“Oh, no,” I said. “That will do nicely, thank you!” I made to hand her back the penis syringe, but then was struck by impulse. The doctor had two, after all.
“Give you a shilling for it,” I said, meeting the eye that seemed most likely to be pointed in my direction.
“Done,” she said promptly. She paused for a moment, then added, “If you’re going to use it on your man, best be sure he’s dead drunk first.”
My primary mission was thus accomplished, but now I had a new possibility to explore, before mounting an assault on Mrs. Silvie’s house of ill-repute.
I had planned to visit a glassmaker and attempt to explain by means of drawings how to make the barrel and plunger for a hypodermic syringe, leaving up to Bree the problem of making a hollow needle and attaching it. Unfortunately, while the single glassblower operating in Cross Creek was capable of producing any manner of everyday bottles, jugs, and cups, a glance at his stock had made it obvious that my requirements were well beyond his capabilities.
But now I needn’t worry about that! While metal syringes lacked some desirable qualities of glass, they also had an undeniable advantage, insofar as they wouldn’t break—and while a disposable needle was nice, I could simply sterilize the entire item after each use.
Doctor Fentiman’s syringes had very thick, blunt-tipped needle ends. It would be necessary to heat them, and draw the tips out much further in order to narrow them. But any idiot with a forge could do that, I thought. Then to cut the brass tip at an angle and file the point smooth enough to puncture skin cleanly … child’s play, I thought blithely, and narrowly refrained from skipping down the sandy walk. Now, all I required was a good stock of cinchona bark.
My hopes of obtaining the bark were dashed, though, as soon as I turned into the main street and glimpsed Mr. Bogues’s apothecary’s shop. The door stood open, letting in flies, and the usually immaculate stoop was marred with such a multitude of muddy footprints as to suggest that some hostile army had descended upon the shop.
The impression of sacking and looting was furthered by the scene inside; most of the shelves were empty, scattered with remnants of dried leaf and broken pottery. The Bogueses’ ten-year-old daughter, Miranda, stood mournful watch over a small collection of jars and bottles and an empty tortoiseshell.
“Miranda!” I said. “Whatever has happened?”
She brightened at sight of me, small pink mouth momentarily reversing its downward droop.
“Mrs. Fraser! D’you want some horehound? We’ve nearly a pound of that left—and it’s cheap, only three farthings the ounce.”
“I’ll have an ounce,” I said, though in fact I had plenty growing in my own garden. “Where are your parents?”
The mouth went down again, and the lower lip quivered.
“Mama’s in the back, packing. And Papa’s gone to sell Jack to Mr. Raintree.”
Jack was the apothecary’s wagon horse, and Miranda’s particular pet. I bit the inside of my lip.
“Mr. Raintree’s a very kind man,” I said, striving for what comfort there might be. “And he has a nice pasture for his horses, and a warm stable; I think Jack might be happy there. He’ll have friends.”
She nodded, mouth pinched tight, but two fat tears escaped to roll down her cheeks.
With a quick glance behind me, to assure that no one was coming in, I stepped round the counter, sat down on an upturned keg, and drew her onto my lap, where she melted at once, clinging to me and crying, though making an obvious effort not to be heard in the living quarters behind the shop.
I patted her and made small soothing noises, feeling an unease beyond mere sympathy for the girl. Clearly the Bogueses were selling up. Why?
So infrequently as I came down the mountain, I had no idea what Ralston Bogues’s politics might be these days. Not being Scottish, he hadn’t come to the barbecue in Flora MacDonald’s honor. The shop had always been prosperous, though, and the family decently off, judging by the children’s clothes—Miranda and her two little brothers always had shoes. The Bogueses had lived here all of Miranda’s life, at least, and likely longer. For them to be leaving in this manner meant that something serious had happened—or was about to.
“Do you know where you’re going?” I asked Miranda, who was now sitting on my knee, sniffing and wiping her face on my apron. “Perhaps Mr. Raintree can write to you, to tell you how Jack is faring.”
She looked a little more hopeful at that.
“Can he send a letter to England, do you think? It’s a terrible long way.”
England? It was serious.
“Oh, I should think so,” I said, tucking wisps of hair back under her cap. “Mr. Fraser writes a letter every night, to his sister in Scotland—and that’s much further away even than England!”
“Oh. Well.” Looking happier, she scrambled off my lap and smoothed down her dress. “Can I write to Jack, do you think?”
“I’m sure Mr. Raintree will read the letter to him if you do,” I assured her. “Can you write well, then?”
“Oh, yes, ma’am,” she said earnestly. “Papa says I read and write better than he ever did when he was my age. And in Latin. He taught me to read all the names of the simples, so I could fetch him what he wanted—see that one?” She pointed with some pride to a large china apothecary’s jar, elegantly decorated with blue and gold scrolls. “Electuary Limonensis. And that one is Ipecacuanha!”
I admired her prowess, thinking that at least I now knew her father’s politics. The Bogueses must be Loyalists, if they were returning to England. I would be sorry to see them go, but knowing what I knew of the immediate future, I was glad that they would be safe. At least Ralston would likely have got a decent price for his shop; a short time hence, Loyalists would have their property confiscated, and be lucky to escape arrest—or worse.
“Randy? Have you seen Georgie’s shoe? I’ve found one under the chest, but—oh, Mrs. Fraser! Your pardon, ma’am, I didn’t know anyone was here.” Melanie Bogues’s sharp glance took in my position behind the counter, her daughter’s pink-rimmed eyes, and the damp spots on my apron, but she said nothing, merely patting Miranda’s shoulder as she passed.
“Miranda tells me you’re leaving for England,” I said, rising and moving unobtrusively out from behind the counter. “We’ll be sorry to see you go.”
“That’s kind of you, Mrs. Fraser.” She smiled unhappily. “We’re sorry to go, as well. And I’m not looking forward to the voyage, I can tell you!” She spoke with the heartfelt emotion of someone who had made such a voyage before and would strongly prefer to be boiled alive before doing it again.
I sympathized very much, having done it myself. Doing it with three children, two of them boys under five … the imagination boggled.
I wanted to ask her what had caused them to make such a drastic decision, but couldn’t think how to broach the matter in front of Miranda. Something had happened; that was clear. Melanie was jumpy as a rabbit, and somewhat more harried than even packing up a household containing three children might account for. She kept darting glances over her shoulder, as though fearing something sneaking up on her.
“Is Mr. Bogues—” I began, but was interrupted by a shadow falling across the stoop. Melanie started, hand to her chest, and I whirled round to see who had come.
The doorway was filled by a short, stocky woman, dressed in a very odd combination of garments. For an instant, I thought she was an Indian, for she wore no cap, and her dark hair was braided—but then she came into the shop, and I saw that she was white. Or rather, pink; her heavy face was flushed with sunburn and the tip of her pug nose was bright red.
“Which one of you is Claire Fraser?” she demanded, looking from me to Melanie Bogues.
“I am,” I said, repressing an instinctive urge to take a step backward. Her manner wasn’t threatening, but she radiated such an air of physical power that I found her rather intimidating. “Who are you?” I spoke from astonishment, rather than rudeness, and she d
id not seem offended.
“Jezebel Hatfield Morton,” she said, squinting intently at me. “Some geezer at the docks tellt me that you was headin’ here.” In marked contrast to Melanie Bogue’s soft English accent, she had the rough speech I associated with people who had been in the backcountry for three or four generations, speaking to no one in the meantime save raccoons, possums, and one another.
“Er … yes,” I said, seeing no point in denying it. “Did you need help of some kind?”
She didn’t look it; had she been any healthier, she would have burst the seams of the man’s shirt she was wearing. Melanie and Miranda were staring at her, wide-eyed. Whatever danger Melanie had been afraid of, it wasn’t Miss Morton.
“Not to say help,” she said, moving further into the shop. She tilted her head to one side, examining me with what looked like fascination. “I was thinkin’ you might know where’bouts that skunk Isaiah Morton be, though.”
My mouth dropped open, and I shut it quickly. Not Miss Morton, then—Mrs. Morton. The first Mrs. Isaiah Morton, that is. Isaiah Morton had fought with Jamie’s militia company in the War of the Regulation, and he had mentioned his first wife—breaking out in a cold sweat as he did so.
“I … ah … believe he’s working somewhere upcountry,” I said. “Guilford? Or was it Paleyville?”
Actually, it was Hillsboro, but that scarcely mattered, since at the moment, he wasn’t in Hillsboro. He was, in fact, in Cross Creek, come to take delivery of a shipment of barrels for his employer, a brewster. I’d seen him at the cooper’s shop barely an hour earlier, in company with the second Mrs. Morton and their infant daughter. Jezebel Hatfield Morton did not look like the sort of person to be civilized about such things.
She made a low noise in her throat, indicative of disgust.
“He’s a dang slippery little weasel. But I’ll kotch up to him yet, don’t you trouble none about that.” She spoke with a casual assurance that boded ill for Isaiah.
I thought silence was the wiser course, but couldn’t stop myself asking, “Why do you want him?” Isaiah possessed a certain uncouth amiability, but viewed objectively, he scarcely seemed the sort to inflame one woman, let alone two.
“Want him?” She looked amused at the thought, and rubbed a solid fist under her reddened nose. “I don’t want him. But ain’t no man runs out on me for some whey-faced trollop. Once I kotch up to him, I mean to stave his head in and nail his fly-bit hide to my door.”
Spoken by another person, this statement might have passed for rhetoric. As spoken by the lady in question, it was an unequivocal declaration of intent. Miranda’s eyes were round as a frog’s, and her mother’s nearly so.
Jezebel H. Morton squinted at me, and scratched thoughtfully beneath one massive breast, leaving the fabric of her shirt pasted damply to her flesh.
“I heerd tell as how you saved the little toad-sucker’s life at Alamance. That true?”
“Er … yes.” I eyed her warily, watching for any offensive movement. She was blocking the door; if she made for me, I would dive across the counter and dash through the door into the Bogueses’ living quarters.
She was wearing a large pig-sticker of a knife, unsheathed. This was thrust through a knotted wampum belt that was doing double duty, holding up a kilted mass of what I thought might originally have been red flannel petticoats, hacked off at the knee. Her very solid legs were bare, as were her feet. She had a pistol and powder horn slung from the belt, as well, but made no move to reach for any of her weapons, thank God.
“Too bad,” she said dispassionately. “But then, if he’d died, I’d not have the fun of killin’ him, so I s’pose it’s as well. Don’t worry me none; if’n I don’t find him, one of my brothers will.”
Business apparently disposed of for the moment, she relaxed a bit, and looked around, noticing for the first time the empty shelves.
“What-all’s goin’ on here?” she demanded, looking interested.
“We’re selling up,” Melanie murmured, attempting to shove Miranda safely behind her. “Going to England.”
“That so?” Jezebel looked mildly interested. “What happened? They kill your man? Or tar and feather him?”
Melanie went white.
“No,” she whispered. Her throat moved as she swallowed, and her frightened gaze went toward the door. So that was the threat. I felt suddenly cold, in spite of the sweltering heat.
“Oh? Well, if you care whether they do, maybe you best move on down to Center Street,” she suggested helpfully. “They’re fixin’ to make roast chicken out of somebody, sure as God made little green apples. You can smell hot tar all over town, and they’s a boiling of folks comin’ forth from the taverns.”
Melanie and Miranda uttered twin shrieks, and ran for the door, shoving past the unflappable Jezebel. I was moving rapidly in the same direction, and narrowly avoided a collision, as Ralston Bogues stepped through the door, just in time to catch his hysterical wife.
“Randy, you go mind your brothers,” he said calmly. “Be still, Mellie, it’s all right.”
“Tar,” she panted, clutching him. “She said—she said—”
“Not me,” he said, and I saw that his hair dripped and his face shone pale through its sweat. “They’re not after me. Not yet. It’s the printer.”
Gently, he disengaged his wife’s hands from his arm, and stepped round the counter, casting a brief glance of curiosity at Jezebel.
“Take the children, go to Ferguson’s,” he said, and pulled a fowling piece from its hiding place beneath the counter. “I’ll come so soon as I may.” He reached into a drawer for the powder horn and cartridge box.
“Ralston!” Melanie spoke in a whisper, glancing after Miranda’s retreating back, but the entreaty was no less urgent for its lack of volume. “Where are you going?”
One side of his mouth twitched, but he didn’t reply.
“Go to Ferguson’s,” he repeated, eyes fixed on the cartridge in his hand.
“No! No, don’t go! Come with us, come with me!” She seized his arm, frantic.
He shook her off, and went doggedly about the business of loading the gun.
“Go, Mellie.”
“I will not!” Urgent, she turned to me. “Mrs. Fraser, tell him! Please, tell him it’s a waste—a terrible waste! He mustn’t go.”
I opened my mouth, unsure what to say to either of them, but had no chance to decide.
“I don’t imagine Mistress Fraser will think it a waste, Mellie,” Ralston Bogues said, eyes still on his hands. He slung the strap of the cartridge box over his shoulder and cocked the gun. “Her husband is holding them off right now—by himself.”
He looked up at me then, nodded once, and was gone.
Jezebel was right: you could smell tar all over town. This was by no means unusual in the summertime, especially near the warehouse docks, but the hot thick reek now took on an atmosphere of threat, burning in my nostrils. Tar—and fear—aside, I was gasping from the effort to keep up with Ralston Bogues, who was not precisely running, but was moving as fast as it was possible to go without breaking into a lope.
Jezebel had been right about the people boiling out of taverns, too; the corner of Center Street was choked with an excited crowd. Mostly men, I saw, though there were a few women of the coarser type among them, fishwives and bond servants.
The apothecary hesitated when he saw them. A few faces turned toward him; one or two plucked at their neighbors’ sleeves, pointing—and with not very friendly expressions on their faces.
“Get away, Bogues!” one man yelled. “It’s not your business—not yet!”
Another stooped, picked up a stone, and hurled it. It clacked harmlessly on the wooden walk, a few feet short of Bogues, but it drew more attention. Bits of the crowd were beginning to turn, surging slowly in our direction.
“Papa!” said a small, breathless voice behind me. I turned to see Miranda, cap lost and pigtails unraveling down her back, her face the color of beetroot
from running.
There wasn’t time to think about it. I picked her up and swung her off her feet, toward her father. Taken off guard, he dropped the gun and caught her under the arms.
A man lunged forward, reaching for the gun, but I swooped down and got it first. I backed away from him, clutching it to my chest, daring him with my eyes.
I didn’t know him, but he knew me; his eyes flicked over me, hesitating, then he glanced back over his shoulder. I could hear Jamie’s voice, and a lot of others, all trying to shout each other down. The breath was still whistling in my chest; I couldn’t make out any words. The tone of it was argument, though; confrontation, not bloodshed. The man wavered, glanced at me, away—then turned and shoved his way back into the gathering crowd.
Bogues had had the sense to keep hold of his daughter, who had her arms wrapped tightly round his neck, face buried in his shirt. He darted his eyes at me, and made a small gesture, as though to take back the gun. I shook my head and held it tighter. The stock was warm and slick in my hands.
“Take Miranda home,” I said. “I’ll—do something.”
It was loaded and primed. One shot. The best I could do with that was to create a momentary distraction—but that might help.
I pushed my way through the crowd, the gun pointed carefully down not to spill the powder, half-hidden in my skirts. The smell of tar was suddenly much stronger. A cauldron of the stuff lay overturned in front of the printer’s shop, a black sticky puddle smoking and reeking in the sun.
Glowing embers and blackened chunks of charcoal were scattered across the street, under everyone’s feet; a solid citizen whom I recognized as Mr. Townsend was kicking the bejesus out of a hastily built fire, thwarting the attempts of a couple of young men to rebuild it.
I looked for Jamie and found him precisely where Ralston Bogues had said he was—in front of the door to the printer’s shop, clutching a tar-smeared broom and with the light of battle in his eye.
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