The Bonny Bride

by Deborah Hale

  “Yer boss wanted me to see the Miramichi by moonlight before I leave, is that it?” Harris infused the question with scorn.

  “Aye, ye might say so.”

  “Let me dress, and get ye clear of my wife. Then I’ll come peaceably.”

  Even as her eyes homed in on McBean’s knife in widened terror, Jenny cried, “No, Harris, ye mustn’t!”

  “Don’t fret yerself, lass. I’ll be fine.” Groping for his shirt and trousers, Harris tried to charge his words with an assurance he did not feel. “Once we get clear of here, I want ye to go board the St. Bride. Stick close to Captain Glendenning. I’ll find my way back to ye, come what may—I promise.”

  “Oh, leave off, Chisholm,” growled McBean, “before ye set me bawling.”

  “Or puking,” grunted Sweeney.

  Ignoring the stares of their uninvited guests, Jenny dove to grab Harris’s hand. Pulling him back onto the bed, she kissed him with all the pent-up ardor of a lifetime. Much as his body yearned to linger, he could not take the chance of Roderick’s ruffians getting unseemly ideas. He doubted either of them would scruple defiling Jenny and making him watch.

  With bitter reluctance, he tore himself free of her. “Do as I say, lass. To the St. Bride!”

  From one of the other rooms, someone shouted a complaint about the noise.

  Sweeney jerked him toward the door. “Enough of this billin’ and cooin’. Let’s go.”

  Though he found his injured ankle much improved, Harris exaggerated his limp, groaning softly with each step. Once out of the inn, they paused long enough for McBean to tie his hands behind him. Seeing a figure huddled beside an empty rain barrel, Harris wondered if it might be the bosun of the St. Bride. He prayed the man was only unconscious.

  They herded him down toward the river, where a rowboat waited. One of them pushed Harris in. He barely escaped braining himself on the oarlock. As the small craft approached the opposite bank of the Miramichi, he let himself exhale a breath of relief, knowing the width of the river lay between Jenny and the men who had attacked them. Now that she was safe, he could think about himself.

  “What are ye meaning to do with me?” he asked, as they manhandled him ashore.

  Sweeney snickered. “Not a thing in the world, boyo. It’s them Indians—the savages. They’re going to slit yer throat and peel the scalp off ye and who knows what all else.”

  His hackles rose to hear the man discuss such atrocities in morbid jest. “Then Roderick Douglas will lead a raid on the Mi’kmaq to avenge my untimely death?” Harris’s tone dripped acid sarcasm.

  “Ye’re right quick on the uptake, Scotty-lad. I’ll give ye that. Yeah, the boss’ll put the boots to them Indians all right. Says they got control of too bloody much land and they don’t do nothing with it. He’s got big plans for it, though. Plans for comforting yer fair widow, too.”

  Harris could picture the leering grin on Sweeney’s broad face. His fists ached to erase it—permanently.

  A faint breeze stirred the trees beside the road. Harris gulped a deep breath, then coughed and spat.

  “Ash! The air’s full of ash. It must be a fire in the woods that’s casting that queer light and making the noise.”

  “Fire?” McBean barked a derisive laugh. “Something’s always burning around here this time of year. Don’t fret yer head about it, Chisholm. Ye got worse things to worry about.”

  He didn’t intend to hang about and find out what they might be, Harris reflected. If only something would distract this pair for a moment, he’d seize the opportunity to give them the slip.

  The idea had scarcely formed in his mind when a deafening noise, like a clap of nearby thunder, roared from the woods. The earth trembled. Then came another great crash and another.

  In the midst of his own shock and vivid images of Judgment Day, Harris realized he would get no better distraction. Pretending to stagger on this wounded ankle, he hooked his leg around McBean’s at the knee. McBean lurched forward into his partner. Harris did not pause to watch them fall.

  He bolted into the undergrowth, ran a few steps, dropped to the ground and rolled. Then he froze. In the time it would take his pursuers to grope around for him, he might work his hands free.

  Thundering clamor continued to issue from the forest in waves, and with each report the earth shook. Thankful that the din masked his panting breath, Harris heard Sweeney and McBean blundering through the dry brush, cursing him and each other. With fingers numb and clumsy, he tugged at the rope knotted around his wrists. They’d be on him soon.

  “Fire!” Muted by the general tumult, the cry and the frantic tattoo of horses’ hooves sounded on the road. “The whole Miramichi’s ablaze! Get to the river while you can!”

  A fresh volley of thunder discharged from the woods, pushing in its path a rain of glowing cinders. Abandoning their search, Sweeney and McBean turned tail and ran.

  With a final desperate tug, Harris managed to free his hands. He hissed in pain as the blood surged back into them.

  One of the falling cinders lit on a parchment-dry fern, which burst into flame. Harris stamped the tiny blaze out, only to see others lighting all around him.

  The whole Miramichi ablaze? The notion struck terror deep in his bowels and fanned long-smoldering memories into open flame. He must get back to Chatham and make sure Jenny had boarded the St. Bride.

  Roderick Douglas was the least of their problems now.

  As the footsteps of Harris and his captors retreated down the hallway, Jenny fumbled for her clothes. Under her breath, she cursed the fancy silk gown. What she wouldn’t give just now for serviceable cotton and a sturdy apron.

  “Don’t get dressed too quickly, Janet.”

  Jenny stifled the scream that rose in her throat. “Damn ye to the devil, Roderick Douglas! Ye’re behind this, aren’t ye? Where have those men taken Harris?”

  From out of the shadows, a hand slammed into Jenny’s cheek, sending her reeling with tiny lights flickering before her eyes.

  “Shut up, you deceitful slut! Do you have any notion of how you shamed me at that church? In front of people like Pruitt and Billings. I’ll be the laughingstock of Halifax and Boston, as well as the Miramichi.”

  He shut the door behind him and his voice changed suddenly. Quiet—almost wistful. “We could have had a fine life together, Janet. Why did you throw it all away for that gangling buffoon? You betrayed my love.”

  Her cheek smarted from the force of his blow, urging Jenny to hold her tongue lest he deal her another—or worse. But the white-hot flame of indignant rage consumed her caution like so much dry tinder.

  “Love? Do ye ken what the word means, Roderick Douglas? I wounded yer pride, and I don’t regret it. That kind of pride’s a sin.”

  She gasped as his hard hand snaked into her hair, coiling itself around and pulling her face close to his.

  “I like you this way, Janet,” he whispered. “All fiery and defiant. You were such a meek mouse before, there was no sport in breaking you.”

  Where had this defiant spirit come from? Jenny wondered. Was it her freedom from dependence on Roderick Douglas? Was it payback for the way he’d bossed and bullied her these past weeks? Or could it be a strength born of her love for Harris, the security of his love for her.

  She spat in Roderick’s face.

  Bracing herself for a blow that would make her ears ring, she hardly knew what to make of it when he only laughed.

  “I fear you’re going to be a widow very soon, my dear Janet. This is an unforgiving land for a woman on her own. I couldn’t possibly marry you now, of course. But you’ll do well enough for my whore, while I look for a suitable wife.”

  He released her hair then, assaulting her mouth in an act of brutal possession that defiled the notion of a kiss.

  In a fit of desperate fury, Jenny jerked her knee into the lap of his trousers. As he reeled back with a bellow of pain and rage, she plowed her fist squarely into his Adam’s apple. Grabbing the water jug fr
om the nightstand, Jenny brought it down on the back of his head in an explosion of water and shattered crockery.

  She heard Roderick hit the floor. A low moan assured her she hadn’t killed him, and that was good. She had something to say that she wanted him to hear.

  “Mind me well, Roderick Douglas. If any harm comes to my husband, I won’t rest until I make ye pay for it.”

  With that brave, foolish threat hanging in the torpid air, Jenny hurried away. The bosun of the St. Bride met her at the back door of the inn.

  “They snuck up on me, ma’am.” He rubbed a spot on the back of his head. “I just came to when I heard them hustling yer husband off. They must have got Thomas, too. I’ll see ye both safe onto the St. Bride, then call out the crew to search for Mr. Chisholm.”

  The notion was most inviting. The promise of safety lured Jenny even as Harris’s final behest pushed her toward it.

  “No,” she said, after a brief but intense struggle within herself. “I can’t go with ye, bosun. Find Thomas and see him back to the barque. I know Chatham better than any of the St. Bride’s crew and I can’t afford to lose the time finding Harris. Did ye see which way they went?”

  The bosun pointed down toward the river. Hoisting her cumbersome skirts, Jenny set off at a run.

  After reaching the wharf, she hunted for someone to give her information.

  “Have ye seen three men about?” she called to a ferryman lolling on his barge.

  “I seen lotsa men.” He spat into the river. “Ships are full of ’em. Who ya lookin’ for, missy?”

  “Two of them work for Mr. Douglas. One’s stout and the other one has a broken—”

  “Sweeney and McBean? I seen ’em cross the river not a quarter of an hour ago. Now I recollect there might have been another bloke with ’em. Staggering like he was drunk.”

  Jenny scrambled onto the barge. “Can ye take me across, please? I have to find them.”

  The man stretched and scratched his head. “Nobody in their right wits wants to find them two, missy. Scouting for trouble, that is. But if ya got a penny, I’ll pole ya across.”

  “I haven’t got any money.” Jenny had never felt so helpless. Only a penny stood in the way of her finding Harris, and she didn’t have that paltry sum. Not even a piece of jewelry she could barter.

  “Please, sir. I promise I’ll pay ye as soon as I can. I have to get across the river. That third man wasn’t drunk. He’s my husband, and Sweeny and McBean have been ordered to kill him. Perhaps ye know him—he’s been around town for the past few weeks. Harris Chisholm?”

  The ferryman hoisted his pole. “Sit down, missy. I seen Chisholm around town. Seemed a good sort. Many’s the pint been hoisted in his honor today, for having the gall to steal Black Roderick’s bride right from the chapel.”

  As Jenny settled herself for the crossing, her eyes stung. As much from suppressed tears as from the dust in the night air. Or was it soot?

  She remembered the defiant words Harris had hurled at Roderick Douglas that morning. No man is destitute if he has friends. Harris had won many friends and admirers in this town for his willingness to stand up to their local tyrant. That admiration had become her currency.

  The ferry had barely touched the opposite shore of the Miramichi when a loud, ominous roar broke from the forest. Above the treetops flickered a strange orange glow, not unlike a sunset. But the October sun had set over two hours ago.

  And no sun had ever set in the north.

  Harris lurched down the road, trying to keep his rising panic in check. He could hear the crackling of flames in the distance. Smoke hung thick in the air. Now and then a faint breeze would stir, sending down a hail of sparks.

  Every instinct in him cried out to leave the road and make for the river. Harris resisted. Sweeny and McBean had run for the river. He didn’t dare go there.

  Behind him, he heard the pounding of horse’s hooves. Harris turned to see a Clyde mare galloping toward him, tossing her great head in a frenzy. Behind her, the horse pulled a small cart.

  It was on fire.

  “Whoa, girl.” He leapt out of the way of those massive hooves, then threw himself onto the cart. By some kind providence of the Almighty, he was able to unhook the traces without scorching his backside or having his arms torn clean from their sockets.

  “Whoa, big girl!” Harris stumbled along, clinging to the reins.

  With flames no longer snapping at her hocks and a man’s soothing voice filling her ears, the mare slowed to a nervous walk. Crooning every blandishment he could think of, Harris threw himself across the Clyde’s broad back and urged her to a jog.

  At the shore, he found the rowboat Sweeney and McBean had used to bring him across the river.

  “No way you’ll fit in here, ye big sowdy lass.” Harris lost no time in stripping the harness from her. He stowed it in the rowboat, hoping against hope that he might eventually be able to return it to its owner.

  “Thank ye for the ride, lass.” He petted the big beast’s nose. “Ye can probably swim better than me.” With a firm swat on the rump, he urged her to wade deeper into the river.

  Slowly and awkwardly, he plied the oars, coaxing the little boat across the Miramichi to the relative safety of the far bank.

  A good stiff wind, Harris reflected with a chill, and that safety would disappear. On the northern horizon, all down the river, the ruddy glare of flames streaked the night sky, punctuated only by columns of dense black smoke raging heavenward.

  Thank God, he and Jenny would soon be reunited aboard the St. Bride, fleeing this terrible inferno.

  Pity swelled within his heart for the people of the Miramichi. Their hard-won independence, and the promise of future prosperity, swallowed up in the blink of an eye. Where would they go? If they had enough stubborn courage to stay, how would they survive with winter almost at hand?

  Harris tried to put the thoughts from his mind, as he came alongside the St. Bride. It wasn’t any of his concern. He had to think of Jenny and himself first. Still, after years as an outsider in Dalbeattie, he relished the easy, unconditional acceptance he’d found in this boisterous young colony.

  He would miss it.

  One of the crewmen recognized him and called out to the captain.

  “Thank God, ye’re safe and sound, Chisholm.” Captain Glendenning clapped him on the back as they hoisted him aboard. “When the bosun and Thomas staggered back to us with their heads bashed, we feared the worst.”

  Harris clutched the master by the breast of his coat. “What about Jenny? She came with them, didn’t she?”

  The captain shook his head, as though reluctant to impart bad news. “Was she not with ye? Thomas didn’t know what had become of either of ye and the poor bosun barely knew his own name. He passed out again shortly after they came aboard. Mumbled something about yer missus and Roderick Douglas, but I couldn’t make any sense of it. What happened?”

  “Douglas sent two of his men after me. They must have sneaked up and brained Thomas and the bosun first. They took me across the river to do away with me, but I gave them the slip. I told Jenny to come here.”

  “We’ve seen no sign of her.” The master glanced up to the forecastle, where a falling cinder had ignited a coil of tar soaked rope. “We were just about to set sail, Harris. It’s too dangerous for us to linger here.”

  “I have to get back to the inn to see if I can find out what’s become of Jenny.”

  A plume of flame from the town drew Harris’s eye. If these spot fires could not be contained and the blaze gained a foothold on this side of the wide Miramichi, what would stop it from sweeping down the coast to ravage Levi Augustine’s hunting ground and lay waste to the Richibucto?

  “Can ye give me half an hour, Angus, and will ye take a load of passengers? After I find Jenny, we’ll bring aboard as many women and children as the St. Bride will hold. We can take them out to the safety of the strait until this is over.”

  “Go.” The master nodded curtly.
“I’m ashamed I didn’t think of that myself. We’ll jettison what we can to make more room.”

  A smaller vessel weighed anchor just then, heading for safety downriver. As it glided past the St. Bride, Harris recognized Roderick Douglas’s private sloop. Among the crew scurrying to hoist sail, he detected the figure of a woman.

  Was it only his tortured imagination—or was it Jenny?

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Jenny struggled along the path, praying she was headed in the right direction. Hearing horses’ hooves pounding toward her, she scooted for the safety of the underbrush, as she had several times before. Perhaps there was nothing to fear. After seeing firsthand the power Roderick Douglas wielded on the Miramichi, however, she was not about to take chances.

  Another volley of thunder rolled. But where was the rain?

  As the sound of the galloping horse faded, Jenny emerged from her hiding place and hurried farther down the road. She wasn’t certain what she could do if she managed to catch up with Harris and his captors. Hopefully, the ferryman would deliver her message to the St. Bride promptly, and she’d soon have reinforcements.

  No need to remind herself that Harris wouldn’t be in danger now but for her. By wedding her, he had pitted himself against a powerful and ruthless man. By granting her the chivalrous luxury of a wedding night at the inn, he had left himself vulnerable to treachery. When Douglas’s foul minions had burst in on them, Harris had fought like a man possessed to defend her. She had been his weakness and his downfall. Now Jenny swore she would make it up to him if it meant attacking those loathsome ruffians with her bare hands.

  Another great crash cleaved the air. The earth beneath Jenny’s feet trembled. This was no ordinary storm, she realized, as panic tightened around her throat.

  Suddenly the forest around her erupted with animals. Jenny screamed as a large hare darted past her. A pair of foxes followed hard on its heels, but she sensed they were not in pursuit. A doe and two fawns bounded across the road in a single stride, making for the river.

  Then Jenny saw the flames.

  Joining the race of terror-driven wildlife, she bolted for the sanctuary of the Miramichi.