by Lee Henschel
A burning house was no uncommon sight. I’d seen three of them in Newbury, and the spectacle always reminded me of my mother’s parents, Squire and Rachel Cedric. The horror and despair in my father’s eyes as he told and retold of the day Squire and Rachel Cedric died, consumed in the flames of their own home. The day father saved mum’s life. And whenever I saw a burning house an urge came over me—to run into the burning thing. Frightening. I would die sure. So why would I think even to do it? To equal my father by trying to save a life? I didn’t know. Thankful I was a sensible lad, though . . . even if most willful, and I managed to vanquish the urge.
From down the road muskets popped in a ragged volley and stopped when a figure made double quick along the road. Kyle drew his pistol, cocking it just as a voice hailed us.
“It’s me, sir. Pillow. Don’t shoot me none.”
“None at all, Pillow. Report”
“Engaged two men, sir, runnin’ up the road toward here. Shot one in the leg and he’s down. Think I hit the other one in the shoulder but he run across the field into them trees.”
“Were they armed?”
“The shot one had a big pistol, sir. Don’t know if the other one’s armed, but I expect he is.”
“Very well. Take us to the wounded man.”
The man was sprawled on the road, eyes shut, moaning. Gottlieb looked at Kyle. “This one is Kahfir, youngest brother to Qena.” He leaned down and spoke in his ear.
“Kahfir.”
The man stopped moaning and opened his eyes. Gottlieb slid the burlap from his scimitar and brought the blade to the man’s face, its razor edge gleaming in the starlight. The man stared at it, transfixed.
More muskets popped off faint and distant, and Kyle stepped forward.
“That will be my men at the gate. They’re falling back.”
“Then young Harriet and I will go to the stalls now and prepare the horses. Tie this man’s hands and gag him. Then carry him to the work shed. It is back down the road from where he came. Clear a bench and strap him on it. Face down, with his head off the edge. How much time can you give me, Kyle?”
Just then the gate guards came running up the road and rejoined the squad. Kyle spoke with them briefly.
“There’s about thirty villagers, all unarmed. They’ll stop at the house first. Then no doubt they’ll come looking for us. I estimate we have no more than half an hour.”
“I think that is enough.”
“Be quick about it, Gottlieb. Now let’s fall back.”
The road from the main house ran half a mile through the olive orchard before it passed by a large shed, a corral, and horse stalls. It was a fine set up for horses, but in their haste the marines failed to admire it overmuch, going to the work shed direct, where they swept the tools from a bench unceremonious, and strapped their prisoner down.
Gottlieb made sure the man was secure, then looked around in the shop. When he spotted a cask stamped as brandy standing in a corner he stopped.
“I see Hojjat failed in my very last request, as well. There is only one cask.”
“There were supposed to be two. Correct?”
“Yes, two.”
“As we discussed Gottlieb, military operations never go as planned.”
“They do not. And I think this cask was meant for me. But it does not matter, I will have this one prepared for you very soon.”
“Very well. I’ll order my men to stand against the villagers.”
“Yes, of course. But when it is time for you to leave Otra Nova you must avoid them.”
“That would be best. What do you suggest?”
“Stay off the road. Lead your men off the estate the same way young Harriet and I came in last night. Go through the fields and into a stand cypress. The launch should be there by now waiting for you on the beach . . . if Pogue has managed to find his way. Young Harriet and I will ride the horses out through the Artesian Gate.”
“You still plan to head for Mahon? Yes?”
“Yes.”
When Kyle left, Gottlieb faced me.
“Prepare the horses now. Hojjat was supposed to help, but now you must do it all yourself.”
“Aye. I can do that.”
“I know you can. That is why I brought you. Just in case.”
“Aye, Gottlieb.”
“There are only two Arabians in the stable. There are other horses in the stalls as well and I have plans for them too . . . but for now I want you to release them into the corral so you can work with Tarif and Haditha only.”
“That’s their names, sir?”
“Yes.” He reached in his pocket and gave me a small packet of sugar. “The stallion is Tarif. He is the tall grey. He has a sweet tooth so if you give him sugar he will like you.”
“Aye, sir.”
“And the black mare . . . that is Haditha. She is not like Tarif.” He reached in his pocket for an apple. “She likes apples. If you give her this she might accept you, maybe.”
“Aye, sir. I will.”
“You must be composed. It is important to put them at ease.”
“But horses, sir . . . they’re most instinctual. Certain they’ll know something’s afoot.”
“Yes, that is certain.”
“And if . . .”
“Enough! Leave now and go about your duties. I will join you soon.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Young Harriet?”
“Sir?”
“Do not come back in here.”
“No, sir, I won’t.”
At the stalls I lighted an overhead lantern, then released five cobs into the corral. That left Tarif and Haditha alone with me. I brought oats, and fresh water. They watched me, interested in this stranger appearing in the middle of the night. And I watched them as well. As a farrier’s son I was bound to consider them first by their hoofs, and both Tarif and Hadith were unshod, their pasterns, coronet bands and walls tended well. Quarters and heels rasped fresh.
“Tarif,” I said soft. “I am Owen.”
He was a magnificent animal, mottled grey. Prime. Not yet ten. And tall, his lines sleek and well defined, and with eyes curious bright. When I offered the sugar he nibbled it gentle. His lips cool and velvet. Then he nuzzled me under my arm pit, taking in my scent full and nearly lifting me off the ground. I loved him. And he knew it. And when I found his hackamore I didn’t bother concealing it, for I saw in his expression that he was ready to be limbered, and would not balk.
I turned to the mare. “Hello, Haditha.” She was a bit older and disinclined toward me until I held out an apple for her. She came to the front of her stall then, still cautious, and nipped the apple off my hand with no nonsense, to let me know she wasn’t so good-natured as her foolish stallion.
I began to suspect a certain thing of her and went on, soft and low. “Shall I tell you what I think, Haditha? It will be our secret. Just you and me.” I went for a stool to stand on and whispered in her ear. “I think you’re in foal. Yes?”
She took in my scent, deep, and knew by it I was a horsey one. Her eyes said she would only tolerate me though, and not much care if I loved her. When I brought her hackamore she didn’t much care for that, either. I knew her kind though, and went on speaking calm and reassuring.
“Oh, my Sweet One, I’ll not try and deceive you and hide this bridle. You wouldn’t fall for that old saw would you, Dearie?” She snorted then, and let me work with her.
As I worked I felt her flank twitch, and knew to watch her ears. They shifted forward, listening to something that I didn’t hear. Then Tarif started to blow, and the horses in the corral as well. Finally I heard it, the faint hue and cry of a mob, distant yet, but moving this way. And the pop of musket fire. It would not be long.
From the work shed came a sound I’d not heard before. Not ever. Something landing heavy on the dirt floor with a soft thud. I crossed the corral, weaving through the horses. They were restive now, stirring about. I stopped at a window and peeked in. Gottlieb had li
ghted a lantern, and he stood in its light at the work bench, his scimitar held at his side with both hands. He was panting, and staring at the head of the one called Kahfir. It lay at his feet in a pool of blood, with eyes glazed and fixed wide, and mouth still gagged. The cask of brandy stood near, its end prized open. Gottlieb lifted the head by its hair, and lowered it into the cask. Much of the brandy spilled over, but enough remained to cover the head. He resealed the cask, tapping it shut with a mallet. And then I understood—this was the cask to be brought onboard Eleanor. I backed away, and became most sick.
Kyle stepped into the work shed just as Gottlieb covered the headless body. Kyle narrowed his eyes at the shroud and then glanced at the brandy cask. He made no remark, though, but went on to make his report.
“My men have discharged their last rounds.” He brushed powder residue from his red tunic, deliberate. “The villagers will know it within minutes and surround us. I suggest we leave, sir.”
“Quite so.” Gottlieb pointed at the sealed cask. “And take that with you, to Eleanor. It must be secured in my quarters. And, in the event of any more unplanned circumstances, be sure it is delivered into the hands of my cousin.”
“That would be Bani Hajir?”
“Yes. We will make contact with him at Amunia.”
The cask was heavy, and Kyle lifted it with both hands.
“Take care with it.”
“Of course, sir. I shall place two men in charge of transporting it to the ship.”
“Yes, do that. Go! I will set this building on fire and release the horses. That should distract the mob long enough for you to slip away.”
Kyle glance once more at the shroud and departed.
Gottlieb joined me in the corral. “You are sick?”
“No. I mean yes. I mean I saw . . .”
“Tarif and Haditha. They are ready?”
“Aye.”
“Then lead them out. Mount the mare and hold Tarif while I set fire to this place. We will turn out the other horses as we leave . . . and we will not stop until we reach the Artesian Gate. It is on this road, less than a mile.”
The villagers called loudly now, and were closing fast. I brought the horses while Gottlieb set his fire. He came out running, the shed near exploding in fire. I felt the heat, and Tarif and Hadita’s fear, yet they stood their ground as the corral horses circled frantic, kicking and gnashing, their eyes glazed in blind terror. When Gottlieb opened the gate all five of them bolted as one on to the road and charged breakneck toward the villagers. And we rode with them, then sheared off, giving Tarif and Haditha each a smack on the rump as we ran hell bent.
Chapter Eighteen
When we reached the Artesian Gate, it was shut. Hojjat was to have it open, but it was evident by now that he had served someone other than Gottlieb.
“Open the gate.”
I dismounted and tied Haditha to a gate post. She was skittish and I made sure to secure her tight. Just as the gate swung open a pistol flashed in the night and a shot rang out. I heard it thump solid into Tarif and he screamed and reared up, and threw Gottlieb to the ground. The horse charged terrified through the gate. Blood spouted from his stifle. He’d run now—fast but not far—then stumble and fall. He was mortal gut-shot and would bleed out slow. The poor beast . . . I felt most sorrowful, and loved him the more. I turned away just as Gottlieb groaned. He tried to stand, but could not. His leg was bent most queer.
“Help me off the trail. We must find cover.”
But there was little cover, only brush, and the cloak of darkness. I placed him as best I could and then we went still, staring into the night.
“Where is Tarif?”
“He’s run, sir. Hurt most dreadful.”
“Then you must go on alone.”
“We can both ride Haditha, sir.”
“No. My leg is broken. I cannot ride.”
“Can you shoot back, sir?”
“My powder was soaked in the marsh. I only have the charge in my pistol.”
“But . . .”
“Quiet now and listen to me. Someone knew we would come this way and was waiting. That shot was meant for me. And when he reloads . . .”
“Who, sir?”
Another pistol shot banged off, but missed.
“I am sure it is Qena.”
“He’s taking overlong to load, sir.”
“Pillow said he shot someone in the shoulder. It must have been Qena.”
“A good thing, sir.”
“Qena has turned Hojjat. Together they planned this and it went wrong when Pillow dispatched Hojjat.”
Something moved in the shadows, then stopped.
“He is closing in for a better shot.”
“Then I’ll help you move, sir. We can slip into the shadows deep.”
“No. Just be still and listen. You must be sure that cask is given to my cousin.”
“It’s a horrible thing you’ve put inside of it.”
“You should not have looked. It was not for your eyes to see. It is for Banji Hajir, to show proof to his tribe, so they know he is revenged. One last thing.”
“Aye, sir?”
“You and Mr. Lau have looked in the bottom of my sea trunk and have seen the broken stela.”
“I’m sorry, sir. It was none of our business.”
“It is now.”
“Sir?”
“On Eleanor, the deck below where no one works, what is that called?”
“The orlop, sir.”
“Yes, that one. When I took care of you in the great cabin you spoke often in your sleep. Once you spoke of the child Tate and his only possession. His tin box. I . . .”
The next shot rang out smashing Gottlieb in the arm.
“Ride, Harriet! At least I have slaked my cousin’s blood thirst with Kafir’s head. Now I will stay to die once more, with Cara tight in my hand. Ride!”
I mounted and made to leave. And did not.
“No. I can’t leave you here, sir. I’ll help you on and . . .”
The night flashed bright as another shot rang out and I screamed as the ball grazed my cheek and plowed on gouging the outer half of my eye. It didn’t hurt overmuch, not then—just a searing sting. But Haditha would have no more. She wheeled abrupt, bolting through the gate. I hung on and we raced into the night still most dark, but turning blood red.
I saw nothing with my left eye and the pain came savage now in a blinding rage. The damage was ghastly, my eye felt split open and my face bleeding copious. I tried to pull in Haditha to do what I could for my eye, but she ran on steady until we came to a stream and she stopped to water. I managed to dismount and washed out my eye, then bind it with a strip torn from my sleeve. Haditha drank her fill and then browsed. She seemed in no hurry, now that we’d left the pistol shots far behind. The trees and hills were quiet but for the murmur of the stream and a slight breeze high in the trees. Haditha stayed close by, for company, I think.
At first she’d seemed no loving beast. Not overgenerous. But I’d misjudged her, for now she came to nuzzle me, and she bumped me some. I believe she sensed my fear and my pain, aware of the diminished creature I’d become, wounded and grave. She could have run, but stayed near, and when I remounted she could have shed me with little effort. But did not. And so we moved on together. I clung to her neck in agony, thinking I must die. At times guessing I already had. Then I fell.
She was the ugliest human being I’d ever seen. Old. Eyes rheumy and dim. She was almost bald, and what hair she had was thin and scraggily. Her face was near black and wrinkled deep. Her mouth hung slack and open. Her breath stank abysmal. But she was most beautiful as well, for to see her at all meant I was still alive, if barely. My eye burned and stabbed sharp. My head throbbed and the trees flailed overhead. My stomach heaved but nothing came up for I was empty and most dry. The old woman held a wooden cup to my mouth. Water. I drank, then passed out once more.
I opened my good eye and saw her again.
“Umm,”
she muttered. “Vivo.”
This time I looked around. I was lying under a stand of pine trees. The ground was soft, cushioned by a thick layer of fallen needles. A wind still blew gentle, high in the trees, but on the ground it was quiet, and calm. I lay in a pool of warm sunlight. I felt for my eye. Someone had dressed my wound. I tried to sit up but the pain exploded, tearing through my head and wracking my body. I groaned. The old woman helped me sit up and spooned in a thin meat broth and I swallowed weak. I felt another presence then, but it was on my left, and was blind to it. The Sukiyama? But when I turned to look, I faded away.
Sometime during that night I was moved, and awoke before dawn lying on a cot, inside a hut. A dirt floor, a hearth, a small window and a doorway with no door. I sat up and saw that someone had washed my filthy togs and set them folded on the cot. I was most pleased about that. My clothes had dried on me—the stench of salt marsh still in them. Was this heaven, then? Albert said heaven was where an angel washed your clothes, and laid them out for you. My brother was simple and I loved him dear for it. But this was not heaven. At least not mine, for my eye throbbed angry and I shivered most violent. I dressed in the dark. Slowly, and with great stiffness. The effort proved overmuch, and fell back to sleep. At sunrise I heard someone moving about in the hut and I called out.
“Sukiyama?”
But it was just the old woman. She stood at the hearth stirring a pot. She turned and spoke. “¿Qué?”
I didn’t know what she meant, but her eyes asked a question. At least she didn’t say, “Shut your mouth, boy.” I smiled grim and tried to sit up but was too weak, and fell back.
“¡Yadra! Ven aqui.”
Her words sounded like the ones Kyle talked when he talked to Spaniards. Maybe she was telling me to shut my mouth after all. I didn’t think so. She didn’t sound mad, or impatient. Soon a girl appeared in the doorway. Older than me, I think, and small but not frail. She peeked at me, her head tilted curious—her dark eyes set wide deep. Her hair was curly and black. She turned and nodded to the old woman respectful. Fifty years between them, but with the same hands and the same stance. Grandmother and granddaughter, I guessed.