P N Elrod - Barrett 2 - Death and the Maiden

by Death

  Reaching the wall of the house, I held hard against it and eased one eye around the corner. The yard on that side was also empty of life, which I found ominous. The icy air was still, nearly windless; the least sound would have carried to me-had there been anyone about to make it.

  Another corner, and I saw the barn. Its doors were open. There was no sign of movement within, which meant the horses were gone. I didn't know what to make of that. Moving closer, my eye fell upon a limp pile of brown feathers lying just on the threshold. It was one of the many laying hens that nested in the barn. Some hand had twisted its neck, then cast it away. I quit the barn and went straight to the house. The doors were wide open there as well. Up the steps, into the entry hall and stop... the house had suffered a cruel invasion. Furniture was overturned, ornaments broken, it was a wretched mess. I called out, but received no answer. I listened to silence and felt chilled right through.

  Where were they? Mrs. Montagu had several house servants, a coachman, some field laborers; there was no sign of them, not even of the noisy lap dog she doted on. I made my way toward the kitchen, hitting the catch on my cane and drawing the blade free.

  It was dim there, but sufficient light from outside seeped in for me to see well enough. To anyone else, it would have been blacker than hell, and, indeed, the mess I found might have been a part of that dread pit.

  The fire there had been banked for the night, an indication that the house had been in order as usual before whatever had happened had happened. Order was gone, now, for this place had also been thoroughly ransacked. The smoked hams that should have been hanging from the rafters were gone. They'd been cut down and taken away except for a very large one that might have been too heavy for the thief to carry. He'd dragged it a few feet, then abandoned it.

  Other signs of looting presented themselves, but I let them pass, as they were far less important to me than finding out the fate of Mrs. Montagu and her household. A sound... very soft.

  It was not repeated and I couldn't really identify it, but it might have come from the cellar. With something like hope I strode toward the door and tried it.

  Locked. Most promising. The lock on this side was broken, therefore someone must be on the other side. They'd probably taken shelter there when the thieves had come and didn't know that it was safe to emerge.

  I called Mrs. Montagu's name and knocked several times. No answer. Well, they'd have to come out sometime. Perhaps they were too frightened to respond. I banged my fist a few more times, then decided to try forcing the door. Floating through it would have been less destructive, but much too difficult to explain. Besides, I was more than strong enough for the job.

  Setting myself, I gripped the handle and slammed a shoulder against the door. It gave a bit, opening a long crack along the point where I'd struck. I put my mouth to it and called again and something staggeringly loud exploded right in front of me. Thrown back with a shout of surprise, I crashed against a large table. My legs abruptly stopped working. The floor came up, faster than lightning, striking hard all over when it hit me.

  My ears rang from the blast, making me sick and dizzy; I could not hear anything subtle, but was aware of some sort of commotion going on nearby. People were yelling in fear and alarm, and somewhere a candle wavered and made the shadows dance.

  "Oh, my God, it's Jonathan!" someone wailed. The voice was yet muffled by the ringing, but I thought it belonged to Mrs. Montagu.

  "Shut yer mouth, ye damned Tory bitch!" a man ordered. The order was punctuated by something that sounded like a slap, and the woman cried out in reaction.

  Groaning, I tried to sit up, and that's when a truly terrible pain lanced through my whole body. My groan turned into a gasp and I instantly gave up trying to move.

  A large and unkempt man knelt over me. He had a smoking pistol in one hand and wore an expression in which fear and hatred had been fused into a single vile mask. I was already somewhat stunned from being shot; his face completed the work. All I could do was lie on the floor and gape as one of his rough hands probed my chest.

  Behind him, Mrs. Montagu was staring at me, her usually pleasant features marred by a look of utter horror.

  "This 'un's dead, Nat," said the man. "Or he's a-dyin'. Either way, 'e won't trouble us."

  "You sure?" asked Nat, sounding peevish.

  The big man's hand was momentarily heavy on my chest. He was pushing against me to get to his feet. "'E's dead, I say. Let's git 'fore others follow 'im."

  "Too late. I see 'em comin'. They heard yer shot."

  "I'll give 'em 'nother, then." He drew a second pistol from his belt.

  "Right, soon as one's through the door, you take 'im an' I get the next."

  "For God's sake, just leave us!" Mrs. Montagu pleaded. I could see her huddled off to one side. Except for a red patch where the bastard had struck her, she seemed unharmed, though very frightened. Gathered around her were several of her servants; they also appeared to be well, but thoroughly cowed by the thieves. None of them were armed.

  "Shut yer mouth or I'll cut yer throat," said Nat casually. He had a knife in one hand and a candle in the other. He blew the candle out and left it on the table, then stood with his partner on one side of the door leading to the scullery. Father and the others would most likely use it, as that was the fastest way into the kitchen. After hearing the shot, they'd not wait, but charge right in, and Father would be the first...

  The pain was still with me, but so was the overwhelming need to get up and do something. Gritting my teeth seemed to help. I was very, very careful not to breathe in. With air in my lungs I might involuntarily vocalize what I felt.

  Then Mrs. Montagu gasped when I moved, startled that I could move. I was terrified she'd draw the attention of the villains toward me.

  "Shut yer face," hissed Nat, and I wholeheartedly agreed with him. He did not, fortunately, turn around, but continued to listen at the door.

  Glaring at Mrs. Montagu, I raised one hand in a sharp gesture, hoping she would correctly take it as a sign to be silent. It cost me, for any motion on my right side doubled my pain. I wasn't even sure she could see well enough to know what I wanted until she bit her lips and nodded, her eyes wide and supremely unhappy.

  "They're comin'!" whispered the big one gleefully.

  Nat slipped back a little so as to be out of the line of fire.

  I was on my feet, ready to take them on...

  ... weaponless.

  The realization hammered home too late. I'd naught but my hands, not even a club. My swordstick... God knows where that had dropped when I'd been shot.

  Father was almost here; I recognized his step.

  Hands. Both of them. Edge of the table.

  Push.

  It was a very heavy piece of oak, sturdy enough to stand up to decades of abuse from various cooks over the years, but for me it might have been made from paper, as it all but flew across the room. The far end struck the larger of the two men in the back just below the waist with an ugly-sounding thud. He may have made a noise himself, but it was lost in the general scrape, rattle, and bang of the table's swift passage.

  His pistol went off toward the ceiling with a flash and a roar, and a cloud of smoke filled the air around him. I saw that much out of the corner of my eye as I lunged forward, reaching for Nat.

  Surprised as he must have been, he was fast and whirled to meet me. He made a quick stab at my left side, but I just managed to knock his arm away before our collision. Balance lost, we crashed against a wall and fell. Kicking, beating, biting, and finally flailing at me with his knife, he did me some damage as we rolled over the floor. My fingers found his neck in the confusion and froze around it. He thrashed and gurgled. I squeezed harder and harder. His face went red, then purple, with his tongue bulging out as I squeezed harder and harder and...

  "Jonathan!" Father's voice. Shouting.

  I could barely hear him. Didn't want to hear him. Wanted to finish my work.

  "Let go of him,
laddie!"

  He'd never raised his voice to me like that before, not even when he was angry. What was wrong? What had... ?

  Hands on my arms. Pulling, tugging mine loose from their grip on Nat's throat.

  What... ?

  I let go, and they pulled me from him with a lurch. That's when my strength left me. I went limp, shaken and shaking, and the pain of the shot hit me all over again afresh. There was blood. The smell of it filled the room, mixed with the gunpowder... and the scent of death. For one awful moment I seemed to be spinning back in time to that hot August day in the woods, right to the very instant when I'd... died.

  'Wo!" I said, forcing myself to sit up. I yelped and clutched at my wound.

  "Lie back, Jonathan," said Father, kneeling over me.

  I tried to push him off. I could bear the pain far easier than the memory. There was no way I could possibly lie still and let death steal up and seize me as it had before.

  "Steady, now, it's all right." He stroked my hair as he used to do when I was little. "It's all right."

  That calmed me as nothing else would. The panic faded, and I came to see the kitchen was suddenly a crowded, noisy, normal place again; the faces and voices were familiar, reassuring.

  Beldon appeared. He was pale, but in control, and issued a few quiet commands. Someone lighted candles; another went to find brandy. Before I knew it the stuff had been poured into a cup and was being pressed to my lips. I sputtered and turned my head away.

  "Don't force him, Doctor. Let him catch his breath," said Father. He turned to Mrs. Montagu. "Mattie? How is it with you?"

  She grasped his extended hand, her eyes all but lost for the tears. "I'll be fine, but for God's sake, see to Jonathan. The poor child was shot."

  "Shot?" exclaimed Beldon, who was just starting a closer examination of my wound. "Come, gentlemen, help me with him. Quickly, please."

  "I'm fine," I whispered.

  They paid me no mind. Beldon, Father, and Norwood all lifted me onto the table. Orders were given to fetch water and bandaging.

  "No, wait! Father... I'm-"

  "Be still, laddie."

  "But I'm-"

  He bent over me. "Hush, laddie, let Beldon have a look at you."

  "Remember my armV

  "What?"

  Beldon pulled open my bloodied coat and unbuttoned an equally stained waistcoat. This hurt like hell, as it pulled at something that seemed to be attached to my flesh. When I protested, he asked Norwood to hold my hands out of the way. He thoroughly ruined both waistcoat and shirt by cutting them to get to the source of all the bleeding.

  "My arm!" I repeated, trying to fight off the well-intentioned Norwood.

  Then Father remembered, but I could tell that he had no idea what to do next. To be fair, there wasn't much that he could do, but no matter; it was a relief that he finally understood me.

  "What do you want?"

  That was when I realized I had no idea, either. In the meanwhile, Beldon went on with his grim examination.

  "That's odd," he said, sounding mightily puzzled.

  Damnation. "Father? Get the others away, please?"

  He instantly saw the wisdom in that and took steps to clear the kitchen. Mrs. Montagu was in a bad state, as might be expected of a woman whose home had been invaded and herself so ill-treated. Father took her hand and guided her out, murmuring that everything was going to be all right. He herded the other servants before them, then called for Norwood.

  "Directly, sir. I want to make sure these rebels are no more threat to us." He was by the scullery door, checking the fallen men. His inspection did not take long, and he soon joined the others.

  Distractions removed, I was better able to order my thoughts; however, I possessed far more questions than

  I had ready answers. Foremost in my mind was why I had not vanished. The last time I'd been shot, I had disappeared without any conscious effort, and upon my return had been fully healed of all wounds, old and new. What was different about now? I squirmed to try to see what had happened.

  "Be still, Mr. Barrett," Beldon cautioned.

  "Then tell me what's wrong."

  His eyes rolled over to meet mine, but I exercised no influence on him. His puzzlement was firmly in place, and mixed with it was a touch of fear.

  "Tell me!"

  He jumped, for my voice was rapidly regaining its old strength. "You... there's... that is..."

  Impatient, I nudged things the tiniest bit. "Tell me, Doctor."

  His eyes wavered, then steadied. "The ball seems to have passed right through you, but the damage is... not as I expected. Perhaps I am mistaken. The bleeding makes it difficult to see very clearly."

  I lay back and tried to vanish. No matter if Beldon saw, I'd deal with his memory later. I tried... and failed. The pain flared and flashed along my side.

  "How bad?" I demanded through my teeth.

  He was at a loss to answer. I pressed him again. More firmly. Face slack, he said, "There is no wound from the pistol ball. You've some wood splinters embedded in your flesh. They'll have to come out. That's where all the blood is coming from."

  It occurred to me that I could ill afford to lose much of that precious substance.

  "Then see to your work, if you please," I said through my teeth.

  "I'll need help."

  "Get my father."

  Dear God, but the next quarter-hour was the longest I'd ever endured. Father was not an ideal doctor's assistant, either. He was more than willing to help, but it was difficult for him as a parent to bear the sight of his child's discomfort. Too late I thought of this as I watched him go from white to pale green as Beldon got on with the wretched business of drawing out the splinters.

  "I'll be fine, sir," I promised him, then immediately followed this with a sharp grunt that could not have inspired him with any sort of confidence in my promise.

  Beldon discarded a nasty-looking shard of wood and asked for Father to hold the candle closer and with more steadiness. He brought it close, but was unable to completely keep from trembling. As the splinters came out, though, my pain lessened, and with it, much of Father's anxiety melted away.

  "The bleeding's stopped," Beldon announced, amazed.

  "That's good, isn't it?" asked Father, though he was looking at me for an answer. For the moment, I was just too weary to provide one, not that I had any.

  "But don't you see? The punctures have closed right up!"

  Father could not help but share in his amazement, but he was more restrained in his reaction.

  "It's unnatural, sir," Beldon went on, with emphasis. His voice rose a little.

  Damnation. Tired as I was, something would have to be done. I glanced at Father, questioning. He frowned slightly, but nodded.

  "Doctor..." I touched Beldon's hand and got his attention.

  A few minutes later Beldon had finished winding a bandage around my middle. It was for show only, for with the splinters gone, my skin had knitted itself up again, leaving behind some red scars that were rapidly fading. Of the stabbings from Nat's knife, there were no signs, though there were plenty of holes in my clothes to mark where the blade had gone in. I dimly recalled those cuts, but had been too immersed in the madness of the fight to notice them at the time.

  Finished, Beldon went out with Father to tell the others that I was not seriously hurt at all and that a full recovery was inevitable.

  From the kitchen I heard Mrs. Montagu release a sob of relief and Father telling her to be of good cheer.

  "Samuel, I am so sorry," she was saying.

  "There's no need."

  "But he might have been killed. I can hardly believe his escape even now."

  "Tell us what happened, madam," suggested Norwood.

  Manners and social customs will out under the most extraordinary circumstances. Father introduced Lord James

  Norwood to her, touching off a considerable reaction and flurry.

  As they talked, their voices faded briefly
for me. I found I could vanish again, for which I felt an absurd relief. Gone for a moment and then back, the lingering fire in my side completely abated. I offered heartfelt thanks to my Maker and decided that a little more rest would not be amiss.

  Mrs. Montagu had some idea that she should play the hostess for Norwood, but he managed to steer her away from that and repeated his question.

  The story gradually came out. One of the stablemen had been the first to give the alarm. He'd shouted a warning to the house and, after narrowly eluding capture, had run off in the direction of the old barn on our property where the Hessians were quartered.