Fire Along the Sky (37 page)

Nathaniel said, “I don't think you girls will have any more trouble from the Ratz boys. And if you do, a word to Martin should set them straight in no time.”

Callie and Martha, their eyes fixed on the chase, could only nod.

Later, Elizabeth and the girls told the story to an appreciative audience at Curiosity's hearth. Callie and Martha fell to giggling again when Elizabeth got to the part where Jem Ratz had skidded into a steaming manure pile.

“Did their pa ever get their clothes off them?” Sally asked.

“He did,” said Elizabeth. “The last we saw of them, the boys were running down the river in nothing but their boots. They were as white as geese, from foot to neck.”

“As long as they don't come down with lung fever,” Curiosity said, who wanted to laugh but wasn't sure she quite approved. “Otherwise they'll be dragging our Hannah out to tend to those fool boys in the middle of the night.”

“I don't think there is much chance of that,” Elizabeth said. “They were only a minute from home. I'm sure their mother wrapped them up and got some tea into them.”

At that Curiosity snorted; she thought very little of Martin Ratz, who simply refused to pay any midwife's fee for the birth of a daughter, and even less of Georgia, who was a slovenly housekeeper and could not control her own children.

“Where is Hannah?” said Jennet. “She's missed the telling of the story.”

“Out in the barn,” said Sally. “With her da.”

“I'll go see her there,” Elizabeth said.

“Don't be too long,” Curiosity said. “I'll have supper on the table in a half hour, and I don't want this food to go to waste.”

Elizabeth found Nathaniel in the barn, but no Hannah, who had gone down to the village to look at a trapper with some frostbitten toes that might need amputation.

“But I haven't had a chance to talk to her yet,” Elizabeth said, disappointed and oddly put out that Hannah should evade her so neatly.

“She'll be back shortly,” Nathaniel said. He had been examining the hoof of Curiosity's horse, which he dropped as he straightened. Then he grinned at her in a way that made her step back, and draw in a breath.

“Ain't it neighborly of you to come out here to keep me company,” he said, advancing.

“Nathaniel.” Trying to sound firm.

“Boots. That was a good piece of work you did today.”

She stepped back again, and found herself up against a wall. “It didn't go as I expected it to. All I wanted—”

He stopped in front of her. “Was to get those boys to behave. You did that.”

“There were less . . . disruptive ways to accomplish the same thing.”

“But what fun would that have been?” He tilted his head, stemmed one arm against the wall behind her, and kissed her briefly. “I for one don't have anything against a little excitement in the middle of winter.” His free hand strayed to her waist and then to the small of her back.

“What is it about this barn that always gets you started?” Elizabeth asked, her hands on his chest. “I have never understood it.”

He cocked an eyebrow at her. “Are you telling me you ain't in a romantic frame of mind?”

“I'm asking a question,” Elizabeth said, slipping out from between him and the barrels. “And we're too old for such foolishness in the middle of the afternoon.”

“Speak for yourself.” Nathaniel walked over to the tackle shelf and the bench underneath it, where he sat with his hands on his knees. “Come set over here next to me, Boots.”

She did it against her better judgment, and realized immediately what he was about.

“Oh,” she said. “You're thinking of the night—”

“You asked me to marry you.”

She swallowed down her irritation. “Yes, I suppose that's the way you'd remember it. It was right here.”

At that he laughed out loud and slipped an arm around her waist, put his face to the crook of her neck. With one hand he worked the ties of her cloak while he pressed a kiss just under her ear.

“Nathaniel.”

“Boots.”

“Really, Nathaniel, you can't—”

“Watch me.”

She made an effort to pull away, halfhearted, wanting to be held down, wanting to be convinced. And he knew it, of course. That was the miracle.

On an indrawn breath she said, “What kind of example are we for the children?”

He paused to think about that, though his hands continued to stroke her back.

“The best kind of example, seems to me. We like each other real well even after all these years and the troubles we been through. I ain't in the habit of beating you and you don't throw dishes at my head when you're feeling out of sorts. A man who likes to touch his wife, and a woman who likes it that he does—I don't know there's anything to be ashamed of in that. Most men I know would call us damn fortunate. Most women too, I'd wager.”

Elizabeth grasped his hands in both of hers and kissed one callused palm. “Drat you, Nathaniel, I had a whole list of excellent arguments and I can't think of a single one. You disarm me every time.”

He turned her to him then and kissed her soundly. “You go ahead, Boots,” he said, smiling against her mouth. “When those arguments come to you, I'll be right here. Listening.”

“Supper on the table,” she muttered. “It'll be cold.”

“You won't,” he said, and drew her down to the hay.

Chapter 23

By the fourth morning of the journey, Lily had begun to suspect that they were the only people not just in the endless forests, but the world. Every other kind of living thing seemed to show itself: moose, elk, deer, wolves, panthers—at that, the team nearly bolted, but for Simon's quick handling. He never had to go very far or long to bring them a steady diet of meat: partridge, turkey, grouse, and the occasional rabbit. Lily was at first amused and then put out when Simon took it upon himself to point out tracks, as if she had not taken note, or did not know what they were. Then she realized that while he had been in this country for a long time, the bounty of the woods still surprised and delighted him.

She remembered nothing of her short time in Scotland; she had been no more than a baby. But the stories were fresh in her mind and she asked him about the bare Scots hillsides and the fairy tree that figured so largely in Jennet's girlhood stories.

Jennet. She would give a great deal to have Jennet along on this journey, or Hannah, or any woman, really.

Lily was just thinking about her sudden and very intense yearning to be among other women, when Simon cleared his throat in a way she recognized: he had something important to tell her.

“It's the next day or two that are the most dangerous,” he said in his calmest, most disturbing voice. “For we're near the border and only a few miles from the Sorel. The woods are full of every manner of man who ever put on a uniform. Revenue agents, mostly, looking for smugglers.”

“And militia,” Lily suggested.

“Aye, militia and regulars both.”

“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.

“Sorry Tom's cabin is not a mile off,” he said. “We'll spend the night there.”

Even as he was saying the words, a knot of dread pulled tight deep in Lily's belly, and with good reason.

“Sorry Tom!” MacLeod put back his head and laughed, exposing rings of dirt on a neck much like a tree trunk. “I haven't thought of Sorry Tom in many a year, the old thief. By the Christ—sorry, Miss Bonner, but we've been sleeping raw for two weeks.”

Simon might have simply warned them off, but instead he looked at Lily and cocked his head. And wasn't it like him, Lily thought, to leave the hard decisions to her. She could allow them to follow along and spend an uncomfortable night, or suffer the knowledge that could have provided some comfort, and had acted selfishly.

“It's just a cabin,” she said. “But you can put your blankets on the floor and squeeze together.”

When they had started off again Simon put his arm around her and drew her close. “You've a soft heart, Lily Bonner,” he said. “And a generous one.”

She wanted to be irritated, but could not; that was Simon's special talent, to disarm her with the truth when she wanted to be difficult. She couldn't be angry at him when he flashed his dimples at her, all admiration and approval, and underneath that, not very far, the thing that kept drawing them back together. Tonight, of course, they would have chaperones. Twenty-one of them. Lily should have felt relief, she knew, but she did not.

The voltigeurs were men who had never cared much for the ways of civilized folk, but they were jovial and friendly and willing to do almost anything to entertain Lily; one of them had a fiddle, and he offered to play, later, if she would like it; another dug a chunk of maple sugar out of his pack, brushed it off on his mantle, and offered it to her.

They knew who she was, of course, and asked after her father's health and what kind of season he was having. No one asked about her brother, and whether he had joined the fighting. Maybe because they knew the answer; maybe because they didn't really want to know.

After those first few awkward moments, there was nothing for Lily to do except watch them fetch wood and water and arrange the room so that she might have some privacy. They ran a rope across one corner of the room and from that they hung blankets that were pungent, but effective in screening off the one bed from the rest of the cabin. Lily disappeared behind the makeshift curtain as soon as it was up and lay down to stare at the ceiling and listen to the men as they sorted through their packs and shaved and began to cook. They spoke English and French rolled together with words from other languages—some clearly Indian—in that strange but oddly effective manner of the Canadian woodsman. It was rough and musical and Lily liked the sound of it. Someone put meat to roast over the hearth and the smell made Lily realize how hungry she was. Then Simon came in and they greeted him with such warmth that Lily was pleased for him.

After a while her attention drifted to the wall where a picture had been nailed, a drawing of a severe man with a chin beard. Next to him was a much younger woman, round cheeked with a dimpled chin, who was smiling shyly. Lily wondered if this was Sorry Tom, and how he had earned such a name, for in this picture he did not look sorry in the least, but grim and disapproving. Then, intrigued, she got up on her knees and studied the drawing more closely.

Something hard and sweet clicked in her throat, as it would if she had come unexpectedly around a corner to find her mother or father there. She touched the paper carefully with a fingertip and leaned forward to smell it, with the silly thought that there might be some scent left of the man who had done the work. Because she recognized it, now that she looked closely. Gabriel Oak had drawn this likeness; Gabriel Oak had been in these woods some many years ago and had sat in front of the hearth and drawn for his supper and a warm place to sleep. In a corner he had placed his mark, but she would have recognized his work without it.

Gabriel Oak, who had been her first teacher and her most beloved. Hot tears pushed up into her eyes and fell without warning, a great waterfall not so much of sadness, for he was dead these many years, but of thankfulness for the gift he had given her: a knowledge of herself.

Lily thought of the box in the sleigh she had packed so carefully. Her most cherished possessions: the old book that Gabriel had left her, filled with his drawings and notes, the letters her mother had written, her good pencils and a block of paper, things she had meant to use to make a record of this journey. Not once had she opened it, but that would change. She cleared her throat so the voltigeurs would know that she was about to make an appearance, and went out to take their likenesses.

Backwoodsmen, usually solitary by nature, were generally argumentative when herded together, and these men were no different. A fistfight might have broken out over who was to sit for Lily, and in what order, had not Lieutenant MacLeod intervened. The lucky ones were sent out to scrub their faces in the snow, and someone produced a wooden comb out of a haversack and passed it around, though from what Lily could see it would do little good.

For all their grime and coarse talk, they were strong men in their prime, and she found the truth of them in letting her pencil move over the paper.

Her third subject was a man with the remarkable name of Uz Brodie, who was eager to tell her the history of the war farther to the west. That caught Lily's attention.

“You've been as far as the lakes?” she asked.

“I spent three months on the St. Lawrence,” he said, not without pride. “But they sent us home for the Yule, and after I thought I'd be better off under Salaberry, so I joined up with the voltigeurs.”

“He'd had enough of Red George and his clergymen,” called a voice from the other side of the cabin. “A priest six and a half foot tall.”

“A magical priest, for he grows a few inches with each telling,” added another voice.

MacLeod raised his voice to be heard. “Uz tells us the priest goes into battle with a great crucifix that he uses like a pike.”

“A Jesuit, no doubt,” Simon said in his dry way. That set the room off again; Catholics, Lily noticed, liked a joke at the expense of their priests, if they did not skirt too close to the truth. Simon especially liked such jokes, perhaps, she reminded herself, because he had an uncle who was a Jesuit.

“Uz Brodie, chased off by a priest,” hooted a small man on the other side of the room.

The reaction was immediate, for Brodie flushed a mottled red and thrust out his chest like an affronted turkey. Indeed, he looked a great deal like a turkey, Lily thought, with a wattle of red skin on his neck and a nose blue with cold and sharp as a beak and quick black eyes.

“You laugh, Clarke, laugh on. But there's no place for priests among fighting men.”

“And why not? I've nothing against priests,” said the small man, who, Lily noticed now, was missing all the teeth on one side of his mouth and, as if to compensate, had a thick red scar where the opposite eyebrow should be.