The Demon Redcoat

by C. C. Finlay

  “I’m cleaning up,” Proctor said, looking around at the empty corners. “Do you have anything … bloody rags …?”

  The surgeon, a passenger volunteer like Proctor, was too green to speak and looked weak from days of not keeping any food down. He huddled in the corner and shook his head. “I couldn’t take the smell,” he croaked. “My mate tossed it overboard.”

  “Thank you,” Proctor said, closing the door. Without blood, his spell wouldn’t work.

  He saw the faces of the ordinary sailors, floating like pale ghosts in the dim light below the deck. They were watching him closely to see what he was doing. Proctor didn’t care. He looked for a familiar bearded face among the men. “Jack! Jack, are you there?”

  There must have been a dozen men on the ship named Jack, but only one stepped forward, the huge brute who had traveled on the Sensible with Proctor. “Name’s not Jack on this ship, but yeah, what can I do for you?”

  “I need your blood soaked on this piece of sailcloth,” Proctor said.

  Jack licked his lips and looked over his shoulder. A murmur ran through the rest of the crew, and Proctor knew they were talking about witchcraft, but he could deal with that if they survived. The accusations would drown with the accusers if he didn’t save the ship.

  “Like an offering to the sea?” Jack said, loud enough so the others could hear him.

  Proctor could accept those terms. “Exactly.”

  Jack nodded and stepped forward, pulling up a sleeve to expose his forearm. When he was close enough to Proctor, he said, “I saw what you did on the Sensible to keep the pump running. It warn’t natural.”

  “Do you believe this storm is natural?” Proctor asked.

  “No, I don’t.”

  Proctor drew the knife across his arm and pressed the cloth against it. “Which other sailors can I ask?” Proctor said.

  “You need more?” Jack asked, rolling down his sleeve.

  “Yes, as many as I can get,” Proctor said.

  “All right.” Jack turned, bracing his legs and looming in the small deck where others crouched and stood bent against the violent rocking of the storm. “Get in line, all of you, and be quick about it.”

  A few of them shuffled forward, but more held back. The waves beat on the ship like mallets on a drum, knocking it from side to side. When they had regained their balance, one of the men said, “What’s this for?”

  “It’s just like the surgeon with his lancets,” Jack said. “It’s for your god-damned health. So if you don’t step over here and volunteer, I’ll bloody your nose and we’ll take it that way.”

  Outside, the storm raged harder. The men fell into line, pressing forward one after another while Jack jerked up their sleeves and held their wrists. Proctor slid the knife across each forearm, soaked up the blood, and took the next man in line. Men averted their eyes while Proctor worked. Some made the sign of the cross on their foreheads while others said the Lord’s Prayer. Water sloshed around their feet before he was done.

  “That should do it,” Proctor said. “Thank you, Jack.”

  “Rupert,” the big man whispered. “My real name’s Rupert.”

  “Thank you, Rupert.”

  Proctor tied the bundle together, wrapping the blood-sopped rag around the wood, and tying it all together with the rope. He went back up to the storm, but Captain Barry stood at the hatch and tried to stop him from going onto the deck.

  “It’s the worst blow yet,” the captain said. “You’ll be swept overboard—if we don’t all sink.”

  “Is that a Bible in your hand?” Proctor asked.

  “Yes, of course,” Barry said.

  “Well, I’m going up there to pray, out in the rain where God can hear me,” Proctor said. He pulled away from Barry and climbed up the ladder onto the deck.

  The wind slammed into him at once, knocking him down. The ship rolled, and he slid across the deck as a wave crashed over the side. The water hit him harder than the wind, dragging him toward the railing and the ocean.

  He reached out and caught a rope.

  With the bundle still tucked tight under the other arm, he pulled himself upright with one hand and slowly made his way across the ship’s deck. The bitter-cold fresh water of the rain stung him like hornets, while the salt water of the ocean grabbed him by the ankles and tried to drag him under. The wind buffeted him from every direction.

  He reached the mainmast and the bloodstained deck.

  With his elbow hooked tight around a rope, he lifted his bundle to the wind. “Sail and rope, wood and blood, let this sacrifice satisfy you.”

  The ship dropped into another trough and a wave crashed over the deck like a fist meant to break it in two. It carried the bundle out of Proctor’s hand and over the side, while he held on with both hands just so he wouldn’t be washed away.

  The wind howled in triumph. Instead of easing, the storm increased its fury, like a dog with a rabbit in its teeth, trying to snap its neck by shaking it. Lightning sliced the air around them over and over again, and thunder shattered the sky. A huge ripping sound came from the front of the ship. Proctor looked up to see that the foresail had split, and as the wind twisted and tore at the fabric it carried away the foretop mast. Another ripping sound followed as the staysail split down the middle.

  Proctor screamed back with equal fury, pushing back as he created a shield of safety between the ship and the storm. He was so immersed in magic after weeks of working the same spell that he merely had to think the thought to make it happen. The rain stopped falling on the deck, and the wind whistled around them though he was left standing in an eerie stillness. It was like looking at a storm through a window, safe behind the glass. Proctor felt the power course through him, more than he had ever felt before, as he held the storm at bay. He could not say how much time passed before it broke and he collapsed to his knees. He was kneeling, as if in prayer, when the clouds split overhead and the sun shone on them for the first time in weeks.

  All around them, the sea was empty.

  The captured brigs were gone.

  The Lafayette, carrying everything the Americans needed to win the war, was gone.

  Proctor was carried to his cabin, exhausted, where he passed in and out of a fever for days that stretched into weeks. He heard the surgeon’s voice at one point saying, “It’s something in his blood,” and he felt the sharp end of a lancet pierce his arm and the blood drain from him.

  A bright light and the smell of burning wood and flesh snapped him awake at one point. “What happened?” he croaked when he saw Lydia. His mouth tasted like it was filled with cotton, and his throat was as raw as sunburn splashed with salt.

  “Lightning hit the mainmast,” she said. “Shattered the mainyard beyond repair and burned a dozen men on deck.”

  He fell back. Was this just bad luck or was it another attack by Dee? Had Proctor’s spell failed, after all?

  Before he had an answer to his question, he slipped back into his blood fever. He was trapped in a dream of storm and battle, where the orange flash of the heavy guns looked like lightning, the boom of the cannons sounded like thunder, and the screams of wounded men sounded like the cries of the drowning.

  He came awake alone. Hearing the sound of cannons and the cries of men, he staggered up to the deck.

  The sea was as still as a cup of water. The air had no more breath in it than a dead man. Black smoke hung over the sea like a fog, but through a gap in it, Proctor saw two ships flying British flags. They sat astern of the Alliance, in a position where the Americans’ guns could not be brought to bear, but where they could pound it with cannons and grapeshot. One ship had sixteen guns and the other fourteen, and Proctor ducked as shot whistled overhead.

  He spun around as the shot hit the damaged masts, sending out a spray of splinters. The deck was a hopeless tangle of fallen rigging, spars, and sails. A musket ball whistled by and Proctor threw himself to the deck. The Englishmen were in their masts with muskets, picking off the A
merican crew one by one.

  “Where’s Captain Barry?” he yelled.

  Brewer, the marine sergeant, stuck up his head to answer. “He was hit by a canister of grape. He’s below—”

  His sentence went unfinished as a musket ball cracked his skull. Proctor crawled over to him, dragged the bloody body over to the hatch, and carried him below to the surgeon. “Help!” he called. “We need help over here!”

  The surgeon stood over another injured man, tied to a table while he cut metal out of the shoulder. He nodded to his mate, who took one look at Brewer and then pried him free of Proctor and carried him over to a corner where other men lay dead with their eyes and mouths still open. More bloody men lay propped against the walls, waiting their turn with the surgeon. Lydia moved among them, easing their pain. Her eyes met Proctor’s, and he saw exhaustion in them. The battle had been going on for some time. He still didn’t see Captain Barry.

  Lieutenant Hacker, an earnest young officer whom Proctor might have felt a kinship with before the war, came down from the deck.

  “Captain Barry, sir,” he said hesitantly. “The ship is in frightful condition. The rigging is damaged beyond easy repair, and so many men have been killed or wounded, I don’t know if we could repair it. Even if we did, without any wind, we’re at a distinct disadvantage. Do I have your permission to strike the colors?”

  The man on the surgeon’s table undid the stay that held him there, threw off the surgeon’s drape, and sat up. It was Barry.

  “Strike the colors?” he said furiously. “If the ship cannot be fought without me, then I’ll come back up to deck. Go do your duty, sir.”

  Hacker saluted and ran back to the deck while Barry struggled to pull on his uniform. Proctor took one last look at Barry and followed Hacker. If all they needed was wind, he could provide that.

  He crouched from one piece of shattered cover to another as the snipers in the British ships continued to pick off the Americans one by one. Proctor closed his eyes and reached out with his talent. There was hardly any wind to gather, but he felt a tickle of it coming from the south, and then another tickle, and he grabbed them as a man grabs a rope and reeled them toward him. He did not even have to think to draw on the power of the life’s blood already spilled on the deck. It just flowed into him.

  Sails snapped above him. Those not rent to shreds by the British attack filled. The men on the deck cheered, and Hacker shouted orders at them. He could hear feet pounding to the cannons as the ship turned. Proctor lifted his head and saw both British ships still sitting dead in the water as the Alliance’s starboard broadside unloaded on them. The cannons were run in and out and blasted again, and the smaller ship’s flag came down. A third broadside and the second ship surrendered too.

  The American crew ran across the deck, leaping and cheering and shouting.

  Proctor went belowdeck and found that Barry had already heard the good news. Proctor looked him straight in the eye, and said, “Captain, when will we sail for Boston?”

  “The instant we’re able to raise sail,” Barry said. “We’ve done all we can on this voyage. The Lafayette is lost to us—we won’t find it now. We’ll have to find some way to beat the British with what we have.”

  On the morning of June 6, the Alliance, battered but not broken, raised sight of Boston Harbor. Proctor’s own heart leapt with hope, and as soon as they were ashore he used the last of his coin to rent ponies for himself and Lydia. They rode through the night, with only the briefest of breaks, passing through Salem and coming to The Farm a day later.

  As they crossed the hilltop, Proctor felt the tingle of Deborah’s protective spell. He had a vision that everything was going to be all right. He would touch the charmed gatepost, the veil that hid The Farm would be lifted, and he would find Deborah with Maggie in her arms—no, Maggie would be holding Deborah’s hand, running beside her.

  The oak tree stood beside the road the same as it ever had, marking their gate. He dismounted and put his hand on the gatepost.

  The veil lifted.

  Beyond the barrier, The Farm lay in ruins. The barn was shattered, the house reduced to its foundations, the gardens choked with weeds.

  Proctor collapsed to the ground, sobbing.

  Chapter 25

  He crouched on his knees at the threshold for a long time, his body racked by sobs. He had gone so far to protect his family, he faced horrors he had never imagined for their sake, and he had come home to this. The early-summer sun beat down on him with the harsh, relentless light of truth. He had failed.

  After a long while, he felt Lydia’s hand fall on his shoulder.

  “Come on,” she said softly. “We best go see what we can learn.”

  He rose to his feet, but there was nothing to be learned. The damage had been done a year or more ago, at exactly the time the demon had been sent to possess Deborah. The land still showed signs of being scorched, the earth was churned and abandoned, the buildings were reduced to piles of stick and rubble. Not even the chicken coop had been spared. The remnants of the roof rested on the stone foundation.

  Everything that he had built, everything that he had worked for, was destroyed.

  He stumbled forward, barely able to take in the destruction. The only things still standing were the chimney from the new addition, the one that Proctor had built, the one that he and Deborah had protected with the spell. A single strip of fertile land ran from the chimney to a solitary tree in the orchard. Maggie’s tree. It had grown so much, he scarcely recognized it.

  There were chickens under the roof of the coop. They poked their heads out as Proctor approached, pecking at the grasses along the narrow strip of ground. With Deborah’s protections still in place, no wild dogs or other predators had been able to get in to attack them. A rooster poked its head up and, seeing Proctor and Lydia, began to leap and flap its wings aggressively.

  Proctor brushed his hand through the air, using magic to knock the rooster fifty feet away, leaving a trail of feathers behind it. The chickens ran, squawking, and hid.

  “Was that necessary?” Lydia asked. The rooster stood up, dazed, and picked at its feathers.

  “She’s dead. Don’t you understand? They’re both dead.”

  “All dead, you mean,” she said. “If Deborah and Maggie are, then Abigail is too. But we don’t know that any of them are dead yet.”

  “Look around—how could she be alive?”

  “I see the hearth and Maggie’s tree still standing. Those were the most sacred places on this farm. If they survived, I think Deborah did too.”

  “That’s wishful thinking.”

  “If you have a choice on how to think, then always choose hope over fear.”

  He walked away from her, shaking his head. It was hopeless. He had failed. He had not beaten the Covenant. He had not stopped the demon. Still, he had to know, and the only way he knew how to know was through scrying.

  He began picking through the rubble of the house, tossing broken lumber and shingles aside until he found a bowl. It had a chip in the edge but it would do. Carrying it in one hand, he went over to the shattered wall around the well and found the bucket still attached to a rope. The wood was split, and would spill as fast as he could pour, but he dropped it down into the well. It smacked the water and grew much heavier as he hauled it hand over hand back to the surface. He dumped the water into the bowl before it drained out completely.

  “What are you doing?” Lydia asked.

  “The only thing I know how to do,” he said. The thing he should have done a long time ago. Scrying was his only natural talent, the only thing he could do that he had not learned from Deborah or because of her.

  He carried the bowl full of water over to the fallen coop, and reached under the roof looking for a nest. The chickens pecked at his hand, and it stung, but he reached around until he felt eggs in a nest. He scooped one up, felt it warm in his palm, and pulled out his hand.

  A flap of skin fell loose and blood streamed over his
thumb and wrist.

  Once, to gain the foresight, he would have had to perform an elaborate ritual in preparation.

  Not so today. He would have answers if he had to grab the future by the throat and wring them free.

  With that thought in his head, he lifted the egg over the bowl and crushed it in his fist. The yolk squirted out of the shell, splashing water over the sides. Pieces of shell and egg ran down his arm.

  Blood dripped off his hand, three droplets, framing the egg.

  The vision hit him like a waking dream.

  A huge brick mansion, like the homes of London, but set in a broad plantation at twilight. He recognized slaves in the yard, and a field planted with tobacco. Somewhere in the South, maybe Virginia.

  The doors opened to the mansion. John Dee, with his gray hair and pointed beard, with his long, gray robes and ruffled collar, walked out of the house and down the broad staircase to the lawn. He was followed by the prince-bishop and Cecily, and by other witches that Proctor had seen in London.

  But he didn’t even notice them, so full of anger was he at Dee.

  He launched himself toward the wizard, intending to kill him. A field of spears surrounded him. He lifted the spears into the air and hurled them at Dee, chasing along behind them to see the job done.

  That’s when Deborah appeared, wrapped in shimmering light, like a creature made as much of spirit as of flesh. She stepped in front of Dee and put up a protective shield, knocking the spears to the ground.

  Proctor skidded to a stop.

  Deborah? She had been taken by Balfri after all. It was almost a relief to know.

  “What did you see?” Lydia asked.

  The heat of the sun, the clucking of the chickens, the sharp pain in his hand, all rushed over him, bringing him back to the present.