*
Matthew had no fondness for the minister, and even less when he saw the man snub his wife, but opted for being polite, inclining his head in greeting.
“Brother Matthew,” Minister Macpherson said, his multiple chins wobbling with every word, “I trust I find you well?”
“As well as can be expected,” Matthew replied. “And you?” An unnecessary question: the minister looked like a cat in a saucer of cream, a very obese cat to be sure, but still. The minister’s eyes alighted briefly on Alex, swept over Ian and Mark, who had joined them, and came to rest on Adam and his raven.
“A corbie?” he asked, his brow puckering.
“Aye,” Adam replied.
“Nasty birds,” the minister said. “Carrion eaters, all of them.”
“Not Hugin,” Adam assured him. The minister sniffed but let the subject drop.
“I come recently from Ingram’s place,” he said, returning his attention to Matthew.
“Oh aye?” Matthew let his eyes travel over the captive men. “Any particular reason?”
The minister followed his eyes and chuckled. “Nay, Brother Matthew, I have not taken up slave-hunting as a pastime. I was there on spiritual matters, and these wild, dangerous creatures attempted a raid on the place.”
“Men,” Alex cut in. “They’re men, not creatures. Men just like you or Matthew here.”
Minister Macpherson regarded her coldly for some moments. “I can assure you, Mrs Graham, that I carry no likeness to such as those. Anyway,” he continued, directing himself to Matthew, “it was fortunate I and my servants were there, otherwise who knows what bloodshed would have taken place. Instead, we killed one and subdued the others – as you can see.” He smirked. “Mr Farrell will be most pleased to have his property returned to him, I think.”
“No doubt,” Matthew mumbled, wondering what on earth the minister was leading up to.
The minister pulled at his ear, bushy eyebrows coming down in a ‘v’ over the piercing eyes. “It’s mightily strange, but according to Ingram, these same men were led off down south a month ago.”
“Aye,” Matthew said, “the Chisholms took them with them.”
“And they escaped,” the minister stated.
“It would seem so.” Matthew nodded.
“Despite being trussed up like chickens,” the minister pushed.
“Aye,” Matthew said.
“Someone must have handed them a knife – someone from here.” He produced a small, very sharp knife with a bold G carved into the handle.
“From here?” Matthew shrugged. “It may be that the G stands for Gregor.”
“Gregor?” the minister spluttered. “Are you implying that I have helped these…these…”
“Men,” Alex supplied.
“…slaves,” the minister finished somewhat lamely.
Matthew raised his brows. “Is that not what you just insinuated I did?”
“Insinuate? I say you did! And one of the slaves bears me out!” He beckoned to the tallest of his men who dragged one of the bound men to his feet and shoved him in their direction. The laddie, the one Alex scalded with her kettle.
“Go on,” Minister Macpherson barked, “tell me again. Was it Mr Graham who helped you?”
The lad moaned a yes, avoiding looking at Matthew.
“How?” Minister Macpherson demanded.
“He give us clothes,” the slave mumbled through a broken mouth, “and food.”
“And did he give you a knife?” the minister asked. “This knife?”
The slave twisted, mumbling something unintelligible.
“Answer your betters!” the minister roared, and the lad hunched together, raising his hands to deflect the blow the minister aimed at his head. “It wasn’t him, was it?” the minister continued. “Of course it wasn’t Mr Graham. It was her,” he said, pointing at Alex. “She was the one who handed you the knife, wasn’t she?”
The slave began to shake his head, but the minister’s face in combination with his raised hand made him nod instead.
“She did, yes, she did,” he whined.
Alex opened her mouth to protest. Nay, Matthew warned, giving his head a minimal shake. She didn’t understand, not at first, but after a few seconds a smile flashed through her eyes. Aye, let the fat minister dig himself into a very deep hole.
The minister was near on skipping with glee, eyes darting triumphantly from Alex to Matthew and back again. “It grieves me, but I must request that your wife accompany us south. To help and abet fugitive slaves is a serious offence – I dare say it will be a long stretch in the pillory.”
Alex’s eyes flew to Matthew’s. For a moment, she looked quite fearful, and the minister smirked.
“You heard him, Mistress Graham,” the minister said, “and so did my men. He pointed you out as being the one who gave them the knife.”
“And if I say I didn’t?”
“Well, you would say that,” the minister retorted. He shook his head in mock sadness. “It grieves me, truly, Brother Matthew.”
“Nay, it doesn’t,” Matthew said, “nor is it true. But we will go south with you nonetheless.”
“Oh, of course you will.” The minister had an edge of steel to his voice. “It would be unwise not to.”
“Da!” Ian caught up with him just inside the house. “Why don’t you just tell him? Mama wasn’t even here that day!” He said something foul about overweight men with hearts the size of sheep turds.
“But I was,” Matthew reminded him, “and the fine would be very heavy.” No pillory for him, not for a senior member of the congregation, but Farrell would most certainly demand compensation. At least the value of the dead slave, and that sort of money was not readily available – not without breaking into the funds he had set aside for future needs, and that was not something he wanted to do. “So, instead, I reckoned I’d let yon minister talk himself into a corner, discredit himself, like.”
Ian swiftly worked this through, looking with some admiration at Matthew. “He won’t like it,” he said, but promised to ride over to Leslie’s Crossing and talk to Thomas.
“And I don’t like him coming here to drag my wife off like a common criminal,” Matthew threw over his shoulder, hurrying up the stairs to gather some clothes together.
He found Alex sitting on the bed, looking very tired. “What is it, love?” he asked, smiling at how she started at his uncharacteristic endearment.
She rested her head against his shoulders and sighed. “Sometimes it’s a bit too much, you know? And even if I know this particular charge won’t stick, I’m not exactly looking forward to having yet another appearance before the ministers.” Distractedly, she massaged her hands. “Why can’t we just retire and go live in a bungalow somewhere, just you and I?”
He laughed softly. He found the concept of retirement ludicrous, and he had no idea what a bungalow was, but thought it sounded like something rather small and nasty.
“I can build us a wee cabin down by the river, up beyond the old Indian village.”
She smiled at the idea. “Not exactly Florida, but it will do just fine: you and me, the river and nothing else.”
*
After several hours riding in rain, they made camp in a little clearing. Once he’d seen to Aaron, Matthew came over to help Alex by the fire, noting out of the corner of his eye that the minister seemed most disgruntled, glaring at them from where he sat wet and cold under a chestnut.
“He can do his own bloody cooking,” Alex protested when Matthew told her to prepare a plate for the man.
“He’s your spiritual guide,” he said with a teasing smile. “Surely you want him fed?”
“If you ask me, he’s padded enough to survive a day or two without food.”
“Aye, well, but feeding the lion before entering its den is a wise move.”
“Huh,” she said, handing him a heaped plate.
The minister shone up at Matthew’s approach. “Thank you.”
“Fortunate it isn’t soup,” Minister Macpherson commented.
“Soup?”
The minister nodded, mouth full of hot eggs. He swallowed noisily and gulped some water from his water skin. “Aye, or she might have gone after me with the soup ladle like she did with Richard Campbell.”
Matthew gave him a guarded look. “That was a long time ago.”
“And forever engraved in poor Richard’s memory,” Minister Macpherson said. “For a woman to do such – and to a minister at that.” He shook his head. “Wayward, oh yes, Brother Matthew, wayward and opinionated, loud and disrespectful.” He leaned forward as if to share a secret. “Richard has no fond memories of your wife.”
“I dare say my wife has no fond memories of him,” Matthew said icily, “and nor have I. We don’t take to ignorant fools, no matter they come in minister garb.”
Minister Macpherson choked on the last of his food. “Ignorant? Richard isn’t ignorant!”
“Oh yes, he is,” Alex said, having come over to offer the minister some beer. “He has no geography, very little history, no languages to talk of, and is about as well-read as my youngest son.”
“Well-read? And you are?” Minister Macpherson sneered.
“A hell of a lot more than he is,” Alex snapped, making Matthew wince at her choice of words.
Minister Macpherson snorted, seemed on the verge of saying something more, but Matthew was already halfway across the clearing, wife in a very firm grip.
“God, I hate his guts,” Alex said to Matthew. “He reminds me far too much of that little turd of a man, Richard bloody Campbell.”
“Richard Campbell was a wee man, all skin and bones,” Matthew protested.
“But they have the same eyes,” Alex said, “cold and censorious – in particular when it comes to women – and the same constant displeased twist to their mouths, as if life is a lemon they must unfortunately suck dry before passing on to the spiritual joys of heaven.”
Matthew recalled with some discomfort that long ago summer when he’d returned home from a visit to Providence with Richard Campbell in tow, proudly pronouncing that the minister had undertaken to teach their sons in the Bible. Alex had disliked the minister on sight, making it very clear just what a fool she thought Matthew for assuming this man could teach her precious boys anything.
He met her eyes, reliving weeks of estrangement following on the evening when Alex had threatened Richard with the ladle and Matthew had forced her to apologise for calling him a shit-spouting cretin, thereby siding with the minister against his wife.
“Many years ago,” Matthew said, extending his leg to nudge at her. “And I was young and foolish.”
Alex laughed. “You were over forty!”
“As I said, a wee daftie.”
*
Alex woke next morning to angry shouts, and when she crawled out from under Matthew’s cloak, she found the minister arguing with two of his men.
“Has something happened?” she asked Matthew, who was busy shaving. In reply, he waved his razor in the direction of the slaves.
“One of them is missing.”
“Oh dear,” she muttered.
“Oh dear, indeed,” he agreed, and folded his razor shut. He pulled at some hemp fibres that had caught in the handle before returning it to its little leather case. “He isn’t made for a life in the wild, but I suggested he go and find Qaachow and bring him greetings from me.”
“Only Leon?” she asked.
“I didn’t dare to do more than that, and I don’t think the others want to run. They’re too afraid.”
The minister strode over towards them, pudgy hands clenched into impressive fists. “Did you do this?” he barked at Alex. “Was it you?”
“What makes you think that?”
“He was securely tied last night. I myself inspected the lines, and now…” The minister waved his arms. “Gone! Just like that!”
“Well, it wasn’t my wife,” Matthew told him. “She has slept like a babe through the night.”
“Och aye?” the minister said. “And you would notice, would you, if she slipped off?”
“Aye,” Matthew assured him, “on account of us sharing the same cloak.”
The minister’s small eyes narrowed into pale blue slits, the pupils pinpricks of black, no more. “Someone cut him free, and I will make it my business to find out who!”
Matthew strolled over to where the slaves were being held, and studied the coils of rope left behind by Leon.
“This wasn’t cut,” he said, holding up a rope end. “It was untied. Mayhap you didn’t check the knots as well as you should have.”
The minister’s face acquired an unflattering, red hue. Without a further word, he stalked off, calling for his men to follow him.
In less than five minutes, two of the men were astride, nodding repeatedly at whatever it was that the minister was saying. Three overexcited dogs milled round them, and at the minister’s curt command, they set off, the dogs leading the way.
“Shit,” Alex said.
“Aye.” Matthew threw a long look after the departing men. “God help him if they ride him down.”
“What, you think they might kill him?” Alex said.
“Nay. Unfortunately.”
*
They had stopped for an extended midday break when the men returned, dragging what looked like a carcass behind them.
“Leon!” Alex was on her feet, was already rushing towards him.
“Stay away!” the minister said, blocking her way. “Brother Matthew, control your wife!”
Leon was heaved to stand. His shirt was in shreds, the skin on his chest and back had been scraped raw, one arm hung awry from the shoulder as if it had been dislocated and there were multiple bites on his legs. A deep cut on his forearm was welling blood, it looked as if he’d raised his arm to block a sword or something. He swayed, crashed into the closest man, and collapsed.
“Let me through,” Alex said, glaring at the minister while trying to free herself from Matthew’s hold on her arm. “The poor man is seriously hurt – thanks to your brutes.”
“Brutes?” One of the minister’s men frowned. “He’s the brute, not us.” As if to demonstrate this, he kicked Leon. Leon jerked, no more.
“And if he dies?” Alex said. At that, Leon opened his eyes, looking straight at her.
“Oh, he won’t,” Minister Macpherson assured her.
“You think?” Alex had by now reclaimed her arm, shoved the minister out of the way, and knelt beside Leon.
“Aaaa…” he said.
“Shhh, here.” Alex held the water skin to his mouth.
“Back away, Mrs Graham,” the minister said. “My men will ensure he gets adequate care.”
“Adequate care?” Alex rose. “Is this adequate care? To drag a man behind a horse, to let the dogs get at him, is that adequate care?”
“Alex,” Matthew said.
“Don’t Alex me! Help me! We can’t let him die, can we?” She crouched down again, wondering where on earth to start. Poor Leon was a patchwork of welts and scrapes, and as to his arm… Matthew knelt down beside her.
“And if he lives, Alex?” he whispered.
Leon opened his eyes wide. “No,” he moaned.
“My men will take care of the slave.” The minister shoved at Alex and gestured for his men to lift Leon to sit.
“Hey!” she said, overbalancing to land heavily on her backside.
“Touch my wife again, minister, and I’ll—” Matthew said, helping Alex up.
“Touch her? If ever a woman lived that would benefit from a good belting—”
“Hold your tongue!” Matthew snarled. He squared his shoulders and advanced on the minister who retreated, and with every step the minister took went his men, except for the one standing guard over Leon.
“Brother Matthew, calm down,” the minister said.
“It was not my intention—”
“Aye, it was!”
Alex frowned. What was the matter with him? Matthew rarely let his temper get the better of him, and for him to behave as he was doing over a mere trifle was very out of character.
There was a scuffle behind her. She wheeled just as Leon sank his teeth into the leg of his guard. Jesus, but the man screamed! Leon wound his good arm round the man’s leg, and for all that the man tried to beat him off, Leon just wouldn’t let go. Alex rushed towards them, and from the other side of the clearing came the minister and his men.
With a wrench, Leon toppled the man to the ground. He grabbed for the man’s dirk, pulled the blade just as the other men reached him. Leon disappeared in a welter of arms and legs.
“Grab hold of his arm, fools,” the minister said, dancing on his toes around the men. “Take hold of his hand before—” There was a yelp. One of the men threw himself backward, blood running down his cheek.
“Leon!” Alex hollered. She kicked at the backside closest to her. The man squealed and half sat up. She did it again, and had a glimpse of Leon. One of the men was holding on to his arm, but as Alex watched, Leon pulled free and sank the knife straight into his own gut.
“No,” Alex whispered, falling to her knees. “No, Leon, don’t.”
There was blood everywhere. One by one, the men scrambled to their feet while on the ground Leon writhed.
She crawled towards him, and when the minister made as if to stop her, she just looked at him, and something in her eyes must have made him decide not to intervene.
“It’s okay,” Leon managed to say. “I’m dead anyway,” he reminded her in gasps. “That son of a bitch would whip me to death over the coming months.” He struggled with his breathing, eyes closed tight in concentration, and his hold on her hand hardened. “I…wanted…” He opened one eye, looked at Alex. “I…” He convulsed, heels drumming against the ground, hand clenched so tight around her fingers she feared they would break.
“Clara!” he screamed. He slumped into stillness. A slow smile spread over his bloodied mouth. “Clara,” he breathed, and died.
“You did it on purpose,” she said some hours later. They were back on the horse, and several yards in front of them rode the minister, now and then swivelling to glare at them.
Whither Thou Goest (The Graham Saga Book 7) Page 10