by L. A. Meyer
To think I’m prolly only about thirty miles from dear old Dovecote right now, forty-five from Boston and the Pig and the Lawson Peabody, and from Amy and Ezra andClementine and Jim and Rebecca and Randall and all the people I love in this world and those who love me and . . . Stop that, you! Stop your crying—it won’t do you any good! Push on, push on!
As I hurry across the field, I am careful to close the grass behind me, so as to leave no evidence of my passage. I walk on rocky soil when I can, and when I can’t, I make sure to take a branch from a tree and rub out any footprints I might leave.
The little stand of trees does prove to lead to a larger forest, and for this I am profoundly grateful. Thank you, God, for this very great favor.
When I am deep in the woods, I get my compass from my seabag and set my course due south. I think about changing clothes, but, no, I can run much better in this rig. I do throw my ballet slippers into the bag, though, as they are already ragged. I have always run better on my bare feet, and I cannot risk a blister from shoes.
I’m off again, going south, ever south, except when I have to detour around brambles and deep ravines. My seabag grows heavy.
After about an hour of this, I discover a narrow road, just large enough for a single wagon, if that, cutting through the woods and heading south. Maybe it’s an old Indian trail leading to the sea? Sure, they would often leave their inland encampments to fish and to gather clams, wouldn’t they? I’m hoping it is just that.
I decide to follow it, at least for a while, ’cause I’ll make better time on its smooth surface than I would back in the thick woods. I can hop back in the woods should I hear anyone coming, but all I hear now is the birds, which is very, very good.
The sun is beginning to set, so I must make plans for the night. I could try walking in the dark on the path, but I am dog-tired. It is spring and the day has been very long. Must be about nine o’clock, maybe later.
I decide to leave the road and strike out again into the woods. The path may be narrow, but men on horseback could easily travel on it, and travel fast—a lot faster than I.
It is much darker in the depths of the woods, and I stumble over branches several times. I’ve got to stop soon but . . .
Push on, girl, just a little farther!
Making myself trudge onward, I soon come upon a babbling little brook, and a delightful sight it is. Giving thanks, I drop to my knees and drink deeply of the wondrously cool water. When my thirst is slaked, I look out across the brook. It is about twenty feet across, and shallow, which is good, there being nice, flat stones poking up through the surface all the way across. Picking up my bag, I easily cross to the other side.
There is a slight clearing here, and here I will stay the night. Opening my seabag, I put my compass back in it and pull out my cloak. I also get out my leather sheath that has my shiv in it and strap it around my forearm. Then, digging deeper, my hand finds the package of dried meat and pemmican I always keep there, a practice I picked up from my Indian friends.
I squat down cross-legged, the cloak over my shoulders, and eat, grateful for the food and thinking of Crow Jane, she who taught me how to salt and dry the meat so it would not spoil, and how to preserve the berries, rice, and other bits in thick tallow to make the pemmican.
Yes, dear, rough Crow Jane . . . are you still working the big river? Chee-a-quat, are you now a powerful chief? You should be. And Lightfoot and Katy Deere, where are you now? Have you gone across the mighty mountains and gazed upon the Pacific Ocean?
And where are you now, Tepeki, you who welcomed me into your tribe and named me Wah-chinga. Well, I, for one, Sister, am running like the crazy rabbit you named me after. I hope you have found a good man and that the rice harvest is plentiful and the hunting is good, and that you have peace and are happy . . .
Having eaten, I curl up in my cloak, using my seabag as a pillow yet again. It seems that the Jacky Faber luck is holding, at least for now. Tomorrow, the sea, and, it is to be hoped, salvation.
Good night, Jaimy. I pray you are safe. Please hurry back, as I am in much need of rescue.
Chapter 34
Ahhhwhoooooo! Ahhhhhwhooooooo! Ahhhhwhoooooooo!
My eyelids fly open and I am on my feet. Dogs! They’ve got dogs on me now!
I shake the cobwebs from my mind. Think, girl, think! If they catch you, they will kill you! Think!
I’m guessing they’re about a mile or two behind me now, and I gotta do something to throw them off my trail. Maybe the creek will save me.
Leaving my seabag on the bank, I run maybe a hundred yards away from the creek, deep into the woods. Then I stop at an open, rocky stretch and then retrace my steps, back to the stream, knowing the hounds will blindly follow my scent to that dead end, and be at a loss. Where did she go, where did she go? That’s what they’ll be thinking in their little doggie brains, snuffling about in the brush. The men with them know the dogs have lost the scent and will look up into the trees and point their guns there, thinking I might have taken that route, but no, I have not.
After getting back to the brook, turning over a few rocks and breaking a few twigs in the upstream direction, I pick up my bag, turn, and wade downstream, careful not to dislodge any pebbles, touch any branches, or do anything that might leave my scent behind.
Downstream is the direction to the sea, and it is to the sea that I must go.
Wahwah-Whoooooo! Wahwah-Whooooooo! Ohhhhwhoooooooo!
They must be at the woodland road now, ready to plunge back into the woods, to the stream and, it is to be hoped, confusion.
I keep wading on down the center of the stream. Were it deeper, I could lie back and float with the current, but it never gets deeper than my knees. Push on, push on!
Wahwah-whooo! Wah-oooo! Wah . . . yap . . . yap . . . yap . . .
Aha! They have followed the false trail! I can hear the doubt in the dogs’ voices. Stay there, doggies! Be good and stay there! Push on, girl, push on!
I wade as fast as I can, but the footing is not easy. Many times I go down, painfully, to hit my knees on the hard bottom, but still I press on. Suddenly, the stream widens, and then, just as quickly, the woods end and the brook pours out into an open field. I am startled by the bright light, so I stand blinking for a few moments, and then, Oh, God, there is the sea! The beautiful sea!
The sandy beach, the sparkling surface of the water, the gentle waves breaking on the shore lie not more than two miles away at the base of sloping fields of corn and wheat and rye. It’s an easy run. I gallop joyfully down through the rows of corn toward the glorious ocean.
I am a good third of the way there when I hear a sound that chills me to the bone.
Bay-ooooooooo. Bay-oooooooo-oooooooooo!
Damn! Sounds like one is still after me, still on my trail! How could he be back on me so fast?
I increase my speed, thinkin’ that damned hound’s got a different sound than the others. I stumble, fall, and get up again, to keep on running, and I—
Wooo-woooo-wha-hooooooooo! Yew got ’er now, boy! Git ’er ass!
He’s gotta be clear of the woods, too, ’cause I can hear the dog’s handler clear as day. I’m halfway to the sea now, and the air is ripping through my chest and it hurts, but I can smell the salt! I gotta get there! I’ll jump in and swim! I don’t care if I drown, but I just gotta get there. Then I do somethin’ I ain’t ever done before. I drop my seabag and run. Just run, run for the shore! If I get there, I’ll just swim out. I don’t care anymore. I’ll just swim out till I sink. I don’t care! I’ll take the swallow of salt ’cause I really don’t care. Just leave me alone! Please leave me alone. Let me die if I have to, but, please, just leave me alone! Leave . . .
Now I can hear hoofbeats behind me, and the sound of dog paws hitting the dirt. Then there is the panting of his breath, and he ain’t howling no more ’cause he’s got me in sight. Closer and closer, and now my ankle twists and I am down. I’m on hands and knees in the dirt, crawling for the sho
re. The dirt changes to sand ’neath my hands but the hot breath of the dog is upon me and I am down, down in the sand, not thirty yards from the water.
A heavy foot is clamped on my neck.
“Yew think that fake trail could fool ol’ Jimbo, here? Shee-it! He’s chased down a whole passel of badasses a lot more cunnin’ than you. Should’ve dipped down in that crick, girl, scrubbed the sweat offa yew, when yew had the chance. That’s what ol’ Jim Bob picked up on. He could smell your sweat and your fear. He caught it on the wind, not on the ground. Didn’t know old Jim Bob could do that, did you, girlie? But you did it, didn’t you, boy? Tha’s right, you a good boy, Jimmy. You’re the best, fer sure. Hee, hee . . . You ’member that next time, girl . . . ’Cept, from what I heard, there ain’t gonna be no next time fer yew. Too bad ’cause yew run us a good’un, yew did.”
Old Jimbo doesn’t bite me. No, he licks the tears from my face and smiles his bloodhound smile, the game being over for him. But he has killed me all the same, sure as if I were a fox, a raccoon, or a possum up a tree.
There is a rattle of hoofbeats and rough hands are once again put upon me and I am pulled to my feet to be taken away.
And I know, with a cold, dread certainty deep in my soul, that this will be the last time I will ever be thus taken.
Part IV
Chapter 35
Journal of Amy Trevelyne
Plymouth, Massachusetts
They brought up my friend Jacky Faber from New Bedford, where she had been captured, to put her in jail next to the courthouse. It’s in the town of Plymouth, which also functions as the seat of Plymouth County. This location had been decided by the state and federal authorities, who, Ezra Pickering believes, wanted to avoid riots in Boston instigated by firebrands in that city who take to the streets over any sensational trial—especially this one, for the newspapers have whipped the populace into a fine froth. The war fever runs high, and it is a frightening thing to witness—English and American blood will be spilled, to slake the thirst of the warmongers, and it will be spilled soon, I just know it, and I despair.
I was not yet in the town of Plymouth, but I heard later that Jacky’s captors had paraded her through the intervening towns in an open wagon so that the populace could jeer at her on the way. Cries of “Traitor!” and “Murderer!” and “Hang her!” were heard from the crowds. She was placed on a high seat with her hands bound behind her, and even though the agents who apprehended her were in possession of her seabag, she was not permitted to change into more modest clothing than what she was wearing at the time of her arrest. Thus, she was displayed, bare-shouldered and bare-limbed, in her scanty circus costume. There were reports that objects as well as insults were thrown. Such needless cruelty, I say. I have nothing but the deepest disgust for the majority of my fellow human beings.
It was also reported that she sat with what is described as a look of haughty arrogance upon her face while maintaining a composed silence throughout the disgraceful journey. Her composure was broken but one time, when a rock thrown by a boy caught her on the cheek. Then she did cry out in pain and despair and let her head fall forward for a time before she recovered her composure.
I came down to Plymouth by coach, while an enraged Randall rode on ahead. Since learning of her arrest, he has been sinking deeper into drink, and by the start of her trial had already torn up several local taverns. His engagement to his beloved Polly Von does not seem to have tempered his rage. She has pleaded with him, most eloquently, for calm, but to no avail; he seems a man possessed. I worry for her, as well as for him, and I long for our once calm and ordered world.
Upon arriving in the town, I went immediately to the jail where she was confined and met Mr. Pickering on his way out. He doffed his hat and greeted me most warmly.
“How is she?” I asked.
“She is bearing up quite well, considering, MissTrevelyne, and we are both supremely confident that we will beat this false charge.” Ezra’s voice said those words, but his worried eyes told a far different story. He did not wear his usual merry smile.
“We must pray that it will be so, Mr. Pickering,” I said. “I will go to see her now.”
“And I will go to prepare our case. Good day to you, Miss Amy.”
“Thank you, Ezra. Godspeed your efforts. Good day.”
I was led into the prison by a Deputy Cole and introduced to Sheriff O. T. Williams, who then led me through a heavy outer door that he unlocked, then into a narrow corridor that held six cells, three to either side. Jacky Faber was in the second cage to the left. The Sheriff chose yet another key from the ring he wore at his waist and unlocked the door.
She was seated on a bed, her head down, obviously deep in thought. There is a tiny window near the ceiling, letting in just enough light so that she might read the Bible that lies beside her. She was wearing a drab gray prison dress, a smock really, and to see her so reduced and so confined nearly tore out my heart.
Upon looking up and seeing me, she gave out a cry of joy. “Oh, Sister, I am so glad to see you!” she exclaimed, and held out her arms and tried to stand to embrace me. Alas, she was thwarted by her ankle shackle, which was anchored by a heavy chain running to an iron ring set in the stone floor. I made as if to go to her, but was stopped by Sheriff Williams, who told me I must confine myself to the bench on the other side of the cell and not get near the prisoner. The Deputy would keep watch to make sure that all was kept proper.
I went to the bench and sat down, my heart in my throat.
Entry dated November 6, 1809—signed by Amy Trevelyne
Chapter 36
“So how are you, Amy?” I ask, sitting up and giving her my best open-mouthed foxy smile, which I know she has despaired over so much in the past for its lack of ladylike demureness. I hope it will cheer her now, for I purely hate to see her like this.
“I am f-f-fine, Jacky. I—I—I . . . Oh, this is all just so horrible! I . . .”
She buries her face in her hands, her body wracked with sobs.
“Now, now, Sister, I have been in worse scrapes before and gotten out of them. Did Ezra not tell you how sure he was of winning the case?” I say brightly. “And with Jaimy Fletcher on his way over, with the evidence that will prove my innocence, why, there is nothing but good reason for hope. No more tears, now. Good. That’s better.” Amy folds her hands in her lap, twisting her fine embroidered handkerchief, I am sure, to shreds.
After a bit, she puts that abused piece of cloth to her eyes, and we fall into a brief silence.
“Does anyone know who betrayed me?” I ask after a bit.
“Ezra believes it was Gulliver MacFarland. He has fallen back into drunkenness again and is seen wandering about the city, with bottle in hand, mumbling constantly about making something or other ‘right.’ It is a pitiful sight, I am told.”
“Hmmm . . . Ah, yes, it must have been Gully,” I say, nodding. “One time, down near the Rhode Island border, I spotted him working the crowd outside the circus. I was in disguise . . . black wig and all—and he did not come into the tent, so I didn’t think that he had seen me.” I stop to think on this. “But I guess I was wrong. He must have, indeed, seen his ‘Little Miss Moneymaker’ and figured there was a bit more coin to be made from her.”
Ah, yes, poor Gully, the finest of fiddlers but the worst of men, always prey to his worst instincts. But I am truly glad to think that it was not anyone at the Montessori and Mattucci Circus who had peached on me . . . or Edgar . . .
“But wh-why would he betray you? I thought you were friends again?”
I smile, shaking my head, thinking more in pity than in anger of the one who had brought me to this low state. “It is not too hard to figure: the American intelligence agents who were after me knew that Gully and I had been partners and friends at one time, so all they had to do was get him into a tavern, flatter him, appeal to his vanity, then get some drinks down his throat. That’s all it would have taken for poor Gulliver MacFarland to tell all
he knows—both truth and lies. Poor Gully.”
More silence, then I say, “You know, I actually liked being in that circus. It really suited my nature, and I am sad to have left it.”
Heavy sigh . . . That and a lot of other things . . .
“Did you know that Mr. Pickering and I attended the circus that day and watched your performance?” Amy manages to softly ask. “I was amazed and almost fainted when it looked as if you were going to fall. I so wanted to go see you after the show . . .”
“Yes, I saw you. Three rows up on the left side. You made a lovely couple.”
She blushed at that. “No. Here we are talking about me. How are they treating you?”
“Quite well. The Sheriff is a decent man, and theMatron is a good soul. I believe they are quite nervous, the both of them. I don’t think they have had to preside over an affair such as this before. The food is excellent, too. I think Mrs. Tibbetts is sending it over from the White Rose.”
Again we fall silent for a few moments, and I know she is going to be asked to leave soon. Her comforting presence will be gone, and I shall be left alone, shackled in this bleak cell. Weakness of spirit overwhelms me and I whisper, “After all those fake falls I took up on the high wire . . . looks like I might die from a fall, after all,” I say, putting my hand to my throat.
“Do not say that, Sister. I cannot bear the thought.”
“I know,” I say, bucking up. “I know. I’m sorry. No, no self-pity here. For am I not a Pimm’s girl?” I force a brave smile. “So, how is bold, dashing Randall these days? He is well, I hope, and full of his usual rakehell bravado?”
“No, he’s—”
“I’m sorry, Miss Trevelyne,” says Sheriff Williams in a dolorous voice. He had just come back into the corridor. “Visiting time is over. The prisoner is due at court for arraignment and the choosing of the jury. The trial will start tomorrow.”