The Crimson Skew (14 page)

B
Y THE END
of the first hour, Casanova was sure Theo's neck would be permanently bent at a ninety-degree angle to his chest. By the end of the second hour he could see that Theo was beginning to stumble.

When the major rode to the front of the column, Casanova slipped away and hurried forward, sidling up to his friend. “Let me,” he said, his voice muffled by the leather hood, and lifted the yoke.

“Ugh—thanks, Cas,” Theo said. He could not turn his head, but he did manage a smile. His face was coated with sweat and dust. “I think,” he said, between gasps, “I got the better deal. Those helmets must be murder.”

“Don't talk,” Casanova said, shaking his head. “Save your breath.” But Theo was right. Even with the glass eyepieces snapped upward, the helmet made a bubble of heat around Casanova's head; he was sweating so profusely that the leather was soaked through. Nevertheless, the entire company wore their helmets; they made a swarm of hooded flies, trudging along the road. Even the major was wearing his, and Casanova thought Theo would be in danger without one. As he looked at his friend critically, he saw with dismay that Theo's neck was bleeding freely where the yoke had rubbed the skin away.

“Hey,” Theo said hoarsely.

“What is it?”

“I thought of something that would help.”

Casanova continued to hold the yoke away from Theo's neck. “Yes—tell me. What else can I do?”

Theo rotated his head as far as he could. He grinned. “Could you tell me the story of your scar?”

“Theo!” Casanova burst out, exasperated. “You're impossible. This is not
funny
.”

Theo laughed. Then, quietly, he added, “I think it is.”

Casanova shook his head, half-furious, half-relieved that Theo was still able to make jokes. “I said
don't talk,
you maddening idiot
.
” Craning with effort to the men marching behind them, he looked for help. The troops were nearly
unrecognizable in their masks. He raised his free hand, hoping one of their friends from the work crew would see. Immediately, one of the larger men broke away from the ranks and joined them. Without a word, he took one side of the yoke. Casanova realized, with faint surprise, that it was MacWilliams.

“Collins will whistle if the major is coming back,” MacWilliams said.

“Thank you,” Casanova said, feeling a rush of gratitude.

MacWilliams nodded.

With one man to hold each side of the yoke, Theo could comfortably walk upright. He let out a breath of relief.

Casanova reached for the water bottle at his hip and gave it to Theo, who lifted it over the yoke and took a long drink. “Thanks,” he whispered, handing it back.

“I'm going to put a cloth on your neck,” Casanova said, taking out his handkerchief, “in case Merret comes back and we have to let it drop.”

He grimaced at how it stuck instantly to the bloody skin. He could not see how Theo would survive this day. The boy had scored a minor victory, poking fun at the major and making his lesson in discipline another occasion for jest, but the lesson was not yet over. The real lesson, Casanova feared, would begin when Theo collapsed from exhaustion and fell to the ground, only to be dragged along by the wagon and the harness. He could only hope that the major would remain at the front for as long as possible so he and MacWilliams could carry the yoke.

Their luck held for another hour. They descended from the
hills out of Pennsylvania, and the terrain grew flatter. The broad road they walked, clearly the principal throughway from east to west, was bordered by trees, which gave them a brief respite from the worst of the summer sun. Casanova wondered, not for the first time, what danger could make the cumbersome helmets they wore worthwhile. The pouring sweat obstructed his vision, and the rustling leather made it difficult to hear. What threat rendered such impairment an advantage?

Casanova marched onward, the two packs he carried digging into his shoulders with each step. A low warble, like the cry of a mourning dove, reached him distantly. Casanova ignored it. The cry came again, more urgently. “That's Collins,” MacWilliams said quickly. “We have to get back.”

“I'll stay here,” Casanova said. “I don't care what Merret says.”

“You'll care when he makes the boy carry the yoke for a second day as punishment,” MacWilliams replied. Then he slipped away.

Cursing silently, Casanova lowered the yoke as gently as possible. “I'm sorry, my friend,” he said. “This is going to hurt.”

“Not your fault.” Theo gave a faint smile, then gasped as the full weight of the yoke pressed against his neck.

“I'm sorry,” Casanova repeated. His handkerchief was not nearly enough protection.

“Go,” Theo whispered.

Casanova dropped back. Through the eyeholes of his helmet, he could see that he had been just in time. Merret was riding back alongside the troops.

One advantage of the helmets, Casanova thought, was that Merret could hardly tell one man from the other, and he would not realize that Casanova was in the wrong place. The major rode past, the hoofbeats fading as he continued to the rear of the column.

Casanova's relief was short-lived. Ahead of him, Theo tripped on an unseen stone in the road and launched forward, tipping perilously with the heavy yoke. He threw a hand up to seize the wagon, but his legs had not yet caught up. Casanova watched with alarm. As he watched Theo's feet, wondering if this would be the moment when they would tangle up and give out at last, Casanova noticed a flash of brown to his left: a shape in the trees.

His first thought was that it must be a deer, and he was turning back to help Theo, no matter the cost, when the first long arrow flew past his line of vision and buried itself in the wooden bed of the wagon. There was a keening squeal of panic from one of the mules, and the man marching beside him suddenly crumpled, crying out in pain. Casanova observed with shock the arrow embedded in the man's arm. It had happened in less than a second.

In the next moment, everything changed. As if conjured from thin air, men with high buckskin boots and bare arms were taking aim from the edge of the road. All of them wore kerchiefs—gray and brown and dull green—to cover their noses and mouths. They were only a few feet away; at that range, they would not miss. They stood almost shoulder to
shoulder, their arms moving like the limbs of a hundred swimmers, pulling arrows, drawing back on the bowstrings, and releasing.

Abruptly the mules of Theo's wagon bolted, terrified, and the wagon charged forward. With sudden clarity, Casanova watched the chain that hung slack from Theo's yoke. He knew that at any moment the chain would pull at the harness and Theo would be forced to the ground. Theo tried to lift his feet, but he was too slow. The chain straightened and snapped taut, and the harness yanked Theo's neck like a collar. He fell. The mules took off, and a cloud of dust sprang up behind the wagon as Theo was dragged along the road.

T
HE ARROWS WHISTLED
as they flew through the air and struck the unprepared company. In the distance, Major Merret shouted instructions. “Theo,” Casanova shouted, over the thudding of arrows and the groans of falling men.

He realized that if he did not reach Theo in the next few seconds, the boy would be crushed under the wagon's wheels. With a grunt, he dropped their packs, losing all his protection against the arrows, and burst into a run. He jumped over a fallen man and dove forward, head down, toward the vanishing wagon.

Merret's lessons had accomplished their intention, for the company was fighting with more discipline than Casanova would have imagined. Turning to face the trees on either side, the troops fired on their attackers. Casanova ran between them, in the wake of the wagon that had charged through. The troops' only insubordination was in their use of equipment; almost to a man, they had thrown off the unwieldy masks that made it impossible to see or hear clearly. Casanova did not stop to remove his. Theo was being tossed beside the wagon like a fallen kite dragged by the wind.

“Whoa!” Casanova shouted. “Whoa!” It was no use—the mules could not hear him, or if they did, their terror was too great. Tucking his head down, Casanova ran with all his might.

Suddenly the mules hesitated, impeded or startled by something in their way. Casanova reached Theo, passed him, and then flailed at the mule nearest him, attempting to grasp the reins. He missed, and grabbed again. Then he had it. Pulling fiercely, he wrenched the mules to a halt. But it was only momentary: he knew that at any second they would take off once more. He spun back to where Theo lay on the ground and rapidly unhooked the harness from the chain. Casanova lifted Theo and then, using all his strength, heaved him upward into the covered bed of the wagon.

Theo was unconscious, and an arrow jutted from his shoulder. “No, no, no, no,” Casanova said under his breath. Putting his fingers against Theo's wrist, he felt a weak pulse. “Wake up, Theo,” Casanova urged. He unfastened the harness as quickly
as he could. As he tossed it aside, the mules bolted and the wagon hurtled forward once again. Casanova crouched in the wagon's bed.

He could not think what to do next. Then he realized there was no hope of saving Theo while staying with the company. They would be killed—at best, captured. He threw himself toward the opening at the front of the wagon bed and crawled up to the empty seat. As he fumbled for the reins, he saw that they had already left the scene of their attack behind. He tore off his helmet with relief and threw it into the back.

Driving the mules as fast as he dared, he took them north for another ten minutes and then led the wagon off the path and tied the agitated mules to a tree. One, he could see, was badly injured. It had continued running out of sheer panic, but it had lost a great deal of blood. Casanova shook his head and hurried to the wagon. Theo's injury needed attention first; then he would see to the mule.

Theo had not yet woken, which was a relief, given what Casanova had to do next. He ripped the shoulder seam of Theo's shirt, exposing the embedded arrow in his left upper arm. He needed a way to remove the arrow as cleanly as possible.

The wagon that had carried them to safety turned out to hold the major's private supply store. Fine food and linens surrounded them. Casanova opened a cask of water and found a clean napkin, which he soaked in the water. He wiped his hands with the napkin and then, holding the wound open with his fingers, prepared himself to pull the arrow out. To his surprise, the wooden shaft came loose with ease. Then he cursed
quietly, realizing that the arrowhead had remained buried in Theo's shoulder. “Why couldn't they have hit your iron hand, Theo?” Casanova asked aloud. He tossed the shaft aside and carefully reached his fingers into the wound. The arrowhead was there, but his blunt fingers could not grasp it. “I need tweezers. Or tongs.”

He found neither. But he did find two silver forks, and using these like pincers, he managed, over several long minutes, to pry the arrowhead out of Theo's shoulder. He examined the offending piece of weaponry after dousing it with water, and his worst fear was realized. The arrowhead was stone, and fragments of it had been chipped off. No doubt these were still lodged in Theo's shoulder. Casanova resisted the urge to hurl the arrowhead into the dirt. He needed to save it so that the pattern of missing pieces was discernible. And he needed a medic—a proper medic.

Casanova searched the wagon for alcohol, and washed Theo's shoulder with it, using a clean napkin. The boy had still not woken, and it unsettled him deeply. “Hang on, Theo,” he said as he propped him up with the major's comfortable blankets. “We've got a journey ahead of us, and you must stay alive until we reach our destination. You hear me?”

Theo, his face strangely calm, made no reply.