Black Wreath (25 page)

If he was a beast, he would have no complaint. But he wasn’t a beast, and though it might be much diluted, he still had enough of his old self in him to know that this life was no life. But how often had he said that to himself over the years? What life was the real one? Maybe there was no real life, just a series of random scenes thrown together. Why should he expect it to make sense? Once a little, angry, persistent flicker inside him had somehow forced him from his bed, somehow assured him that the world would right itself and his place in it be properly acknowledged. But now the flicker was nearly dead. Every day his tools felt heavier and more useless in his hand, as if the world was a weight he wasn’t able to bear any more, as if everything in it was meant for someone else.

He was a long way from home now, and a longer way from himself.

McAllister rode up the dirt track to Mackenzie’s farmstead. He had left Sylvia, Harry and John Purcell in an inn in the local town with strict instructions not to move until he returned, no matter how long that might take. Sylvia had insisted he leave them one of the brace of pistols he had with him for protection. He’d thought it unnecessary but he had given up arguing with Sylvia. She was feisty enough when he met her first, but it was as if she had grown another cubit in the time that had passed since then. There seemed to be nothing she
couldn’t learn. She wanted to know all about the countryside they were passing through; she pored over the maps of the territory and of Mackenzie’s farm that McAllister had brought. The girl from Phoenix Street had grown to be a match for many a man, and McAllister envied James her attachment to him. If only he could meet someone half so spirited.

He had an idea of the reception he could expect from James’s master and steeled himself for a rough ride. Mackenzie didn’t disappoint him. McAllister’s clothes and bearing at least got him farther than Purcell and Sylvia, and he didn’t have to stand in the yard and be dressed down from the verandah, but the man sitting on the other side of the table presented the same sullen face and rough manners. McAllister had got to the end of a slightly rambling speech, in which he presented himself as a lawyer with a communication for one of his indentured servants, a certain James Lovett. He had concocted the letter himself and had it ready in the pocket of his coat, but it didn’t look like it was going to be necessary to produce it.

‘Do I have the look of a messenger boy, do ye think?’ Mackenzie was saying, working himself into a temper.

‘But surely you can’t object to the boy receiving a letter?’ McAllister’s voice was calm and reasonable. All he really wanted was knowledge that James was there.

‘I can object to whatever I like. And especially to a runaway who would cheat me of my money.’

‘A runaway? You mean he’s not here?’

‘Oh he’s here alright, and well versed in what happens to runaways,’ Mackenzie said with satisfaction.

So he’s here, McAllister thought. That’s all I need. There was a second letter in his pocket, and his mind now moved to the tricky problem of getting it to James. The slave who had showed him in, with her proud bearing – Sylvia was sure she could be trusted. It was a great risk, but McAllister could think of no alternative. Mackenzie had tired of the conversation. Most men in this backwoods country would have welcomed company, but not Mackenzie, it seemed. His own grim company suited him best. Well, McAllister would leave him to it now, before the man threw him out.

‘You know,’ he said, as he stood up and took his hat, ‘there is no law that requires a man to abandon his humanity as soon as he gets a little land and some hands to help him work it.’

Mackenzie laughed. ‘When I need the advice of a city gentleman in how to conduct affairs of which he knows nothing, you’ll be first on my list,’ he added.

The slave who had shown McAllister in accompanied him back to the yard. As his horse was brought to him, he quickly pressed the second letter into her palm, without even glancing at her. Nor did he risk speaking to her in case Mackenzie should be watching from the house. Amelia’s palm closed on the carefully folded paper and she made no comment. The fact that she accepted it without question gave McAllister some hope that the message would find its way to James. He mounted his horse and rode back down the track. There was nothing more he could do before darkness.

Thirty-Two

A Lantern in the Woods

J
ames read the letter once, twice, three times. He couldn’t believe what it was saying.

‘Tell me again what he looked like,’ he said to Amelia, though she had already described the stranger in great detail.

‘Same as last time, James, tall enough, and thin and quite intense, with a sharp nose. And carried himself like a gentleman.’

‘But how did he find this place? How does he know I’m here?’

‘I don’t know, James. I know nothing about him, only what I have told you. But I did tell your friends about him, so maybe they found him,’ Amelia said. Even talking about him now made her nervous. ‘Be careful, James,’ she said. ‘There are ears everywhere.’

James lowered his voice. ‘He has come for me,’ he said. ‘He means to take me away from here.’

James read her the letter. She looked at him, her eyes anxious and fearful.

‘James, this is dangerous. If Mackenzie catches you again, he’ll surely kill you. Your back has barely healed; you’re still weak. This isn’t very wise, I think.’ Still, she knew he must go.

‘Oh Amelia,’ James said, ‘is this not death here? How long do you think I can survive in this place? And if this is true, how can I refuse it? I might never get another chance like it.’

There wasn’t much Amelia could say in response that she hadn’t said before, but she reached her hand out and touched James’s arm. ‘I don’t want to see you go, James, that’s my problem. No, that’s not right. I
do
want to see you go. It’s just that I will miss you.’

She looked away. ‘You must go, but you must be careful. He’ll kill you if he catches you again.’

The two were silent awhile before Amelia spoke again, her voice full of ache and loneliness, ‘God speed you, James. I’ll say goodbye now because there will be no time later. And you mustn’t give anyone the impression you intend to go. No one, you understand?’

James nodded. He understood too well. ‘I only wish you were coming with me, Amelia.’

Amelia shook her head sadly. ‘It will be hard enough for you to get away. If I were to go with you, they would stop at nothing to hunt us both down.’ She gripped his hand. ‘Just remember me,’ she said. ‘Remembering would be enough.’

This time James packed nothing, not even as much as a hunk of bread. He didn’t care about food or clothes; his only thought was to follow the instructions in McAllister’s letter. His old friend must have got hold of a map, for his directions gave evidence of a good knowledge of the layout of the farm. The spot McAllister had chosen for their rendezvous was the same place James had made his first escape from, in the wood at the northern extent of Mckenzie’s land. Feeling that it might be cursed with bad luck, James wished McAllister had selected somewhere else, but there was nothing he could do about it now.

He did everything just as he did every night, checking on the horses in the stable, bringing in a stack of logs from the pile in the yard, eating his usual meal with Amelia, Connolly and the others. He made the same small talk and shuffled off to his usual hard bed, but he did not fall asleep. He listened intently to the sounds of the hut and the others sleeping, and at about fifteen minutes to midnight he lifted his blanket, raised himself carefully from his pallet and pulled on his clothes. He carried his boots outside and pulled them on in the grass, keeping his eyes peeled in case his absence had been registered. There was no sound, and no sign that anyone had heard. He crept away from the hut and the house and made his way slowly through the undergrowth to the edge of the woods where he had been working earlier that day. It was as if he was re-enacting the night when he had first escaped from the farm, and he tried to put all the crowding thoughts of the misadventures that had followed that flight out of his mind. It
wasn’t easy, and his eyes darted nervously from tree to tree, half-expecting someone to leap out and attack him. He was much more afraid than he had been the first time, not least because he knew exactly what he could expect if he was caught.

Someone did step from behind a tree so close to him he had no time to turn and bolt. He cursed his stupidity, but the hand that reached out didn’t strike a blow; it simply rested on his shoulder, and a soft voice whispered his name.

‘It’s alright, James. It’s me, McAllister, you got the message then.’

‘Is it really you, Mr McAllister?’ James fell into his old way of addressing him, as if they were still in Trinity College.

‘No need to “mister” me any more, James.’

McAllister looked closely at the boy. ‘I’d hardly recognise you, James. You look worn out.’

James shrugged. ‘I can’t say I’ll be sorry to leave.’

McAllister started suddenly. ‘Did you tell anyone you were coming here?’ he whispered urgently.

‘Not a soul,’ James said. ‘Why?’

‘There’s a light over there; it looks like a lantern.’

McAllister pointed back in the direction James had come from. James saw it too, a swaying light like a lantern held on a horse. He remembered very clearly the last time he saw a light like that. He had been so careful. Who could possibly have seen him?

‘Quickly,’ McAllister said. ‘The sooner we get out of here the better.’

He untied his horse and mounted, and then reached his
hand down to James. ‘Hold tight,’ McAllister said as they galloped through the trees.

Soon they’d leaped across the boundary of Mackenzie’s land and were moving swiftly up the slope of the adjoining meadow to the thick woods on the crest. James chanced a quick look around and saw to his horror that the light was now near enough for him to make out the clear outline of a horse and rider.

‘He’s close behind,’ he shouted in McAllister’s ears.

‘Damnation!’ McAllister swore, and urged his horse on.

They reached the shelter of the trees and pressed on. McAllister had committed the map to memory, but a forest at night isn’t friendly to maps or map readers. He rode blindly, his one objective now to put as much darkness between him and the following horseman as he could. But the rider with his lantern seemed surer of his territory, and the sound of the hooves was clearer with every passing second. Then came the loud, unmistakable voice. ‘Stop there! Stop or I’ll fire!’

‘Mackenzie!’ James shouted. ‘How in God’s name is he here?’

So he didn’t believe my story after all, McAllister thought. He must have guessed I would try something. Unless someone told him. Unless Amelia, but no, he couldn’t imagine Amelia would have given them away. He didn’t have time to think about that now. He wheeled his horse around to the right and plunged into the thick of the forest, but it was as if that was exactly what Mackenzie expected him to do, for his own horse wheeled round too, and, in a second,
McAllister fell from his horse as James heard the deafening report of Mackenzie’s pistol. Before James had time to steady his horse, Mackenzie was upon him, his second pistol levelled right between his eyes. James could hardly believe what was happening. It didn’t seem possible that his escape could be over before it had even begun. He glanced down to where McAllister lay groaning on the ground. He was still alive then.

‘You must think me an utter fool,’ Mackenzie said. ‘Do you think I’m that easily taken in? It was clear as day from the minute your fancy friend showed up that something was afoot. Well, the law can take care of him, but by God I’ll take care of you.’

James fell from the horse as if the sheer force of Mackenzie’s words had struck him, but his fall was calculated, and he landed on his feet and ran like a demon into the darkness. Mackenzie followed hard, and no matter how fast or what way James ran, the horseman was right behind him, pounding through the undergrowth. If only some great hole would appear to swallow me up, James thought, his breath coming in gasps, his body weakened by fright and exhaustion. He was no match for Mackenzie, who leapt from his horse and pinned him against a tree.

‘Our appointment won’t wait,’ he snarled at James and struck him on the head with the butt of his pistol.

When James came to, he was tied to the tree and Mackenzie was standing in front of him, his coat thrown on the ground and the sleeves of his shirt rolled up for action. James closed his eyes and tried to force his mind to picture any scene
other than the one he was confronted with. He fell back into Phoenix Street and found himself walking slowly with Sylvia on a bright, clear day. He could hear the gulls screech above the streets and the heavy smell of the river filled his nostrils. Sylvia’s voice came to him as if she was standing right in front of him. The first blow crashed into his cheek and loosened a few teeth. James felt the blood seep into his throat.

‘If you hit him again, I’ll kill you’ came the voice, and as James slowly opened an eye he thought he must have died already. There, astride a horse neither of them had heard approach, was a figure in a cloak brandishing a pistol. But that voice …

Mackenzie spun around and, as he took in the figure, he drew his sword and rushed. The horse shied and the figure fell to the ground. The pistol ended up inches from Mackenzie’s boots. He laughed and bent to retrieve it. He aimed at the cloaked figure and cocked the pistol. But a second figure now stepped from behind a tree, a figure James recognised with a shock. Could it be? The slim figure held a pistol and, for the second time that night, James was deafened by a shot. Mackenzie fell in a heap on the ground and was utterly still. The hooded figure who had been hurled to the ground now clambered up. She undid her hood and James gasped. Now he knew for sure that he had entered the land of the dead.

The girl spoke to him in Sylvia’s voice. ‘James, are you alright? It’s me, Sylvia?’

She cut the rope with a knife and released him. He looked around. It seemed to be the same dark world he had left behind him. But what was Sylvia doing in it, surely she
wasn’t …? His straying thoughts were quickly gathered by the pressure of her arms around him.

‘James,’ she kept saying. ‘My own James, is it really you?’

‘I should be saying that,’ James said. He still didn’t trust his senses. ‘Is it really you? And how do you come to be here?’

‘It’s a long story,’ Sylvia said, ‘but we don’t have time for it here.’

The figure with the pistol now spoke. ‘Need your shoes shined, old friend? They look a bit mucky to me.’

James gasped. ‘Harry? Is it you?’

‘It’s me alright. Couldn’t leave you to your own devices.’

James could hardly believe it. He still wasn’t sure he was not dreaming, but as he stepped forward he almost tripped over the unmoving form of Mackenzie. When he looked up, Harry and Sylvia were still there – it must be real, then.

‘Do you think he’s dead?’ he said.

He pulled Mckenzie’s head to one side and saw the wound in the middle of his forehead.

‘I don’t think we have anything more to fear from him,’ Sylvia said.

‘I’m not sure that’s true,’ a voice announced in the darkness.

Sylvia wheeled round. ‘Jeremy!’

McAllister came limping towards them. He was clutching his arm where the ball had hit him. James and Sylvia both ran over and embraced him.

‘You’re hurt,’ James said.

‘It went straight through,’ he said, ‘but I hit my head when I fell and just came to.’

Sylvia examined his arm. She made him take off his coat and rip a sleeve from his shirt, and with that she fashioned a tourniquet to staunch the bleeding. His head didn’t seem to be cut.

‘What did you mean, about Mackenzie?’ James said.

‘Dead men talk,’ McAllister said. ‘They can tell who killed them and where they might be. We need to conceal his body.’

They set about digging in the hard ground with their hands, but the work was slow.

‘There’s no time for this,’ James said. ‘What if he should be missed, and someone comes after him?’

‘I can’t think who would miss him,’ McAllister said, ‘but you’re right, we need to go.’

They dragged Mackenzie’s body into the shallow dent they’d made and heaped leaves and brush on top. It wasn’t much of a concealment, but it would have to do.