “Basham,” she whispered.

“What about him?”

Peyton Basham, having heard his name, now appeared in the window across the dank hallway.

“Well,” said Wanda slowly, “it’s just… oh, never mind. This is too embarrassing.” She shook her head.

Sinclair was intrigued. “What? What about Basham?”

“Nothing. Forget it. It was a bad idea,” muttered Wanda.

“What about me?” he called.

“Shut up, traitor,” snapped Wayne. “Come on, Wanda. We’ve known each other a long time. Centuries, practically. Tell me,” he said, his voice wheedling.

“I would like… er.” She paused. “Could he come in here with us?”

“What?” asked Wayne, his scar flushing crimson. “Why?

Wanda blushed furiously. “I, um, well. You see, Wayne, it’s been a while since I saw Angus, you know, and Peyton and I are… er.” She looked away. “You know.”

Sinclair’s eyes widened to the size of saucers. “You’re not. Are you really?” he grinned, glancing back at Basham, who looked thoroughly mortified. “You and him? Does Angus know?”

“No, no, of course not,” said Wanda hurriedly. “I just thought, you know, before we all hang, and everything,” she said shyly.

Wayne pressed his face close to hers. “I didn’t let Cameron and her giant Scot have any time together. Why should I give you any?”

Wanda gulped. “I’ll… I’ll give you Angus.”

“Beg pardon?”

“Before you hang me, I will sign a piece of paper condemning my husband as a spy. I will also tell you a great deal of information about Washington’s camp, and his intelligence force,” she whispered, voice shaking.

Sinclair thought for a long time. “You better not be lying, Wanda. Besides, it’s not like you and your boyfriend can really have any intimate time alone.” He gestured to Cam, who was by now laying in a corner, prostrate with grief.

“It doesn’t matter,” said Wanda. “You let Robert and Ambrose spend their last two hours with God. Let me spend mine with Peyton, and I will give you all the information you need before I die,” she said quietly.

Peyton Basham looked completely mystified.

“All right,” said Wayne slowly. “Fine. I will draw up your confession and happily present it to you as you climb the gallows.”

Wanda nodded, seemingly numb. Sinclair snapped his fingers, and Stave opened the door to the opposite cell. “Come on then, Basham. Looks like you might die with a smile on your face after all,” he hooted.

When Stave and Sinclair were gone, Peyton Basham looked anxiously at Wanda. “Now, Mrs. Duncan, while I appreciate the veracity of your feelings toward me, I must politely decline any notion you might be having of ---“

“Oh, Lord, Peyton, shut up,” whispered Wanda, scampering to the rear window to peer out. Cam, too, leapt to her feet and brushed herself off.

“What is this about?” demanded Basham.

“We’re getting out of here,” explained Cam. “As soon as Rob and Ambrose figure out how to get out of the church.”

Peyton Basham sighed with visible relief, and Cam wasn’t sure if it was the prospect of escape that pleased him, or merely the knowledge that Wanda was not in fact harboring any lustful feelings for him.

“How, exactly, did ye come to be a Catholic?” Rob asked with interest. He and Ambrose Meador were on their way to the Fort Wyndham church. Tumblesby sauntered along behind them occasionally pausing to jab one of them with his musket.

“My Ma,” drawled the other man softly. “She come from Ireland. Her folk was Catholic, an’ she raised me and my brothers ‘at way.”

“What did your Da have to say about that?” smiled Rob.

“Not much, Ah expect. He run out right after my littlest brother was born,” Meador said matter-of-factly.

With a slight pang, Robert remembered his own father. Dashing Alex MacFarlane, black-haired and black-eyed, a fondness for fine clothes and women, and even finer whiskey. Alex, bidding his son farewell on a Glasgow dock, and handing him no more than a plaid and some words of advice, as Robert’s pregnant mother waved from the ship, and blue-eyed Meg stood looking on…

“Aye. Well, I expect your Ma did right by ye then.” They had arrived at the steps to the wooden church. He glanced back at Tumblesby. “Would ye like to join us?” he asked politely.

Tumblesby snorted derisively. “I’ll have none o’ that popish nonsense, thank you very much. I will, however, be happy to lock you inside until it’s time to see you both swing from the gallows.”

“Ah’ll pray for yer soul,” promised Meador earnestly.

“Don’t bother, Meador. None o’ that Papist mumbo-jumbo makes any sense to me,” grumbled Tumblesby. He opened the door for them. “I’ll be right out here, so don’t you try no funny business.”

Rob looked hurt. “I wouldna think to dishonor a house o’ God with funny business.”

Tumblesby grunted and pulled the door shut. Rob heard a clanking noise, the turning of a key in a heavy padlock.

He looked around cautiously. The room was unremarkable, not dissimilar from the church he had attended as a boy in Dunbartonshire. He glanced at Meador, who had fallen to his knees in front of the pulpit and was fingering his crucifix.

“Best get on with it, then, aye?” Rob smiled.

Meador ignored him, eyes closed, and began to speak softly. “Glory be to the Father and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit.”
Rob dropped to his knees also, but rather than folding his hands before him, began to examine the floorboards. “As it was in the beginning is now, and ever shall be,” he continued, “world without end.”

“Amen,” finished Meador.

Rob shifted himself slightly, so that he was lying flat under the first row of benches. “Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with Thee.” He noticed a small board that didn’t look quite like the others, and tugged it. Nothing happened. He sighed.

“Blessed art Thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of Thy womb, Jesus,” intoned Meador solemnly.

Robert inched up towards the wooden pulpit and peered behind it. “Holy Mary, Mother of God,” he recited. There, just there beside the west wall of the church, was a small ring in the floor. “Pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death.” He crossed himself and pulled on the ring.

“Amen,” smiled Ambrose Meador, as the door lifted with a faint pop.

“Bloody hell,” breathed Robert. “She was right.”

Meador smiled. “Mrs. Clark is a nice lady. I like her.”

“She told me what ye did for her. About O’Toole, I mean. After you,” said Rob hurriedly.

Ambrose Meador nodded, and squeezed his large body through the hole. Rob clambered down after him, and once his feet were touching the ground, pulled the door shut above him gently. He hoped it would be a while before Tumblesby noticed that the praying had stopped.

They were under the church now, in a crawlspace maybe four feet high. Crouched over, they could see the woods beyond the fort.

“We havena much time,” Rob said brusquely, as they slipped out from underneath the building, but Meador was already on his feet and moving stealthily through the trees towards the rear of the prison wing. Now, finally outside of the confining walls of Fort Wyndham,
Meador was once again at home. Rob could barely see him as he silently slipped through the woods. Amazingly, the big man made no sound at all.