MacFarlane's Ridge (38 page)

She was stunned to learn that neither Cam nor Wanda had children at their advanced ages, which struck both of them as amusing. Cam recalled a similar conversation she had once carried on with Robert MacFarlane, regarding her lack of marital prospects.

They also discovered that they were to be given to the commander of Fort Wyndham so that he could then trade them to the Continental Army in exchange for British prisoners.

“So, what do your people get out of it, turning us over to them?” Wanda asked Running Stream.

The girl smiled. She had warmed up to them considerably in their time together, and she was quite open about everything they asked her. “We get to live in peace,” she answered softly. “The British leave us be, and they give us guns to defend ourselves if we need it.” She raised her eyes to meet Cam’s.

“Please do not think badly of my people. We must survive, like anyone else.”

Cam nodded. She understood, and was saddened by the knowledge of what would become of Running Stream’s people, and the other tribes, over the next two hundred years. She opened her mouth to speak, but Wanda caught her arm.

It was just a tiny gesture, the slightest shake of Wanda’s head that stopped her. Wanda mouthed, “Don’t.”

Cam exhaled, and Wanda released her arm. Later that night, when Running Stream had gone to sleep and the rest of the camp was quiet, Cam said, “Why did you stop me?”

“You were going to warn her, weren’t you? About what happens to all of our brave and noble savages? About how the white man comes, takes all their land, kills their buffalo, and wipes them all out so they can live on a reservation somewhere with an eighty percent unemployment rate?” asked Wanda, all in one breath.

“It had crossed my mind,” said Cam dryly, “although in not quite such a dramatic way.”

“Well, you can’t, so forget it,” snapped Wanda.

“What is with you, anyway?” Cam propped herself up on her elbow and stared at Wanda in the darkness.

“Nothing. You just can’t change stuff, that’s all. Remember? You might change the outcome of one small life, but you aren’t allowed to mess with the course of history.”

“Not allowed?” Cam was incredulous. “Now there’s a rulebook or something?”

“I just mean that you can’t,” Wanda said stubbornly.

Cam stared at her. “Can’t because it just won’t happen, or can’t because Wanda Mabry – excuse me, Wanda Duncan – says I can’t?”

Wanda said nothing.

“What is this all about, Wanda? I wasn’t going to try to change anything. But I like Running Stream, and I thought I could help her by… I don’t know. Giving her a warning or something,” Cam murmured.

“Well, she doesn’t need a warning from you. The Mohawks will do as they please until they get wiped out, just like the Shawnee did,” Wanda grumbled from under her thin blanket.

“The Shawnee? Is that what this is about? I can’t tell Running Stream to protect herself because of what the Shawnee did to your family?” Cam sputtered.

There was no response. Cam shook her head. “I never pegged you for the vengeful type, Wanda. You didn’t even kill Wayne Sinclair when you had the chance, and I ---“

“Shut up!” Wanda hissed. “Shut up, Cameron Clark. You don’t know the first thing about it, and killing Wayne Sinclair would have given me more pleasure than I can even tell you. But I had my reasons for letting him live, and I am not under any obligation to discuss them with anyone, especially you!”

Wanda wriggled to her feet, encountering some difficulty because of her skirts, and flounced off to the other side of the clearing.

Cam lay awake for a long time afterwards. She thought about Wanda’s family, lost in a raid near Big Lick – Roanoke -- two years ago. I wonder if I would feel the same way, if I were in her position. Probably not, she concluded. Then again, I guess Ill never know, since when my family died it was a freak accident…

They would be at Fort Wyndham in two days, and Cam was thankful. Finally, she slept, Wanda’s words echoing in her dreams.

By the time Tumblesby and Stave pulled him off Wayne Sinclair, Robert MacFarlane had managed to inflict a fair amount of damage. Sinclair’s lip was bloody, one eye – the blue one -- was swollen shut, and there were livid bruises on his neck from Rob’s hands.

Gasping, Sinclair reeled away from Rob, leaning over his desk, where he vomited into a stack of papers.

Tumblesby and Stave held Rob pinned against the door. The fat dragoon pummeled Rob’s side with his pudgy fist, while the smaller one jabbed at him with the end of his musket.

Sinclair poured himself a glass of wine from a decanter on the side table and sat, sipping it carefully.

“Well,” he croaked finally, “I can’t say I’ve missed you either.” He nodded to Tumblesby. “Hold him still,” Sinclair ordered.

They obeyed, and Sinclair took the musket from Stave, who was watching with avid interest. Sinclair examined the musket carefully, and held it level with Rob’s face.

“I could shoot you now,” he said hoarsely. “I could load and fire and no one would ever be the wiser. Men die in prison all the time, especially here at Fort Wyndham. I could shoot you now,” he repeated.

Rob smiled at him. “Do it.”

Sinclair blinked owlishly. “Robert, I am starting to think you’re really not that afraid of me. You’re not, are you?”

“I am not. Should I be?” Rob asked softly. “I am here because I was captured aboard the Lady Meg as we prepared to board a British cargo ship. I am being charged with piracy and most likely will hang before the week is out.” He narrowed his eyes at Sinclair. “So, Lieutenant Clarendon, I dinna think that there is much ye could threaten me with that would strike fear into my soul.”

Sinclair moved his face closer to Rob’s. “Do you see this scar?”

“I’d be a blind man to miss it.”

“Wanda Mabry gave me that. Shot me in the face, dragged me down a mountainside and left me to die,” he hissed. “There are worse things than death, Robert. Much worse.”

How well I know, Rob thought. How well I know.

“Let me tell you something, Robert MacFarlane, or Alexander MacFarland, whichever you prefer. From this moment until the one in which your sorry corpse dangles from the hangman’s rope,” whispered Wayne Sinclair, “I am going to give you plenty of reasons for you to ask whatever God you believe in to let you die.”

He spun the musket around with lightning speed, and slammed the stock into Rob’s abdomen. Robert doubled over, but the dragoons prevented him from falling completely on his face.

Sinclair stepped back abruptly. “I hope you have made peace with your God, Robert.”

Rob looked up at him, and smiled through the pain. “And I hope ye’ve done the same with yours, you son of a bitch.”

The stock of the musket crashed down again, and everything in Robert MacFarlane’s world went black.

“Clarendon? What the devil is this about? Why do you want me to sit in judgment on a piracy trial? Has it no’ occurred to ye that I may have better things to do?” huffed Brigadier General Simon Fraser.

Fraser was Scottish by birth, but had allied himself with the British early in his career. Fraser was no fool. Now nearing fifty, he had always known where his own best interests, and that of his landholding family, lay.

“The 24
th
has places to be, lad. I canna be sittin’ about your garrison sentencing a bunch o’ pirates to hang when there’s work to be done,” he continued. Fraser was the commander of the 24
th
Regiment of Foot, and was in somewhat of a hurry. His men had recently assisted in the taking of an American fort on the shores of Lake Champlain, and then promptly engaged in a nasty battle with some New Hampshire militiamen. He was eager to get back to them. “We’re to rendezvous with Howe shortly, as ye may know.”

Wayne Sinclair smiled and leaned back in his chair, sipping his brandy. “I certainly am sympathetic to that, sir. However, there is one gentleman in particular being held here that you might find of interest.”

Simon Fraser snorted and scratched his paunchy stomach. “I have no interest at all in pirates, Clarendon. Ye can be assured of that. There’s bigger fish to fry than a bunch o’ inconsequential merchant seamen.”

Sinclair nodded eagerly. “That is precisely why I asked you to sit in on this trial, sir. I have one man here who is more than a pirate. He’s a traitor to the Crown.”

Fraser peered narrowly at him, his interest piqued. “Go on, laddie.”

“His name is Robert MacFarlane, and he was the first mate of a vessel called the Lady Meg, which was apprehended during an attempt to board a British cargo ship. At the time the ship was captured, he was going under another name.”

“Ye say he was the mate? What of the captain?”

“Dead,” Sinclair shrugged. “No great loss, really.”

“An’ why is this man more traitorous that the average privateer?” Fraser inquired.

WayneSinclair smiled. “He is a member of a Virginia family that is simply infested with traitors. His brother-in-law, an Angus Duncan, was a delegate to the Continental Congress, and is now working within Washington’s intelligence network.”

“Go on.”

“Angus Duncan is married to a woman of, shall we say, questionable virtues. She’s a spy,” he said bluntly.

Fraser stared at him for a long moment. “And ye think this MacFarlane will give us evidence on the brother-in-law and his wife?”

“I think it’s possible,” admitted Sinclair, licking his lips, “with a little persuasion.”

“I dinna hold wi’ torture,” said Fraser softly, his tiny eyes glittering. “However, I do understand that in times like these… well, ye do what ye must, aye? When is MacFarlane to appear for trial?”

Sinclair smiled. “Tomorrow, at noon. Would that delay your trip too much?”

Fraser belched and scratched himself again. “I suppose not.” He helped himself to more brandy, and sighed. “But it had best be worth it, Clarendon. I shall be very put out if ye’re wasting my time.”

Ralph Fitzralph was overjoyed to see Robert return to the cell, even as badly bruised as he was. Ralph was terrified he would be raped in Robert’s absence. He didn’t like the way Corporal Stave had been looking at him over the last few days.

“MacFarland! Ye’re still alive!” Ralph exclaimed happily.

Stave laughed. “Not for long.” He nibbled on a grimy fingernail and eyed Ralph. “He ain’t gonna be here to protect you all the time, boy,” he leered.

Robert gingerly examined his ribs. “Leave the lad alone, Stave, he’s a child,” he muttered.

Stave squinted at him. “You know we’ll be comin’ back for you later.”

“Aye. Would ye mind giving a message to yon Lieutenant Clarendon for me?” asked Rob politely.

“What is it?”

Robert smiled. “Tell him that next time, if I get a chance, I’ll kill him.”

Stave and Tumblesby were the ones who came to get him that night, of course. The three other men in the cell put up a bit of opposition, not so much because they were concerned about Robert’s well-being but because they were simply not looking forward to any more of Ralph Fitzralph’s incessant blubbering. Tumblesby put a stop to any thoughts of resistance by waving his musket around furiously and shouting the men back into a corner.

Stave promised Ralph he’d be back for him later, and then he and Tumblesby led Rob back to the officer’s quarters.

Wayne Sinclair was, as Rob expected, waiting for him.

“You may go,” he said abruptly to the two dragoons.

Tumblesby frowned. “Begging your pardon, Lieutenant, but he has promised to kill you at the first opportunity.”

Sinclair nodded solicitously. “And I do appreciate your concern, Corporal. But I don’t think that opportunity will ever arise,” he said softly, looking at Robert, who noted with satisfaction that the swelling around Sinclair’s blue eye had increased somewhat. Maybe I’ll blacken the brown one for you next…

The dragoons left, and Robert was alone with Sinclair once more.

“Sit,” motioned Sinclair, pointing at a chair.

“I prefer to stand.”

“Suit yourself.” Sinclair shrugged, and sat at his desk. “You and I need to talk.”

“Aye, well, you have my undivided attention, do ye not?” asked Robert dryly.

“Whatever. Do you know who Simon Fraser is?”

Rob frowned. “One of your generals, am I right?”

“Absolutely. Brigadier General, to be precise, although only here in the Colonies. Youngest son of the Frasers of Balnain. He served under another Simon Fraser, one of the Frasers of Lovat, during the French and Indian war. Fought at Trois Rivieres in June of last year, marvelous defensive tactics,” Sinclair explained.

“You brought me here to sing me the praises of Simon Fraser?”

“No, you ignorant sod,” grinned Sinclair. “I brought you here to tell you he will be personally be overseeing your trial tomorrow. He happened to be passing through so I invited him to sit in judgement for you.”