The Cane Creek Regulators

by Johnny D. Boggs

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Emily missed having her mother and siblings around—even Donnan, or, at least, the Donnan of old. Mostly she missed her father, wondering how he had managed to keep the tavern running as smoothly as it had always seemed. She filled the empty jugs and bottles in the storeroom, estimated what would be needed to slake the thirsts of visitors over the next week, and then moved the containers underneath and behind the bar, all before going out to the summer kitchen to check on the stew and cornbread.

  Outside, she surveyed the garden, seeing only the weeds that would need hoeing. When the bell rang above the tavern’s front door, she sighed heavily, and hurried up the back steps and into the winter kitchen, removing her bonnet and wiping the sweat off her forehead, then drying her hands on her apron before stepping through the door into the tavern, with that beaming Breck Stewart smile on her face. But it quickly turned into a frown.

  “And since when did I hire you, James Middleton, to pour rum from behind my bar?” she asked.

  Without turning around, the regulator laughed as he continued filling the mugs of seven other men who leaned against the bar. Middleton seemed to be splashing more liquor on the wood than into the stoneware.

  “Get out!” Emily demanded, moving toward Middleton, who turned and tossed her the jug before grabbing the stein he had filled for himself.

  She had to take a few hurried steps to catch the jug. Her face flushed, and not just from the heat outside.

  The bung starter lay on a shelf beneath the bar, and beside that her Queen Anne pistol, but she knew better. Eight men. Eight regulators, ready to fill their bellies with kill-devil, and all arrogant as an Edisto planter. She let her temper ease, and moved toward Middleton.

  “And would it be a trouble to you if I asked just how you plan to pay for those drinks?”

  Middleton swallowed, and slammed his stein against the bar, wiped his mouth with his sleeve, and laughed.

  At the opposite end of the bar, the big man from the farm on Ninety Six Creek snorted, spit, missing the cuspidor, and then said, “Regulators lush for free, and we are here to liquor our boots.”

  “Before we ride to the Long Canes to pay a visit to Birmingham Long.”

  “We eat, too,” said another, “and I spied smoke from the chimney in your summer kitchen.”

  “Gratis,” a wiry man in a straw hat added.

  “The bread I bake,” she said, heat flushing her face again, her voice trembling with anger, “is for the prisoners in Mister Gouedy’s stockade.” She moved to the center of the bar, never looking away from the hard stares the regulators gave her.

  “Would you give them rum as well?” said the man from Ninety Six.

  “Just water.”

  Her right hand disappeared behind the bar, landing on the bung starter. Eight rough men or not, she would not be abused in her father’s own tavern. Still trying to keep the peace, she attempted to change the subject. “And why should the Cane Creek Regulators ride to see Birmingham Long?”

  “He is a fogy …” one man began.

  Middleton whirled, ordering the man, “Shut your trap!”

  But the man finished, “… with a gift for gab.”

  So the old man who worshiped the Church of England and King George himself had written a few complaints to Charlestown.

  A fat-cheeked man slammed his mug on the bar, and shouted, “Bring us something to eat! You damned hedge whore.”

  To hell with keeping the peace. Emily moved her hand from the bung starter, and picked up the pistol, brought it up, and was thumbing back the hammer when Middleton’s hand clamped down on her wrist. His grip held like a vise, and Emily screamed. Through the tears forming in her eyes, she watched as the man who had insulted her grabbed the pistol with a laugh.

  The viselike grip eased, but another man, who had rushed behind the bar, shoved her against the backbar. A few bottles clattered and one fell, breaking on the floor. Her left hand went to her throbbing right wrist, and she looked at the one with the pistol, now aimed at her.

  “Your brother raved about your mother’s shepherd’s pie. I doubt if you are much of a cook and …”

  “Shut up, O’Keeffe.”

  Emily’s eyes found the man who had spoken. To her surprise, it was the long hunter from Cane Creek.

  “And put the damned gun down,” he added.

  “Put it up,” Middleton echoed. The man lowered the hammer, and laid the pistol on the bar.

  Blinking away tears, Emily watched the long hunter reach into a pocket and pull out a few coins, which he laid on the bar. Two others did the same, and quickly finished their drinks in silence.

  She thought it might end there, peacefully, with no real loss except for a busted bottle of gin, and some bruising to her wrist and ego. Indeed, it might have, but the door opened and in walked Finnian Kilduff. She whispered his name.

  “And what have we here,” he said, cocking the blunderbuss he held at his hip, “but a fine group of rapparees and priggers? Are they being a pest to you, m’lady?”

  The men turned, and Emily took advantage of the moment and swiped her pistol off the bar, cocking it again, while moving to the side, out of range, she hoped, of any stray ball from that massive weapon in Kilduff’s hands.

  “Just some boys who shall be taking their leave,” she said, keeping the muzzle of her weapon on O’Keeffe’s back.

  “I don’t like hoggish men or draw latches,” Kilduff declared, and stepped toward them, both hands on the massive weapon. Once again he was dressed the part of a gentleman, although his clothes were ruffled from several miles in the saddle, and his face sported a few days’ growth of dark whiskers.

  “I know you,” Middleton said.

  “As I remember you,” Kilduff responded.

  It was then that a shadow crept through the door, and Emily sucked in a deep breath, shouting, “Finnian!” But by then, Donnan Stewart stood in the open doorway, and behind him Emily saw at least three other regulators.

  “Before you lay your blunderbuss on that table,” Donnan said softly, “could you answer a question for me?”

  Kilduff’s face revealed his frustration with himself for having been an idiot. Shaking his head, Kilduff slowly eased down the hammer on the blunderbuss, and butted the weapon against the floor. He did not turn around.

  “Let me inform you all that I am the deputy provost marshal for the colony of South Carolina,” Kilduff said easily. “My papers are in my waistcoat.” Then he lifted the rifle by the barrel with his right hand, and gently laid it on the table.

  “Indeed?” Donnan stepped inside, followed by Ferguson. The other two remained outside.

  “With several warrants as well.” Kilduff turned to face Donnan. “By the authority of the governor, Lord Charles Montagu. One such warrant has your name on it, Donnan Stewart.”

  “Indeed?” Donnan repeated, and smiled, keeping his pistol aimed at Kilduff. Raising his left hand, he hooked his thumb toward the open door. “And would you happen to have a bill of sale in your waistcoat as well, Mister Deputy Provost Marshal? For that marsh tacky horse you are riding, bold as brass?”

  The regulators at the bar moved. Two now aimed their pistols at Kilduff’s head. Another picked up his blunderbuss. Middleton turned toward Emily, holding out his big right palm, eyes glaring. Muttering an oath, she handed him her pistol.

  “You have not answered my question, Mister Deputy Provost Marshal,” Donnan said, as edged closer to Kilduff. “Ask my sister if she remembers that horse. My da bought it at the New Market racecourse in Charlestown. My sister was there. I would gather that she remembers the stallion. She rode it often enough, especially after it kicked a preacher in his manhood.”

  A few of the men snickered.

  “Da had a mind to breed those small horses with a mare we have in the stables outside. Now, I still have hi
s bill of sale. But we have not seen that dun since my sister here was riding it one day, a year or so back, mayhap longer, and some freebooters took her and the preacher prisoner and into their camp for a wee bit of time. However, I will give those rogues their due. They harmed neither that cod’s head of a parson nor my sister, but they kept the marsh tacky dun. So I shall be asking you again. Have you a bill of sale or any proof of ownership for that stallion?”

  “What I have,” Kilduff said stiffly, “are my credentials and warrants.”

  Grinning with pleasure, Donnan shook his head.

  “Now I remember the cur!” Middleton cried, and stormed over, raising Emily’s pistol and slamming the barrel against Kilduff’s head. He dropped to his knees, and Emily ran from behind the bar, cursing, but the long hunter from Cane Creek grabbed her arms and pulled her back, his grip firm but his voice surprisingly calm and kind. “Easy, miss. Any row you start will make things worser for that gent.”

  She had lifted her leg, aiming to slam her sandal against the hunter’s toes, but his words made her stop. Blood ran down Kilduff’s forehead and over the bridge of his nose.

  Middleton grabbed a handful of Kilduff’s dark mane, and lifted his head. “This knight of the road aided the Cherokees during the uprising a lustrum or more ago.” Releasing his grip on Kilduff’s hair, he grabbed his waistcoat and pulled it off. He tore off Kilduff’s vest, and then his silk shirt, revealing scars from a previous whipping and something else.

  “There!” Middleton cried as he jammed his fingers into the scar between Kilduff’s shoulder blades. “That is where we branded him. A damned renegade and rebel.”

  “And a horse thief!” someone shouted. “To the morning drop with him!”

  “No!” Emily pulled away from the hunter’s grasp, tripped over a chair leg, and went sprawling to the floor. She watched as the men shoved Kilduff outside, heard their shouts and laughter. She came to her feet, and ran to her brother who hadn’t left the tavern. “He is not lying, Donnan!” she cried. “He is a deputy provost marshal.”

  Donnan’s head shook in pity. “I saw his papers,” she insisted. “I saw the governor’s stamp. So did Mister Gouedy.” Donnan’s face hardened. My God, Emily thought, how much he looks like Da.

  “I saw that dun horse!” he shouted.

  Emily dropped beside Kilduff’s waistcoat. Papers slipped through her trembling fingers, but she found the leather wallet, opened it, and withdrew the paper, unfolding it as quickly as she could. “Here! Here,” she said to Donnan. “The Royal seal. Read it. He is a deputy provost marshal.”

  “I do not give a tinker’s damn.” He turned on his heels, and strode for the door. “To me he is a horse thief and a scoundrel.”

  She was up and past him, blocking the door, rattling the paper in his face. “You cannot do this. Even you, Donnan, cannot do this. You hang him, and His Majesty will send an army to scorch the entire district and they will not cease until this land is in ruins and you are dead.”

  He laughed.

  “You are not Breck Stewart’s son …” she said. Then the breath left her. Her lungs would not work, and she realized slowly that Donnan had hit her in the stomach with that rock-hard fist of his. Drool ran down her chin, she gagged, and vomited. Even before she had finished retching, Donnan jerked her up by her hair. Tears blinded her. She was about to pass out.

  She smelled the mead on his breath as he whispered, “You are not Breck Stewart’s daughter. You are a crack. And you sure can pick your cuckolds. A red Cherokee, and an Indian-loving horse thief.” He let her go, but, before she fell, he swung his fist again. This one caught her in the face, and she felt the cartilage give way in her nose, tasting the blood. She landed heavily on the floor as Donnan and the long hunter dragged Kilduff from the tavern to the gleeful shouts of the men outside.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Finnian Kilduff flinched when Emily eased the yarrow poultice onto his back. He lay on his stomach, sweating, breathing heavily, and his eyes fluttered, opened, and after a long moment focused on Emily, whose face was now looking calmly at his.

  His voice was faint, when he finally managed to speak, “Have I any skin left on my back?” But then as his eyes focused, he said, “By God,” he said, “what did they do to you?”

  Instinctively she covered her nose, then moved away, so he could not see her. She picked up another poultice from a bowl, and placed it over the wounds on his back. “They could have hanged you, I suppose.” Her voice sounded so nasal, she swore underneath her breath, and tenderly touched the swollen, crooked nose, wishing she had remained mute. When she looked up, she happened to catch her reflection in the Chippendale mirror across the room. It took all of her control not to throw the bowl and shatter the glass. “I warned you about that marsh tacky,” she said.

  “Why didn’t they hang me?” Kilduff asked.

  She answered with a shrug, then, realizing Kilduff could not see her, made herself speak again, the sound of her voice angering her. “Donnan said a blacksnake would last longer than the cord.”

  He laughed. “Your brother is smarter than he looks. I shan’t leave this bed for a week, if ever.”

  “The cord,” she said, “would have left you in a coffin … forever.”

  When the last poultice was in place, she made herself move back to the chair, where Kilduff could move his head on the pillow and look at her.

  Donnan had spared Kilduff’s life for his own reasons. At least, that’s how Emily figured things. He had known she was right. Harassing a provost marshal’s deputy is one thing. Killing him would bring His Majesty’s army out in force. So they had flogged him, but, drunk as the lot had been, there had been no mercy. Sixty lashes laid well on. It was a wonder Finnian Kilduff still breathed.

  “Doctor Bayard has been here,” she said. “He gave you some hemlock to stop the bleeding, and something he bought from an apothecary in Charlestown for the pain. I have some chamomile. It can help you sleep.”

  “I do not wish to sleep.” He sounded stronger now.

  “The doctor said he would return on the morrow,” Emily continued. “Left me the poultices to put on your back until then. Can I bring you something to eat?” His head shook weakly. “Drink?”

  He lifted his eyes. “Not tea. Not chamomile. But rum?”

  “If there is any left.” She sighed. “The Cane Creek Regulators had quite the thirst after your flogging.”

  Of course, plenty of rum remained. Even regulators could not drink a year’s worth in one day of revelry. She went downstairs and got a jug, stepping over the broken glass, the shards of pottery, and the debris, and climbed back up the steps. She would have to clean up, salvage what she could.

  Back in the guest room, she watched as Finnian Kilduff, groaning, managed to roll onto his side and take the mug she held out. He was barely able to lift his head and take a sip, so Emily grabbed the mug before he collapsed back on the pillow.

  “Damn you, Finnian Kilduff!” she said, feeling the tears well. “Why did you bring Ezekiel back to Ninety Six?”

  He motioned toward the mug she held. This time, she lifted his head, and let him drink, then gently lowered his head onto the pillow, already damp with sweat.

  “If you would believe in a bully ruffian such as I, then, honestly, I was returning that horse to you.”

  Folding her hands across her chest, Emily shook her head.

  “’Tis the truth. Your brother neglected to mention that there was another horse tethered outside. A fine blue roan. More becoming for a man of my size than that dwarf you call a horse.”

  She had seen the roan, and, thinking it had been forgotten by one of the drunken regulators, she had asked Benjamin Cooper to take it to the stables with Ezekiel.

  “You did not mention that to Donnan.”

  He twisted his head in some sort of shrug. “I surmised that Donnan and his boys
had already made up their minds.”

  She helped him drink again, pushed the wet bangs off her forehead, and asked, “Now … tell me true, Finnian Kilduff, how did you get to be a deputy provost marshal?”

  “I repented.”

  Emily cursed.

  “’Tis true. That devil-driver Monteith had me see the light.”

  “Liar.”

  His laughter caused him much agony, but when she came toward him with the rum, he shook his head. “No more for me, Emily.” His eyes misted over, and his voice lost the humor, the roughness. “If you must know the truth, after the damned bloody flux did its business, snuffing out the lives of lovely Tanwen and the others, I rode alone to Charlestown. I don’t know … I thought I might sail somewhere, Jamaica or London, Greece or Ireland. And by chance … or fate, if such is your belief … I met a man who remembered me from my days at the bar. Before you know it, I am dining with Lady and Lord Montagu as the new deputy provost marshal.” He smiled, and his voice returned to normal. “I am not without qualifications, I’d have you know.”

  “I remember your qualifications. Does Lord Montagu know of them all?”

  He started to laugh, but it died in his throat, and his voice turned cold, serious. “The regulators must be stopped.”

  Knees weakening, she drank the rest of Kilduff’s rum.

  “You,” he said, “must stop them.”

  She laughed. “I cannot …”

  “Not you, personally. The men of Ninety Six. Those who are not cowards, who bow to such snafflers as Donnan Stewart.”

  “We are not cowards, Kilduff.” She was angry again, not caring how bruised her face was, how much her stomach hurt when she breathed or bent, or how much pain Finnian Kilduff must be in at that very moment. “We are …”

  Downstairs, she heard the bell above the tavern door ring. She was up, the clay mug falling to the floor, rolling over toward the bedpost. Finnian Kilduff said something to her, but Emily was already at the door. She had the blunderbuss as she moved out of the room, to the stairs and down.