“You’ll answer me this time or the runt dies,” said Creache.
Then three things happened in succession that caused the room to explode into chaos.
First, Sister Carmaline fainted away cold. She fell backward and pinned Bill against the wall with such force that all he could do was sputter, moan, and gasp for air. After a struggle, he managed to shift her weight away. She rolled forward and hit the floor with a thunderous boom that shook the building. Bill collapsed on top of her, groaning curses as he fought to regain his breath.
Second, as Creache gaped wide-eyed at the ruckus caused by Carmaline’s faint, Knut walked through the front door of the chapel and said, “Hey Captain, you seen Fin?” just as plainly and calmly as if it were the most normal thing in the world. The expression on Creache’s face at Knut’s appearance could only be described as groping—groping for some way to explain the sudden appearance of someone he knew to be far away, locked up, and possibly even hanged. Fin was scarcely less surprised than Creache.
Before Creache could finish reacting to Knut’s entrance, the crackle of musket fire echoed through the woods as Jack commenced his attack on the Rattlesnake. Creache’s eyes snapped toward the sounds of battle coming up from the river and fell upon Fin and Tan peering in the window. Bill snatched a pistol from his belt and fired. The window shattered, and Fin heard the sharp crack of the ball as it pierced the air above her head.
“Phinea!” shouted Hilde. Her voice was a mix of surprise, disdain, and anger.
Fin and Tan ran to the front of the building and through the open doors. Bill was red-faced and sweaty from his battle with Carmaline’s bulk and he crouched behind her unconscious form as if she were a fortification of war. He was trying to pack his pistol. Fin ran at him headlong and knocked the gun from his hands before he could finish reloading.
The children screamed. They crowded to the far end of the sanctuary, hid beneath the pews, crouched in the corners. Hilde hadn’t moved; she stood between Creache and the orphans like a bulwark, upthrust and defiant. Her eyes lay steady on the girl in Creache’s grip as if she might stay his hand by will alone.
Tan leapt across the hole in the floor, knocking Knut into it in the process. The two diggers cowered with their shovels held like weapons, fearing Knut might attack them at any moment. Knut lowered his head and tried his best to disappear into the mud. Tan raised his rapier to Creache, and Fin drew her cutlass. She felt the eyes of the orphans upon her. She knew some of them, and those she didn’t surely knew of her. They were staring, open-mouthed.
“Loose the girl,” demanded Tan.
Creache smiled. A chill prickled Fin’s spine.
“Gladly,” he said. In one swift motion, he thrust the girl at Sister Hilde, tucked Betsy into his coat and drew his sword. The small girl fled into Hilde’s skirts, and Hilde’s eyes turned on Fin. There was no welcome or thanks in them. Her nose quivered. Then the little girl clutching at her skirts looked toward Fin and screamed. Fin stared at the girl with a puzzled look before realizing the girl wasn’t looking at her, she was looking behind her. She turned and felt a sharp pain in her left arm as a knife sliced it open. It was Bill. If she had turned a moment later, his knife would have been in her back. Before he could stab at her again, she swung her cutlass. He leapt to the side and swiped at her again with the knife.
Tan took a step toward Fin, his instinct compelling him to act. Creache saw his opening and took it. He ran forward, sword held high. But Tan was no easy prey; he parried the blow. The two swordsmen squared off, each judging the other, placing upon the mind’s scale weights of size, speed, experience, and cunning. Each calculated his oppenent in the beat of a heart and then they began a dance of savage grace. The clash of steel resounded through the chapel like music. Tan and Creache stepped in and struck, fell back and parried, a wicked parley of ringing steel and knuckles white. For all Tan’s skill, he found Creache an even match. Creache had fenced and slain when Tan was no more than a child, and though he hadn’t called his sword to action in many years, his blade was wakened now to evil deed: deadly, swift, and sure.
Fin drove herself after Bill. She’d beaten him soundly twice before with nothing more than fists and meant to end it now in blood. Bill frothed at the mouth like a dog. His hate for Fin was long nurtured; he wore it on his face like a mask. Again and again he sliced at her with his knife. Each time she dodged him and swung her cutlass back. He rolled and leapt always narrowly evading her attacks. He was beyond his skill, beyond his endurance, urged on by rampant, seething hate. He’d hated Fin since Tun Tavern, hated her more since she’d bested him on the day of the mutiny. Here and now, he meant to complete his hatred in death. Fin was desperate to be done with him.
As she fought, she cast glances toward Tan. His fight with Creache raged across the chapel, overturning furniture, sending orphans fleeing from corner to corner. Both men had wounds open and bleeding. Tan bled from the forehead and left arm, Creache from his left side and cheek. Fin feared for Tan for the first time. Never before had she doubted he’d still be standing when the battle was done, but now she feared for him. Tan was no longer smiling.
She flung herself at Bill again, and his boot slammed into her stomach. She doubled over and fought for breath. She would be no help to Tan if she didn’t focus on Bill first. It was a stupid mistake; she was taking him for granted. His knife whistled through the air and she rolled to the side, swinging her cutlass wildly. The blade caught his elbow and he cried out in pain. Before she could gain her feet, Bill was on top of her, his blade descending toward her chest like a stab of lightning. She dropped her cutlass and flung both hands up to stop his attack. As his weight crashed down on her, a sickening moan blew out of her mouth and he crushed the breath from her lungs.
The blade stopped, inches from her neck. Bill’s face was flushed red, his lips curled back in a snarl of yellowed teeth and cancerous gums. His breath stank of tobacco and drink. Thick drops of sweat rolled off his nose and spattered on her face. All his weight was gathered behind the knife. She had no hope of holding back the blade for more than seconds longer. Something hard was biting into her hip. Fin cursed whatever was causing the pain; it was drawing her mind from the fight to keep the knife away. A fight she was losing. Slowly, inexorably, the tip of the blade was closing distance. The flesh beneath it crawled and prickled as if it could avoid the pierce. Pain in her hip again. She tried to call for help but she had no breath to utter the words. Her mind wandered again to the hard object pressing into her hip. It was her pistol.
The blade slipped closer, less than an inch now. No time to think about it. She dropped her hand to her side and found the pistol. With only one hand holding back Bill, the knife closed its distance. The tip of the blade pushed through her skin and into her sternum. She loosed a ragged scream at the pain. Her hand fumbled to find the trigger of the pistol. Bill’s snarl was turning into a smile. The pressure in her chest was excruciating. She could feel the warmth of blood spilling across her skin. Her hand found its prize. She squeezed the trigger and the hammer fell. Clack. Nothing. She squeezed again. Clack. There was no powder in the pan. She dropped the pistol and beat at Bill’s back. Then a loud clang sounded in her ears, and Bill went limp. She screamed again as the knife twisted out of her skin and fell to the floor. Knut was standing over her holding a shovel in his hand. A clump of hair clung to the spade.
“Help Tan!” she yelled to Knut.
Knut’s usual stupor washed away. He turned his face to Creache. Fin stared up at him in awe. This wasn’t Knut. It was Tom Knuttle, first mate of the Rattlesnake. His back was straight, his head held high. His face was taut and angry as necessity called up from inside him what had so long been hidden away. He walked toward Creache with the shovel cocked back to strike.
Creache was focused solely on Tan. The rhythmic peal of their blades dominated the room. Creache advanced on Tan again and again, pushing him, tiring him, waiting patiently for his defense to wane. Tan could make no advanc
e. Creache was too fast.
Then Knut was within striking distance. He lifted the shovel.
“Captain, that’s enough!” said Knut. His voice was strong and filled with authority.
Creache turned and saw the shovel raised to deal its blow. Fin thought she saw fear in his eyes. Tan leapt forward to take the opening, but Creache was ready. He riposted Tan’s attack and turned his eyes back to Knut. It wasn’t fear in them. It was hatred.
“Damn you,” he shouted at Knut. He pulled Besty from his belt and took aim. Knut faltered. Fin’s face turned white with horror. She was pinned to the ground under Bill’s body. She struggled to roll him away, but there was no time. A heartbeat was all that stood between Knut and Betsy’s waking. Tan stepped wide around Creache and swung his rapier. The blade sliced through Creache’s forearm with sickening grace, and his cloven arm fell to the ground. Betsy, still sleeping, lay clutched within the hand.
Tan didn’t waste the momentum of his attack. In one swift motion he spun and brought the blade high overhead to kill. But the stroke never fell. Creache hadn’t given the loss of his hand a second thought. He tucked the stump of his arm into his side to staunch the flow of blood and drove his sword hilt-deep into Tan’s chest.
Fin screamed.
Tan stood motionless, his rapier held overhead, his mouth open, his eyes wide. Creache jerked the blade from his chest and Tan took a step backward, then fell to the floor with his hands pressed to the hole in his bosom. The wails of crying children resounded throughout the chapel.
At the sight of Tan dying on the floor, Knut stooped. His features softened, and his eyes glazed over as the part of him that had briefly awakened retreated back into the depths of his mind. Creache swung his sword, and Knut dropped the shovel and fell to the floor to escape the blade. He curled into a ball and trembled like a child.
Fin wrestled Bill’s body away and crawled toward Knut.
“Damn you, Tom Knuttle,” shouted Creache. “Damn the day I took you on, and damn the day I let you live.”
Creache cast his sword aside. He plucked the shovel from the floor and raised it.
“Damn your willful soul!”
He swung the shovel upon Knut.
“I’ll knock more than your wits loose this time!”
The captain rained down a volley of blows, and Knut threw up his hands and caught the shaft as it fell. Creache kicked Knut’s arms away and wrenched the tool from his grip. He jammed the heel of his boot against Knut’s neck and lifted the spade of the shovel to deliver his final blow.
Fin scrambled across the ground toward Knut and saw Betsy lying on the floor, still held in Creache’s fallen hand. But she wasn’t close enough. Even as she reached out and took the blunderbuss from the hand, she knew she was too late. Creache’s blow was already falling.
Then from the doorway a voice. “Tiberius Creache!” it shouted.
Creache froze.
Armand Defain stood in the doorway. His face was filled with wicked glee. Topper and the others from the Monarch stepped into view.
Creache’s eyes were locked on Defain. “You” he said, his voice dripping with hate. Defain sneered at him.
Fin cocked Betsy and raised her arm.
Creache cast the shovel away and lifted his remaining hand in surrender. His life hung upon her choice. On the floor between them Knut shivered and cried and cradled his head in his arms. Creache was smirking.
Fin closed her eyes. She made her choice. The gentle twitch of a finger and it was done. Betsy awoke and spat hellfire.
The blast threw Creache against the wall and shook the building. He slid to the floor and lay still beneath a red stain on the glimmering white sanctuary wall. Fin dared not look at Defain; she could feel his wicked smile upon her.
She ran to Tan and knelt beside him. His skin was sallowed, and his breath came in ragged fits and jerks. Blood was everywhere.
“You bring your fiddle, Fin? To see me to the Green?” he said.
Fin wept. Topper and the crew gathered around her. They bowed their heads and looked away when they saw Tan’s wound. They knew what it meant.
“Tell Knut—tell Tommy—I’ll see him there,” he whispered. His smile found his lips once more, and he died.
Fin tried to quiet the sobs welling up inside her while Topper and the rest of the crew lifted him up and carried him out of the chapel. The white floor where he fell was puddled thick with blood. Fin wiped her tears away and pressed her palms to the floor. Blood she had spilled, caused to be spilled. Everything, everyone she touched turned to blood. She lifted her hands and wiped them across her shirt. If she couldn’t escape it, then she would accept it, embrace it, use it. Tan’s rapier, Tom Knuttle’s rapier, lay on the floor in front of her. She picked it up and wiped the blade clean, then stood and tucked it into her belt.
The inside of the chapel was wrecked. Pews were cast aside and overturned. Blood was splattered on the white of the walls and floor. Huddled in the corners, the children were quiet now. They were staring at her. Fin found Hilde’s gaze at last.
“What have you done?” whispered Hilde. “What have you done!”
After all the time that had passed since she’d walked away, Hilde still knew no forgiveness. Deep inside her heart, Fin longed to mend the wounds between them, longed to be welcomed, comforted, embraced, even by Hilde—especially by Hilde. But that crooked face stared back like graven stone, dry and cold. Hilde’s eyes offered nothing but disdain.
Carmaline stirred, and Hilde rushed to her sister and fell to her knees. As Fin approached, Hilde stopped her with a word.
“Leave,” she said with the slightest turn of her head.
Fin stopped. Carmaline groaned as she returned to conciousness. Fin started toward her again, wanting to help, to see her, to be seen by her.
“Get out!” ordered Hilde.
Fin obeyed. She turned to leave and found Defain crouched on the floor clutching Creache’s severed arm in his hand. He pulled out a dagger and cut off the last two fingers then tossed the wasted arm into the hole. Fin wrinkled her nose in disgust. Then he grabbed Creache’s body by the ankle and dragged him across the chapel floor.
“Au revoir, capitaine.” He flung the body into the pit and spat upon it. “Bury him.”
As Fin walked out of the chapel, two boys were already at work filling in the hole Creache bade them dig. His own grave. They lowered their eyes as she passed, as if afraid to look at her. This was what she had become, a terror to children. Feared, not loved. Would Bartimaeus fear to look at her now? Would he order her away? The memory of him hurt, but she was thankful he wasn’t here to answer her questions. She dreaded what answers he might give.
Outside the building Topper and the crew were waiting. Most were either bruised or had some extremity wrapped in fresh bandages—or both. Despite the injuries, the fight aboard the Rattlesnake must have gone well to have been so short.
“Where’s Jack?” she asked Topper.
Topper frowned. “He’s on the ’Snake. Got himself hurt.”
Fin cursed herself. Another friend hurt. “Will he be all right?”
“He won’t die, but he won’t be the same.”
Before Fin could make sense of his answer, a horse and rider galloped around the corner. In all that had gone on, she hadn’t had time to think about him, hadn’t dared to hope he’d still be here, still waiting. But the sound of the hooves behind her brought years of hopes and longings thundering to the surface like great whales breaching and gulping in life, rising from an ageless and unfathomed sleep. Why was it so hard to turn around? One foot at a time. Steady. She turned.
It was Peter. Fin stared at him, willing it to be true and fearing to believe it. She couldn’t speak, and for a long time Peter didn’t come down. After waiting so long to see him, she couldn’t bring herself to violate the moment with words. It was perfect now, just the seeing of him; words might tear it all away.
“Fin,” he said at last and climbed down.
/> Fin didn’t move, feared to speak even his name.
“The British are coming,” he said. Then, looking at the entire group as if he had only just discovered them standing there, he continued, “Hundreds, coming up the road. They’ve burned the Dorst and Koerner homesteads.”
Topper’s eyebrows went up, and he ordered the crew to the ship. He slapped Fin on the back and turned to the river, yelling orders to get underway as he ran.
They were alone. The sounds of the world around died away, faded into the background of things that no longer mattered. They stood too far apart to touch and too near not to want to. It was as if all the miles and time and tears that had kept them apart had now come thick into the air like a wall, and both feared to try themselves against that last invisible barrier. He was grown now, larger, taller, but weathered, as if time and memory had eroded him, worn him smoother. The skin of his face was pulled taut across his cheeks by long hours in the sun. The creases on his forehead ran deeper than those around his mouth, telling of more worry than mirth. His smile was closely kept, as it always had been. She missed it. The smile he kept only for her.
At last, Peter stepped forward and pulled her into an embrace. The distance was crossed. Fin shuddered and cried. She buried her face in his chest and let herself rest against him. His hands were rough, calloused, and scarred. The boy was gone, and she knew the moment he touched her that the man would send her away. He was holding part of himself back because he knew the giving couldn’t be complete. He would send her away as surely as Hilde had. But unlike Hilde, his sending was a plea, not an order.
“You should see it, Fin.” She could hear it in his voice. He didn’t know how to say it.
“See what?” she asked.
“Our home. Finished and waiting.”
The Fiddler's Gun Page 29