Fire Along the Sky
Page 202
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Luke, and Runs-from-Bears. She heard herself breathe a great sigh of relief as she pulled back the door skin.
Father O'Neill stood in the middle of the shack, the candle on the low table throwing his shadow up to the roof: a long black ghost jittering there.
Jennet's voice caught in her throat but all that came from her mouth was a soft sound, a quick sigh.
“Lady Jennet of Carryck,” said the priest with a small, satisfied smile. “And here I thought you'd be asleep in your lover's arms until dawn. I suppose you've come to get these?”
The letters she had hidden away. The ones she had promised Hannah to burn. Letters from Lake in the Clouds, from Luke, from her mother in Scotland. She had wrapped them in oilskin and put them in a hollow scraped out of the hard ground beneath her pallet. Because she could not bear to part with them; because she was a fool.
In the same moment something came to her with the force of a hammer blow: Father O'Neill was wearing rough breeches and a worn leather jerkin over a muslin shirt, and he looked nothing like a priest out of his soutane. Because, she understood now, he was no priest. Because Luke had been right to warn her about this man.
“Give me those,” she said, her voice creaking. And then, more firmly: “They don't belong to you.”
He raised his eyebrows, all dark good humor, and ignored her outstretched hand. “I'll admit, you had me fooled for a good long while. I never would have taken you for an earl's daughter, much less an American spy. If you hadn't given yourself away last night I would be much the poorer.” He looked with some satisfaction at the letters in his hand.
“You followed me.”
He made a clicking sound with his tongue. “I was seeing to my own business, and there you were, the two of you.”
“So you took the opportunity to come back here and steal.”
O'Neill scratched his jaw with one thumbnail. “Curiosity has ever been my downfall. But these letters cleared up my confusion, and quite nicely too. Won't the colonel be surprised to know he invited a pair of spies to his supper table.”
“We are not spies.” Jennet's voice came clear, and she was thankful for that much.
“And do you doubt the colonel will see it that way, once he's read these? The Earl of Carryck a secret Catholic and his sister working against the Crown in Canada, now won't that be news from Aberdeen to London? I wonder if they'll build a scaffold big enough to hang all of you at once, or if you'll have to wait your turn. Perhaps,” he said, with a broad smile, “they'll string you up next to your sweetheart, if you ask nicely.”
Jennet was in danger of fainting, for the first time in her life. She balled her fists in her skirts to keep them from shaking and bit her lip hard enough to draw blood. With every bit of strength she could summon, she steadied her voice. “You'll be there with us, I'm sure. To turn me in you must turn in yourself.”
“That would be sloppy of me, would it not? But I've got another idea, one that will please me, at the least.”
The question escaped her before she could stop it. “Who are you?”
He bowed from the shoulders. “Anselme Dégre of Barataria, by way of Acadia, at your service. Now why don't you sit down here and listen to my proposition. If it's to your liking, why, your friends will go off to their fate with no interference from me. Or we could go straightaway and pay a visit to the colonel. Which will it be?”
Her gaze skittered through the tiny shack, moving over pallets and bowls and the few skirts and bodices hung from nails in the rough walls. Nothing that would serve as a weapon. She thought of running; no doubt she could disappear quick enough, but she would not, could not leave the letters in his hands. It seemed that there was hardly enough air to breathe, and what was there reeked with rancid tallow and sweat and her own bitter foolishness.
“What do you mean to do with me?”
He laughed out loud, a pleased laugh, full of pride, not only at his own clever plan but that she had caught on to it. “Let me put your mind to rest, cher. I've got no interest in bedding you.”
That idea hadn't presented itself just yet, and still Jennet felt herself relax. “Then what?”
He turned his head sharply to listen as women walked through the camp, arguing softly. When he looked at her again some of the playfulness had left his expression. “Sad to say, there's no time for more talk just now.”
“Don't let me keep you,” Jennet said. “I'll take my letters and you can be off, I'll say nothing to the colonel.”
He took the letters and tucked them into his shirt, patted them fondly. “It won't be that easy, I fear. You've got two choices. I can tie you up neatly with the letters tucked into the ropes, and send a sentry along—” He held up a hand to stop her protest. “In which case you'll hang and your lover with you, and the prisoners will rot in a prison ship. Or you can come along with me now and give them the chance to get away.”
Jennet caught the edge of the table to keep herself from swaying. “You want me to come with you?”
“We're off for warmer waters, Lady Jennet, far south of here. Out of reach, so to speak.”
“Luke will follow us,” Jennet said. “He will come after me. He'll never give up.”
“No doubt he would try,” said Anselme Dégre. “Were it not for the letter you're about to write.”
Daniel Bonner, eighteen years old, born and raised on the frontier in New-York State, having served for a few short months as a rifleman in the American cause, rose on a bright summer morning that would be his last as a prisoner, and knew that he was done with war.
Father O'Neill stood in the middle of the shack, the candle on the low table throwing his shadow up to the roof: a long black ghost jittering there.
Jennet's voice caught in her throat but all that came from her mouth was a soft sound, a quick sigh.
“Lady Jennet of Carryck,” said the priest with a small, satisfied smile. “And here I thought you'd be asleep in your lover's arms until dawn. I suppose you've come to get these?”
The letters she had hidden away. The ones she had promised Hannah to burn. Letters from Lake in the Clouds, from Luke, from her mother in Scotland. She had wrapped them in oilskin and put them in a hollow scraped out of the hard ground beneath her pallet. Because she could not bear to part with them; because she was a fool.
In the same moment something came to her with the force of a hammer blow: Father O'Neill was wearing rough breeches and a worn leather jerkin over a muslin shirt, and he looked nothing like a priest out of his soutane. Because, she understood now, he was no priest. Because Luke had been right to warn her about this man.
“Give me those,” she said, her voice creaking. And then, more firmly: “They don't belong to you.”
He raised his eyebrows, all dark good humor, and ignored her outstretched hand. “I'll admit, you had me fooled for a good long while. I never would have taken you for an earl's daughter, much less an American spy. If you hadn't given yourself away last night I would be much the poorer.” He looked with some satisfaction at the letters in his hand.
“You followed me.”
He made a clicking sound with his tongue. “I was seeing to my own business, and there you were, the two of you.”
“So you took the opportunity to come back here and steal.”
O'Neill scratched his jaw with one thumbnail. “Curiosity has ever been my downfall. But these letters cleared up my confusion, and quite nicely too. Won't the colonel be surprised to know he invited a pair of spies to his supper table.”
“We are not spies.” Jennet's voice came clear, and she was thankful for that much.
“And do you doubt the colonel will see it that way, once he's read these? The Earl of Carryck a secret Catholic and his sister working against the Crown in Canada, now won't that be news from Aberdeen to London? I wonder if they'll build a scaffold big enough to hang all of you at once, or if you'll have to wait your turn. Perhaps,” he said, with a broad smile, “they'll string you up next to your sweetheart, if you ask nicely.”
Jennet was in danger of fainting, for the first time in her life. She balled her fists in her skirts to keep them from shaking and bit her lip hard enough to draw blood. With every bit of strength she could summon, she steadied her voice. “You'll be there with us, I'm sure. To turn me in you must turn in yourself.”
“That would be sloppy of me, would it not? But I've got another idea, one that will please me, at the least.”
The question escaped her before she could stop it. “Who are you?”
He bowed from the shoulders. “Anselme Dégre of Barataria, by way of Acadia, at your service. Now why don't you sit down here and listen to my proposition. If it's to your liking, why, your friends will go off to their fate with no interference from me. Or we could go straightaway and pay a visit to the colonel. Which will it be?”
Her gaze skittered through the tiny shack, moving over pallets and bowls and the few skirts and bodices hung from nails in the rough walls. Nothing that would serve as a weapon. She thought of running; no doubt she could disappear quick enough, but she would not, could not leave the letters in his hands. It seemed that there was hardly enough air to breathe, and what was there reeked with rancid tallow and sweat and her own bitter foolishness.
“What do you mean to do with me?”
He laughed out loud, a pleased laugh, full of pride, not only at his own clever plan but that she had caught on to it. “Let me put your mind to rest, cher. I've got no interest in bedding you.”
That idea hadn't presented itself just yet, and still Jennet felt herself relax. “Then what?”
He turned his head sharply to listen as women walked through the camp, arguing softly. When he looked at her again some of the playfulness had left his expression. “Sad to say, there's no time for more talk just now.”
“Don't let me keep you,” Jennet said. “I'll take my letters and you can be off, I'll say nothing to the colonel.”
He took the letters and tucked them into his shirt, patted them fondly. “It won't be that easy, I fear. You've got two choices. I can tie you up neatly with the letters tucked into the ropes, and send a sentry along—” He held up a hand to stop her protest. “In which case you'll hang and your lover with you, and the prisoners will rot in a prison ship. Or you can come along with me now and give them the chance to get away.”
Jennet caught the edge of the table to keep herself from swaying. “You want me to come with you?”
“We're off for warmer waters, Lady Jennet, far south of here. Out of reach, so to speak.”
“Luke will follow us,” Jennet said. “He will come after me. He'll never give up.”
“No doubt he would try,” said Anselme Dégre. “Were it not for the letter you're about to write.”
Daniel Bonner, eighteen years old, born and raised on the frontier in New-York State, having served for a few short months as a rifleman in the American cause, rose on a bright summer morning that would be his last as a prisoner, and knew that he was done with war.
