Bitter Eden

by Salvato, Sharon Anne

  With the leader Peter ran for the horses tethered near the woods. He nearly fell over Kilmer lying on the ground several feet from the horses. Willv knelt by the injured man's side. Peter looked behind him. Baker and the three men, momentarily distracted by the movement of the fire leaping from one rick to another, had assumed the Swing men were still setting

  the fires, and had run into the field. Quicklv they saw their mistake and turned back. Thev began to run toward Peter and the horses. One man stopped, took aim, and fired the pistol. A cloud of flame burst forth. The sound was deafening. The ball thudded into the tree trunk behind the horses. The animals, their eves bulging, strained at their tethers, pawing the ground and rearing dangerously close to Kilmer.

  "Help me get him up, Willv," Peter said. Kilmer, unconscious now, lolled across Peter's arms. The two men staggered under his weight. With Willv straining to help, Peter heaved Kilmer over the saddle. "Mount up, Will! Get him out of here. Hurry up, man! Don't look back now."

  "What about you?" Willy asked, close to tears.

  Peter removed his belt and strapped Kilmer's arms to the saddle. "Watch him, he's liable to spill," Peter said. "Go now!" He struck the rump of Kilmer's horse, making the animal jerk forward then run pell-mell into the fence, snorting and rearing. "Damn it, Willy! Take this lead and get out of here!"

  Roger Baker and his men were onlv steps awav. Peter flung himself onto his saddle. The tallest of the four men lunged at him, grabbing the tail of his coat. Caught off balance, with the horse in a frenzied dance, Peter slid from the saddle. Desperatelv he clawed at the saddle, then the horse's mane. He grabbed hold and managed to grasp the saddle horn with his left hand. The horse danced sideways. Then, at the prick of Baker's unwieldy saber, the animal shrieked, rearing and thrashing. Quivering and bucking, the roan danced into the sword, then renewed its haphazard efforts to rid itself of Peter's weight dragging its head down. Peter kicked at the men who pulled at his clothing, and maintained his death grip on the horse's mane. The animal shook his head fu-

  riously, kicking behind him. Roger Baker sprawled on the ground. The others battered at Peter with fist and sword. The man with the pistol tried awkwardly to reload in the dark.

  Hemmed in by the fence and the men beating at Peter, the horse was crazed, rearing, his front legs slashing the air. Peter struggled to get one leg over the saddle. He screamed commands at the horse. The roan leaped forward, wrenching Peter against the fence. The men shouted obscenities and clawed at him. A heavy blow knifed along his arm, and then Peter was free, the roan running wildly. Unable to stop the horse, Peter was dragged across the hills and through Roger Baker's neat rows of winter turnips. His arms and shoulders were a fiery agony. Still running wildly, the horse headed into the woods that formed the boundary between the Berean property and that of the Foxes. His teeth clenched against the pain, Peter tried vainly to soothe the animal with his voice. Its head pulled to one side by Peter's weight, the roan swerved, skimming a tree. Peter hit the ground and lay motionless. Free of its burden, the animal slowed to a walk, its course now steady toward home.

  James Berean had never left his post by the windows. He heard the roan enter the stable yard before he could see anything. He stuck his head out the front door. "Peter!" he called in a low whisper. Receiving no answer, James called again, then went out into the yard. Peter's horse stood, head down, exhausted. James touched the horse, felt the lathered sweat and the torn flesh of the animal's flank. He led the roan into the stable. With trembling hands he lit the Ian-

  tern. There was a ragged wound on the left hindquarters. James's throat tightened as he thought of Peter. He methodically bathed the horse's wound and thought about his son. Should he go out to find Peter, or should he wait? He hadn't the slightest idea of Peter's destination, nor what direction he had taken. All he knew was that the animal had run a considerable distance at great speed. James had never felt so helpless nor so negligent as he did now, standing in the stable bathing a wounded horse while his son might lay injured God knew where. James paced the stable, then went out into the dark yard. He walked the perimeter of the yard, softly calling Peter's name.

  Hours passed, and James continued his vigil, always tempted to go in search of Peter, and knowing he was more likely to miss him than to find him. The stiff frosted grass bent and broke beneath his feet. False dawn played in the eastern sky, and still there was no sign of Peter. James had walked every inch of his fields. He moved along the edge of the woods, trying to peer into their dense darkness. His voice, hoarse now and quivering with cold, sounded eerie as it floated across the moist, frosty air. "Peter!" he cried, no longer expecting a reply. "Peter!"

  James stopped suddenly. He stood listening, his heart pounding so hard he wasn't sure if he had heard anything or not. Then there was a crackling of underbrush too heavy for the light tread of an animal, and he heard his name. James plunged bull-like into the tangle of growth at the edge of the woods. Confused, and now hearing nothing, he stopped again, calling Peter's name. He charged deeper into the woods, not knowing where he was going, but merely following intuition.

  Peter wasn't sure it was his father's voice he heard, and he knew there was some reason he should be careful. He remembered he should make no sound at all, but he couldn't think why. He clung to one tree trunk, then released it, staggering, blindly reaching out for the next. Vaguely he tried to move toward the voice calling his name.

  A sound of thanksgiving and fear was wrenched from James when he saw Peter, but he said nothing. With tears of relief running down his face in icy rivulets, he embraced Peter. He put his son's arm over his shoulder. "Put your weight on me. ... I can manage with you," he said as Peter swayed then jerked forward as he tried to straighten up and take the weight from his father.

  "I'm all right," Peter slurred. "The horse ... a tree . . ."

  "Hush, boy. You're home and that's enough. But we've got work to do. Albert will be here any time now .... We can't count on more than a couple of hours. There'll be no fooling him this time. You must listen to me, Peter, and do as I say. Can you listen? Are you able, son?"

  The words echoed in Peter's head, unclear and hollow. He tried to smile, and didn't know if he h^d managed or not. He murmured a sound that James took for acquiescence.

  Talking more to himself than to his son, James muttered, "I can't risk leaving you in the house for your brother to find. I'll have to bring you with me." He looked at Peter. "Can you stand alone?"

  Peter nodded, straightened, and lost his balance.

  James led him to the stable and leaned him against the stall. Then he brought the roan out. "I'm taking him to the far pasture, out of sight for awhile. Wait here, and for God's sake don't make a sound."

  Thirty minutes later James returned to the stable. Peter was slumped beside the stall asleep. He awakened him and took him to the house, warning him tersely to keep quiet. In the warmth and light of the kitchen James saw the ragged, bloody sleeve of Peter s great-coat. The back of the coat was no more than torn strips of material. "My God, Peter! You said nothing . . . what ... oh, blessed Savior, what went on tonight?"

  Just beginning to recover from the grogginess of his collision with the tree, Peter looked at his sleeve as if he too just noticed it. "We . . . were at . . . Baker's."

  "Baker's!" James exploded. "My God, have you no sense? He's Foxe's tenant and foreman."

  Peter struggled to think. "That's why we went . . . but things went wrong ... he had guests and—"

  "And they caught you at it," James finished for him. "Pray God they didn't recognize you." He cut away Peter's coat, then stripped him of his bloodied shirt Across Peter's left shoulder and chest was a bright red band, turning purple, where he had hit the tree. The slash on his arm was long but fortunately not deep.

  "You won't be able to use this arm for much tomorrow," James said as he cleansed the wound. "There will be quite a scar, but I don't think it looks deep enough to have ruined the muscle. It should heal."

&n
bsp; "I'll be using it tomorrow. I can't let Frank see . . ."

  "You won't be here tomorrow," James snapped. "Your mother has been after me to take in that orphaned child of her cousin. Tomorrow you and I will be on our way to London to fetch the girl."

  "I can't go to London, Pa," Peter said, frowning, his head still unclear and hurting murderously. "Frank wants to . . ."

  "You're going to London. We'll talk no more about it. Here, drink this," James ordered, handing Peter a

  mug of steaming hot cider. "You're not fit to think in any case. You can barely speak clearly, and I haven't seen you keep your feet yet. You'll be lucky if your worst wound is your arm. How badly did you hit your head?"

  "I'm all right. It's not so bad," he said, then was forced to cradle his head in his hands.

  James shook his head morosely. "There's no way you can fool Albert this time. You've a wounded animal; you're wounded yourself, and half senseless. There's no story you can feed Albert to explain all that. You've given him exactly what he's been waiting for, Peter. Without proof he'd never touch you because of his own position and his affection for Natalie; but never doubt, Peter, that the man loathes you. He would find great satisfaction in being able to deliver you to the authorities as the elusive Captain Swing."

  "That's nonsense."

  "Nonsense? No one knows the identity of Captain Swing. But he is known to be an organizer, and he is educated ... all unusual qualities in a labor leader. And what are you but educated and known for your ability to move men? Who but you handles the hop pickers in autumn? And who but you has been speaking for the laborers at every yeoman meeting of late? Open your eyes, Peter. This has become very serious business. The parish is approaching panic over this rash of fires and rick burnings. They'd like nothing better than to think Captain Swing has been captured. It would give Albert and his yeomen an excuse to round up every malcontent in the parish. It would be quite a feather in Albert's cap, and at least in this area, it would bring an end to the Swing men."

  Peter rubbed his throbbing head with his good hand. "I cant hide this arm. . . ."

  "Not if you're here. That is why we'll.go to London. We can make up a story as to what happened ... an accident. No one will question that. We'll collect the girl, Callie Dawson, and make your mother happy, and at the same time take you out of harm's way." Suddenly James chuckled. "Your mother will think it was her prayers that moved me to charity." He bound Peter's arm, then watched warily as Peter stood unsteadily. "Perhaps it was."

  Slowly, with great care moving as though the floor too were in motion, Peter walked to the basin.

  "How is your head?" James asked.

  Peter made an unintelligible sound, then poured a pitcher of cold water over his head, washing the filth from his hair and face.

  "Can you see properly?" James persisted.

  "Yes . . ." Peter said. "I'm all right. I just had the wind knocked out of me. I'll be fine in a moment."

  James put his hand on Peter's shoulder. "I'll bring you some fresh clothes," he said, walking from the room,

  James climbed the stairs quietly. At the head of the upper hallway he saw Frank blinking sleepily in the dawn light. "Pa? What's wrong? What are you doing awake? What time is it anyway?"

  "Go back to sleep, Frank, it's nothing."

  Frank stretched and yawned. "I thought I heard ..."

  "You heard nothing but me getting a bite."

  Frank smiled agreeably. "Sounds good."

  James anxiously shuffled his feet, covering the noise Peter made below.

  "What was that?"

  "Nothing, only Peter. We're taking an early coach to London."

  Awake now, Frank looked suspiciously at his father.

  "I might have known. What's he done? Did they catch him at it tonight?"

  Tired, strained bevond the limits of his patience, James said testily, "Your brother is going to London with me to fetch Callie Dawson, a distant cousin of your mother's."

  "Albert will never believe that. No one wilL Who ever heard of this Callie Dawson?"

  James laughed harshly. "I'm sure Albert will have ... at least of her father. Ian Dawson was a labor organizer, fairly well known in London circles."

  "You're not bringing her here! Isn't one rabble-rouser enough? I won't have it. We'll have no reputation left. There is a limit . . ."

  "The girl is an orphan, and I will set the limits in this house. Now go back to bed before you awaken your mother and the rest of the household."

  Frank stood stubbornly in the middle of the hallway, glaring at James. "Side with Peter. You have always favored him over the rest of us, and we all accept that as our lot, but it is unfair of you to endanger the good name and prosperity of the whole family for him. He'll bring ruin to us. I'm right, Father. I know that, and although you deny it, I think you do too."

  Not answering, James went into Peter's dressing room and removed clothes from his cupboard. When he came into the hall again, Frank was still standing at the entrance to his room. Smirking, Frank said, "Peter needs your aid in dressing too, Father?"

  Still James did not speak. He walked down the hall to Stephen's room. He pushed the dark curling hair from Stephen's forehead and gently awakened his youngest son.

  Stephen opened his eyes. Uncomprehending, he stared at James, then said softly, "Pa? Is it time to get up?"

  James smiled. "I need you to drive Peter and me to the coach stop. We must make a trip into London this morning."

  Stephen sat up, rubbing his eyes. "I don't remember . . 7

  "Come downstairs quickly, son. I need you."

  Immediately alert, Stephen looked up at his father. "It's Peter, isn't it? Is he all right?"

  "He will be. Hurry, Stephen," he said and turned back to the stairs and the kitchen.

  Peter dressed, then stood looking out the kitchen window at the gray, bleak new day just beginning. "I should leave until this is over, Pa," he said as James cleared away the cider mugs. "Frank is right about one thing. I am a threat to the rest of the family."

  "Drivel," James snorted. "Where would you go? And what would you do about Rosalind? Will you hide her away in some little shanty while you ride the roads?"

  Before Peter could answer, Stephen came into the kitchen, his boots in his hand, his hair tousled. "Peterl Are you all right? What happened?"

  'Talk on the way to the coach," James said quickly. "We've got to leave. The household will be up soon. Stephen, run quickly and hitch the buggy, and hide this somewhere." He thrust the torn, bloodied shirt and coat at Stephen. "Burn them later, every shred."

  Stephen paled and looked from the ragged garments to Peter. He nodded briskly. Donning his boots and flinging his coat over his shoulders, Stephen hurried from the house.

  James put on his coat and handed Peter another coat to wear. "Well meet Stephen out front. Can you walk steadily yet? Make an effort. Unless I miss my guess Frank will be watching from his window. It's best you look as normal as possible."

  Peter nodded, then said, "Pa, IVe got to see Rosalind first. I can't leave for London without telling her. Shell never believe I'm safe. . . . Shell be frightened unless she knows."

  James began to protest, then agreed. "No more than five minutes. We must be on that early stage. We take needless chances with every moment we tarry. And well be out of chances entirely if we miss that coach, Peter."

  With effort Peter walked up the stairs and into the bedroom he and Rosalind shared. He went to the bed and touched the side of her cheek. For a moment he let the tangle of her curls twist around his finger, then bent to kiss her. He watched as she patted the empty side of the bed, only half awake. Then her eyes opened wide, annoyance already in them. "Are you coming in or leaving again?" Her voice was deep and thick with sleep.

  "I'm going to London with Pa," he said softly. "I just wanted you to know."

  "You can't be serious. To London with your father? Cant he go alone?"

  Peter kissed her, his lips lingering on her cheek. "No.
We're to fetch home a little orphan." He laughed softly, nibbling at her ear. "Will you miss me?"

  "I don't find you amusing, Peter. I want you to stay at home—with me."

  He leaned over, pulling her near with his good arm. Td like nothing better."

  "You'd be here then."

  He kissed her shoulder where her nightdress had slipped down, then tugged at it to expose her breast. "Be patient. Soon I'll be home so much you'll want to be rid of me. No more laborers, no rides, no—"

  "Oh, Godl The laborers again! Do you think I care

  about them? I hope they all rot in hell!" She shoved him, her hand pressing hard on his left shoulder.

  He winced and drew back.

  "You're hurt!" she whispered. "Why wont you give this up? I am so frightened. Oh, God, Peter . . . you haven't been arrested? They aren't downstairs waiting for you. Peter! Where are you going? It isn't London, is it?"

  James thumped from below with the handle of Meg's broom. Peter glanced at the floor, then at Rosalind. "I'm going to London with Pa, just as I told you. That's him. No magistrate, especially not Albert, is going to thump for me when he wants me."

  Rosalind put her hands over her face. Peter put her head against his chest and sat there holding her.

  The sound of James's thumping came again. Rosalind stiffened in Peter's arms. "Oh, dear God, I could hate you, Peter. Go. Go to London. Go. Leave me. You always leave me."

  "I'll bring you something nice. What would you like? Earrings?" He kissed her ear. "A necklace?"

  "Stop! I want you with me, that's all."

  "What? Surely this isn't my Rosalind refusing something new and pretty?"

  She did like pretty things, and she couldn't stop him from going. Years of longing for luxuries when she couldn't have them made her grasp for whatever came her way. She smiled at him. "Something pretty, but it must be real. I don't want anything made of paste or . . . or . . ."