“I love you, Samuel!” she bellowed. “I love you, son, you hear?”
“Mama!” he yelled back, and then there was the distinctive sound of a slap. Alex stumbled towards the sound, but was rudely shoved to land on the ground. Before she had managed to get back on her feet, the Indians were gone.
“Mama?” Jacob materialised by her side. “We have to get you across and inside.” Alex was shivering so hard she could barely walk, but followed him, dazed and obedient, to the water’s edge.
“They left something,” she mumbled through a mouth too stiff to talk properly with.
“Aye,” Jacob answered. “Mark and John are taking care of it.” Alex inhaled loudly when she re-entered the water. This cold? The current curled itself round her legs, but she managed to keep her footing a good way out, and Jacob was there to help her. Somehow, she was back on their side where Matthew swept her into a cloak and led her back home, David tagging after.
“I saw him,” she said. “Our boy, Matthew. I saw him, and he was tall and strong.” And then she burst into tears.
Chapter 31
It was very late in the day before Alex woke. Matthew had insisted on a hot bath in the laundry shed, and after that he’d bundled her off to bed where he had plied her with a potent mixture of brandy and hot milk, sweetened with honey. When she still shivered, he’d undressed and crawled into bed with her, holding her until she was asleep. But he wasn’t there when she woke, and at first Alex couldn’t quite understand what she was doing in bed on a winter afternoon. She stretched, and as she did, she recalled the happenings of the morning, sitting up so quickly the blood flowed out of her head in protest, leaving her weak-kneed and dizzy.
She dressed, pulled on an extra pair of stockings to warm her ice-cold feet, and went in search of her family. It was Christmas Eve, and she had tons of things to do before tomorrow. The saffron buns she had baked yesterday, the ham was also done, but the pies and the fowl, the trout she was curing, and the bread…!
Someone was taking care of that at least, she sniffed as she came down the stairs. From the parlour came a steady hum of male voices, while from the kitchen came sounds that indicated all the Graham women were there. Her stomach growled, and Alex decided sustenance was her first priority.
“Better?” Mrs Parson bustled towards her, dragging her to sit as close as possible to the kitchen hearth.
“I haven’t exactly been ill.”
“Nay, you just nearly drowned,” Mrs Parson said. “A normal wee thing, no?”
“I didn’t nearly drown,” Alex said. “I’m a very good swimmer.”
“David said how you were well under, and then the Indians pulled you out.”
“I would have made it across on my own,” Alex said with far more conviction than she felt.
Mrs Parson snorted, obviously not believing her. She served Alex a bowl of hot chicken soup, complete with leeks and carrots, and sat down opposite her. “Did you see him, then?”
Alex nodded, her eyes swimming with tears. “At least he knew who I was.”
“Of course he did,” Mrs Parson said, smiling at her. “And now he knows you for a daftie as well, no?”
“A daftie?” Alex’s voice squeaked with indignation.
“Aye. Throw yourself in the river like that!”
“You could have died,” Betty remonstrated, setting Timothy down in Alex’s lap.
“I just had to. He was so close.” She bent her face to Timothy’s bright corkscrews.
“At least he knows for certain just how much you love him and miss him,” Naomi said in a soft voice, “and that must be a great comfort to him.”
“You think?” Alex gave her a grateful look.
“If my mother had done something like that…” Naomi came over from where she was making pie, and holding her flour-covered hands aloft pecked Alex on the cheek. “I would have been so proud of her.”
Alex stayed in the kitchen, comfortable in the warmth and the industrious activity. She helped Ruth with the four chickens, setting them to simmer in a heavy broth, complete with wine, prunes, winter apples and finely diced salted pork. Alex made approving noises at Sarah’s squash soup, and had her fingers rapped when she tried to steal a piece of honey cake from under Mrs Parson’s nose. By the hearth, Agnes was minding the rice porridge, a staple of Graham Christmas Eves.
“Swedish tradition,” Alex said as she always did, ignoring the amused look that flew between her daughters. “You boil the rice slowly in milk and cinnamon, and then you make sure you set a dish outside the door for the little folk.”
“The little folk?” Mrs Parson laughed. “I’ve told you, no? The little folk live in the Old World, not here.”
“How would you know? Spoken to any recently?”
“No, on account of them being there, not here,” Mrs Parson replied with irrefutable logic.
“Hmph,” Alex said, “you never know, do you?” She brought out mustard seeds, her mortar and pestle, sent Hannah to the well for some cold water, and set herself to make tomorrow’s mustard. Her eyes watered with the released fumes, and she squished them shut, working by feel alone. Once it was of the right texture, she sprinkled some salt and a measure of vinegar over it, mixing it carefully before covering the dish with a cheesecloth.
“Have you seen the priest then?” Mrs Parson asked, supervising Betty with a narrow eye as she sliced up the smoked lamb’s leg.
“The priest?” Alex gave her a confused look.
“Aye, wee Carlos.”
“Carlos?”
“It was him the Indians brought back, no?”
“They did?” Vaguely, Alex remembered a black bundle, dropped to lie immobile on the pebbled shore.
“Mmm.” Mrs Parson’s hand trembled. “You will have to cut his leg off.”
“What?” Alex croaked.
“You heard.” Mrs Parson beckoned for Alex to follow and led the way to one of the smaller downstairs rooms.
“I’ve never done something like this,” Alex said, after looking in on the feverish priest. Even from the door, she could make out the stench, and when Mrs Parson informed her that was how gangrene smelled, she just nodded, having no idea.
“It’s the bone that’s the difficult part,” Mrs Parson said.
“Yes, I sort of got that. But how do we do something like that and keep him alive?” An axe? No, that wouldn’t do, would it? A saw? Yes, a saw, and, shit, what an awful sound that would make.
“If we don’t, he dies anyway,” Mrs Parson said.
“Not much of a comfort,” Alex told her.
“You couldn’t save his father when he took a blade for you, but maybe you can save the son by using a blade on him, no?”
Alex gave her a black look. “And when do we have to do this?”
“As soon as possible – tonight.”
Alex sighed and dragged her hands up and down her skirts. “He has to make a conscious choice. I’m not cutting him without his permission.”
*
“Hi.” Alex smiled down at Carlos. It was very late, and most of the family had gone to bed. Left awake were Alex, Matthew, Mark, Jacob and Mrs Parson. Jacob was presently scrubbing down the kitchen table while Mrs Parson had gone to find aprons and clean head clouts for them all.
“Hola,” Carlos replied weakly. He looked about in amazement and relaxed against the pillows. “It’s true then,” he said through cracked lips. “They brought me back.”
“Yes, left you like a tidy little Christmas present down by the river.” The wrong present, unfortunately.
“You’re disappointed.” Carlos groped for her hand.
“Yes. I’m sorry Carlos, but I want my son, mi hijo, not you.”
“Te juro. I swear, if I could have traded places with him, I would.”
“Ya lo sé. I know, but it doesn’t much help.” She patted his hand and extricated her fingers from his hold.
“He begged that he be allowed to come home for a few days,” Carlos said, “but Q
aachow refused. And, in punishment, the boy was forced to come with them, all the way back home only to have to turn away.”
“Punishment for what?” Alex asked, her heart crumbling inside.
“In punishment for asking. The boy is forbidden to think of you.”
Oh God! Alex swallowed, and had she had Qaachow in front of her, she would have torn his limbs off, one by one.
“And does it work?” Matthew’s voice was a pitiful, reedy thing.
“No,” the priest answered. “It just leads the boy to hide his thoughts.” He closed his eyes, breathing rapidly through his mouth. “My leg.”
“Yes,” Alex answered, “it’s rotting away.”
Carlos opened his eyes to stare at her in consternation. “Gangrene?”
Alex inclined her head in affirmation.
“Dios mío,” Carlos whispered.
“Mrs Parson says we have to amputate,” Matthew said, “but Alex won’t allow it unless you give us permission.”
“And if we don’t?” Carlos asked.
“Then you die,” Matthew said. “It has to be soon.”
“Now? ¿Ahora?”
“Yes, now.” Alex nodded.
The little priest reflected in silence for some minutes. “Do it, but I cannot promise I’ll be brave. I’m bad at handling physical pain.” Something stirred in his eyes, so dark as to resemble liquid pools of pitch. “Very bad.”
They tied Carlos down. Jacob tightened a tourniquet above his knee, and nodded for Alex to start. Mrs Parson had alcohol and boiled water at hand, and there was a small, flattened iron in the hearth. In Alex’s sweating hand, she held a sterilised knife, while Jacob held Matthew’s precious hacksaw, just as thoroughly disinfected. With a brief prayer, Alex uncovered Carlos’ calf.
The putrid stench filled the room. Alex’s previous incision had been gouged and opened repeatedly, there were pockets of pus up and down the old scar, and down towards the foot, the rot lay open to the eyes: a yellowish green, stinking so badly Alex had to breathe through her mouth as she bent to inspect it.
“What?” she asked Mrs Parson, indicating the line of gashes and cuts.
“Mayhap he fell foul of his hosts,” she said. “Do it. The man should not be kept waiting.”
“Easy for you to say.” Alex swallowed. Just below the knee, Mrs Parson had decided, four or five inches from the uppermost part of the infection. Alex wiped her hand once more, steadied her grip on the knife and cut, slicing perpendicularly towards the bone.
Carlos shrieked through the leather strap, his eyes wild.
“The arteries,” Alex said, blocking out her patient’s desperate sounds. “There is one hell of a big artery down the leg somewhere.”
“Three,” Jacob said, leaning forward. “Down the thigh to just below the back of the knee where it splits into three.”
“And what do I do with those?” Alex asked, watching the spurting blood with concern.
“Ligature,” Jacob said, “or cauterise.”
“Great,” Alex muttered. She resolutely lifted the small iron and poked it at where the most blood seemed to be coming from. Poor Carlos shrieked again, and the room filled with the stench of faeces and urine. At least the blood stilled, and, with Jacob to guide her, Alex found the other branches of the artery and closed them off.
Carlos had fainted, thank heavens, and when it came to the saw, Jacob offered to do it instead. He was quick, and, even if the patient at one point woke with bulging eyes, it was over far faster than Alex could have hoped for. Mrs Parson poured basin after basin of water over the open wound, and upended the whole bottle of alcohol, at which point Carlos woke, screamed out loud, and fainted again. After that, it was merely a question of stitching it all together, the perpendicular cuts laid tight against each other. More hot water, more alcohol, and they were done, Mrs Parson taking over with the bandages.
Alex moved over to sit in a corner. Bloody hell, she thought, staring down at her by now madly shaking hands, I‘ve cut a man’s leg off. Very slowly, she leaned to the side and threw up.
“I don’t blame you,” Matthew said some time later, drawing her to sit in his lap. “This isn’t a Christmas I much wish to relive.”
“No.” Alex yawned. It was past midnight, and in the clear sky, a white winter moon rose, throwing its pale light over the ground.
“So cold,” she said. “Samuel must have been so cold when he came out of the water. And now…” In the distance, a wolf howled, and then another one joined in.
“…now he is surely abed.” Matthew kissed her throat, wrapping a stray lock of her hair round his finger. “You nearly drowned,” he said in a matter-of-fact voice.
“I did. But I wasn’t really noticing.”
“I won’t have you risking your life like that.” He tightened his hold on her.
“I had to, he was there, and I had to go to him.”
“You could have died.” Matthew cleared his throat. “What then, Alex? How would I go on without you?”
“One day at the time, I suppose,” she answered, nestling in against him.
“Not a life, Alex. Living hell, aye?”
In response, she kissed his cheek. “And if it had been you, seeing Samuel on the other side, would you not have thrown yourself into the river too?”
“Aye, I would. I nearly did, except that there were bows and arrows levelled at me.”
“There were?” Alex hadn’t even noticed.
“The difference being that I am the stronger swimmer,” Matthew said.
Alex hitched her shoulders. At the time, she hadn’t really cared about herself. All she had cared about was Samuel, so tantalisingly close.
“Promise?” he whispered into her hair.
“Promise what?” She rose, going to stand behind him instead, her hands kneading at his shoulders.
“Will you swear to me you’ll never do something that foolhardy again?” He grabbed at her hands, craning his head back until he caught her eyes.
“You know I can’t. It’s nothing I set out to do. It just happens.” She kissed his forehead, smoothed at his wrinkled brow. “Let’s go to bed. Let me hold you in my arms and rock you to sleep, okay?”
*
Samuel was curled up as close as he could get to Little Bear, burrowed deep beneath the pelts that covered them both. He wasn’t asleep, reliving in his head over and over again how Mama had come crashing through the water for him. It warmed his heart to have seen her, to have heard her call for him with such desperation. It wasn’t only him that missed her; it was her missing him as well.
He mouthed his way through his family, from Da to wee Timothy, and just as silently he recited the Lord’s Prayer. Like he did every night, he fumbled for the length of twine he carried like a necklace round his neck. He added another knot, and with his fingers he counted them off, one for every day he had been here. One hundred and nine days… That left only two hundred and fifty six. Only…Samuel scrunched his eyes together hard in an effort not to cry. It was unmanly to weep, Qaachow had told him. And he hadn’t, not one little yelp, not one single tear had he shed as Qaachow punished him for throwing himself in the river. Instead, he had thought of Mama, how her eyes fixed on him as she swam through the frigid waters of the river.
“My name is Samuel Isaac Graham,” he said in a low voice. “I was born on the 27th of May in Our Lord’s year 1674, and I am nearly eleven years old.” Not White Bear, no, that wasn’t him. He was Da’s son, and his name was Samuel.
Chapter 32
“How do you feel?” Alex asked, sitting down on a stool by Carlos’ bed.
“Awful.” After some days of feverish sleep, he’d been woken by a beam of clear sunlight, lucid, thirsty, and with a bladder that threatened to burst. It had been a shock to throw back the bedclothes and find he was one leg short, and he had looked with desperation in the direction of the chamber pot. How on earth was a man to piss with only one leg? The fair Graham son had been there to help him, slipping a bedpan
under him while averting his eyes, but that was just a short-term solution, and Carlos had spent two hours trying to solve this new conundrum.
“A peg leg or a crutch,” Alex said, once he had overcome his reluctance to share his problem with her. “Until then, you sit while you pee.” She was inspecting his leg, using careful hands to touch the raw stump. She covered the skin with shredded onions, garlic and bee balm before rebandaging him.
“Like a joint of lamb,” he jested.
“Don’t worry, you don’t fit in my baking oven.” She sat back with a slight grunt.
“I still can’t believe I’m here,” Carlos said after some minutes of silence. He groped for the rosary beads that hung around his neck. He drifted into sleep, and he was back with the savages, limping to keep up that first day, a shocked and silent Samuel running a few steps ahead, his hand held by the Indian boy. He woke with a start, and swimming before him was Alex. He thought this must be a dream, because his leg no longer hurt.
“A dream?” Alex wiped his fevered face.
Carlos shrugged as well as he could. “Better a dream than reality – at least the life that I am living.”
“You’re pretty good at wallowing,” Alex said with some asperity. “Here you are, albeit without a leg, but alive and lying in a clean bed among friends. Is that not quite a good life?” His face heated at the unspoken accusation: he was here while her son, a child, was out there.
“Tell me everything about these last months. Tell me about Samuel.”
Matthew entered the room as she said that and, leaning back against the wall, nodded for him to start. Two sets of avid eyes on his face made Carlos swallow. Finally, he sighed and with his rosary beads gripped hard between his fingers, began to talk.
“I don’t think he fully understood at first. There was an element of adventure to it all, in particular for a young boy. He was given a knife, his hair was tied back, and at night he slept back to back with his new Indian brother. Little Bear is a sweet boy, and so eager to meet and get to know this unknown brother of his. Some months younger than Samuel, near on a head shorter, but lean and sinewy and surprisingly strong. And he was happy with this new brother, prattling on and on in his language, pointing out everything to Samuel as we went.”
Revenge and Retribution (The Graham Saga) Page 26