Guns of Liberty (5 page)

Brian placed his hand on his son’s shoulder. Even that simple motion caused him to wince. “Doing what must be done can be a painful thing,” the blacksmith said. “A righteous act is its own salve.”

Daniel looked up at his father and clutched the blacksmith’s bloodstained hand, wishing he might bear the pain, not knowing one day he would.

Other dreams followed, one fragment upon the other. Daniel saw himself aboard a careening wagon with a woman at his side whose hair was heather gold. He saw a dark and sinister figure standing in the shadows of a gallows. In that restless sleep he visited the north country and heard the cry of the wolf and the lonely breath of the wind in the lost places. So he passed the night, slipping from one memory to the next.

When he woke at first light he found himself staring into the jaws of death.

D
ANIEL STARED INTO THE
blood-smeared black muzzle of a full-grown mastiff. The animal straddled him, placing its bearlike front paws to either side of Daniel’s neck. The very size of the dog—two hundred pounds of muscle and bone and a lower jaw showing a row of incisors as it loosed a growl—belied the gentle brown eyes set in its large, wrinkled skull.

Daniel’s fingers ceased their surreptitious crawl toward the pistols at his side.

“Easy, my lad. Now, there’s a good pup.”

Pup? My God, he has a growl like thunder.
Daniel calculated his chances of breaking free and didn’t like the odds. A mastiff could rip a man’s throat out in seconds. This one snarled again. A morsel of meat and brown fur was caught in the corner of its mouth but disappeared when the animal licked the blood and drool from its chops. Muscles rippled beneath its reddish brown coat. This couldn’t last forever.

Sweat rolled down Daniel’s forehead and followed the creases in his skin down his cheek and around his neck. He tensed, knowing he was going to try to sit up, slowly and in a very unthreatening manner.

The animal bared its fangs. Then again, Daniel decided, the morning was still young. Why ruin it by being torn limb from limb? Besides, the straw was comfortable—yes, a bed fit for a king. Why leave it? Daniel, you’re a coward. Agreed. But I have both arms and legs and intend
to keep them.
He settled back onto the blanket and prepared to pass the day here if necessary, when a woman’s voice rescued him.

“So you’ve met Gideon,” the mastiff’s owner observed. She clapped her hands once. “Gideon, get thee behind me.”

Gideon obediently trotted to the doorway and sat on its haunches behind the woman standing there.

The woman herself was short and stout and wore a smoke-gray dress buttoned to the neck and a charcoal-gray apron. A gray habit covered her head, leaving visible only the plain, tanned oval of her face. She carried a keg under one arm, and by the ease with which she handled it, Daniel guessed the keg was empty.

“I don’t know you, good pilgrim. I am Hope-Deferred-Maketh-the-Heart-Sick. I was named for my grandmother, who I am told was the consort of a pirate. Yet she became a good Christian before her death. You may call me Sister Hope. For I am one of the Daughters of Phoebe. There are only six of us now. None have come to join our number. And we live beyond Cobb’s Hill at the edge of the forest.”

“Yes’m.” Daniel had heard of religious sects made up solely of women, though he had never before encountered one. He stood and dusted the straw from his trousers and linsey-woolsey shirt. “I’m Daniel McQueen. Kate … uh …Mistress Bufkin has employed me in the restoration of the Hound and Hare.”

“A goodly task.” Sister Hope noted the man kept the mastiff in his guarded gaze. “Wait in the wagon, Gideon.” The mastiff snorted and trotted off toward a two-wheeled cart drawn up before the barn. “And do you not be searching for more of God’s creatures to eat. You’ve broke your fast this morning on that groundhog. That is enough for now.” Sister Hope shook her head in despair, as if she had scolded a naughty child and knew very well she had not been heard.

Daniel wrapped his guns in the blanket and piled straw atop them. Then he sauntered toward the door. He felt a good deal better with that hound of hell off his chest.

Sister Hope appraised this rough-looking stranger. “Well, sir, I judge you to have seen your share of violence.” She placed her hands on her broad hips and looked up at him. At four feet ten inches, she looked up at most everyone.

“I’m a peaceable man, Sister.”

“You’re big, though not as strapping as Papa Schraner’s youngest boy, Henk. But when the final trumpet sounds I warrant it will find you farther down the path.”

“I shall strive to make it so, if only because Henk carries on such a poor conversation. He has all the charm and wit of a press gang.”

Sister Hope had a good sense of humor and shared his poor opinion of Henk Schraner. Henk was certainly the sour apple in the barrel.

“Then you know the Schraners, Mr. McQueen.”

“Only the son.”

“There are more than the one,” she told him.

Daniel groaned. Trouble again; a replay of Montreal flipped through his memory.

“Henk has two brothers, Eben and Barnabas,” Sister Hope continued. “Half brothers, really, by Jon’s first marriage.” She patted her apron and started back toward her cart. “I came to leave a barrel of our sweet pickles off for the tavern. And to draw off a keg of cider for Sister Constance. It helps her to sleep at night, the poor old soul, for her joints are aching of late and even our blackberry wine doesn’t help. But Kate’s hard cider is strong enough to deaden the conscience of a saint.” Sister Hope glanced aside and winked.

Daniel found himself warming to the woman. She was plainspoken, like Kate, though not as mercurial in her moods. Sister Hope was slow and steady.

When they reached the cart the woman ordered Daniel to extend his hand toward the mastiff. The dog rumbled deep in its throat and eyed the outstretched limb as if it were a snack.

“Gideon!” Sister Hope angrily covered Daniel’s hand with her own. The mastiff nuzzled her hand. When Sister Hope withdrew it, the mastiff continued to lick Daniel’s knuckles and its tail curled up and began to wag.

“If only people would learn to accept one another so easily.” She rubbed her palms together and brightened. “Well, now, good sir, we have some pewterware that needs some repair. I don’t suppose …”

“Aye. Bring it to me,” Daniel said. “I’m a fair hand at the forge.” He lowered the pickle barrel onto his shoulder and started toward the tavern, across the courtyard, and through the front door. He selected an appropriate spot for the barrel, near the walnut bar where the libations were served if a man cared to stand and wait for service, which seemed in short supply this morning. The upstairs guests had yet to make an appearance and their mounts were in the barn, so it was a safe assumption they were still abed.

Kate had left food on the bar for her guests to help themselves; they had already paid for their night’s lodging. A platter of apple fritters, bread, and cheese, and a steaming pot of strong tea to warm them on their way was a courtesy of Kate’s own choosing. Still, it did not seem right to make one’s guests fend for themselves. What had taken Kate away at such an early hour? And where was she?

Sister Hope seemed to read his mind, for she sighed softly and said, “Her brother, poor soul. He takes to spells. I warrant you find him and you’ll find her.”

O
N THE FAR SIDE
of the field behind the tavern, Kate Bufkin added another handful of cow parsley to her basket and decided she had gathered enough to make the beautiful yellow dye she would need for the flax Sister Hope was supposed to bring her today. A hundred yards away, Loyal Bufkin went crazy right out in the middle of a cornfield he’d been weeding with the hoe in preparation for an early summer’s harvest. Loyal Bufkin yelled and cursed in a voice that lashed the stillness like a bullwhip. He swung his hoe at a host of unseen enemies arrayed against him, battled his imagined foes to the death. His farm implement was a saber, and with each slash he mowed down the garishly painted Ottawa demons charging out of the impenetrable forest of his mind.

Kate hefted her basket of cow parsley and barberry leaves and found a shady spot beneath a spreading chestnut tree where she could rest and wait out her brother’s spell. It wouldn’t pass until the corn rows ran red with rivulets of blood before his wild eyes. The land had trembled once to the crash of musket and the tramp of militia, to Ottawa war cries, slashing tomahawks, and clashing swords. But that had been many years ago. The countryside may have been pacified, but the Ottawa still followed a warpath through Loyal’s weary mind.

The spell ended as quickly as it began, much to Kate’s relief, and Loyal sat down in the furrowed field and caught his breath. Young cornstalks a couple of feet in height had sprouted from the soil, tended with his loving care like everything else in his garden, like the bees he kept and the fruit trees he nurtured.

Kate relaxed, closed her eyes, and listened to the buzzing bees and the wind stirring the branches overhead. She marveled at how she could almost feel the pulse of the earth under her head, and she thought of Daniel McQueen. She had crept out to the barn before daybreak and found him asleep in the straw; she had contemplated waking him but thought better of it. Not that she was afraid of seeming forward. Such ladylike concerns might suit the girls of Philadelphia—not Kate Bufkin, who had an inn to rebuild. But a man needed his rest, and so she watched in silence, appreciating the rise and fall of his muscular chest as he breathed.

Daniel had looked so hard and fierce, even in repose, nothing like the farmers hereabouts. Yet there was also something innocent about him. She could not explain that even to herself.

Kate Bufkin began to hum quietly and she plucked a stalk of sweet clover from the earth and chewed on the root end as she continued to ruminate on the stranger she had brought back to the Hound and Hare. She wondered where his travels had taken him, and what his life had been like, and was there a woman somewhere pining for the sight of him, and were there … goodness … children and a lonesome bride—or worse, no bride at all but a fatherless brood of young whelps.

What were his loyalties? These were dangerous days. The British were bottled up in Boston, British and American blood had been spilled at Lexington and Concord. Representatives from the thirteen colonies were meeting in Philadelphia to pick a commander-in-chief for an army that was only just being formed. Could Daniel be counted on to serve the patriot’s cause or would he stand with the Tories? No, surely not. His kind of man were born rebels, she had seen it in his eyes.

A shadow fell across Kate, and she noticed she was no longer alone here near the edge of the meadow. Sister Hope of the Daughters of Phoebe had found her out and come to join her. If Hope was here, then—Kate tried to scramble to her feet, but a veritable avalanche of dog flesh crashed into her and pinned her to the ground.

Gideon nipped at her and lapped her neck and face while Kate struggled to extricate herself from the overly affectionate dog. Her pleas went unanswered, because she couldn’t help but laugh. Her neck was a ticklish spot. So Gideon continued to “maul” one of his favorite victims until Kate produced a morsel of apple fritter from her apron and tossed it as far away as she could. Gideon lumbered off after the treat and Kate seized the opportunity to climb to her feet.

She dusted the dirt and grass from her homespun dress. Sister Hope inspected the contents of the basket.

“These will do nicely,” she said. “I’ll have you know I’ve brought you enough cloth to curtain every window.”

“You are too kind to me.”

“Sister Agnes has sent you some of her pickles. I had your man put them in the tavern.”

“Then you met Mr. McQueen?”

“Indeed.” Sister Hope’s eyebrows arched. “And it is plain to see why you’ve taken him on.”

“For shame, Sister Hope. What on earth are you implying?”

“Me? Not one thing.” Her feigned innocence spoke volumes.

“He claims to have some talent with the forge.”

“Why, certainly.”

“And he can cut wood and carpenter some.”

“And isn’t bad to look at while he’s tending to such things.”

“Sister Hope,” Kate protested, nervously straightening the folds of her lime-green-colored apron. “Just what kind of person do you think I am?”

“A woman.” Sister Hope embraced the younger woman in a motherly fashion. “Don’t let these somber colors fool you, my sweet. I once sampled fruits from the forbidden tree. Sin has a sweet nectar. Which is to say, I have the same feelings inside as any woman. Only more of mine are tinged with memories and tamed, while yours are fresh and headstrong and tempting.”

“Hope, really, you misjudge me. I am innocent.”

“Now, perhaps … but later?” Sister Hope shook her head. “I’ll speak no more of it. Just remember, my dear, that it is men who wield all the power. If a woman is to survive she must guard herself and choose when and where to sacrifice that one special gift she has. Do not squander on a simple wayfarer that which can humble even a king.” Sister Hope dabbed at her upper lip with a cotton kerchief that she produced from somewhere in her apron.

“I don’t think I have ever heard you speak like this.” Kate was perplexed at the woman’s remarks. Since the death of Kate’s mother, the Daughters of Phoebe had all exhibited maternal concern toward Kate, Sister Hope more than any of them.

“Walk me back to the inn, there’s a dear,” said Sister Hope. “Gideon!” The mastiff immediately fell into step alongside the women.

“I don’t think that is all a woman has,” Kate suddenly blurted. “A woman can be strong. Lord knows my mother was, until the fire ruined her lungs. A woman has as much courage as any man.”

“My dear one, you only say what I have always said. And yet ‘His Lordship’ always has his way. Because ‘His Lordship’ has the power. However, it is given to women the ability to tame that power and from time to time make it do as we wish.” Sister Hope clapped her hands together and sighed. “Permit an old woman her observations in the twilight of her life.”