Fire Along the Sky Fire Along the Sky

by Sara Donati

  De la Bruére's mouth twitched, and for a moment Jennet thought that he would accuse her openly. What would happen then, if the colonel would be amused or affronted, that she could not predict. Nor did she particularly care, at this moment. Suddenly she was weary beyond memory, and simply uncaring of what was to come next.

  Then Luke's hand settled on hers under the table. The long fingers wound into hers and squeezed, gently. Jennet drew in a deep breath and held it while Luke pressed something small and hard into the palm of her hand.

  “A surgeon, by all means,” said the colonel. “But do come back when your hand is bound. The cook has prepared a special treat. But only if you are feeling up to it, of course.”

  Beside her Luke grunted softly, and Jennet looked up to see something truly surprising. Colonel Caudebec: he was staring at de la Bruére with a cool, knowing, and dismissive smile.

  Jennet excused herself as soon as it was viable, babbling thanks, unable to concentrate on anything beyond the small rectangle of paper she had tucked into her bodice. At the bottom of the stair she paused in the smoky light of a lantern and listened, but all she heard was the murmuring of the guards who stood in front of the blockhouse, the wind, and the rocking of the boats crowding the river. Her fingers trembled so that she lost her grasp on the paper. Even as she snatched at it, the breeze sent it tumbling into the darkness.

  She swore to herself and followed, her gaze fixed on the small rumpled square of light in the shadows. She had just managed to put her foot down on it when she heard steps behind her.

  “Mrs. Huntar.”

  Jennet scooped up the paper and pressed it to her breast. “Yes, Father O'Neill?”

  “What have you got there?”

  She came forward. “My handkerchief. The breeze took it from me.”

  “Yes, the weather is turning.” He stood, his form straight and steady, watching the western sky where ships' masts would be visible in the daylight. “They will have the wind they need tomorrow for their attack.”

  She made a sound that was meant to be agreeable but came out more like a squeak of distress.

  “Your concern for your charges is admirable, Mrs. Huntar, but sure and you must not credit the horror stories you hear of the prison ships at Halifax. They will be adequately looked after.”

  Jennet hummed again, thankful to have been so misunderstood. While the priest talked on in his soothing voice about the prisoners and their transport and trust in God, Jennet's mind was working madly. She had no idea what was in the note, whether she was meant to meet Luke somewhere in the next few minutes or take word to Hannah, but there was nothing for her to do but to wait until the priest had talked himself out.

  “Let me tell you something more about the Grey Nuns,” he said.

  Jennet's palm cramped around the rumpled paper with its precious, invisible words. She would be able to read them in the light of the lanterns at the main gate, she reasoned to herself. Unless the priest decided to walk her to the followers' camp, which would be a disaster. That unpleasant thought had just presented itself when Jennet realized that he was waiting for some word from her.

  “Until tomorrow, then,” he said. In the faint light from the lantern she saw that he seemed not so much affronted by her lack of attention as vaguely amused.

  “Yes, of course. Good night,” Jennet said, and turned toward the gates.

  “Mrs. Huntar?”

  She paused. “Father?”

  “Your confessor will need to hear about what happened here this evening. Your temper must be brought under control.”

  Jennet had the almost ungovernable urge to laugh aloud. She bit her lip. “Of course,” she said, and then disappeared thankfully into the dark.

  “Where is Hannah?” It was the first thing out of Luke's mouth once he found her in the copse of pines at the far northern end of the island, just beyond the followers' camp. The air was cool here, ripe with river water and gathering dew.

  “In the stockade, of course,” Jennet said. She pulled her shawl more tightly around herself. “There is one patient in very poor condition.” As of yet there had been no chance to tell Luke about Liam Kirby, but now was not the time, Jennet reasoned.

  She said, “We've been frantic with worry.”

  His tone gave away his smile. “Not frantic, surely.” His hand settled on the nape of her neck and his head bent forward so that she felt his breath there. “I've seen you frantic, girl, don't forget.”

  “You are shameless,” Jennet said, but she could not bring herself to step away from him, not even when he put his mouth to the curve of her neck and used his teeth.

  “What of tomorrow?” she said, leaning back against him. “What of the plans? You have plans, don't you?”

  “Plans.” He pressed the corner of her mouth with his thumb and she half turned into his kiss, helpless as ever. “I have plans for you, little nun.”

  When she could speak she said, “But what—”

  He kissed her again, his hands moving fitfully over her back, up from her waist to the curve of her breasts. Jennet heard herself whimper into his mouth.

  “Luke,” she said as firmly as she could.

  He said, “There's nothing to do until tomorrow. Let them march the prisoners onto the ship, and things will follow from there.”

  Jennet hiccupped a laugh and caught his hands, held them still against her. “Wait. Do I understand? You plan to hijack the ship?”

  Luke pushed out a sigh and put his mouth to her ear. “Don't be ridiculous. I am a merchant of high standing and impeccable reputation. I don't play at pirates.” Then he grinned at her like a boy.

  “Oh, dear,” Jennet said. “This will be messy, I fear.”

  “Not if you do as I ask,” he said in a more serious tone. “The important thing is that you should all get on the ship without fuss. Make sure the men aren't planning any revolt. It would only work against them.”

  “We should tell them what is to come, then?”

  “Tell them to go peacefully, and to be ready.”

  Jennet's heart was beating very fast, with excitement and dread both. She said, “There are some patients who are in very poor condition.”

  “Have the others carry them,” Luke said. “No matter what, they must all be on the ship. All of you must be on the ship. All of you.” His hands tightened on her, and his breath moved her hair so that gooseflesh rose all along Jennet's back.

  “I can't be with them. I'm supposed to be going to Montreal with Father O'Neill; you heard them at supper. I thought I could simply walk away from the convent—”

  “No.” His hands tightened on her. “You'll tell him you've had a change of heart. Tell him Hannah needs you. Tell him you can't leave the sick men.”

  “It would be un-Christian of me,” Jennet said, canting her head up for his kiss.

  Luke smoothed her hair away from her face. “Unless you would rather go for a nun.”

  Jennet made a face at him. “Where will you sleep tonight?”

  That made him laugh. “Missed me, did you?”

  Irritated, Jennet ran a hand up his breeches. “Look who's talking,” she said. “You could hammer nails with that.”

  He hitched a breath and pressed her hips to his so that she felt every inch of him. “Sounds painful.”

  She turned her face to give him the line of her jaw. “Then come back to the camp with me and we'll find something better to do with it.”

  “No,” Luke said, letting her slide down to the ground. “I mustn't be seen anywhere near the camp, and I've got work to do yet tonight. It's less than two hours till first light.”

  He turned his face up to the sky and his eyes moved across the sweep of stars. “I will see you on the ship tomorrow, and then tomorrow night I'll have you in my bed.”

  “If all goes well,” Jennet added softly.

  He caught her up against him tightly, kissed her hard. “Never doubt it,” he whispered against her mouth. “I wouldn't have it any other way.”<
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  In the blessed and unexpected cool of the night, the men had found some relief in sleep. Hannah sat awake beside Liam Kirby listening to the uneasy sounds of their dreams. She was fuzzy-headed with weariness, but she would find no rest tonight.

  Liam slept on his side, curled toward her, his breathing shallow and quick. Sitting beside his cot, she could feel the fever radiating off him, as if his belly were filled with live coals. In the light of a single tallow candle she examined his face and saw no surprises there, no miracles waiting. His eyes had already begun to sink into his skull, and his breath smelled of corruption.

  She took a rag from the bowl beside him and wiped his face and neck, singing under her breath in a melody that she hoped would bring him some comfort. She sang the story of his life, as she knew it, in the language of her mother's people. It was a service she had never been able to offer her husband, and so she sang for him too. It brought her some measure of peace, though she was not sure she had earned it.

  Manny Freeman's face came to her in the darkness, but it was Strikes-the-Sky whose voice she heard.

  Why do you turn away from the truth?

  She said, Haven't I had enough of death? Do I need to see it written out in words?

  Liam stirred and coughed, convulsed with the pain and coughed again. Hannah dribbled liquid from a spoon into his mouth and he swallowed and groaned and swallowed again.

  “Don't waste laudanum on me,” he said.

  “Will you argue with me even now?” She made a soft ticking sound and managed a half-smile. In the candlelight his eyes were dull, streaked with red, his lashes matted. She wiped them gently.

  “Dying shouldn't be so hard,” he said. “It shouldn't be harder than living.”

  It was an odd piece of wisdom and it made Hannah smile. “How would you choose to die, then, Liam?”

  “In my bed of old age,” he said. “With you beside me.”

  “I am beside you now,” Hannah said.

  He made a sound. She thought he would slip away again into sleep but instead his hand came out of the shadows and settled on her knee.

  With an unsteady voice she said, “I have been wanting to ask you about Treenie.”

  His mouth jerked at one corner, in surprise or displeasure, she wasn't sure. “Your mother never got my note? I wrote to her when Treenie ran off, it must be five years ago.”

  Elizabeth would have shared that news, if it had been in her power, and Hannah said so.

  “I thought she might head back for Paradise,” Liam said. “Women and red dogs do seem to run back there.”

  “Ah,” Hannah said. “You think I should not go home?”

  Liam coughed, lost the rhythm of his breathing and coughed again. It was some time before he had the power of speech again.

  He said, “This is what you were born to do.”

  “Pick lice?”

  His face contorted. “You were born to be a doctor. There's a peacefulness about you when you are working among the men, I've seen it come over you like a veil.”

  “I do what I have been trained to do,” Hannah said. “And when my work is done here I'll go home to Lake in the Clouds.”

  “To set broken bones and lance boils.” Liam grunted. “To deliver babies. Will that be enough for you?”

  “More than enough,” Hannah said, and unexpected irritation flooded up from her gut. “I'll be content.”

  “You'll be bored.”

  She said, “What is it you would have me do? Stay here for the rest of the war, watching men die because I don't have the medicines I need to help them?”

  No answer came, because Liam had drifted away into the delirium that boiled up out of his fever, his face twitching with it.

  Behind her came Jennet's low whisper. “Hannah.”

  Jennet was usually so careful not to call her by that name while they were in the stockade, Hannah jerked with surprise. But when she turned she saw that her cousin brought news that must be good: her expression was alive with it.

  She said, “We must wake Daniel and Blue-Jay.”

  “Now?” Hannah said.

  “Immediately.” Jennet leaned forward and pressed Hannah's shoulder with her hand. “They will be glad of what I have to tell them.” She gave it to Hannah in the words she had rehearsed on her way here, quick and neat, but she could do nothing about the tremor in her voice or the way her hands shook.

  Hannah was quiet for a moment, her expression calm. Once she glanced at Liam Kirby, and then away.

  “All the men?”

  “Aye, all of them.”

  Hannah nodded. “I will be glad to leave this place.”

  Jennet said, “I'll go now and gather our things.”

  “Then I'll speak to Daniel.” Hannah's gaze shifted back to Liam Kirby.

  “We will move him,” Jennet said. She leaned forward to take her cousin's hand, squeezed it hard. “We won't leave him here to die alone.”

  “It won't come to that,” Hannah said. “Go now, and be quick.”

  Daniel, roused from his poor sleep, was fully awake by the time Hannah had finished telling him what he must know. The muscles of his jaw were tight with pain, but there was something new in his expression as well, hope or satisfaction or both. He went off to wake Blue-Jay and begin the spreading of the news.

  Hannah forced herself to breathe deeply, once and then again. Tonight they would be free, or dead; in either case she would be able to put down the responsibility for these men, most of whom had accepted her help only grudgingly, and who would not look her in the face if they passed her on the street.

  Liam jerked, and she started so that the bowl of water in her lap sloshed. “You're awake.”

  He said, “He's a fool, your half brother. But a brave one.” Hannah wondered again that he was still alive, clinging to this minute and the next, though they brought him only pain.

  “You think we will fail?” Hannah asked.

  Liam grimaced. “He'll get away with it, and more. The luck of the Bonners.”

  Hannah's fingers picked at her wet skirts. Liam was thinking of his brother Billy, who had died on Hidden Wolf, a bloody death and one he deserved. At her father's hands.

  “You still want revenge?”

  His lips were split and caked with fever, his smile a fearful thing. “No,” he said. “I'm long past that. Curiosity told me once that Nathaniel did me a favor the day my brother died, and I've come to see the truth of it.” He huffed a weak cough and spat blood, swore under his breath. “It's not revenge I want.”

  Hannah leaned over him and put her hand to his cheek, rough with beard, and found that his skin was dry and warm; the fever had left him. It had boiled all the wet out of him and it was ebbing away, a fire without fuel.

  She said, “Do you want me to send word to Jenny?”

  He grunted, displeased. “You are a strange woman, Hannah Bonner. I'm talking love to you here and you bring up my wife.”

  There were tears on her face, but Hannah didn't wipe them away. He should know that she would mourn him.

  “What is it you want, Liam? I'll give it to you if I can.”

  This time his smile was softer, boylike, almost innocent but for the fresh blood on his teeth. “All I want now is death. Can you give me that, Walks-Ahead? Will you help me with that?”

  A whispering had come up all around them like the wind rising in trees, cooling and welcome. Men's voices stripped of anger and ripe with hope, passing news back and forth as they would share an unexpected gift of food.

  Hannah said, “I can. I will.”

  In the hour before dawn the garrison was already alive with movement. Jennet skirted the parade grounds where the troops were assembling, turned her face away; she wanted to know nothing of the battle they were going to fight, would not think about the friends she had made here, the men who would go off in the first light of day to kill and be killed.

  There was a little path, one she was not supposed to know about, that ran behind the armory t
o a gap in the garrison fortifications. The soldiers used it to slip in and out to see the women in the followers' camp, risking floggings and worse for a few moments' pleasure. Jennet took it now so as not to be seen coming and going by the sentries. Later, when the prisoners had escaped, there would be an investigation, and she would not give the guards anything to report if she could help it.

  If all went well.

  Jennet's blood raced so that it hummed in the tips of her fingers and made them jerk.

  Once away from the garrison she ran, light-footed in the dark. She stumbled once and then again and forced herself to slow down. Thought of Luke, and wondered where he was just now, whether he had gone off to meet with Runs-from-Bears and Sawatis. This very night she would be in his bed, but it made her tremble to think of that, like a girl who planned to sneak out after dark to meet a lover her father disapproved.

  Instead she thought of the things she must secure, the things she dare not leave behind.

  As she came into the camp a soldier shot past her, no more than a boy, really, tousle-headed and frantically buttoning his breeks. He had fallen asleep. After the battle was done, while the others stood in line to get their pay, he would be strung up for a flogging. And still Jennet did not doubt that he would be back here before the stripes had healed on his back, unless he died today on Lake Champlain. He barely looked at Jennet, who was the least of his problems.

  She was thinking of the nature of men while she slipped from shadow to shadow, thinking of the things they risked for the people they loved, of Luke, who had put everything on the line for his brother, and for her. The certain awareness of her good fortune made her pause in the dark and offer a small prayer of thankfulness.

  The dark had given way enough to show her the outline of shacks, which meant, hopefully, that she would not need to waste precious moments with candle and flint box to find what she wanted. That thought had just formed itself in her mind when she saw that there was a light already, flickering weakly around the bearskin that served as a door.