Innocent Bystander

by C. A. Asbrey

  Abigail MacKay was going to be a mother again—this time, unmarried—and the father was one of the most wanted men in the country. It wasn’t going to be long before she started showing, and she was sure her mother was already suspicious. The smell of cooking meat, any meat, was already unbearable. It was the deep clinging stench of a rotting carcass to her nostrils, no matter how fresh, and then she was expected to sit down and eat in the miasma only she could sense. It was amazing how pregnancy affected every cell in the mother’s body, but she had to hide it. She also had to get out of here.

  Illegitimacy was too shocking, and her child deserved better. This baby was wanted, already loved, and a precious invitation back to everything she had lost. She just needed to find a way where the baby wasn’t punished for her indiscretions—and finding that way filled her every waking moment. One thing was clear. She had to get far away from here, and soon.

  She rammed her hat on her head and headed for the door, clattering it shut behind her. She stood on the stoop of the brownstone and looked aimlessly up and down the street. Thoughts of Nat floated into her head as they so often did. What would he think of this turn of events? Would he be outraged or pleased? Abigail had no way of telling him, and nerves fluttered in her stomach each time she contemplated delivering the news. Would she even have to? She may never see him again.

  There was only one answer to this conundrum—to get herself far away from everyone who knew her and quietly give birth. She could then adopt the child as her own and claim a burning need for a normal family life as her reason for leaving the world of employment. If she gave it enough time before she surfaced, Alan Pinkerton would surely forget all about her. She and Nat had discussed a fantasy life. She had no way to tell him she now saw it as a route to a fresh start for her and their child.

  Her heart sank like lead as the thought hit her that Nat would probably return to Ghost Canyon and forget her, too, but she had to deal with practicalities. The child had to come first.

  She shook herself back to reality and clattered down the steps to the street, raising an arm to hail a cab. It rattled to a halt beside her, the smell of warm horse filling her nostrils and swirling down to her queasy stomach which rolled in protest. She gulped back the nausea and grasped the door handle. “The White Star Shipping office, please.”

  “The steamship line, ma’am? Sure thing.” The driver nodded. “The Navy Yard it is. Arranging to meet someone?”

  “No. Going.”

  “Somewhere nice? You got no bags.”

  Her hand hardened on the handle in response to the flow of intrusive questions. “I’m booking the ticket.” She darted dark eyes up at him, fully aware he might be a Pinkerton looking for Nat. Well, they’d easily find out where she was going anyway, and Nat wasn’t around, so she might as well be straight with him. She straightened her shoulders and pulled herself up to her full height. “To Scotland. I’m going home.”

  “When are you lookin’ to go, lady?”

  Her features set so as not to betray her real feelings, instinct telling her that these were far too many questions even from the chattiest of coachmen. This was definitely a set up. “Three days, if I can get the right cabin. I’ll be traveling on my own, so I need to travel when the right berth is available. I’m not prepared to share.”

  “On your own, huh? Brave lady. My wife wouldn’t go as far as the next town on her ownsome.”

  “Och, it’ll be fine. I traveled here didn’t I? All I need to do is make sure I have enough to read,” she trilled with a lightness she didn’t feel. “I have family meeting me at the other end, after all. Right now, two weeks of peace and quiet is no more than a dream.” She rolled her eyes. “I have family here, too.”

  ♦◊♦

  Two Days Later

  Her knuckles whitened to pearl as she grabbed the railing and stared out at the slate-colored water. The ship bounced its way over the foaming frills of surf leaving the grimy docks of Brooklyn behind at a surprising rate. These great puffing steamships were a vast improvement on sailing ships. The journey across the Atlantic had been reduced from an average of three-and-a-half weeks to two. Two weeks on her own. Two weeks to sleep as much as she wanted, eat what she needed, and be as sick as she felt without trying to pretend she was well. Seasickness was the perfect cover. The very idea was pure bliss.

  The water looked cold and uninviting but the frothing waves still managed to glisten with spangles of strained light as screeching seagulls scattered around the ship’s wake like playing cards tossed into the air. Her thoughts drifted to her mother, anxious for her daughter’s health as she waved her off from home thinking she was returning to ‘Dr. Prothero’ and to work. She’d already written a letter a friend was going to post from Kansas to tell her family of her safe arrival. Give it a month or two and she’d tell her mother she had followed her employer to Edinburgh. It was a center for science and learning, so it wasn’t too unbelievable, but her Scottish mother would be surprised. Her shock would be mitigated by her daughter’s familiarity with the country and the promise to return soon. Coming home with a child would probably be a shock, though. Of course her mother would know the truth. Margaret Mary MacKay was too canny not to be suspicious of her daughter’s symptoms, but none of that would matter in the face of a beautiful child. Abigail knew her mother. Social niceties mattered to her as much as any woman, but family mattered more. As long as Abigail gave her an excuse to keep her head high, her mother would turn a blind eye to impropriety. It would be hard, but it would work. She was married in 1862. Licenses were not issued at that time, but she did have a clipping of the newspaper announcement, a wedding picture, and an engraved ring. Widowhood gave her a shroud of respectability.

  Abigail had been lucky. The White Star Line had a berth suitable for her—single cabin with a window. It was on the wrong side, as starboard was the preferred side for an eastward trip across the Atlantic to ensure a sunnier cabin, but that didn’t bother her. It was probably the reason it was free at all. Port out, starboard home from Great Britain—it was such a rigid rule the phrase had acronym for it had turned into the English word ‘posh’, reflecting those who could afford the best cabins. A private suite was beyond the means of many travelers and discounting did not happen. That would mean the classes mixing with one another, which would never do. The line would rather run with empty cabins than have well-to-do customers refuse to book with them on the basis that their ladies might run into riff-raff. Abigail smiled at the thought that she and her family had been considered just that on their trip to America.

  Abigail took one more glance at the receding shoreline. She was free, but she could go to bed and rest as much as her weary body demanded of her—and she intended to start this journey as she meant to go on. Time for a meal followed by a very long sleep.

  ♦◊♦

  The Next Day

  Jake rubbed his weary face as carefully as he could without disturbing the Van Dyke beard disguising his features from anyone watching for Quinn and Conroy arriving in Brooklyn.

  “Jees, Nat. I’m very near done in.” He stood and dragged their luggage from the overhead rack and slung a saddlebag over his shoulder. “One night in a bed in four days? We’re takin’ it slower on the way back.”

  The dark eyes glittered in response. “Don’t worry. There’ll be lots of time to sleep on the next leg.”

  “It’s gettin’ dark. What do you want to do? Find a hotel and look her out in the mornin’?”

  Nat followed him to the door, allowing an effervescent child to dart in front. The lad galloped over the platform and threw himself into the arms of a waiting man. The father scanned through the steam masking the windows until he saw a smiling woman waving in greeting a few rows down. Nat stepped down onto the busy platform and gazed around. “Yeah. Something to eat and then a hotel. You hungry?”

  “I guess I could eat. I fancy washin’ away the dust, too. How about a drink?”

  Nat’s eyes lit up. “Sure thing. How ab
out a couple of beers with dinner and then something harder before bed?”

  “You’re speakin’ my language, Nat.” Jake clapped a hand on his nephew’s shoulder. “Let’s go.”

  ♦◊♦

  The blue eyes flickered wearily at the unfamiliar sound. It wasn’t screaming. It sounded like a train whistle, only lower and less shrill. That was followed by a cacophony of noise—screaming? Or was that laughing? What the hell was that high pitched squarking and wailing?

  Jake Conroy forced open one eye and frowned at the unfamiliar surroundings. The cream walls were paneled by planks of grooved wood slotted into one another and the window was round. His brows gathered but even that was an effort in his leaden state. Round? What kind of hotel has round windows? His delicate stomach echoed the pitch and roll he felt running over his whole body. What kind of bellyrot had he drunk last night?

  His head spun, and a boring ache centered right above his eyes and seemed to react to each movement like the clapper of a bell. This felt like a hangover but he had no memory of consuming that much booze. In fact all he could really remember was eating dinner with Nat. Where had they gone after that? He searched his memory but came up blank. Gees. What the hell had they done? It had clearly been a real shindig ’cause he’d got as roostered as a painted nun in a whorehouse. Where was Nat? He was probably up and about already. Someone had got him back here and it had to be his nephew.

  The pressing need to pee lurched back to the forefront of his mind, the very reason his mind had dragged him to the land of the living in the first place, so he heaved his heavy limbs off the bed to support himself as he stood and stuck his hand underneath the bed for the chamber pot. He pulled out the china vessel. It had a picture of a ship on it emblazoned with R.M.S. Scotia in a banner beneath the picture. He dismissed the picture due to the pressing urgency in his bladder it and adjusted his dress to empty into it, staring aimlessly around the room in the process.

  “What the hell?” He almost dropped the john as his eyes opened in amazement as he gazed outside. Water—as far as the eye could see. That screeching sound suddenly made sense when a seagull swept into view before lurching away on a spiraling thermal with wings outstretched, until only a vast blue horizon remained.

  The latch rattled and Nat walked in, his smile as glittering as it always was when he tried to charm his way out of something. “Oh, you’re up.”

  “Where the hell are we?”

  Nat bit into his lip, a gesture his uncle knew signaled uncertainty. “You’re worried about what you’ve done, you little bastard.” Jake pointed out the porthole. “Tell me that ain’t the sea.”

  Nat shrugged untidily and answered without any real commitment. “Fine. It’s not the sea.”

  “It damn well is! What the Sam Hill are we doin’ on a boat?”

  “It’s the only way to get where we’re going.”

  Jake narrowed his bloodshot eyes. “And where’s that?”

  “Now, don’t go coming off the rimrock on me. Sit down and listen to me for a minute—”

  “Listen? I ain’t buying any of this soft soap. Why are we on a boat, and how did I get on this damned thing?”

  The dark eyes looked down at the floor. “I put something in your beer at dinner—” Nat raised his hands in defense at the sight of his angry relative advancing on him. “N-now wait a minute. Let me explain. It was the only way I could get you to come with me. I had to make you sleep. You’d never have left the country. You’d never have left your kids. I know you don’t see them often, but they’re still your whole world. I thought if I gave you no choice—” He was cut off by an explosion of expletives which turned the air blue.

  “You’re damned right I wouldn’t have come. Leavin’ the country? Where’re we goin’?” Jake demanded, punching Nat on the shoulder until the younger man was backed up against the door.

  “I’m following Abi.” Nat’s weak smile failed to reach his eyes. “When you kept going on about us having a plan to run off together you weren’t completely wrong. We did talk about what it’d be like if we did. Where we’d go.” Nat arched his brows. “Even where we’d meet. I couldn’t leave you behind, though. I kept telling her that it was impossible, but in the end, we just kinda had this unspoken agreement. It was a spur of the moment thing.”

  “So you drugged me? Didn’t ya think I’d brain you as soon as I came to? Don’t ya think I still will? You still ain’t told me where this damned thing is headed.”

  “Scotland.”

  “Scotland!?” Jake blustered. “How do you even know she’s goin’ there?”

  “When I checked the telegraph office where we left the train there was a message. I’d told her she could contact me there. She’d told me about a place in Edinburgh that’s a good meetin’ spot and we talked about me following her. Her message just said, ‘Heart at gun.’ It was a code.”

  “Heart at gun? What the hell does that mean?”

  “Edinburgh has a mosaic heart in the street called the Heart of Midlothian. They have a cannon that goes off every day at one o’clock. She wants me to meet her on that heart at one. I’m sure of it. It was an invitation to join her in code. I knew you’d never leave with me, so I drugged you.” Nat stared his uncle straight in the face which was becoming increasingly puce. “And I ain’t sorry.”

  Jake’s eyes bulged in anger as he reached out and grabbed Nat by the lapels. He dragged him to his tiptoes and battered his head against the door. “Not yet you ain’t. I ain’t goin’ to Scotland. I got a family, and they matter. Got that, you arrogant little bastard?”

  “Yeah, I got that, but this is a chance to make a fresh start and go straight.” Nat wiped away a fleck of Jake’s angry spittle from his cheek. “If you stay in the States you’re still wanted. There’s only one way you’re gonna end up, and we both know it. Gunmen don’t make old bones. You’re the best there is but it’s only a matter of time before you slow down and come up against someone younger and quicker. If you stay over there you’re a dead man, and I’m not gonna sit back and let that happen. You’ll never see your kids again if you’re dead, Jake, but if you manage to go straight and build a decent life you might just be able to see them more often. Maybe only as Uncle Jake or as a family friend, but at least you won’t be six feet under.”

  The gripping fists loosened, but still held Nat fast against the door. A muscle in Jake’s jaw flickered with stress. “And how the hell am I supposed to manage that from Scotland? Ain’t it occurred to you that if you two disappear that’ll be the first place Pinkerton will look for you? We already talked about this stuff. They got a treaty with America and they can ship us back for trial.”

  Nat reached up and took hold of his uncle’s hard hands, loosening them and pushing him away. He held the arctic glower all the way. “Sure, I’ve thought about it. I’m not an idiot, and neither is Abi. You’re the only family I’ve got, and I don’t want to leave you to get shot in the back by some coward out to make a name for himself. That’s how gunmen finish up. We leave a trace of arriving in Scotland, and then we disappear. From there, we could have gone anywhere in the world—Europe, Africa, India, Australia. Even South America. The world’s a big place, and we disguise ourselves real good. We grow real beards and dye our hair. We travel to Scotland looking like Quinn and Conroy, but then we disappear forever, and we live a decent life. It’s a fresh start.”

  “I’ll be in Scotland,” Jake hissed.

  “Sure, but we ain’t staying there. Like you said—it’ll be the first place Pinkerton will look for us.” The dark eyes danced with intense lights. “Think about it. Where’ll be the last place he’ll look for us?”

  The older man paused. “No—are you mad?”

  “Probably, yeah. We could go back to the States—or Canada. We could go anywhere our accents won’t stand out like a sore thumb. Pinkertons only go to Canada if they’re pursuing a criminal, and we’re not going to mix with any of those. We’ll go somewhere you can see the kids from. You trave
l to see them now, don’t’cha?”

  Jake ran his hand through his unruly curls before turning and pacing the little cabin. “What if they’re waiting for us at the other end? Abi stands out, you know.”

  “She’s not on this ship, and that’s the one they’ll be meeting if they meet any ship at all. Even I don’t know which one she’s on. I only know where to meet her, and at what time. The day is a mystery. In the meantime, we’ve got two weeks to grow a beard.”

  “So we’re just gonna have to wait to see if she turns up? That’s the dumbest thing I’ve heard since—well, two minutes ago.”

  “She’ll be there. I know where and when. Just not which day.” Nat’s hand dropped down to the door handle. “Now, how about some coffee? You look like shit.”

  “Better than bein’ a shit,” Jake snorted. “What are you gonna do if she never turns up?”

  “She will.” Nat straightened out the clothes crinkled by Jake’s attack. He paused and sucked in a breath. His voice now rang with doubt. “But I guess if she doesn’t, we’ve still got a shot at a fresh start without her. This is still worth doing.”

  ♦◊♦

  St. Giles Cathedral in Edinburgh was a vast, echoing vaulted building but it seemed to resound with the subdued sounds of diligence and the thickness of intense religiosity. It was a Protestant Cathedral in the plain Scottish tradition, but retained the soaring stained glass windows and ornate carvings of the earlier periods when it had originally been a Catholic Cathedral. The hushed building still contained the tombs of many Scottish royals and nobility and had been more than just a mute witness to the many of the country’s strife and power struggles—it had set the stage for them.

  This was where Jenny Geddes had pitched her stool at the head of the preacher when he dared to use an English-style prayer book to a Scottish congregation. It was also where some of the Covenanters had been imprisoned before being executed just outside in the historic streets of the Old Town. And when Scotland was sold out by the corrupt aristocrats who signed the historic Treaty of Union between Scotland and her ancient English enemy, against the will of the people, the carillon of bells in the towers had wittily reflected the national mood by playing Why Should I Be So Sad on My Wedding Day.