Shadowbrook Part 37

"Poor little thing," Com Broom Hannah had said that night. "Too bad not having two paps don't put him off wanting her in his bed."

"Ain't nothin' gonna put Master John off nothin' if he don' want to be put off. Master John, he don't be a natural man. And he don' change for nothin'." Those were Runsabout's final words. But even if Master John never changed, Taba did.

Shaba-shaba-shaba. She came to a place where there was a big wall inside herself. A high stone wall, big as the walls of the Guinea fort where the slavers kept her until the white men and their s.h.i.+ps came. Shaba-shaba-shaba. She had to be free outside, had to be on the other side of that wall. The inside-free that Clemency and the others talked about, that wasn't enough.

Black as tar here in the woods. Blacker than in the big house cupboard where she hid until everyone was asleep the night Master John had left for Albany. He wasn't home so she didn't have to go to his room that night. The women, all except Kitchen Hannah, they slept up in the place they called the long room under the roof, and when Master John wasn't home Taba could sleep up there too, comforted by the sound of the others' breathing. But that night she didn't go to the long room after all the candles were snuffed out and the fires banked. Shaba-shaba-shaba. That night she stayed in the cupboard until it was dark and everyone was sure to be asleep. She knew the others were so used to her not sleeping in the long room they wouldn't miss her, even though Master John wasn't home. If she was going to get over the wall, find the outside-free, this was the time to try. Shaba-shaba-shaba.

That night when she crept across the Frolic Ground and headed off to find her outside-free, the only thing she knew for sure was that she wasn't going the Albany way. Shaba-shaba-shaba. No idea where this way was taking her, except that it didn't go to Albany and it took her away from Shadowbrook. Shaba-shaba-shaba. Nine sunrises and sunsets. Maybe ten. Could even be twelve. She wasn't really counting. Besides, it had rained so much and there were so many clouds covering the sun and the moon you could hardly tell when the days came and when they went. One thing she was sure about, n.o.body was following her. She had the outside-free now. No Master John. That was as free as she needed to be.

She'd come to a village sometime. She could smell a lake and in her home place a lake meant fish so-"Oh!" A small, right-out-loud scream. Squeezed out of her when she stumbled over a rock and fell. Before she could get to her feet and keep running, she was grabbed and lifted and imprisoned in the crook of a strong arm. After she'd come so far. The grief welled up in Taba so big and so fast she thought she'd drown in it, drown in all those tears she dare not cry.

"You must be stark raving mad, la.s.sie. Dinna you ken there's soldiers and savages in their hundreds prowling this forest?" The words were whispered right into her ear, but Taba couldn't understand them. Whoever her captor was, he didn't speak like anyone she knew in her home place or here.

The girl kept trying to squirm out of his grip, struggling with more strength than Hamish Stewart would have thought possible for such a wee thing. He held onto her nonetheless-head down, body tucked firmly under one arm, the way he'd heft a bale of oats-and pressed back into the hidden cave that gave him cover and a vantage point. The bairn made a hissing sound and tried to beat on his thigh with her fists. Hamish clamped his free hand over her mouth and held her tight with the other, then lifted her so he could press his lips to her ear again. "Quiet. Otherwise the pair o' us will finish up wi' no hair and boiled for broth."

The la.s.s struggled a few seconds more, then calmed some. Black as a lump of coal, she was. That's why she'd got this far with no painted savage behind her swinging a tomahawk. And thank G.o.d for thick clouds covering the moon and the stars. Might be my hair would na still be on my head if it had na been such dreich weather these past few days. Has to be this wee gel's a slave from Shadowbrook. Running away, from the look o' it. G.o.d's truth, she chose a bad direction to run in.

Hamish had been many times in these woods. He knew the lay of the land so well he could see it in the dark. Fort William Henry was less than a league distant; he'd discovered this hiding place several months before, and taken refuge in it earlier that evening when he spotted an advance scout of Canadians and savages circling behind the fort. He'd toyed with the notion of speaking to one of the Canadians, explaining that he was a Catholic and a Jacobite, that he was on their side. But talk, he'd realized sometime since, would not get him off this hilltop. He'd simply have to wait and choose his moment to make a break for freedom.

With the wee gel in his charge he had to think again on what was to be done. The weather was changing. Hamish felt wind in his face, fierce and sudden, blowing in off the water and clearing the clouds as if a great broom were sweeping the sky.

Moments later a round summer moon had risen above the trees and lit the land and the lake and the entrance to Hamish's hiding place, which was formed by an outcropping of boulders at the edge of the flat field where the fort's garrison grew beans and maize and cabbages. G.o.d's truth, e'en if you were staring straight at the rock face, you wouldna ken the cave was there. Not unless you tried to wedge yourself between what seemed like a narrow fissure in the granite, the way he had one day because it was pelting hale and e'en a tiny bit o' shelter seemed better than none. The grotto was beyond the crack, six strides in length and three in width. Not much, but in some circ.u.mstances, enough.

Hamish moved deeper into the cave, glancing down at the girl still tucked under his arm. She wore a calico frock and her black hair was a ma.s.s of tiny plaits. "Listen, la.s.sie," he whispered, "if I take my hand away will you promise na to shout or scream?" He barely breathed the words, spoke them slow and separate so she'd understand. "You're safe wi' me, la.s.s. And not safe out there." He jerked his head to indicate the forest and the fort and the lake. "Do you ken?"

Taba nodded. She didn't understand his words, but his tone was kind. Maybe he was what Runsabout called a natural man. Yes, he was a natural man. She knew it in her bones.

Hamish put his finger over his Ups. He felt some relief when she nodded. Still he hesitated a moment before releasing her from his tight grip and setting her on the ground. When he did, she stood where he'd placed her. Dinna move and dinna make a sound. Thank G.o.d, la.s.sie, whatever else you may be, you're na a fool. Because heaven as my witness, if you were mad enough to run I'd let you go. Choose to die, la.s.sie, and you can die alone.

Two seconds went by. Three. Hamish held his breath. Finally he exhaled and crouched down, motioning to her to squat beside him. There was bright moonlight now; he could see the fort to his right and beyond it, across a marsh, an entrenched camp on a hill called t.i.tcomb's Mount. The Sa.s.senachs had made the camp to protect the wide military road they'd built through the forest. The road connected Fort William Henry with Fort Edward, ten leagues to the south. The camp overlooked the lake, and if the French attacked, that's where-Sweet Mary in Heaven and all the Blessed Saints, protect us.

Hamish stared at the wash of moonlight on the water and hurriedly blessed himself, trying to hold back the vomit his churning stomach wanted to expel. G.o.d's truth, he'd rather a thousand times face another Culloden Moor than what he was looking at.

The wee la.s.s sucked in her breath. Hamish put his arm around her again, more for comfort than capture this time. The wind that blew away the clouds had stirred ruffles of whitecaps on the lake, but they were no deterrent to the ma.s.sed canoes floating toward the fort, each one filled with naked savages painted for war. Mother o' Heaven, there were Indians as far as he could see. He'd heard it said there were two thousand o' them gathered at Fort Carillon t'other end of the lake. Sure to Almighty G.o.d, every one was on Bright Fish Water this night.

The bateaux of the French garrison came into view behind the canoes, some moved by paddles, some by sail;, many roped together for strength and stability. They rode low in the water, almost sinking beneath their cargo of heavy siege guns and hundreds of uniformed French regulars. Hamish tried to count the total number of craft and gave up when he pa.s.sed two hundred and fifty. Since war was declared in May of '56, the French and their Indian allies had won nearly every battle. The Sa.s.senachs werena likely to reverse the trend this time. They were facing an armada.

The fleet floated toward the fort, then halted and held steady just out of cannon range. It was a maneuver of breathtaking skill, as if a wave had rippled backward and been arrested before the crest. Hamish glanced at the fort. He detected no motion, but their lookouts would have seen what was coming and by now the entire garrison would be under battle alarm. b.l.o.o.d.y heretics they were; still, it was hard not to feel some pity. He knew there to be twenty-five hundred men in Fort William Henry. Redcoats-the Thirty-fifth Foot, whose officers had brought their families, maybe a hundred women and children-as well as Yorkers, and militiamen from New England and New Jersey. Some forty rangers as well; woodsmen sent to scout, and to teach the redcoats a trick or two about fighting in the wilderness. G.o.d help them all, the force on the lake had to be at least three times that number.

The rangers must ken as well that no escape through the forest was possible, that the woods were full of Canadians and their Indian allies. The sutlers going back and forth between Albany and the fort peddling their wares, trading as much in talk as in combs and corn and musket b.a.l.l.s, said the rangers had been sent by Quentin Hale. Hamish got the same information from Annie Crotchett. These days she sold her favors to as many redcoats as locals, given the numbers of 'em camped in the hills around the town, and just last week Annie had told him the Red Bear had been summoned to London, no less. To tell their b.l.o.o.d.y lords.h.i.+ps how to make war like Indians, as if the Sa.s.senachs needed any training in savagery. The blood rose in Hamish, reminding him of his hot hatred of all things English, but it cooled when he looked from the fort to the lake. He was seeing the makings of a slaughter. Sweet Savior in Heaven, he'd not have thought there could be so many painted barbarians in one place.

Four piercing notes from a horn rolled up the hills one side o' the water and down the other. The strangeness o' the thing made drops o' cold sweat form on his skin. A French horn in these American woods. He half expected the skirl o' the pipes next. The horn sounded a second time. In response the Indians in the canoes began beating their drums and whooping and screaming. Those in the forest behind the fort replied with shouts and drums of their own.

Hamish put his hand on the la.s.s's shoulder. Her whole body heaved with every breath she drew, but she made no sound and it was plain she dinna mean to bolt G.o.d alone knew how she'd got here through a forest bristling with white men and red, all intent on dealing death, but it was fitting that it was he who'd caught her, not some howling savage. The gel was bound to be Shadowbrook's property. And Shadowbrook, he reminded himself, magnificently, unbelievingly, was his. Pinned between two halves of a war he might be, but by Christ Almighty, he was at last the laird. And this wee la.s.s, like everything else on the Hale Patent, belonged to him. Now all he had to do was stay alive to claim his prize.

THURSDAY, AUGUST 9, 1757.

FORT WILLIAM HENRY.

Days and nights filled with the scream of cannon fire and musket fire and Indian whoops and curses hurled in French and English, And death.

In all of the civilized world it was agreed that however badly the defenders were outnumbered, as long as a fort's walls and bastions were intact, honorable surrender was not possible. By the time the sun came up on the tenth day of the siege, the top of the bastions of Fort William Henry, the ones facing the French guns, had been entirely shot away.

At noon that day the front gate of the fort opened and a white flag was raised. A drummer beating a solemn tattoo marched ahead of a red-coated lieutenant colonel on horseback A musket ball had shattered the Englishman's left foot. Despite that, he was the best man for the job. His French was flawless.

Montcalm's tent was a large marquee of three poles, with walls that reached above a tall man's shoulders and elegant campaign furniture. The general was joined by half a dozen of his most senior officers, five Indians in the full battle regalia-warbonnets and the like-that marked them as chiefs, and a handfid of translators. In deference to the wound of the Englishman, everyone sat. There were not enough of the hastily unfolded leather-covered chairs to accommodate all. The Indians squatted at the fringes of the meeting.

The Englishman's name was Young. He and Montcalm did the talking. Quiet, courteous speech, no need for bl.u.s.ter, because both men knew the battle was over and the English had lost. Fort William Henry had fewer than seven hundred soldiers fit for duty. Three hundred had been killed since the engagement began, the rest had fallen to an epidemic of smallpox raging since mid-July. All the English cannon and most of their mortars had burst from overuse or been disabled by shot, while the whole of Montcalm's thirty-one cannon and fifteen mortars and howitzers were intact, now entrenched, and ready to open fire together. Up to now only some of the guns had been in action, and that portion of the French firepower had been almost more than the English could resist. Facing the entire battery meant surrender was the only option. That's what had decided the vote taken among the fort's officers earlier that morning.

The marquis de Montcalm had no interest in prisoners. The harvest had been poor in Canada this year and the year before, and the policies of Intendant Bigot and his grande society had made a bad situation horrendous. Montcalm had barely enough food to feed his own men and dole out a bit to the Indians. "You have fought bravely, monsieur. I offer you the honors of war and safe pa.s.sage to Fort Edward." Young nodded in acknowledgment of Montcalm's compliment. "In return," the Frenchman continued, "for eighteen months parole."

Generous terms. The defenders of Fort William Henry would be allowed to leave with their colors flying and in possession of their small arms and their personal effects. For their part, the British and the colonials must give their solemn word not to fight against the French for a year and a half. "We will take the fort at once," Montcalm continued. "Your garrison will go over the ravine to the entrenched camp and spend the night there. At first light tomorrow a detachment of my soldiers will escort you to Fort Edward."

It was a journey of some three leagues. "We have many sick," Young explained. "They are not fit to cross from the fort to the camp. The journey to Fort Edward would be impossible."

"Pas de probleme, Monsieur le Colonel, they may stay where they are. We will look after your sick and wounded and send them to you as soon as they have recovered. Now, there is as well the matter of French and Canadian prisoners taken by you since the start of the war. They are to be returned to us."

"D'accord, mon General. Mais ..." Young shot a quick look at the Indians.

Montcalm followed his glance and nodded. He summoned three of the translators and spoke to them quickly, repeating the terms of the surrender. In turn, the translators, two Canadians and one Indian, explained them to each of the chiefs in his own language.

Alhanase the Huron spoke French and did not require a translation. Still he listened carefully in case he had misunderstood what he'd heard earlier. He had not. He rose. The other chiefs did the same.

"They understand?" Montcalm asked anxiously. "They agree?"

"They understand perfectly," one of the translators a.s.sured him.

"And agree," Montcalm said again.

This time it was Alhanase rather than one of the translators who replied. "Il a parle, Onontio." Onontio has spoken. "Il a arrange les choses ala Cmokmanuk. He has arranged things the Cmokmanuk way. "Nous comprenons." We understand.

Alhanase and the other chiefs knew their young braves would not be so accepting of this outrage. They had fought well, for nothing but meager rations and a few gifts given when they had first agreed to once more take up the tomahawk on behalf of Onontio. Now the enemy was beaten, yet Onontio's warrior sons were being denied the fruits of their victory. They would have no plunder, no scalps, the fat of their enemies would not fill their empty bellies, and worst of all, they would have no captives to bring home to replace the many who had died. A father-Onontio-did not behave in such a manner.

As arranged, every member of the English garrison able to walk or ride left the fort a few hours after the terms of the surrender were concluded. They filed out under the gaze of restless braves, who mocked and taunted them, making threatening gestures that the English pretended to ignore. A broad ravine separated the fort and the camp where they were to spend the night. The moment they crossed it a number of braves rushed into the fort. The rangers had made sure to bury whatever rum the garrison didn't take with them, but the Indians found it, and drank it, complaining mightily at how little plunder was to be had in the all-but-empty fort. Only one thing worth having had been left behind.

The braves made their way to the infirmary and slaughtered and scalped the wounded. There were some protests, but the Canadians who were supposed to be caring for the sick mostly stood back and watched.

Just before sundown more bands of braves entered the camp on Mount t.i.tcomb, many more than the French regulars who stood guard duty. "Stave the kegs. Hurry," someone murmured. The word was pa.s.sed and holes were bashed in the eleven barrels of rum the English had brought with them, the contents allowed to soak into the ground. The Anis.h.i.+nabeg-Potawatomi and Nip.i.s.sing and Ottawa and Huron-did not need more drink. Their blood was heated with rage that having accomplished so much, they were to be repaid with so little. For a time they prowled the camp, demanding clothes and jewelry and making threatening gestures. They paid particular attention to the women, playing with their long hair as if reminding them of the possibility they could lose it. Eventually the French guards turned them out.

Alhanase the Huron stood apart and watched. The medicine bag that hung round his neck contained a rare thing, a single blue-black Suki bead carved with a spider, ancient and beautiful. A reminder of the old days, of a time when the Anis.h.i.+nabeg lived alone and made both war and peace in their own fas.h.i.+on. There were some Ottawa here, but only a few, and those not led by Pontiac. Perhaps the powerful Ottawa war chief was correct. Perhaps separation could bring the old days back Perhaps if the English were allowed to win they would divide the earth of this place they called the New World between themselves and the Real People. Like the others, Alhanase had trusted the French, accepted their war belt, but Onontio was not a father if he asked his sons to fight and die and get nothing in return. Perhaps this was to be the last battle.

Even so, Alhanase knew, it was not yet over.

At dawn a detachment of three hundred French soldiers led the Englilsh down the road toward Fort Edward. The redcoats and the colonial militia marched behind them. The defeated men carried their muskets, but in accordance with the terms of the surrender no ammunition and no bayonets. The women and children were in the rear of the long line, at least a league behind the armed French who might protect them.

Hamish and Taba watched from their hidden grotto, their stomachs cramping with hunger. Their combined jerky and biscuits had run out three days earlier. Hamish's canteen had been dry still longer. The Scot had managed to coUect a bit of rainwater during a night's downpour, and two cabbages and four ears of maize from the fort's garden on the one foray he'd risked. They'd survived on that, and on luck Last night a painted Indian had found the entrance to their hiding place. A sudden darkening of the light was all the warning Hamish had. Hamish figured it to have been the brave's surprise at discovering the cave that gave him time to plunge his dirk into the Indian's throat before he could shout. He'd pidled the corpse the rest of the way into the grotto so it would not be found. Sharing the cave with a dead body gave him and Taba less room than they'd had before, but he knew it was better than what waited for them if they tried to get away. They would be butchered alive, like the Sa.s.senachs Hamish was watching die on the road below.

Could be hunger had made him light-headed. Maybe that's why the sight of the Indians attacking the unarmed English seemed like a dream. Hamish watched it without any real feeling, as if it were a mummery at a summer fair in the Highlands when he was a lad.

The women and children were dealt with first. They were guarded only by a few Canadians who stood by and did nothing while young wives in their prime were captured and carried off into the forest, and older ones were tomahawked and scalped. Babes and the very young were hacked apart and thrown aside; only the older ones were taken alive. From where he watched the Scot could see their mouths open, but it seemed to him he could not hear the screams. Maybe because he did not want to hear them.

The provincial militia came next. Most were made to hand over their clothes and their muskets as if they were bargaining for their lives, or thought they were. A few managed to escape naked into the woods, the rest were tomahawked and scalped and left for dead. After a time the chaos spread far enough so the redcoats farther up the column understood what was happening in the rear and doubled back to do what they could, though with no shot for their muskets it was not much. At last the French soldiers at the column's head turned around and tried to restore order. By now the savages were screaming and whooping and dancing. There was no hope the French could simply command them to leave off, but no one gave the order to fix bayonets, much less to fire. They couldn't, Hamish knew; not unless they want to lose the allegiance of the savages. And that was their best advantage in this war where, taken all together, the English outnumbered them many times over.

Screams of triumph and terror echoed off the forested hills, and when silence came it was because there were no more Sa.s.senachs or Americans to be killed.

Hamish and the girl stayed hidden another day, surviving on a few filched carrots and some ears of maize that Hamish got by chancing another crawl on his belly to the edge of the garden in the field and back again. The odor of roasting and boiling meat rose from every side and competed with the stench of the rapidly decaying Indian corpse that shared the grotto with them. It was the first time Hamish ever knew himself not to salivate at the smell of cooked flesh. Maybe because it was the slaughtered Sa.s.senachs the Indians were cooking and eating. Once he saw a brave offer a French soldier a joint fresh from the fire and dripping with fat. The man recoiled and the savage and his friends laughed.

Hamish saw other vigorous discussions between the French and their Indian allies. He could tell they were bargaining, but not what for, or what the outcome might be. The next morning the Indians began to leave, sated with blood and laden with plunder, piling it into their canoes and at the last moment bringing their captives out of the woods, roped together with cords around their necks.

As soon as the canoes were out of sight the French and the Canadians set to work demolis.h.i.+ng the fort and dragging as many dead bodies as they could find to the center of a huge pyre. They set it alight and left; the blaze burned most of the day and a good part of the following night. In that firelit dark Hamish took the girl by the hand and led her away from the grotto. They walked upright now because he was sure there was not a soul left alive in the vicinity, except for themselves and the wolves coming down from the hills to feast on what carrion remained.

There was game and fish aplenty in the woods. Hamish had his dirk Hunger was no longer a problem, though it was a while before either of them could eat. The memory of what they'd seen had closed their bellies and their mouths. The girl told him her name, Taba, and he said he was Hamish-"I'm your master now, la.s.s. And you've naught to fear if you do what you're told"-but little else. He did not think she knew he was taking her back the way she came until, after an eleven-day trek, she saw Shadowbrook sitting atop its gentle rise, its white walls turned to pink by a fiery sunset in the hills behind.

Taba screamed and tried to run but Hamish had expected that. He was on her before she could get away, hoisting her like a sack of oats as he had that first night, and carrying her forward despite her desperate attempts to break free. "Easy, Taba la.s.s. I told you you'd naught to fear and I dinna lie. Just be easy while I attend to what's necessary."

"So, Hamish Stewart the Scot, returning my property. I'm delighted, man, though not more than I'm surprised. I just ordered the broadsides and-"

"She's not your property. And I dinna see any broadside."

"You couldn't have. I just ordered them printed and put up around Albany," John Hale said, ignoring the first statement. "There's a reward often guineas for the return of my runaway Ibo slave, Taba. You shall have-"

"Keep your money, John Hale. What you have on your wretched self is yours as well. I'll na take it from you. And you can pack your personal things and take them besides. You've an hour to get ready and be gone."

"In Christ's name, Stewart, what are you talking about?"

They were in the small square room off the front hall where Mistress Lorene spent most mornings planning the household's work Her desk was against one wall. There was a serving table beside it with sides that lifted to make it larger. More times than she could count, Taba had polished both until she could see her face in the golden grain.

She was curled up under the desk now because it seemed the only thing to do. Mistress wasn't here, but mostly she was kind to Taba. Maybe her kindness was in this place. So Taba crawled under the desk and tried to think of kindness covering her up.

"I dinna wish to incommode your mother. She can take a few days to pack if she needs them."

"I think you're mad," John said quietly. "But it's no affair of mine. Get out, Stewart. You're welcome to the reward since I promised it, but with or without your ten guineas, get out of my house and off my land."

"I'm not mad, however much you might wish it, you G.o.d-rotting heretic b.a.s.t.a.r.d The Hale Patent is mine." Hamish reached into the pocket inside his hunting s.h.i.+rt. He'd been carrying the deed since he'd been to New York City the month before. "Every sc.r.a.p o' the original grant," he said, offering the papers to Hale. "Including Bright Fish Water and the Great Carrying Place." That's why he'd gone up there to see the condition of the fort and see if it made any sense to insist the Sa.s.senachs withdraw immediately. No need to worry about that now. Burned to the ground the fort must be. Na a trace left by now.

"The three of 'em signed. Oliver De Lancey, Hayman Levy, and the lawyer Alexander. And it was witnessed by the governor o' New York Province, James De Lancey himself." Hamish said, holding out the bundle of papers. "Take a look, John. Do my heart good to see you read the thing."

John did not want to touch the papers. If he actually held them and read them, this nightmare might turn out to be real, not simply a feverish dream caused by too much rum. But the names. The three names. By G.o.d in heaven, how could this lout of a Jacobite with one eye know that De Lancey, Levy, and Alexander held a lien on the property? He put out his hand, doing his best to keep it from trembling, and the Scot slapped the sheaf of papers onto his open palm.

"Take your time, you blighted b.a.s.t.a.r.d. I'll enjoy seeing you ponder every word."

John staggered a few steps to the desk and sat down. Taba pushed herself back against the wall.

John untied the papers and opened the top one. It seemed to be the original hen that he'd signed nearly three years before. Patience, James Alexander had advised last spring. The run-up to war and the war itself, that's what the delay was about, that's why they had not yet succeeded in finding suitable land in the Islands. Things were bound to change eventually. Jesus b.l.o.o.d.y Christ, that was his signature on the bottom no mistaking it. "How did you get this?" The words came out high-pitched and shrill, like an old man's croak.

Hearing the shock in Hale's voice was a fine thing. Almost as fine as watching him go pale when he realized what he had in his hands. Telling him what had been done was even better. Hamish savored every word. "Wi' money, o' course. How else does a man get what he wants? Read the next one, why don't you? It's the making over o' the lien to me. Paid in full, it says. Right at the top."

John put down the first sheet and unfolded the second. "This is an outrage! It can have no standing before any judge in-"

"It's got every standing, you blighted b.u.g.g.e.r. Do you think I'd o' come here wi'out? Ha' you not yet figured what I've been doing in G.o.d-rotting Albany these past four years? Or how I've been planning and working for this since the day your father first showed me the place. It's mine, you twisted heretic. It's the Stewart Patent now."

Hamish reached for the papers, but this time John was the quicker. He grabbed them with one hand and crumpled them into a tight ball. Jumping to his feet he looked wildly around for a place to dispose of them. The fireplace was the obvious choice, but it was August. There was no fire.

Hamish's roar of laughter filled the room. "You're every bit the feeble-brained idiot Annie Crotchett says you are. What do you take me for, man? Do you think I'd hand o'er the only proof o' my owners.h.i.+p to you? Governor De Lancey had copies made o' the entire transaction. They're lodged wi' him, under his private seal. I said you'd an hour to get out. You've used the half o' it. If you want to take anything wi' you other than the clothes you're standing up in, you'd best see about packing."

John lunged. Hamish was expecting it. He moved quickly to one side, spinning around as he did so. They finished facing each other, the Scot with a dagger in his hand. John, with no weapon but his rage.

"Come on, you G.o.d-rotting heretic," Hamish taunted. "Come after me and I'll send you straight to h.e.l.l where you belong. I canna wait to claim the privilege."

The last time John had seen a dagger of that sort it had been in his brother's hands, and, it was this very same Scots b.a.s.t.a.r.d who'd given it to him. "Quent!" The word burst forth like a curse. "My brother sent you here."

"Your brother's nothing to do wi' this. I'll deal wi' him as well. But later. Right now it's your turn." Hamish pushed forward; all his weight on his leading leg, and swung his arm in an underhanded thrust. The six-inch blade of the dirk sliced through the flesh of John's left underarm in an upward curve, severing the muscle and stopping at the bone of the shoulder.

John staggered backward, screaming in agony and collided with the brick of the fireplace wall. The heavy bra.s.s and iron poker hung on a hook He swung it free with his right hand and lunged again, still screaming, swinging the poker above his head.

Hamish waited until the last possible second, then stepped to his left. John came after him again. He landed one blow that opened a cut above the Scot's empty eye socket. Hamish thrust forward, but this time the blade of the dirk sliced through only the cloth of John's s.h.i.+rt. Hamish twisted out of the way of the poker's next a.s.sault, skidded on a slick of blood, and went down.

John stood above him, one leg either side of the Scot's p.r.o.ne form, and raised the poker over his head.

Taba had crawled out from under the desk when the fight began. She didn't know when she'd reached for Mistress Lorene's silver scissors, but they were in her hand. Master John, he was going to kill Hamish. Hamish said he was her master now. But if he was dead, it was Master John again. And not a question in Taba's mind about which one was better.

She hurled herself at John's back, holding the scissors straight out in front of her. The poker began its descent toward Hamish's skull. The Scot snapped his legs wide apart, destroying both the force and the direction of the poker blow and bringing John Hale down in a sprawling heap; Hale's head hit the floor with such force the crack was audible. Hamish roared and sat up, ready to throw Hale's body off to the side. Taba had no opportunity to check her forward motion and no time to register the changed positions of the two men. The scissors plunged into Hamish's chest to the hilt of the fancy silver handles.

"Little George, take a wagon and go to the sawmill." Lorene's voice was like a cold wind cutting through the heat of hate in the room.

She had stood in the open door since her son's bloodcurdling scream had brought her running down from the linen room where she'd been folding blankets. The house slaves were all cl.u.s.tered behind her. She knew they were there without having to turn her head. They were straining to see over her shoulders into the chaos beyond. "Little George," she repeated, "you take a wagon and two fast horses. Go to the sawmill and get Sally Robin. Tell her Master John's been attacked and his arm's nearly cut off so she'll know what to bring. Clemency, take the child away. I don't think she's hurt"

For a few heartbeats nothing happened. The thought crossed Lorene's mind that perhaps no one would obey her.

Lorene was quite sure Taba had not just wounded Hamish Stewart, but killed him. The Scot's eye was open and staring at the ceiling and his chest wasn't moving. Taba had stabbed him to death with the silver scissors that had belonged to Lorene's grandmother Sally. They had been a gift from her mother on Lorene's wedding day. Like Sally Robin had been a gift from her father. Two special pieces of property to bring with her to Shadowbrook when she came as a bride. And now? Full circle perhaps. That had been the beginning of her life here and this might be the end, the moment when the slaves would decide to be slaves no longer. "Did you hear me, Little George?"

"I heared, mistress. I be back soon as ever I can be. With Sally Robin." His pounding steps ran down the hall toward the back door and the stable beyond.

Thank you, Lord. "Jeremiah, you and Sam had best see about getting the man who attacked Master John out of here. We'll bury him, but not up by Squirrel Oaks. Out behind the pigsty, I think. Hurry now." Her voice soft, cajoling rather than commanding. "Be harder to move him once he stiffens."

The men did not rush to obey her. Maybe Little George doing what he was bid was the last time she would be heeded in this house.

Lorene's heart pounded and her body trembled. She did not think her legs would hold her if she tried to move, but she knew she had to make the effort. One step, then two. She walked forward, toward her unconscious son and his dead a.s.sailant, still issuing orders in that soft, sure voice that betrayed none of her turmoil. "Corn Broom Hannah and Runsabout, you'll help me with the master. We won't try to move him until Sally Robin comes, just make him comfortable. Kitchen Hannah, we'll need hot water to deal with his wound. Clemency, what are you waiting for? I told you, get that child out of here."

Taba hadn't moved. Lorene had no doubt of what the girl's intentions had been. She even knew why. That was perhaps the only part of what had happened here this evening she was sure she understood. "Clemency, do as I say. The child's all but lost her wits."