The Wolves of Andover

by Kathleen Kent

  He set aside her shawl and carefully washed her face and neck, cupping one palm around the back of her head, running his other hand across the birdlike bones at the base of her throat and the darker skin above her bodice. The water ran in droplets between her breasts, collecting on her ribs like animate things, and she recalled she must breathe. Her hands, lying useless at her sides, were collected and rinsed with water until the pads of her fingers were pale again.

  While he washed her he spoke to her calmly, beseechingly, in Welsh and then in English, telling her, “Daniel spoke only that you and the missus had quarreled, and that he sent you for a time to your father’s.”

  “Thomas,” she whispered, “through my own carelessness I have revealed to Daniel…”

  He held her chin so that she faced him. “Martha, Daniel knows who and what I am. He always has. He is but one of many who has chosen to give safe harbor to men such as myself.” Startled, she reflexively pulled back, but he held her fast. “Pots are not the only things he carries in his wagon. His work goes to the heart of his commitments to keep those in hiding from harm. He carts letters and dispatches from here to Boston and back again for a man named James Davids who, to the best of his abilities, watches over those of us wanted by the king for treason.” He craned his face closer to hers, his voice low and urgent. “Daniel carries the greatest treasure in the colonies: intelligences, warnings, instructions. Without such knowledge we would be like blind men pursued by dogs.”

  That Daniel had put himself, and his family, at risk of imprisonment or death made her ashamed she had ever thought him weak. “Has he said more?” she asked. “Why he sent me away?”

  He shook his head. “Beyond crossing words with his good wife? Only that he would give you time to reflect on the life you may be choosing.” He traced a lingering finger across the prominence of her collarbone.

  Relief that Daniel had not spoken of the red book overwhelmed her, and she lowered her chin. She held up her empty palms, like a supplicant, to show him she had brought nothing with her on her arriving, for she had nothing. He pulled her head roughly to his chest, and then he lifted her up, carrying her into the recesses of a far stall.

  The hay was newly set, both green-smelling and fusty from the mold of summer. He set his back against the wall and pulled her to him. Her gestures were reticent, shy, and he kissed her gently until she had caught fire and pressed her mouth between his lips. She straddled his lap, understanding that his great weight would burden her, and helped him pull up the bulk of her skirt and shift which then lay like a gray curtain around them. She placed his hand over her breast and willed herself to slow her own motions. She brought her forehead to rest on his, her eyes opened and watchful. There were no whispered pleadings or sentiments offered to justify their actions, but a voiceless question had formed on Thomas’s face and she said, “Yes.” “Yes,” she said to him and settled her hips more insistently on his.

  He encircled her tightly, her soft lower ribs shifting under the force, and then he moved to open the cloth of his breeches. He kissed her, biting her hard on the lip, as though to distract her from the pain, the tearing of the small veil of tissue between her legs, the skin straining for an instant, like the belly of a silvered trout, torn on a barbed lure.

  After that there was very little pain, only the sensation of dying by slow measures, the blood swimming to the surface of her skin like resurrected bounty brought up from some polar sea. She could feel the beginnings of pressure marks on her arms and thighs, the scalding of her flesh by the uncut bristles of his face. She wound her arms more tightly around his neck, impressing herself onto him, promising to wear the unintended bruises like the flags of a new country.

  CHAPTER 21

  THE HOUSE WAS darkening, the sky where the sun had set banded with the filtered, wavering red of calamitous fires. George Afton, his face reflected crookedly in the fractured glass of the common room window, looked out once more into the yard but saw no one approaching. He caught in his reflection the broad streaks of soot he had purposefully rubbed onto his cheeks, and the first downy growth of chin whiskers erupting, and thought he had succeeded in making himself appear older than he was.

  He hunkered back close to the hearth, feeding the low flames carefully with small, dry pieces of wood, keeping the smoke through the chimney thin and unobtrusive. His job, he knew, was to wait, but the hours spent alone had eaten away at his spleen until his hands trembled on the grip of the pouring ladle, causing the molten lead within to spill. He had been filling bullet molds for hours and had a small pile of twenty or so musket balls cooled, ready to be trimmed.

  He steadied his hands, carefully pouring the lead into the grooves in the molds, but the shadows were making it difficult to be exact. He replaced the ladle by the hearth, setting aside the mold blocks. Taking up a knife he began to trim the tits, the extruded tips of lead, from the group of already set balls, and thought about his hunger. The supply of meat and bread was almost gone and his stomach pinched painfully; he had had nothing to eat since that morning. He tried humming a bit of a song, a habit he had long had, to distract himself from discomfort. He was always singing or mumbling a tune, especially in times of danger or stress, and it brought no end of annoyance to his most recent employer.

  He pulled his woolen cap farther down towards his ears, causing his hair to form a ragged fringe over his eyes, further obscuring his face. He thought longingly about sneaking a pinch of bread from the remaining hoard of food. The house where he tended the fire had been deserted by a family ravaged by the pox and there was not so much as a speck of flour left in the larder. There were no beds either, or quilts; the house was quite abandoned. But then, that was precisely why it had been chosen: an empty house hidden by dense trees and bracken; an intact roof and a working flue; but most important, within walking distance of the Welshman. Remembering to check the cooling molds, he turned towards the hearth and felt the rustling swell of a breeze at his back.

  Wheeling around, he saw a dark form slipping into the room over the threshold. “Jesu!” he shrieked, losing his balance off his haunches onto the floor.

  Brudloe stood at the open door, the door that had been greased by George himself into silence. “I fuckin’ told you to be alert, boy, didn’t I?” When he spoke, his parted lips showed the gap of the two top missing teeth, and he strode to the fire, slinging his flintlock against the wall. “Didn’t I tell you?”

  George nodded and made more room for Brudloe at the fire. The man smelled of hibernating animals, George thought, the warm, half-rancid odors rolling off him in waves. Brudloe nodded for food, and relieved to have an excuse to move, George went to the oilskin and unwrapped the last of the supplies. He was glad he had suppressed his desire to take some of it; Brudloe would have known, and there would have been trouble.

  Taking off his outer coat and wiping the dirt from his hands on his greased leggings, Brudloe tore off a piece of bread sideways into his mouth. His top lip had been split from the attack that took his teeth, and he had an odd habit of distractedly running the tip of his tongue through the opening like a water spaniel.

  Brudloe had told George of the raid he had been compelled to join by his captors, a large tribe of Abenakis, against a hunting band of Iroquois. They had by stealth attacked during the hour before dawn, the skirmish lasting less than a quarter of an hour but bloody in the extreme. He had stabbed a young buck as he lay sleeping, but had missed the vital killing spot, and the warrior’s hands came up thrashing to gouge out Brudloe’s eyes. Brudloe’s hands closed around the Indian’s throat and squeezed with increasing fury, even when the man under him had picked up a rock, smashing Brudloe in the face repeatedly. He felt his teeth break away, swallowing his own blood and part of his lip, but he kept the pressure on until he felt the gristle of the man’s windpipe break apart and collapse under his hands.

  After that raid, Brudloe had said, he was considered a sanoba, a “true man,” and was not watched over as a captive. Soon af
ter, he made his escape, walking for weeks, from settlement to settlement, until he was taken in by French trappers and then carted southward back to Massachusetts by various tradesmen. He said he had been lucky not to have been shot or bludgeoned to death by the trappers as he had worn native clothing, his hair shorn to a topknot. Even now, with the war lock partially hacked off, his scalp looked exposed and mangy.

  George realized he had been staring at Brudloe’s head when he felt the older man’s eyes on his own grime-covered face. Brudloe scrutinized him in a way that made George feel it prudent, while with his partner, not to close his eyes in true sleep without a witness. George turned away, continuing to trim the lead musket balls, and willed his pumping heart to slow. It was in Salem, three days before, that he had been placed in Brudloe’s hands as an accomplice to the murder of one man. The Royalist agent with whom Brudloe had stayed had given assurances that George was up for the task: a pack mule who worked on the cheap, and who would keep his mouth shut afterwards. But since then, Brudloe would often look at him as though reconfiguring a complicated, vexing puzzle.

  George asked, “Did you see the Welshman?”

  “I saw him,” Brudloe said. His upper lip parted obscenely and George realized with a jolt that the man, in fact, was smiling. “I watched him for hours. In and out of the barn like a fox in a hole. I could’ve shot him a dozen times over from where I perched. But he wasn’t alone.”

  Brudloe tossed George the remainder of the bread and, getting up, walked to the window, his back to the room. He regarded the fast-fading light, scanning the yard like a sentry, and said, “Tomorrow, though. Tomorrow’s the day if I have to slit every throat in the house to do it.”

  A wind, shearing up the trees in the yard, blew leaves over the open threshold. Slowly, almost thoughtfully, he kicked the door closed with the toe of one boot before sauntering back to the fire. He sat resting against the wall and, sliding the flintlock across the floor to George, said, “Clean it.”

  George dropped one more round of lead into the bowl of the pouring ladle, placing it close to the coals to slowly melt. He reached for the flintlock, then inched himself farther away from his partner. He caught himself beginning to hum again and immediately swallowed the tune.

  Brudloe laid one wrist over the other in his lap, ankles crossed, as if preparing for a long rest, and curled one side of his mouth upwards. “Ya know, I think I know that tune. It’s a sea-farin’ song, yeah? Tell me, Afton, how was your crossin’ over?” The open space in his gums gave the words an odd whistling sound.

  “Wha’?” George asked, unsure of his meaning. He had been leaning into the hearth, gathering a taper to light a small lantern, and when the candle flared to life, he saw Brudloe’s eyes on him.

  Brudloe lowered his chin. “Your crossin’. Your trip across the fuckin’ water.” He waited briefly for an answer, his head nodding as though in congenial conversation. “I know how you came to be here, in this shitting house. But how did you come to be in the fuckin’ colonies?”

  “Same as you,” George said, taking out the ramrod from the barrel of the gun.

  “ ‘Same as you,’ ” Brudloe mimicked. “No. Not the same as me. Not the fuckin’ same. What were you, in London, before you came here? Don’t tell me I’m wrong. I know the city garble when I hear it.”

  “I manned ferries.”

  “Manning ferries.” Brudloe’s voice took on a queer flat quality. “Ferries… fairies… fairies…” Suddenly he laughed and George flinched, gathering the flintlock closer to his chest.

  Brudloe said, “I had a partner, a fuckin’ beast of a man. You know what happened to ’im?” He thrust out his lower jaw. “They burned ’im alive. The cunting rogues burned ’im alive, so don’t you say ‘same as you.’ ” Brudloe looked at him savagely for a moment more before George turned his head away, busying himself by taking from a small leather pouch the turnscrew, patches, and whisk to clean the gun.

  “How old are we now, boy?” Brudloe asked. George’s hold on the gun tightened; he knew very well their contact in Salem had told Brudloe how old he was supposed to be.

  “Sixteen,” George answered.

  Brudloe shook his head slowly, his mouth curling into an ugly parody of a kiss. “Bonnie, bonnie lad, why do I doubt this to be so?” He suddenly leaned closer to George. “Tha’s all right, boy. I killed my first man at fourteen. You’re young for the job, but you’ll play.”

  Brudloe abruptly stood and went for the water skin, drinking sparingly. George let out a breath, cradling the flintlock over his knees. Returning the rod to the shaft, he unscrewed the back plate, and carefully setting aside the frisson, he ran the whisk over the vent and trigger, removing the oily black powder.

  Brudloe stretched out on a quilt near the fire, propping his head up on the balled-up greatcoat. He was silent for a few minutes, but when George shifted his gaze to the supine man, he saw the light of the coals reflecting dully off Brudloe’s eyes.

  “The cap,” Brudloe said, pointing to George’s head. “You’re always wearin’ it and it’s a bloody inferno in here.”

  “I always wear it,” George muttered.

  “Take it off.”

  George slipped off his cap, but kept his head well down, his face in shadows. Brudloe had barely so much as looked at him for days, but now George felt the man’s eyes studying the top of his head.

  “I know that song you was hummin’. I heard it before. Just don’t know where.” There was silence for a few breaths, and Brudloe mused, “It’s this place that’s got me frigged. No proper streets, no proper towns. No lands’ end to the west. Just trees and rocks and more trees again. It works on a man. Grinds him down to dross. Too much space. Too much light…” His voice trailed away, and when George snuck a look, Brudloe’s eyes were closed. Soon he heard a slack-jawed breathing, a gentle, wet snoring sound coming from the sleeping man’s mouth, the two halves of Brudloe’s split lip quivering in tandem with each exhalation. George only ever felt safe when his partner slept, and even then he kept a close watch.

  When he was a boy his father, or so he guessed him to be, as the man sometimes shared a cot with his mother, kept a baiting cur. The animal was small for fighting but with a large head. Wrapped tightly with muscle, all taut sinew and straining ligaments, he was banded over with the scars of endless fights in cellars and baiting pits. He was mostly silent, never barking, giving no warning of any kind before striking, and George, only five at the time, mistook the dog’s quiet ways for a gentle temperament. Within moments George had had part of his lower leg torn away from the bone, the bulk of the calf muscle stripped, hanging loose like a stranded cod. It took two men to beat the dog away, and, beyond the pain, George recalled the disconnected feeling of looking at the gaping wound and remembering that moments before the attack the dog had been licking his hand. He would have bled to death if not for the ministrations of his father, who was greatly practiced, and sure-handed, in sewing up dogs for the ring. The muscle on his leg grew back whole, leaving only long scars and a lasting mistrust for quiet, self-contained dogs.

  George only partially reassembled the firing mechanism, so that it would not discharge, and then he set the gun gently against the wall. The coals had begun a low pulsing, making deep shadows in the room, and Brudloe’s breathing was steady and rhythmic. Careful not to rattle the handle, George picked up the lantern and stood, walking noiselessly to the window. He raised the lantern higher, pressing his face against the glass, looking for some sign of movement in the yard. His job, his true job, was only just beginning. And though he had spent days with Brudloe, cleaning his weapons, cooking his food, watching his back, he had had to wait until now for Brudloe to fall deeply asleep.

  His breath fogged around the smoked windowpane, the lantern swaying gently aloft in his hand, and he caught a sylphlike reflection in the glass, like the beating of wings behind his shoulder.

  The sudden impact smashed George’s head against the windowpane, breaking the glass jagg
edly in the casing, and Brudloe pushed his full weight onto George’s back, grinding his forehead onto the emergent shards. Brudloe’s other arm came around George’s neck and he knew, without actually feeling the blade, that he had a knife to his throat. He could hear Brudloe’s quiet breathing and felt the movement of the man’s head as he scanned for intruders approaching the house.

  “Who’s the lantern for?” Brudloe whispered, his lips pressed against George’s ear.

  When George didn’t answer right away, Brudloe pushed his head more forcefully into the lattice of broken glass, cutting the flesh above his eyes. George dropped the lantern, guttering the candle, the room suddenly darker than the ambient light outside. Brudloe grabbed him around the arm, flinging him hard to the ground, the back of his head striking the floor with a muffled thud. A momentary blankness of vision that was greater than the lack of lantern light made George think he had shards of glass in his eyes. He winced under the bony weight of Brudloe’s knees over his outflung arms, and when his vision cleared from the fall, he could see, through a wash of blood from his forehead, Brudloe’s face over his own. He felt the cold press of a knife sliding into one nostril, and a pressure, just great enough to stretch the skin, made him want to lie very still.

  Brudloe’s face came closer. “Who were you signalin’?”