Where the Dead Talk (11 page)

He pointed to the rising column of smoke.

"A bit of my handiwork, right there," he said. "I hope you’ll recognize it as a small token of appreciation for your words of yesterday. And you have my word that I won’t stop until I find the elusive Jonathon."

She stared at him as though he’d just told her that he’d murdered her family. A shout carried on the damp air and they looked behind them. A pair of rain-drenched soldiers came around the turn in the road to the north, heads and hats bowed to the weather, muskets on their shoulders. Four, then half-a-dozen more, then another dozen were snaking their way through the mud. The one who’d shouted pointed toward the heavy smoke tattering on the wind. Carolyn put a hand to her mouth. Before she could say another word, Pomeroy was off his horse and across the road, leaping the stone wall. He dove to the other side, then lifted his head high enough to see them.

"You’re brother and sister, come to fetch the extra horse," he called. He ducked down again behind the wall.

Carolyn turned to Thomas.

"This is your chance," she said, "run."

"What did he say?" Thomas said.

"Nevermind what he said – go."

"He’s helping me."

"Helping you?"

"Helping me. What did he say?"

The soldiers had spotted them. A few broke off from the rest and jogged over to them.

"How on earth is he helping you?" she said.

"He’s helping me to find Jonathon."

"Thomas, he’s tricking you – he wants you to lead him to him so that he can hang him for sedition. Or shoot him."

"No he’s –"

"Yes he is. His men just burned your uncle’s mill. Don’t you see what they’re doing?"

Thomas shook his head.

"This is your fault," he said. The words struck her, unexpected, leaving her stunned.

"My fault?" she said.

"You told, you and your father told. About the powder-store, and that’s why we moved it, and why Nathan slipped, and why everything started, everything terrible."

"That’s not true. Father told me himself that – "

"It is true – Jonathon said so. He hated you for it. He told me to forget you because of it – I don’t even want you here. I hate you."

Carolyn looked utterly shocked, but before she could even get another word out, the militia men approached. The soldiers didn’t spare them more than a glance.

"What town’s this?" another said.

"West Bradhill," she said.

"What happened back there?" he said. "The smoke."

"There are British troops around," Carolyn said.

"This far north?" he said.

"Right there."

Carolyn pointed toward the stone wall. The Major wasn’t visible and the men’s eyes went to the empty field beyond.

"They’re headed to the green," Thomas said, yanking the reins of the horse and pointed them down the road. "Down this way, and they said they were going to burn the church and the tavern."

"No," Carolyn said, "there’s one right there, right behind that stone wall. A Major, the leader of their forces. This is his horse, right here."

The men turned in that direction. Thomas shook his head.

"It’s our father’s horse. She’s hysterical. They burned our house last night and she keeps seeing them. Everywhere."

Carolyn leaned forward in the post-chaise.

"That’s not true and you know it. Just look on the other side of that wall. He’s lying down, hiding."

"Our father was taken prisoner," Thomas said. "They said they’d hang him. She’s been like this ever since."

"Why are you saying that?" Carolyn said. "He’s right there. Just look."

She climbed down and stepped into the mud. Thomas caught the eyes of the nearby men and shook his head. Orders were given and the group split into two units. Carolyn stomped through the mud and over to the stone wall.

"Listen to me," she said.

For the most part the men were ignoring her - a few, at most, sparing her uncomfortable glances. The lines of men started moving off toward the town.

"Wait," she shouted, "he’s right here."

She leaned over the stone wall, pointing. She leaned further over, turning her head left and then right.

"He was just here," she said.

One of the men passing by Thomas reached up and patted him on the shoulder.

"Will give them a bit back for what they done to your family, son," he said. "A bit and then some."

Carolyn stepped over the fence, looking in both directions at the far side of the stone wall. The soldiers marched past the horses and carriage, off in the direction of the center of the village. Soon, they were gone, lost in the rain and the trees that lined the curving road. Thomas turned. Carolyn strode through the muddy field along the wall. He wiped the rain from his forehead and looked north, then spurred the horse forward, giving it his heels until it splashed through the puddles into a gallop. He didn’t look back.

No one can help me now except Pannalancet, he thought.

Bloody, Bloody Hell

When Pomeroy stood, scoops of mud slid down his front as though he’d been drenched in thick gravy. He was twenty paces – hard earned in a frantic crawl – from where he’d first jumped the wall. His clothing was soaked and he could taste wet earth. Behind him, Carolyn stood, similarly drenched – minus the mud.

"What on earth was that about?" he shouted. "You nearly led them right to me."

"Of course I did – and they’re not so far off that I can’t catch them and send them after you."

He wiped thick rolls of mud off his uniform jacket and walked toward her.

"And how exactly is that going to help me find Jonathon?"

He looked around.

"Where’s the boy?"

"Safe from you and your men, Major. Now I’d suggest that you return to them, and move on. There’s no one left in West Bradhill for you to be concerned with."

She turned and stepped carefully over the stone wall.

"Good Lord, you make it sound as though I were the problem," he said, following her. "Have you lost your senses?"

"My senses?" she said. "You raided their house with your company and burned it, then took Jonathon’s father. Then your troops burned his uncle’s. You just admitted as much – and quite smugly, I might add."

He turned to her, exasperated. He took off his hat and pointed it around at the empty fields and road.

"Look around, Miss Bucknell," he said, "there is no company. No troops. No raiding parties."

"But Jonathon –" she said.

"Jonathon, Jonathon, Jonathon," he said, raising his voice. "Good Lord, you all act as though he can walk on bloody water!"

"Then I suppose the Chase houses burned of their own accord –"

"It was me and my men, all three of whom are dead – or worse – by now. Do you even realize what was in that house? I’d suggest you go and see for yourself, but let me save you the trouble. Here is what you’d find: an empty farmhouse with dried blood all over the kitchen and a body hanging upside down in the cellar. And probably two more bodies. And as for the mill, let’s just say it isn’t grain that’s going up in smoke. It’s bodies, Miss Bucknell. Not colonials, not my soldiers, not rebels. Worse than the lot of them. Dead, and yet not quite. Trust me, a little spat over cannons and powder and tea and taxes is nothing compared to the horror of your little village."

He stepped over the wall and went to his horse.

"And if you must know, I didn’t even know that bloody rebellion had broken out in the first place until my little deaf assistant thought to mention it, though I probably should have guessed when I kept seeing long columns of troops filling the quaint roadways of West Bradhill. Christ, this whole thing has been nothing but one giant cock-up from the start."

Carolyn climbed into the post chaise and wiped the wet hair from her face, then picked up the reins.

"Then I might suggest staying off of the main roads, Major," she said.

"All that talk was nonsense then?" he said.

"Talk?"

"About me knowing what to do about the situation, about me finding Jonathon?"

"I have no idea what you’re talking about," she said, flicking the reins.

"Your questions about me. Being noble. Daring."

She frowned at him.

"Making the boy promise to find me."

"Thomas?"

Pomeroy straightened up and looked around.

"That little wretch," he said. He straightened his hat and lifted himself into his saddle. "Too clever by half, that one is. It’s a pity that he probably won’t survive the night now."

The horse on the carriage was struggling to free the wheels which had sunk into the thick mud. The carriage rocked back and forth; Carolyn flipped the reins, but the rocking only drove the wheels deeper in.

"He’ll find his family and he’ll be fine," she said.

"He’ll be lucky if they don’t find him, given what I’ve seen. You’re only making it worse," he said, pointing to the wheels. The rain had lightened, but the road was still thick.

"You could help," she said.

"Convenient now that I’m not a prisoner of those farmer-soldiers, no thanks to you."

She flipped the reins harder.

"I thought that would be too much to expect from someone like you," she said.

"Like me."

"Yes, Major. I have more than a passing familiarity with King’s officers, thanks to my father’s efforts to see me marry well. Haughty and arrogant to the man – and yet just below the surface, I always do tend to spot a petulant child."

Pomeroy swung down from his horse and approached the other animal.

"Then I’ll happily leave the problems of your little village to you and my betters," he said. He slapped the horse hard on the flank with the flat of his hand. The animal strained forward; while it did, Pomeroy grabbed the struts of the wheel and threw his weight into it. The carriage lurched forward and was free.

"Best of luck, Miss Bucknell," he called after it, "and here’s to hoping that the magnificent Jonathon will be enough to rid your home of the darkness that’s fallen on it – though I rather suspect that you’ll soon wish you had the stout resolve of one of the King’s officers of which you think so little."

He watched as the carriage drove off through the puddles, the rain thrumming on its roof. She didn’t wave or offer so much as a simple thank you.

As the rain stopped and gray afternoon faded into twilight, Pomeroy tried to cipher which way was west. The lane was muddy puddles and the trees dripped every time the wind gusted. He'd ride until midnight, at least – maybe even straight on through until the dawn.

…and yet just below the surface, I always do tend to spot a petulant child.

He replayed their parting in his head, each time looking for an even more cutting rejoinder. She wouldn’t have been quite so pleased with herself had he not been distracted by the close call with the soldiers – his wit could be quite keen, otherwise. He came to a fork in the road, both tines of which cut into the trees that the valley was thick with.

"Well, which will it be?" he said aloud.

He considered – for just a moment – heading back to Boston, back to the regiment. He could likely spin enough of a yarn to make it feasible and without consequence; if the outbreak of revolution was good for nothing else, it would easily explain the loss of his men. And he was, after all, the son of Lord Pomeroy.

To hell with that, he thought, the realization breaking over him, I’m done with it. Done with the King and his bloody army. Done with gloomy England. Done with my whole wretched family and every demand they've ever made on me. Sod them all.

He yanked the horse towards the western road and started forward. All around, the dark trees that loomed over the lane gusted on the wind, sending down cascades of raindrops that from their leaves. In patches above, the stars began coming out.

"Petulant child," he muttered. "She has no idea."

His horse took a strange step and balked, twisting his neck. Pomeroy pulled hard on the reins. The horse stutter-stepped.

"Easy," he said. The horses nostrils puffed – he didn't want to go forward. Pomeroy peered into the dark lane ahead. Rain-sodden branches drooped down, and most of the way was black enough to hide all details. The horse snorted again and took a quartet of steps sideways, knocking Pomeroy into a branch stout enough to scratch his face just before it snapped.

"Hold bloody still," he said. He looked forward while he pulled one of his pistols out and pulled back the hammer, holding the reins in one hand. He strained to search the road up ahead. Deeper shadows moved with the shifting of the trees and patchy starlight reflected off of puddles. A clean shot to the head would take one down, he hoped. He pointed the gun toward the darkest clump of darkness ahead, in the direction at which the beast had balked. The horse threw back its head and snorted, nearly bucking him off in the process. It wouldn't stand still, began nearly spinning in a circle. Pomeroy looked down.

Silver eyes shone up at him from just in front of the stirrup. A hand reached up and grabbed his leg. The body was on the underside of the horse, clinging, scrambling for a hold on Pomeroy. Pomeroy clenched his jaw and tried to steady the horse by pulling the reins as hard as he could. At the same time, he lowered the pistol and aimed it straight at the quicksilver eyes. The horse pushed him once again into tree branches and he had to lean far forward just to stay in the saddle.

"Try this," Pomeroy said. The muzzle of the pistol was half a foot from the eyes of the figure. He pulled the trigger and the hammer fell with a dull click – and the powder didn't fire.

Bloody hell, he thought.

He dropped the pistol to the muddy road and pulled his foot from the stirrup, began kicking wildly at the eyes. He managed to hang onto the saddle while simultaneously leaning out to get some swing with his leg. He felt the unmistakable contact of a hard skull-kick and kept doing it. The horse neighed and staggered.

"Off, off, off, off!" Pomeroy yelled as he pounded the face of the figure with the toe of his boot. He pushed himself up in the other stirrup – then jacked all his weight downwards, catching the figure on the neck, yelling as he did so. The horse bolted forwards in a wild gallop up the road. Pomeroy felt the figure losing its grip, dropping. He pushed as much of his weight down as he could while still hanging on. By a stroke of luck, the horse veered to the side of the lane and a bit of a boulder caught the figure on the head, breaking the skull and snapping the neck. The body crumpled beneath the speeding horse, trampled by the animal's back legs. The horse stumbled, and then righted itself, not slowing down. Pomeroy righted himself on the saddle with a loud curse and hung on. With the mud and rocks, he was afraid the terrified beast would break a leg. He made noises and dragged back the reins, but the animal didn't slow down. Pomeroy held on, risking a glance back over his shoulder. The figure looked like a bundle of sodden clothes, little different than any of the other shadows on the lane.