The Outlaw and the Upstart King

by Rod Duncan

  Rooth Bay would have been just another desolate inlet on Newfoundland’s southern coast, but the homestead fortress of Patron Protector Williams lay five miles inland. That made the bay a natural anchorage for his small fleet of warships. Where there are boats, there will be trade. And where there is trade, there will be crumbs from which the impoverished will try to eke out a living.

  Smoke rose from stovepipes on the shacks along the quayside. Some of them might be in the business of selling food, she thought. The track had been even harder going after the rainstorm of the day before. Her feet ached. And she hadn’t slept.

  She started to lead the way down the hill. But Elias called out, “Wait!”

  It was the first word he’d said to her all morning. She stopped but didn’t turn.

  “We should arrive at the same time as Jago,” he said.

  “Why?” asked the old man.

  “So it looks like an accident.”

  “For what?”

  “So it doesn’t seem we’re meeting him on Williams land on purpose. He’d take that as an insult. We’ll pull back behind the ridge. When he comes into view, we can move.”

  “Might be hours,” said the old man.

  “Might be days,” said Elizabeth, under her breath, then set off down the hill.

  “Wait!” Elias shouted again.

  She pretended to not hear. But the others didn’t follow.

  Sparring with him hadn’t bothered her. She didn’t mind that he was hiding his own agenda and looking after his own needs. She didn’t mind that he saw her as an adversary. When he mistakenly arranged for them to share a bed, it had played more into her hands than his. He’d been unsettled. Feeling empowered by his discomfort, she’d pressed her advantage, trying to get some truth from him.

  And then the kiss. She didn’t know why it had made her so angry. She’d had her knife hidden in the straw. She’d wanted to hurt him. But only afterwards. At that moment, when his lips pressed against hers, the shock had taken all strength from her hand.

  She lay awake afterwards, facing the edge of the box bed, thoughts churning. She knew he’d done it to throw her off balance. But a thought kept intruding. Perhaps he’d done it because he admired her in that particular way, as a man will admire a woman.

  It wasn’t fair. Maria Rosa had said he was a rogue with a woman in every town. Elizabeth had only ever been with one man. And that man was an ocean away. She tried to picture his face. John Farthing was his name. An honourable man. A man of passion who desired her for what she was in spite of all the forces of the world that had tried to pull them apart. But John Farthing’s face was hard to picture now. And in the end, the forces of the world won. She might never escape from Newfoundland. She might never see him again.

  Round the thoughts tumbled: the kiss, his eyes, the unfairness, John Farthing, lost pleasure. It was ridiculous. All of it. She would escape. They’d be reunited. Somehow. And this Elias No-Thumbs would help her to do it. Her anger would be a whetstone. With it she would sharpen the blade of her resolve.

  She’d reached the first shacks of Rooth Bay. Three children ran into the trackway, skidding to a stop when they saw her. They were girls, she thought, though it was hard to tell. The whites of their wide eyes were the only clean thing about them. For a heartbeat they stood gawping. Then they spun on their heels and scampered back the way they’d come, shouting as they went. It was a wonder that children so thin had so much running in them.

  The quayside was deserted. Unlike everything else in the place, it had been built to last. Great stones made up a wall facing the water. Iron dock cleats had been built into the quay every ten yards or so. No ships were tied up, but a burnish on the metal suggested the cleats were well used.

  Lobster pots had been stacked against the walls of the harbour-facing shacks. She could smell salt and fish and rotting seaweed, but roasting meat as well.

  “Can I help you, miss?” asked a man standing in a doorway. He was almost as ragged as the children.

  “Do you have food to sell?”

  “There’s bread and fat,” he said, then cast his eye on her boots. “But there’s mutton, if you’ve got the silver.”

  Her stomach gurgled. “I have.”

  He nodded towards the lobster pots. “Sit yourself down.”

  She was about to step towards them but stopped. “There is something else,” she said. “I’ll have a bucket of hot water, if you please.”

  The meat had been cooked long and slow, waiting for customers perhaps. A more delicious feast might not have been found in the restaurants of London or New York. She used her own knife to cut slices from the loaf and fashioned a rough kind of sandwich. It was too thick to eat with good manners. The children came out from their hiding places to watch her get smears of mutton fat around her mouth and chin.

  She didn’t mind. Her feet were soaking in steaming water. It had been almost too hot at first. But as she ate, it cooled. Putting the empty platter aside, she leaned back against the wall of the shack and wriggled her toes in pleasure. Just then the sun came out. She hoped Elias would arrive, tired and hungry, to see her sitting there. With that in mind, she lay her left arm over the top of the lobster pot by her shoulder and upturned her right hand, resting on a low pot on the other side. She’d once seen a painting of a French peasant sitting in front of a cottage, just so. He’d seemed contented. That’s what she wanted to be: a picture of careless ease against weatherworn planks and the flaking blue paint of the door.

  Gulls sat in a line along the edge of the quay wall. They cried their mournful song. The sun went behind another cloud. A gust of wind shifted Elizabeth’s skirts. If Elias didn’t give up his vigil soon, she’d have to move and it would spoil the whole thing. The water in the bucket was growing cool. She turned her head and looked along the line of quayside shacks.

  A man was standing there: a giant of a man, his left coat sleeve knotted at the elbow. Panic hit her like a blow to the stomach. He was the same man who had cornered her in the storeroom. She wanted to fill her lungs but couldn’t. She wanted to grab her boots and run. His gaze seemed to have taken her in, but he was still turning. He stepped to the edge and looked down, as if checking for small boats in the water below.

  The pile of lobster pots must have partly hidden her. Or her stillness. He might not have seen her at all. The slab of his back was towards her. Standing, she lifted one foot from the water and placed it on the stones.

  Then a gust of wind blew, bringing a scent of salt from the wave tops. All the seagulls took off, crying. The gatherer turned to look. She panicked, jerking her other foot from the water and catching her toe on the rim of the bucket. It toppled. Water sluiced over the ground where her boots lay. He stared directly at her, his expression blank for a moment. She saw the recognition breaking in the bitter twist of his face. Then he looked down at her bare feet and his teeth showed in a kind of grin.

  She ran, knowing the stones would tear her feet but not feeling the pain, diving between the shacks, a narrow space that might put him off. Then she was out at the back. A chicken run lay to the left, cordoned with a fence of sticks. She vaulted it, sending the birds into panic. Scrambling over the fence on the other side, she heard the splintering wood as he smashed through in pursuit. If she could find a path of thick mud, it might slow him down and let her run full tilt. But it was all stones around the yard so she ducked under a line of washing and swung herself through a doorway into the nearest shack. In the dark she heard a child crying. Then she was out on the quayside again.

  She’d been able to beat him before because of the low roof. Small spaces and tight turns were her only chance. She’d never outpace him in a straight race. In five steps she was back at the lobster pots where she’d been sitting. Grabbing her boots, she ducked inside the building. Any commotion would tell the giant where she’d gone.

  The man who’d served the mutton was staring at her. Crouching, she brushed the soles of her feet. They felt sticky. Manure, not bl
ood, she hoped. Breathing deeply, she tried to slow the racing beat of her heart. But her hands still shook as she tied the laces.

  One of her feet was throbbing. Bruised at least. But with the boots on, she felt less vulnerable.

  Elias hadn’t come down the hill. He might not have seen the giant gatherer. He’d certainly know him if he did, even at a distance. Perhaps the gatherer had been in the village all along. If she could get to the track leading to the headland, she could wave her arms in signal. One of her friends would see.

  Unsheathing her knife, she stepped to the side of the rear door, keeping out of the light. The hens had quietened down. She stepped into the sunshine. Ten swift paces took her to the wall of the privy. She edged around it. The village seemed deserted.

  Her hand ached from gripping the hilt too hard. Breathing deeply, she started out towards the main track, forcing herself to walk not run, placing her feet carefully to make less sound. Gulls swirled overhead, riding the wind.

  She must soon be in Elias’s view. If he was looking. She couldn’t make out the ox cart. But they’d have rolled that back behind the ridge.

  Somewhere behind her, small stones scattered. She bolted. He was after her, accelerating. She sprinted to the track but could hear him gaining. Elias must surely see her now. He must come. But there was no time to hail him. No time to wave.

  She’d been heading for the track but now veered off towards the rusty iron church. She’d get there before the gatherer. But not by much. She slammed into the double doors and grabbed the handles. They wouldn’t budge so she launched herself towards the corner of the building, grabbing a downpipe to slingshot herself around. A smaller door lay to the side. This one opened. As she barged into the church, the giant was racing towards her. She slammed it shut and got the top bolt in place before the shudder of his impact. A crack of light opened at the bottom as the frame flexed. When it sprung back closed, she slid the lower bolts.

  Backing away, she waited for the next impact. A man that size could turn the door to splinters. And the walls were nothing but a skin of corrugated iron over a wooden frame. He might break through anywhere. Unless the fact that it was a church was stopping him. There couldn’t be a law of sanctuary. But it might be a taboo. A place of worship, not war. There was so much she didn’t know about Newfoundland.

  She turned to survey the space behind her. Light from high windows fell on four rows of pews. The altar lay at the front, complete with altar cloth. On top of it lay a man, head propped on one arm, a leg of chicken in his other hand. He smiled as he chewed. A dangerous smile. It was Jago, the upstart Patron.

  Chapter 14

  Damn the woman. Elias watched as Elizabeth strolled down the track into Rooth Bay, careless as if there’d been no plan and no Patron. Damn her eyes. She hadn’t spoken to him since that kiss. Hadn’t given him a chance to say he was sorry. She’d spoken to everyone else though, touching the old man on the arm as she whispered something, giving the boy Tinker a share of her food, shining her smile on the carter. They all smiled back, not seeing the way she played them. Elizabeth, the darling of their hearts. Elias No-Thumbs, the enemy of a helpless woman.

  “We’d best follow,” said the carter.

  The old man picked up his pack, readying himself for the last stretch.

  “We wait,” Elias said. “It’s your mistress made the plan. Not Elizabeth Barnabus. We’re to wait here until we get sight of Jago’s men approaching from the other side.”

  “But…”

  “But nothing. We wait!”

  They didn’t like it. But however much they wanted to go with Elizabeth, Maria Rosa’s name had the power to hold them. Elizabeth may have dreamed up the plan, but it was the mistress who had the knowledge to understand how it could be made to work. Rooth Bay wasn’t Jago’s land, so the Patron would need to watch himself. To kill there would be a slight on the Williams clan. Elias’s safety would come from the villagers, who could stand witness. And yet it had to seem as if the place of the meeting had come to be through chance. Otherwise it would be an insult to Jago, who’d need to lash out to save face.

  Elizabeth was a foreigner. She didn’t understand the politics. Not that she’d have listened to Elias anyway.

  “Give me that,” he said, taking the telescope from Tinker. Twisting the eyepiece, he brought the woman into focus. She’d reached the bottom of the hill. The carefree spring had gone from her step. She’d walked like that just to irritate him, he thought. But alone in a strange village, she’d grown less sure of herself. Good. He hoped she was miserable.

  He turned the focus ring a fraction. The high collar of her coat would hide the neck cloth from the villagers. Else they’d see it and think her a slave. She’d get different treatment, then. Any of them might order her to show the marks around her neck. The forgery was good, but not good enough to bet her life on.

  Damn the woman. And damn his own conscience.

  There was a tug at his sleeve and he lost sight of her for a moment.

  “My turn,” said the boy.

  It was warm enough in the sunshine. He’d worked up a sweat heaving the cart over the ruts of the last climb. But sweat cools quickly on a hilltop, doing nothing but watch and worry.

  Tinker found a rocky hollow off to the left side of the track, dry enough to lie in. The fringe of fireweed around the edge bent over and danced as the wind gusted around the headland. The carter lay at the edge with the glass aimed down into the village. Hot food would have been good, but they couldn’t risk the smoke. The others lay close to each other for warmth, but didn’t ask Elias to join them. After a time, the boy took the watch.

  “Should’ve followed her,” said the carter, when he was settled with the others.

  “We can’t,” said Elias.

  “The beasts need shelter. They’ll freeze up here.”

  “We’re staying!”

  The wind hissed in the grasses. It seemed no one else would challenge him.

  Then Tinker called out, “She’s there!”

  Elias scrambled up to the rim to look. The others followed.

  “Keep your heads down!”

  There was movement between the shacks, but he couldn’t make it out. He tried to grab the telescope. The boy yanked it back.

  “She’s running. And there’s a man!”

  Tinker leapt, as if to set off down the track, but Elias grabbed his ankle and felled him. With the glass to his eye, he could see the deserted village, but with the boy’s struggles he couldn’t keep the picture still.

  “Someone hold him down!”

  The carter did.

  “Where did you see her?”

  “There’s a man! With no arm! Jago’s man!”

  Just as Tinker said it, Elias found her in the circle of his view. She was walking from one of the shacks towards the privy, not running. He let out a steadying breath. How did Elizabeth tangle things to such a knot? He lowered the glass.

  “Where did you see the man?”

  The boy pointed. “There!”

  A bulky figure was charging after Elizabeth. She ran towards the church. Tinker scrambled free and sprinted. The carter was after him, following down the hill. Then the old man. Elias put the glass to his eye once more. This time he saw the gatherer clear: the tied coat sleeve, the giant frame.

  Swearing under his breath, he scrambled after the others, angry with Elizabeth. Angry with himself. He’d been stupid. He hadn’t thought that Jago might leave a man in Rooth Bay to watch the road.

  “Wait!” He had to stop the others charging into trouble.

  “Wait, damn you!”

  The carter looked back, stopped.

  “We walk in!” Elias growled.

  “But Elizabeth…”

  “Go fetch the cart.”

  The old man had stopped as well. And his son. But Tinker was running, out of earshot, flailing his arms as he tore away down the hill.

  “What about Elizabeth?”

  He wanted to say, to hel
l with her. She’d brought it on herself. But he’d been part of it, at least. He should never have done what he’d done.

  “If we go running in, it’ll make more trouble than good. If Jago sees we care for her… If he sees I care for her…”

  “Do you?” said the carter.

  Elias didn’t answer.

  “We’ll work it your way, then. But if she comes to harm…” His eyes narrowed to slits.

  It took five minutes to harness the beasts and fetch them over the brow of the hill, five minutes that felt like an hour. At last they were lumbering down the rutted track towards the village. He caught no sight or sign of her, nor Tinker, nor the giant gatherer. The spaces between the buildings were empty.

  Jago: the thought hit him as they were approaching the first shack. What if the Patron hadn’t just left a man to keep watch? If he were there himself, it would give meaning to the eerie quiet: the people too scared to be seen out.

  His heart started missing beats. The air seemed too thin. The glass pot felt smooth and welcoming in his pocket. But he’d already taken the morning dose. He couldn’t keep using it so fast.

  “Move,” the carter said, close behind.

  Elias hadn’t been aware that he’d stopped. He stepped forward again, light-headed, trying to slow his breathing.

  There was no building grand enough for a Patron. Except the church. It would be just like Jago to make camp in a church.

  He could check the stables. Jago’s stallion would be easy to spot. Then he’d know for sure. But that would take minutes. He hated himself for thinking it, but delay could be the difference between slavery and freedom for Elizabeth.

  “Go to the stables,” he said. “All of you.”

  Before they could ask why, he turned on his heel and set off towards the corrugated iron door.

  A missionary had visited the Williams clan in the last years of the nineteenth century, having the good luck to arrive as the Patron lay dying. The old man converted. Some would later say his new faith had been false, that his order to build the church was a joke to gall his son and heir. Either way, the building had seen little use. Peasants might like the idea of a Lord above but Patrons did not. Each winter for a hundred years they’d begged the storms to break it down. Yet there it stood.