Dawn on a Distant Shore (19 page)

"No' wee Barbara
in bed wi' him!" whispered Robbie.

"No'
Barbara," agreed Moncrieff. "The viscount woke wi' his arms about a
fine Scotch sow--twenty stone o' pig--tranked wi' grog to keep her sleepy. A
lovely pink she was, wi' a hair ribbon to match tied in a bow around her neck.
Bainbridge's cursing could be heard throughout the castle, and all the way to
the Solway Firth, forbye. And from that day to this, he's been known as Pink
George. No' to his face, o' course."

When they had stopped
laughing, Robbie wiped his eyes. "And what o' Barbara?" he asked. "What
became o' her?"

Moncrieff turned away
to help himself to more of the sausage. "That winter she sailed off to
France in the service of a rich merchant's wife. I believe she married there,
and raised a family."

"I for one ain't
surprised," said Hawkeye. "Men don't change much in their lifetimes,
after all. Unless it's for the worse."

"Pink
George," said Robbie, almost singing it to himself. "I wad verra much
enjoy oinkin' and snortin' in his face."

From the hall there
was a shuffling and Thompson appeared at the grid in the door.
"Jones!" he hissed. In a rush what was left of the food was hidden
away under the cot in the farthest corner; by the time Ronald Jones had come
through the door, they were gathered around a game of cards.

The sergeant stood for
a moment watching them, his arms crossed over his paunch. He sucked noisily on
the stem of his pipe so that smoke circled the greasy red head. One blue eye narrowed,
he took in the cell from corner to corner with a practiced sweep, finally
settling on the snoring Denier.

A look of pure disgust
passed over his face as he leaned down to bellow in the butcher's ear. "Wake
up, you great sack of Frog lard! The sun's long up, innit? Wake up!" A
single shove landed Denier on the floor, where he sputtered his way awake while
Jones aimed kicks at his legs. He glanced over his shoulder at Pépin, who was
watching with a wary expression over his fan of cards.

"If it was up to
me I'd let you rot in gaol, the both of youse Frogs. But he says to let you go,
and that's what I'll have to do." He spat, barely missing Denier.

Pépin leaped to his
feet. "Go?" He shot an astonished glance at Nathaniel and Hawkeye.
"Go?"

"Are youse deef
as well as stupid?" bellowed Jones, his color flushing to a deeper shade
of red. He made a great sweeping gesture toward the door with one arm.
"Released! Free! You've served your time! Go on now, before I find a
reason to keep you here!" He gave the young farmer a push.

Denier scrambled out,
but Pépin paused in the doorway, tolerating Jones's shoves and kicks without
flinching.

"We will meet
again," he said. And he was gone, hurried off by Thompson.

Jones lounged in the
doorway, suddenly at ease. He grinned, his teeth showing greenish-yellow in the
dim light. "He'll see youse again, all right. On the gallows, and in short
order."

Hawkeye stood. Jones
took a step backward, one pasty hand moving to the hilt of his short sword,
stubby fingers fluttering.

"Go on,
then," he said. "I'd be glad to save the hangman some work. What, is
that a surprise? Don't tell me you didn't hear them out there, hammering
away?"

There was something
going on in the courtyard, a persistent sawing and hammering that Nathaniel had
not paid much mind to. Now he wanted to go hoist himself up to the window and
have a better look, but he would not give Jones the satisfaction.

It was Moncrieff who
spoke first. "Even Pink George wouldna dare hang us without a trial."
His voice had gone hoarse again and he coughed once.

Jones grinned, but his
hand stayed on his weapon and his gaze fixed on Hawkeye. "He won't have
to. The governor comes in tomorrow. I expect you'll swing the day after."

"I dinna believe
it," muttered Moncrieff.

"Oh, not for you.
There's something else on for you, Moncrieff. Word come in with the post this morning,
you're wanted in Québec. A Crown matter, no less. Luck is with you,
innit?"

Moncrieff rose to his
feet with some uncertainty, glancing first at Nathaniel and then at Hawkeye,
whose impassive expression did not shift in the slightest. Nathaniel had the urge
to say something, but before he could Moncrieff had already been herded out the
door.

"I wonder what
that's all about," Nathaniel said, after a long silence.

Hawkeye shrugged, his
uneasiness sitting clear on his face. "I expect Carleton finally figured
out the connection between Moncrieff and the Earl of Carryck."

Robbie moved to the
window, pulling himself up on the bars with ease, in spite of his size. There
he stayed for three long heartbeats. "Holy Mary," he whispered, and
dropped back down to the floor with a thud.

The cell seemed
overlarge with three of their number gone so suddenly. They might each have had
a cot to themselves, but instead they paced, winding around each other, from
the window to the table to the door, and back again. They could not safely
discuss the night to come, with Thompson never far away; they had no patience
for cards; and the workmen out in the courtyard did not bear watching for very
long. Nathaniel reminded himself that Iona was a resourceful woman a hundred
times, and a hundred more. With or without Pépin, she would see the plan
through tonight.

Robbie was sleeping
when a new guard brought them watery soup and stale bread. He was all long arms
and hands, not in his full growth yet, with a dusting of dark blond hair on his
upper lip. Generally the guards were a talkative lot, but this one just watched
them for a few minutes, sharp eyed and curious for all his silence, and then
slipped away without a word.

They roused Robbie and
ate without talking, stomachs roiling and clenching in protest. When the sun
set, Hawkeye lay down, put an arm over his face, and went to sleep. Robbie tried
to follow his example, but Nathaniel could tell by his breathing that he was
awake, and uneasy. Outside the small window the sky blazed red and gold with
the last of the sun.

Vaguely he was aware
of the seminary clock striking the hour. At seven the courtyard was mostly
quiet; the men who passed through spoke of their suppers and the weather. At
eight it was full dark and a light rain had begun to fall. At nine Hawkeye was
awake again, his expression as calm and resolute as Nathaniel had ever seen it.
They sat in the dark and damp cold of the spring night, testing the weight of
Pépin's candles in their palms, getting a sense of the thin blades inside the
wax.

Nathaniel sat on the
edge of the cot, facing the door; Robbie stood below the window. Hawkeye took
up pacing again, all his consciousness thrown outward into the night.
Listening.

The seminary clock
struck ten. Nathaniel could hear the rhythm of his own heart, the pulse beating
in each fingertip.

The sentry raised his
voice in a sleepy challenge at the courtyard gate. A carter with a load of hay.
The horse had a loose shoe, clattering over the cobblestones with a hitch.

A minute passed;
another. Ten minutes. The carter was telling a story to the guard in a combination
of English and country French. In one part of his mind, Nathaniel heard the
rise and fall of his voice, but he might have been speaking Latin, for all the
sense it made. He was watching his father, as he had watched his father for all
his life; just now Hawkeye had the look that came over him when they were on
the trail of a deer, when a single false movement would mean going home empty-handed.

Just a few minutes ago
there had been total dark, but now Nathaniel realized that Hawkeye's face was
bathed in a flickering light. On the other side of the courtyard, the garrison
was on fire.

"Jesus
wept," whispered Robbie, rising to his feet.

The garrison erupted
like an anthill as the sentry sounded the alarm. The seminary bells began to
ring almost immediately, and across the city others joined in. There was
nothing like a blaze to wake up a town built of wood. Soon half of Montréal
would come pouring in.

Over the noise they
could just hear running footsteps in the hall, buttons and weapons and keys
jangling. A new guard appeared at the door, his face as white as his shirtfront
as he worked at the lock, a musket in one hand. No more than eighteen, but tall
and well built. His gaze flitted again and again to the glow of fire in the
small window.

"It would be
easier if you put down the gun, son," said Hawkeye in an easy way.
"We won't rush you."

With a soft curse the
boy dropped the musket and used both hands to turn the key. The door swung
open. His Adam's apple rode the length of his neck as he met their eyes, one by
one.

"Iona sends word.
You're to follow me."

"Luke," said
Robbie, squinting at the boy. "I should ha' reconized ye." He made a feeble
gesture with his hand, as if to present the boy to Nathaniel and Hawkeye.

"Who is this,
Rab?" Nathaniel had never heard of this boy, and there was something
strange in Robbie's expression.

The boy spoke up.
"Iona is my grandmother," he said, and Nathaniel saw Robbie's mouth
twitch. But there was no time to be surprised and less to ask questions.

"We are damned
glad to see you, lad," Hawkeye said. "But where's the other
guard?"

The boy shrugged,
calmer now as he picked up the dropped musket. "He felt the sudden need to
take a nap. We've got to make tracks, there's no more than ten minutes."

"Until
what?" asked Nathaniel.

"Until they put
the fire out or it reaches the gunpowder stores," said Luke. "If
anybody asks, I'm taking you to the lieutenant governor." He pointed down
the dim hall with his musket, and they set off.

They ran with the boy
at the rear, his musket pointed at their backs, down stairs that echoed with a hundred
shouting voices. In the doorway they hesitated at the sight of the fire,
creeping along the north wing of the garrison like a blind animal looking for
food. The courtyard was full of smoke and rushing men, dodging the gallows in a
ragged bucket line. The hangman's noose twirled in the wind. Thompson and Jones
were on the other side of the courtyard, in the line with most of the guards,
some of them in nightshirts.

High time to be away.

In the chaos of so
many rushing bodies it took a full minute to get to the side gate and push through.
Luke led now. He ran into the city, ducking into a maze of narrow back alleys.
Without breaking his stride, the boy stripped off his uniform jacket and the
white shirt underneath it to reveal homespun and a leather jerkin. Finally he
dodged into a barnyard and pressed himself into the shadows behind a shed.

The place smelled of
burning charcoal and roast meat, new manure and earth recently turned for
planting. Opposite them the little farmhouse was dark. There was a slight
movement at the only unshuttered window: a hand raised in greeting and then
nothing. Pépin. The men stood pressed close together, listening.

Five more minutes, and
no explosion.

"They managed it,
then," said the boy, with considerable relief. He wiped the sweat from his
face.

Hawkeye put a hand on
his shoulder. "You took a chance, Luke. Thank you."

"I wasn't
alone," he said, barely able to meet his eye. "But you're
welcome."

Nathaniel said,
"Tell Iona thank you, too. We're in her debt."

"Most are, one
way or the other," he said. "But you can tell her yourself."

Iona had appeared at
the open door of the barn. She was wrapped in a cloak and carried a small
lantern. She gestured to them silently and they slipped inside.

"Iona," said
Hawkeye, when they stood in a circle around her.

"Hawkeye."
Her tone was as cool and easy as always. "Nathaniel, Robbie. I am so very glad
to see you well."

Robbie drew in a sharp
breath. "What a daft thing tae do, woman. Ye should ha' stayed awa'."
In the meager light of the lantern his expression was haggard with outrage and
fear.

She looked at him as
she might have looked at a raging child, half affection and half impatience. "I
have news that couldn't wait."

They followed her
farther into the barn where the air was damp with the heavy, sweet smells of
fresh milk and hay. Two cows shifted in their standing sleep. On the far wall
there was a rustling from the pigpen. Nathaniel thought of Pink George, who
probably already knew they were gone. He said, "We know about Carleton."

The brown eyes met his
own. "Of course. But do you know about William Spencer?"

Nathaniel thought he
must have misunderstood. Prayed that he had misunderstood. "Will Spencer?
Here?"

"Who the hell is
Will Spencer?" asked Hawkeye, looking between them.

"Viscount
Durbeyfield," supplied Iona. "A man of some importance in England, as
I understand it."

Nathaniel said,
"He's the one married to Elizabeth's cousin Amanda. A lawyer." He
spoke to his father, but his gaze was fixed on Iona. "Otter was supposed
to send Runs-from-Bears, not Will Spencer. What is he doing here?"