Jonathan Barrett Gentleman Vampire

by P. N. Elrod

  I made a noncommittal noise I’d learned from Father. It was useful for expressing almost any sentiment, the interpretation of it being left to the listener.

  “You do realize that I shall be making real calls, don’t you?”

  I said that I did.

  “One of the Coldrup daughters has her migraines, and the youngest at the McCuin’s broke his arm . . . .”

  He chattered on, a man interested in his work. He reminded me of Oliver in that regard, and because of it I was better able to tolerate his company. He was, as Elizabeth said, “not such a bad fellow.” I distracted myself from the normal tedium of the ride with speculation about his history Except for a store of anecdotes which his sister imparted in boundless detail about their life in Philadelphia, and the little snippet he’d dropped the previous afternoon, I realized that none of us knew very much about him, not really. It seemed a shame. Perhaps—if once one could get past the toad-eating—he could become a friend.

  We turned east into the waxing force of the rising sun. As Jericho had prophesied, it was going to be a very hot day. I squinted against the searing light and tilted my hat down. I couldn’t see where I was going too well, but the horse knew his business and kept to the road.

  We passed Mrs. Montagu’s gate on the right and a mile farther down I indicated for Beldon to leave the road. The Captain’s Kettle was in this area. Our property line crossed over at this point. The boundary had been a bone of contention between Mrs. Montagu and Father soon after her husband had died fourteen years ago. Two sets of surveyors had come up with very different interpretations of where the correct line lay and the matter had ended up in court. Father had argued his case and would have won it had Matilda Montagu remained at home during the proceedings. Upon meeting her, he became abruptly sympathetic to her claim and dropped the litigation. With his sympathy and her gratitude as a beginning, they proceeded to form a lasting, satisfying, and highly discreet friendship.

  I led the way now, weaving my horse between the trees. I hadn’t been up here since that April ride so long ago, but the landmarks were unchanged. Within, I had the unnerving feeling that I would once more see Father and Mrs. Montagu walking hand in hand in the distance. That was foolish, of course, but the feeling lingered and strengthened as we drew closer to the kettle.

  Birds squawked and squabbled overhead. Insects hummed and dodged them. The air was thick with their noise, yet seemed muted, flattened by the growing heat.

  “I don’t think we’re alone,” said Beldon, barely moving his lips, speaking just loud enough for me to hear him over the movement of the horses.

  One can usually sense when someone is watching; I just hadn’t recognized the feeling. “Where?”

  “Ahead of us. On either side. I think we should go back.”

  I wholly agreed with him and the two of us turned in unison without another word. It could be children at play or a pair of lovers on a tryst, but it could also be any number of less innocent threats. Better to return after the prickling on the backs of our necks went away.

  We did not get that chance, though. Before we’d gone fifty yards a hard-looking man in uniform stepped out from a dense thicket of bushes, aimed his long rifle at us, and in a rough and accented voice ordered us to halt.

  I knew the uniform. Everyone on the Island did. He was a Hessian.

  CHAPTER TEN

  A second man joined him and barked another order at us.

  “Down!” the first one translated.

  Beldon and I exchanged looks. Heroism was the last thing on our minds. Not that we had anything to be heroic about. Once we identified ourselves we’d be able to leave.

  I hoped.

  We cautiously dismounted and kept hold of the reins. We studied the soldiers and were studied in turn. They saw by our clothes that we were gentlemen, but there were plenty of so-called gentlemen opposing the king these days.

  The Hessian men were flushed and their sweat-stained uniforms showed evidence that they’d been hiking through the woods for some time, perhaps even all night. It was certain to me that they had a purpose to the exercise, perhaps an ominous one for myself and Beldon. Beldon’s horse, supremely unconcerned with the situation, dropped his head and began tearing at the grass.

  The second man barked a question, but before the first could translate it, I hesitantly answered.

  “This is Dr. Theophilous Beldon and I am Jonathan Barrett,” I said in rather slow German. “This is my land. Why are you here?”

  Though I’d previously used it only in my academics, my attempt was apparently intelligible. It surprised them, and to my tremendous relief the grip on their long rifles slackened. The second man came to attention and identified himself as Detricht Schmidt and gave his rank, but I did not know that particular word. He could have been anything from a simple soldier to a colonel, though his manner and the lack of trimmings on his uniform made the latter unlikely. Their officers were fond of show. I repeated my last question and finally got an answer.

  “They’re looking for a band of rebels,” I explained to Beldon. “At least that’s what I think he said. Something about stolen horses.”

  Beldon nodded, also impressed by my linguistic gifts. “Where is his commander?”

  “Close,” said Schmidt, after I’d asked.

  “Here,” repeated the other man agreeably, waving an arm at the surrounding woods. His accent was heavy, but probably no worse than mine must have sounded to his ears.

  “We want to go,” I said to him in slow English.

  Both of them shrugged. I tried to say the same thing in German, but garbled it up. However, Schmidt understood enough of my meaning. “You stay,” I was told.

  “Here halt,” his friend emphasized, making a sitting gesture with his palm toward the ground. Both were nodding and smiling, though, so perhaps they’d decided we were not with the rebels.

  “They must want their commander to look us over first,” I said.

  Beldon was amiable. “Then let’s all be pleasant about it, since it can’t be helped.” He smiled in return and pulled a snuffbox from his pocket, offering a pinch of its contents to our captors. They accepted with many friendly thanks and another piece of our initial tension broke away.

  Schmidt excused himself after a moment and disappeared into the trees. The other young man gave his name as Hausmann and complimented my German. “Schmidt soon back,” he promised.

  “Is your commander English?”

  “Jawohl, Herr Barrett.”

  “Where are the rebels?”

  He shrugged, but it caused him to recall that they might be nearby and he checked the surrounding open area uneasily “Trees—go,” he suggested, wanting to get into their cover. “Schnell, bitte.”

  Beldon and I led our horses in, grateful for the shade, though it cut the cooling wind. Hausmann kept his distance so as to have room to bring his long rifle to bear if we made it necessary He’d relaxed somewhat, but it was clear that he was ready to deal with any threat until ordered to stand down by his commander.

  “How many men are here?” I asked, repeating a question from Beldon.

  Hausmann puzzled out my meaning right away, but would only smile and shake his head.

  “Not a good idea to give away the strength of your troop,” Beldon, the former soldier, explained.

  I thought he’d only been trying to make conversation. I had better luck asking Hausmann where he was from and if he had any family. For that I got the name of his village and a number of relatives and their history in that district. Much of it was too rapid for me to follow, but I made encouraging noises whenever he slowed down.

  “Your family?” he asked politely. “Your land all?” He indicated the area.

  “Our land,” I said.

  He looked both envious and admiring. “Land is good. Here land I want.”

  “He
re?”

  He waved to show he meant some other land than what we stood upon. “Farm. Woman. Das Kleinkind.”

  “What?” asked Beldon.

  “He wants to have a family.”

  “What about the one he left in Europe?”

  “I think they’re all dead. He said the wars killed them.”

  Before he could express any sympathy, the three of us turned at the sound of several men approaching. Schmidt had returned. With him were two more Hessians and two men wearing the uniform of the king’s army.

  “Lieutenant James Nash,” said the one with the most braid, making a succinct introduction.

  I recognized the name. He was behind the theft of Finch’s wagon and horses. He seemed a bit old to be a lieutenant, in his late forties, I guessed. Perhaps he’d been unable to advance further for lack of funding, patronage, talent or opportunity. This war was probably his last chance to change his luck and acquire some security for his old age. Too bad for Finch.

  I introduced myself and Beldon and informed him as politely as possible that he was trespassing. I did not employ that particular word, but he knew what I meant.

  “My apologies, sir, but we’re on the king’s business and cannot make distinctions between public and private lands. Those damned rebels don’t and we have to follow where they run.”

  “I believe your men mentioned they were horse thieves.”

  “Aye, they are,” he added with some warmth. “Tried to take a wagon too, but we foiled that.”

  I refrained from looking at Beldon and kept a sober face.

  “What a shame. That they took your horses, I mean.”

  “We’ll find ’em,” he assured me. “If you know the area, you can help us.”

  I smiled graciously and hoped that it looked sincere. “I should be delighted to lend you any assistance, Lieutenant. That is, if I may take your invitation to mean that we are no longer in detention?”

  “You never were, but my men have to be careful. Some of the louts are armed and not afraid to shoot. I think they’re headed for Suffolk County with their booty.”

  Or to Finch’s farm.

  “You’ve gone over this acreage thoroughly, then?”

  “Not quite. Know of any hiding places?”

  “These woods,” I said truthfully, but vaguely “But horses would slow them down. If they’re in a hurry, then they’ll be likely to swing back toward the road or find more open countryside.”

  “Herr Oberleutnant!” Another Hessian rushed away from us, shouting.

  “Spotted them!” said the sergeant. He snapped orders to the men and they spread into the trees. Nash was content to let them do the sweaty work and followed more slowly. He wanted us to come with him.

  “I am a physician, sir, and have my rounds to make,” Beldon protested, hoping to end the business.

  “Won’t be long. Best if we all stay together. You don’t care to catch a stray bullet if things go badly, do you?”

  Beldon did not, and we resigned ourselves to Nash’s company. He led the way, his stocky, paunchy body moving easily and making his own path. We did the best we could leading the horses. Despite the shade, the heat was worse now. I was damp from face to shanks and a bramble scratch between my sleeve and riding glove began to sting from the sweat. Nuisance. It was all one foolish, bloody nuisance.

  Nash’s men had entirely vanished, but I could hear them crashing along. They were heading in the direction of the Captain’s Kettle. If the rebels were local—and I was certain they were—then the kettle would be the first sanctuary they’d think to use.

  “Down here! Down here!” one of the Hessians called in the distance. It could only mean that they’d found it. Nash speeded up a little.

  Damnation. Not only had the rebels trespassed our land and possibly thrown unwelcome suspicion upon Father, but they’d promptly given away our own best secret. We’d have to think of another place to hide our stock this year.

  Since they knew about the kettle, I suspected the thieves had to be the Finch boys, Roddy and Nathan. I mentioned this in a whisper to Beldon, who reluctantly concurred.

  “I hope they have the sense to run,” he muttered, his mouth tight and the corners turned down. If caught with the horses they would be hanged. Rebel or no, it was not a fate I could wish upon anybody.

  “Mind yourself,” I muttered back. If Nash heard him . . .

  Someone fired a shot.

  Beldon dropped and I instinctively imitated him. The horrid crash was well ahead of us, though, and isolated. A musket, I thought. The noise was different than that from a pistol. No other shots sounded. Nash urged us to hurry and plunged forward, which struck me as a ridiculously foolish course of action. No soldier, I. Neither of us were armed. I felt terribly vulnerable.

  Hausmann appeared and relayed information to Nash, who understood him.

  “Nothing to worry about,” he told us with faint contempt. “Fellow tripped on a root. Accidental discharge.” Apparently he overlooked the fact he’d been quick enough to take cover, too.

  “Thank God for that,” Beldon breathed out. He produced his handkerchief and mopped futilely at his streaming forehead. I sighed as well, but my heart wasn’t yet ready to retire from the place where it had lodged halfway up my throat. As though reading my thought, Beldon grinned at me. I found myself returning it. That seemed to help.

  Nash caught up with some of his men now and questioned them. They were pointing and gesturing. From this I deduced that they’d discovered the kettle and were trying to explain its geography to him. The trees were thick here. If you weren’t careful you could fall right into it. Beldon tied his animal up and walked over to investigate with the others. I did the same and hoped Nash wouldn’t ask me anything awkward.

  My horse swung his ears forward and neighed. Ahead of us and down, another horse answered.

  “Did you know about this?” demanded Nash, pointing to a break in the trees. From here it was easy to see the drop-off.

  “Of course I did,” I said blandly.

  “Just the place for a horse thief to hide, so why didn’t you tell me about it?”

  “I’m hardly familiar with how a horse thief thinks, Lieutenant. It never occurred to me to mention it.” True enough. “Had your man not given the alarm, I would have taken you here.” Blatant falsehood, but hopefully God would forgive me that one.

  Nash may have had further comment on the subject, but seemed more concerned with retrieving his . . . the king’s property. “Well, things have worked out. We got the horses back.”

  “Won’t the thieves be close by, though?”

  “That shot seems to have frightened them away. We’re safe enough. Come on.”

  Beldon looked dubious despite Nash’s confidence. “As simple civilians, may we be excused from this exercise? I have no desire to inflict any more damage to my clothes than they’ve already suffered.”

  Nash again gave him the half-amused, half-contemptuous look that professional soldiers reserve for the rest of the world and went off after his men.

  “You think they’re still around?” I asked.

  “I do not know. One thing I am sure about is that I should be very reluctant to enter a place like this.” He stepped closer to the edge of the kettle and nodded at the woods on the opposite side of the depression. “With all his men down there, any rebels up here would have no trouble pinning them and picking them off as they pleased.”

  “Shouldn’t we warn them?”

  “There’s probably nothing in it. They’re chasing farm lads, not soldiers. I think—”

  But I didn’t hear the rest of Beldon’s opinion. Across the kettle, I glimpsed a pimply face suddenly obscured by a cloud of thick smoke. Roddy Finch, I thought. Of course. He’d be the one to . . .

  Something struck my chest with enormous, violent force. I was sho
cked. The only thing I could think of was that for some insane reason Beldon had picked up a large stone and smashed it against me with all his strength. The breath rushed out and I staggered back from the blow.

  Not Beldon. His hands were empty. He wasn’t even looking at me; his head turned, strangely slow, his gaze meeting mine for an instant.

  His normally tranquil expression sluggishly altered to alarm. I saw my name form on his lips, flowing out little by little, one syllable at a time.

  My heels caught on something as I staggered back. My legs wouldn’t respond. My arms thrashed wildly at empty air.

  Beldon thrust his hands forward, but was too slow to catch me. I completely lost balance and dropped. My back struck the earth solidly, driving a last pocket of breath from my lungs.

  It dazed me. I’d thumped my skull in the fall. My slack tongue blocked my throat. I tried to shake my head to one side to dislodge it. I could not move.

  Stunned. Only stunned, that’s all. It would pass. Like the time I’d fallen into the kettle.

  Patches of bright sky leached through the leaves high overhead. Beldon came into view above me. He was bellowing. I couldn’t understand the words, only that they were too loud. I winced and tried to tell him to lower his voice, that I was all right.

  A gurgling, wheezing sound. From me. From my chest. A vast, invisible weight crushed me.

  Beldon’s face was twisted into an awful mixture of rage and grief and terror and helplessness. What was wrong? What had happened?

  The weight on me was crushing. My God, I couldn’t breathe.

  He put his arms under my shoulders and lifted me a little. He was trying to help me get air. But nothing happened. I clawed at my throat. At my chest. He pushed my hands off, but they’d already found the problem. They came away smeared with blood. Far too much blood.

  No…

  I choked, tried to speak. The stuff flooded up my throat like hot vomit and spilled from my nose and mouth. I was drowning in it. Drowning in my own blood.

  Beldon spoke to me. Yelling, perhaps. Weeping? Why. . .? What—?