Ram; being the tale of one Ramillies Anstruther, 1704-55 .. (65 page)

To guard against ambush, he had sent Salagee out on the right front and Telaeachee on the left, with the other Yamacraws acting as flank and rear guards. His caution was now justified; from near ahead came a yell and the burst of a grenade. Two figures crashed from the undergrowth, one a saber-waving Negro, the other a European. Ram's heart leaped. But no, the white man wore a grenadier's uniform. The black was a sergeant. As they charged forward, Ram shouted for his men to spread out; then stood poised, ready to leap aside should a grenade come his way. A shot cracked from the right, showing that Salagee had turned inward. The attackers were trapped.

The grenadier was within thirty paces when he lighted his fuse. His arm went up. Ram fired at him—missed. The metal ball arched through the air. Ram dashed forward half left and it burst behind him.

Screeching in Spanish, "All's lost!" the grenadier bolted back whence he had come. Not so the Negro, who came on, bellowing in some African tongue. Hanging from his belt by its hair was the severed head of a white man. A ball staggered him but, recovering, he still advanced. Ram's second pistol spun him around, yet he still swung his saber in great sweeps, and he was hit again and again before he fell, his limbs twitching until he died.

"Clean crazed," commented Sergeant Sleep, as they gathered around the body. Ranger Gilbert swore. "That's Marine Spaulding's head! Knew him at Frederica."

"On!" Ram urged. "The rest must be near—very near."

It was Talaeachee who found them, having trailed the grenadier back to a stand of palmettos, under which stood a crude leaf-built shelter. Before it lay three Timucuas, a white man and another

Negro, and among these the grenadier had flung himself, groaning and weeping. Telaeachee hurried back to report.

Ram at once sent his men to surround the spot. He himself came within sight of the shelter, then crouched behind tall grass until they had time to get into position. At last he ran forward.

The figures before the shelter sprang up. A Timucua tried to flee when he saw Hillispilli racing toward him, then dropped upon his knees supplicatingly.

"Don't shoot!" the Negro cried in English, raising his hands.

"Throw down your weapons," Ram ordered. He saw now that the Negro was an officer. "Who's in command?"

"In there. He powerful sick," Bascomb said miserably.

A pistol cocked. Ram went to the shelter warily and peered down at the gray, ravaged face. At lastl Yet, as he continued to stare, he felt a dull wonder. Somehow, despite his hair and eyebrows, he had always thought of del Lago as being young. Even allowing for sickness, the man lying here, with the sprouting white beard, was old, old!

But how old would Father look now if this bastard hadn't murdered him?

"Rouse yourself. Baron of the Lake," he spat. "Up, I say!"

The sunken eyes opened and stared blankly. Brian's mouth was slack, his breath spasmodic. The filthy bandage around his head accentuated the glassiness of his eyes.

Then came recognition. "Despoiler! Have done. Kill me as I lie!"

Ram's lips drew into a snarl. "Up! Face me man to man. As for the girl, you're the cause, damn ye! I'd not have touched her but for your diplomat's immunity. Up, and let's settle."

Brian's mind wandered. Why was he lying here? Why was this red-bearded man snarling at him? There was something—what?

"Sir," Bascomb cried from behind Ram, "he ain't fitten to fight. Carried him most o' the way from St. John's, us has. He scarce knows what's happenin'."

"Nor did my father, when this bastard murdered him!" Ram flashed.

Stooping, he seized his enemy by the arm, intending to pull him to his feet.

Brian screamed—a scream of sheer agony—and he leaped up, clawing at the fingers that clutched him.

Startled, Ram backed, drawing his sword. Right hand holding his swollen arm, Brian glared at him madly. Drool came from his lips as he flung a Gaelic curse. But that awful agony had cleared his head, and he knew who Ram was.

Turning, he bent and whipped his sword from its scabbard; when he faced Ram again his voice was strangely calm.

"Yes, Englishman, 'tis time our affair was settled."

Ram walked back to where the ground was more level, glanced up at the sun, estimating how shadows would be thrown, then turned to Sergeant Sleep. "Should I fall, take the men back to the river. If Lieutenant Fowler's gone, work upriver to Cow Crossing and ford there. Now guard, lest these rogues try to help their officer."

Sleep, originally a Dalesview stableboy, tried to say that Ram had no right to risk his life like this, but already the latter had slipped off his coat, waistcoat and stock and was rolling up his sleeves. As an afterthought, he unhooked the silver quarter-moon from around his neck. He looked at Brian.

"My throat has no guard, sir. I give you the fair chance. I trust you will accord me the same privilege?"

Brian, already divested down to his shirt by Bascomb, signed for the Negro to relieve him of his gorget. Being a general officer, his was of gold. He met Ram's gaze. "These men have served me faithfully. Should I fall, you'll let them return to San Augustine, free and unharmed?"

"Assuredly," Ram bowed formally. "Now, ye Jacobite assassin, I'm going to kill you! En gardel"

For all his confidence, the instant they crossed blades he knew his enemy was not only a master but had astounding strength. Both were using sabers, but instinctively they treated them as rapiers, thrusting instead of cutting. Ram regretted that Villebonne's fine blades were hanging uselessly in his study at Shoreacres.

But idle thoughts fled in his need for care, since Brian was thrusting powerfully and with deadly method, making him give ground. Concentrating now, he took his adversar)''s measure. This old man couldn't possibly keep up this speed; soon he must tire.

Ah! Ram felt his enemy's strength ebbing. A little longer, then the coupl His decision was nearly fatal, for he tripped over a root just as Brian made another desperate effort. There was a silvery flash across

his chest and a burning through the tip of his left shoulder. Brian's body crashed against his, almost knocking him down. The Irishman had lunged so hard his point had pierced Ram's shirt and come out at the shoulder, thereby entangling the hilt in the linen.

Breast to breast, it was impossible for Ram to shorten his own sword to thrust in turn. He waited an instant, intending to lunge as the baron disengaged his weapon from the shirt.

But Brian was staring at his neck, his eyes widening, his mouth gaping.

"Hold! God's name, whence came that?"

Fearing a trick. Ram's fingers gripped the other's sword hand. "What?"

"The stone!" Brian's tone held bewilderment, even horror. Astound-ingly, he dropped his weapon and stepped back. "Kill me, if you must. But, by Our Lady, first say how you came by that stone!"

A glance showing him that his men were covering the prisoners so that there could be no trick. Ram touched the amulet hanging from the silver chain. "This? I've had it always."

Brian opened his own shirt. " 'Tis twin of my own!" He seemed stunned. "I carved it from a bit of Connemara marble I brought from my own home." His voice strengthened. "What is inscribed in yours. Englishman? Answer!"

"A letter. Like a 'Q' upside down."

"The Gaelic 'D'—for my name, O'Duane! Curse your rotten soul, ye stole it, stole it from a helpless babe!"

"You rave! I've always had it." But then, Ram remembered Carla. "At least, I've always seen it, and 'twas given me long ago."

"Your name—Ramillies! Why are ye called so?"

"My father served at the battle—he whom you murdered."

Brian made a weary gesture of denial. "I too was there. And there I lost my son. He was wearing that stone." His voice rose into a half scream. "Red hair and hazel eyes! He also! My eyes are blue, but I was Red Brian—in the brigade." He gave a shuddering sigh and fell.

Bascomb carried him into the shelter.

Ram stared after him. Absurd, incredible! Yet ... He fingered the amulet. He had often played with it when he and Carla were in Cart. How had she come by it? Bah, 'twas only the wandering of a sick brain. Or a trick. He went to the shelter cautiously, prepared

to cope with some hidden pistol or knife. But del Lago was manifestly unconscious.

Bascomb brought a hatful of water, poured a little between the sick man's lips, dashed more in his face. Brian jerked convulsively, took the hat and drank greedily before lying back.

"He was over two when he was lost," he murmured. "How old are you?"

Ram was startled. He'd always celebrated his birthday on the battle's anniversary, but he must have been born at least two years before the fight, since he could remember happenings only a year or so after it. He tried to think; but his fever was soaring and with it came the griping flux. He had to go into the undergrowth.

When he returned, weak and shaken, he looked down at his enemy. No! No, I'm Dick Anstruther's son . . . Yet I'm not like him, nor like Will or John or Rob. And Diccon was like Rob. So's Davie. All of them but me. Why?

"Marie-Elise," Brian whispered, "Ton fils, ma chere 'Lise." His arms stretched up as if toward someone above him and he spoke broken sentences in what Ram guessed to be the Irish. He changed again to French, his tone urgent: "Your Majesty, Spain will aid us, so will France. Send him, Sire, send him to lead us, and victory will be . . . !" He sank into incoherencies.

Ram watched him with a feeling of utter unreality. Bending, he fumbled with the thin gold chain around the other's neck, found the clasp and freed it. The amulet lay in his palm. He took off his own. Both were polished by years of rubbing against human skin, but their corresponding mineral veins showed that once they had been one. And both had a Gaelic "D" cut into them.

He'd not believe it! He, the son of Father's assassin? But if he was, how had Dick Anstruther come by him? He tried to remember that tale of Peg-Leg's; something about an officer shouting: "Wedded, bedded and besonned, all in a single night!" No, no, that had to do with Welsh Meg; Meg who always found fine loot on battlefields! "God, I'm crazed!"

Brian opened his eye. "A moi, O'Duanel Suivez-moi!" he cried, in a great voice. There was a rattling in his throat, then silence.

Later, when Bascomb exposed the dead man's purulent wound, its

purple streaks and the puffy arm, Ram realized how terrible had been the suffering of this Irishman who claimed him as his son.

His son! Ram's world was crashing. It was incredible, impossible! His tortured stomach rebelled and he lay vomiting until only bile was left.

"Sir Officer, you will not burv' him here?" It was the militiaman. "Let us take him into the town. His daughter would wish it."

"Daughter?" Ram sat up. "She—she is in Augustine?"

"Yes, sefior. I saw her when His Excellence arrived last month, before we commenced this so disastrous campaign."

Erinne! She'd know the truth. Ram rose, swaying weakly. "We will cany him there." He turned to Sleep. "Return to the general. Tell him what you've seen. I'm going to the town with these people. They won't harm me."

The Dalesview man wanted to protest; but Ram's almost mad glare cowed him into obedience.

It was Bascomb who had the body wrapped in moss. Though puzzled, but profoundly grateful he was no longer a prisoner, he took command and the party resumed its march, with Ram, dazed and stumbling, trailing in the rear. None knew that Hillispilli and other Yamacraws were following to protect Ram against treachery.

By dusk they were passing to the west of Fort San Marco. A sentinel challenged and Bascomb answered in his broken Spanish. Then the town gates. At first the guard demurred opening; but the militiaman, clerk to the governor himself, urged and bullied until one leaf was swung wide. The guards stared at the red-haired man traihng behind. "Some Cuban, no doubt," one surmised. "Sick, too."

Only when they were crossing the square did Ram recognize where he was. His numbness was leaving him. Of course, he was bringing his enemy's body to Erinne.

Erinne—his sister! The boy—his bastard! Almighty God!

Incest! His brain reeled under the blare of thundering, accusing voices.

He moved on blindly, unaware that Bascomb was guiding him through a gateway into a quiet patio and across it into a dimly lighted room. It was all unreal, without relation to himself. Then he was in another room, at the far end of which a figure knelt before a prie-Dieu. The figure rose, faced him.

"Johnl"

John? . . . Who was John?

"You've come, you've come!" Hands closed on his arms, a vaguely remembered face was staring up at him and he heard soft sobs.

John Royston! He remembered now. So he had called himself once. And this was Erinne, the virgin he'd debauched—his own sister!

Incestl

"You are sick! What has happened? Oh, my love, my dear love!"

He tried to fight through to sanity. "The Baron, he is here, dead! He said I was his son! He lied . . . God's name, tell me you're not my sister!"

Her eyes were becoming limitless oceans into which he was falling, falling . , .

Darkness was enveloping him, until he could see only the lighted candles on the prie-Dieu playing upon a boy, straight, slim, with red-gold hair and who was staring at him strangely.

"Patrick Jean-Marie, only child of the said Brian O'Duane and

Marie-Elise, his wife: born i^ January 170^. Stolen or killed by the

Sasanach when they murdered and desecrated his mother at the

Ramillies fight, 23 May 1706 . . ."

He stared at the faded document. I'm not this French-Irishman, I'm Ram Anstruther! his mind protested. He swept the paper aside. To accept it was to deny himself and all he was. "I'm not me?" he choked, bewildered and buried his head in his arms.

Thank God, I've done no incest! Ah, the comfort of Erinne's words: "Dear one, my real father was Captain Desmond Macartie, of the Brigade. He died when I was a babe, and chivalrous Colonel O'Duane wedded my mother to protect us both. Had I been his own, he could not have loved me more."