Fire Along the Sky
Page 114
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“But you must know every man in uniform, in this part of Canada, at least.”
“I know a good many of them,” he said. “But generally it's best to keep clear of revenue agents, for they're known to be aye humorless. One with a grudge could decide to make things difficult for us. Your brother isn't without enemies, you know that.”
Of course. No one could come as far as Luke and Simon had in the world of trade without making trouble for himself. Something occurred to Lily, a question she had never thought to ask.
“Do they have cause to suspect that you're breaking the law?”
He sent her a sidelong glance. “That depends,” he said finally. “On which laws you mean.”
“Why, Canadian, I suppose,” Lily said. “At least on this side of the border. What laws concern you?”
“Your brother's,” said Simon with a grin. “And nobody else's.”
“That's a very Scottish thing to say, as if he were a laird in the old country.”
He shrugged. “Old country or new, not much changes.”
That made her think for a good while. Smuggling was an age-old problem on the border, one that had got worse with the war and the embargo; whole family fortunes had been built on it, and the greatest rivalries all seemed to come down to who traded what, and where. None of that was a secret. And still it seemed to her that there was something Simon hadn't told her, some worry that had made him go to such lengths to get them over the border without the knowledge of the authorities on either side.
“Are you spying?” she asked, and got for her trouble the harshest look he had to offer.
“Don't ever say that word,” he said. “Or even think it.”
It took some effort for him to compose his face. “I shouldn't have snapped at you, and I apologize. But that's a subject we can't discuss.”
“Maybe not right now,” Lily said, putting him on notice.
They were up to something, Simon and her brother. Lily knew that she ought to be afraid, but she could not find it in herself. They were, after all, not carrying any contraband; they were not smugglers, and whatever the men were up to, there would be no evidence of it in this sleigh; Simon was not in uniform and had never been. The border between New-York State and Canada might be a bit tricky just now, but she was Nathaniel Bonner's daughter and Hawkeye's granddaughter and allied to the Mohawk; no man who had spent any time in the endless forests would dare raise a hand to her.
Simon interrupted this conversation she was having with herself. “Recall, Lily: you must promise to let me handle the questions, should we be stopped.”
Lily bit her lip rather than say something smart that would start another argument. She was in the mood for a quarrel, but she was also enough of a woodswoman to hold her tongue in the woods.
A ruffled grouse exploded up from its cover and sent a cloud of snow into the air. Lily jumped.
“You're more nervous than you let on,” Simon said. He patted a lump in the furs that was her knee. “All will be well, lass. Hold steady.”
His words were still hanging in the air when men's voices came to them like the low rumbling of an avalanche in the distance.
“Hold steady,” Simon said again, just as the men came into sight on an old trail, a half mile to the west and headed toward them. Lily, whose eyes were as good as any sharpshooter's, studied the line for a moment: soldiers, yes, but all of them experienced backwoodsmen first.
“Voltigeurs,” she said.
“Aye,” said Simon, visibly relieved. “And Kester MacLeod has the command.”
When she was younger, Lily had dreamed of adventures like the ones her mother and grandmother had had. The stories she grew up with were brightly colored and exciting beyond words: her grandmother Cora caught up in the battle at Fort Edward, her mother running through these very woods with the terrible Jack Lingo on her heels.
And here now was her own adventure: a patrol of rough men like all the men she had grown up with. They were consummate woodsmen and good shots, and they made effective if not very obedient militiamen. They were in uniforms, of a sort: their own clothing, with bright blue sashes and regulation blanket coats, and the hats, of course, the silliest part of the whole, in her eyes.
Uniforms or not, they farted and scratched themselves without apology while their sergeant asked Simon if he had any spare tobacco, and what news was there to share from Montreal?
The platoon, it turned out, had been stationed at the Chateauguay River and was now on its way to Lacolle. The details were a little cloudy, which, of course, was intentional; they liked Simon, but would not say too much to a man out of uniform, one who was clearly headed for the border.
“And then with any luck to Nut Island,” said Lieutenant MacLeod. Behind him his men grinned.
“The garrison at Nut Island is well provisioned,” the lieutenant explained with a wink and a nudge. As if Lily wouldn't know that he was talking about women, or what these men wanted with them. She studied her mittens and hoped she looked disinterested and uninformed.
“Where are you headed tonight?” asked MacLeod. “You're not planning to bivouac with the young lady, are you?” He flashed his rotten teeth at her in such a boyish and charming way that she smiled back and regretted her surliness.
Simon had been rumbling through boxes. Now he hauled a small sack out of the back of the sleigh and offered it to Lieutenant MacLeod, who took it with a crow of delight.
“I know a good many of them,” he said. “But generally it's best to keep clear of revenue agents, for they're known to be aye humorless. One with a grudge could decide to make things difficult for us. Your brother isn't without enemies, you know that.”
Of course. No one could come as far as Luke and Simon had in the world of trade without making trouble for himself. Something occurred to Lily, a question she had never thought to ask.
“Do they have cause to suspect that you're breaking the law?”
He sent her a sidelong glance. “That depends,” he said finally. “On which laws you mean.”
“Why, Canadian, I suppose,” Lily said. “At least on this side of the border. What laws concern you?”
“Your brother's,” said Simon with a grin. “And nobody else's.”
“That's a very Scottish thing to say, as if he were a laird in the old country.”
He shrugged. “Old country or new, not much changes.”
That made her think for a good while. Smuggling was an age-old problem on the border, one that had got worse with the war and the embargo; whole family fortunes had been built on it, and the greatest rivalries all seemed to come down to who traded what, and where. None of that was a secret. And still it seemed to her that there was something Simon hadn't told her, some worry that had made him go to such lengths to get them over the border without the knowledge of the authorities on either side.
“Are you spying?” she asked, and got for her trouble the harshest look he had to offer.
“Don't ever say that word,” he said. “Or even think it.”
It took some effort for him to compose his face. “I shouldn't have snapped at you, and I apologize. But that's a subject we can't discuss.”
“Maybe not right now,” Lily said, putting him on notice.
They were up to something, Simon and her brother. Lily knew that she ought to be afraid, but she could not find it in herself. They were, after all, not carrying any contraband; they were not smugglers, and whatever the men were up to, there would be no evidence of it in this sleigh; Simon was not in uniform and had never been. The border between New-York State and Canada might be a bit tricky just now, but she was Nathaniel Bonner's daughter and Hawkeye's granddaughter and allied to the Mohawk; no man who had spent any time in the endless forests would dare raise a hand to her.
Simon interrupted this conversation she was having with herself. “Recall, Lily: you must promise to let me handle the questions, should we be stopped.”
Lily bit her lip rather than say something smart that would start another argument. She was in the mood for a quarrel, but she was also enough of a woodswoman to hold her tongue in the woods.
A ruffled grouse exploded up from its cover and sent a cloud of snow into the air. Lily jumped.
“You're more nervous than you let on,” Simon said. He patted a lump in the furs that was her knee. “All will be well, lass. Hold steady.”
His words were still hanging in the air when men's voices came to them like the low rumbling of an avalanche in the distance.
“Hold steady,” Simon said again, just as the men came into sight on an old trail, a half mile to the west and headed toward them. Lily, whose eyes were as good as any sharpshooter's, studied the line for a moment: soldiers, yes, but all of them experienced backwoodsmen first.
“Voltigeurs,” she said.
“Aye,” said Simon, visibly relieved. “And Kester MacLeod has the command.”
When she was younger, Lily had dreamed of adventures like the ones her mother and grandmother had had. The stories she grew up with were brightly colored and exciting beyond words: her grandmother Cora caught up in the battle at Fort Edward, her mother running through these very woods with the terrible Jack Lingo on her heels.
And here now was her own adventure: a patrol of rough men like all the men she had grown up with. They were consummate woodsmen and good shots, and they made effective if not very obedient militiamen. They were in uniforms, of a sort: their own clothing, with bright blue sashes and regulation blanket coats, and the hats, of course, the silliest part of the whole, in her eyes.
Uniforms or not, they farted and scratched themselves without apology while their sergeant asked Simon if he had any spare tobacco, and what news was there to share from Montreal?
The platoon, it turned out, had been stationed at the Chateauguay River and was now on its way to Lacolle. The details were a little cloudy, which, of course, was intentional; they liked Simon, but would not say too much to a man out of uniform, one who was clearly headed for the border.
“And then with any luck to Nut Island,” said Lieutenant MacLeod. Behind him his men grinned.
“The garrison at Nut Island is well provisioned,” the lieutenant explained with a wink and a nudge. As if Lily wouldn't know that he was talking about women, or what these men wanted with them. She studied her mittens and hoped she looked disinterested and uninformed.
“Where are you headed tonight?” asked MacLeod. “You're not planning to bivouac with the young lady, are you?” He flashed his rotten teeth at her in such a boyish and charming way that she smiled back and regretted her surliness.
Simon had been rumbling through boxes. Now he hauled a small sack out of the back of the sleigh and offered it to Lieutenant MacLeod, who took it with a crow of delight.
