The problem was not Mrs. Chisholm as such; the problem was Mrs. Chisholms five younger children, all boys, and referred to collectivelyby Mrs. Bugas the spawn of Satan. Mrs. Chisholm, perhaps understandably, objected to this terminology. While the other inhabitants of the house were less forthright than Mrs. Bug in stating their opinions, there was a remarkable unanimity among them. Three-year-old twin boys would have that effect, Brianna thought, eyeing Jemmy with some trepidation as she envisioned the future.
He was at the moment giving no indication of a potential for future rampage, being half-asleep on the rag rug of Jamies study, where Brianna had retired in the faint hope of fifteen minutes semi-solitude in which to write. Residual awe of Jamie was sufficient to keep the little warts out of this room, for the most part.
Mrs. Bug had informed eight-year-old Thomas, six-year-old Anthony, and five-year-old Toby Chisholm that Mrs. Fraser was a notable witch; a White Lady, who would undoubtedly turn them into toads on the spotand no great loss to society, she gave them to understandshould any harm come to the contents of her surgery. That didnt keep them outquite the opposite; they were fascinatedbut it had so far prevented them breaking much.
Jamies inkstand stood to hand on the table; a hollow gourd, neatly corked with a large acorn, with a pottery jar of neatly sharpened turkey quills beside it. Motherhood had taught Brianna to seize random moments; she seized this one, and a quill, flipping open the cover of the small journal in which she kept what she thought of as her private accounts.
Last night I dreamed about making soap. I havent made soap yet, myself, but Id been scrubbing the floor yesterday, and the smell of the soap was still on my hands when I went to bed. Its a nasty smell, something between acid and ashes, with a horrible faint stink from the hog fat, like something thats been dead for a long time.
I was pouring water into a kettle of wood ash, to make lye, and it was turning to lye even as I poured. Big clouds of poisonous smoke were coming up from the kettle; it was yellow, the smoke.
Da brought me a big bowl of suet, to mix with the lye, and there were babies fingers in it. I dont remember thinking there was anything strange about thisat the time.
Brianna had been trying to ignore a series of crashing noises from upstairs, which sounded like several persons jumping up and down on a bedstead. These ceased abruptly, succeeded by a piercing scream, which in turn was followed by the sound of flesh meeting flesh in a loud slap, and several more screams of assorted pitches.
She flinched and shut her eyes tight, recoiling as the sounds of conflict escalated. A moment more, and they were thundering down the stairs. With a glance at Jemmy, who had been startled awake, but didnt seem frightenedmy God, he was getting used to it, she thoughtshe put down the quill and stood up, sighing.
Mr. Bug was there to tend the farm and livestock and repel physical threats; Mr. Wemyss was there to chop firewood, haul water, and generally maintain the fabric of the house. But Mr. Bug was silent, Mr. Wemyss timid; Jamie had left Brianna formally in charge. She was, therefore, the court of appeal, and judge in all conflicts. Herself, if you would.
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Herself flung open the study door and glowered at the mob. Mrs. Bug, red in the faceas usualand brimming with accusation. Mrs. Chisholm, ditto, overflowing with maternal outrage. Little Mrs. Aberfeldy, the color of an eggplant, clutching her two-year-old daughter, Ruth, protectively to her bosom. Tony and Toby Chisholm, both in tears and covered with snot. Toby had a red handprint on the side of his face; little Ruthies wispy hair appeared to be oddly shorter on one side than the other. They all began to talk at once.
... Red savages!
... My babys beautiful hair!
She started it!
... Dare to strike my son!
We was just playin at scalpin, maam...
... EEEEEEEEEEE!
... and torn a great hole in my feather bed, the wee spawn!
Look what shes done, the wicked auld besom!
Look what theyve done!
Look ye, maam, its only...
AAAAAAAAAAA!
Brianna stepped out into the corridor and slammed the door behind her. It was a solid door, and the resultant boom temporarily halted the outcry. On the other side, Jemmy began to cry, but she ignored him for the moment.
She drew a deep breath, prepared to wade into the melee, but then thought better of it. She couldnt face the thought of the interminable wrangling that would come of dealing with them as a group. Divide and conquer was the only way.
I am writing, she declared instead, and looked narrow-eyed from face to face. Something important. Mrs. Aberfeldy looked impressed; Mrs. Chisholm affronted; Mrs. Bug astonished.
She nodded coolly to each one in turn.
Ill talk to each of you about it later. Aye?
She opened the door, stepped inside, and shut it very gently on the three pop-eyed faces, then pressed her back against it, closed her eyes, and let out the breath she had been holding.
There was silence outside the door, then a distinct Hmp! in Mrs. Chisholms voice, and the noise of footsteps going awayone set up the stairs, another toward the kitchen, and a heavier tread into the surgery across the hall. A rush of small footsteps out the front door announced Tony and Toby making their escape.
Jemmy ceased wailing when he saw her, and started sucking his thumb instead.
I hope Mrs. Chisholm doesnt know anything about herbs, she told him, whispering. Im sure Grandma keeps poisons in there. A good thing her mother had taken the box of saws and scalpels with her, at least.
She stood still a moment, listening. No sounds of breaking glass. Perhaps Mrs. Chisholm had merely stepped into the surgery in order to avoid Mrs. Aberfeldy and Mrs. Bug. Brianna sank down in the straight chair by the small table her father used as a desk. Or maybe Mrs. Chisholm was lying in wait, hoping to snare Brianna to listen to her own grievances, as soon as the others were safely out of the way.
Jemmy was now lying on his back with his feet in the air, happily mangling a bit of rusk he had found somewhere. Her journal had fallen to the floor. Hearing Mrs. Chisholm come out of the surgery, she hastily seized the quill, and snatched one of the ledger books from the stack on the desk with the other.
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The door opened an inch or two. There was a moments silence, during which she bent her head, frowning in exaggerated concentration at the page before her, scratching with an empty quill. The door closed again.
Bitch, she said, under her breath. Jemmy made an interrogative noise, and she looked down at him. You didnt hear that, all right?
Jemmy made an agreeable noise and crammed the soggy remnant of his toast into his left nostril. She made an instinctive movement to take it away from him, then stopped herself. She wasnt in the mood for any more conflict this morning. Or this afternoon, either.
She tapped the black quill thoughtfully on the ledger page. Shed have to do something, and fast. Mrs. Chisholm might have found the deadly nightshadeand she knew Mrs. Bug had a cleaver.
Mrs. Chisholm had the advantage in weight, height, and reach, but Brianna personally would put her money on Mrs. Bug, in terms of guile and treachery. As for poor little Mrs. Aberfeldy, shed be caught in the crossfire, riddled with verbal bullets. And little Ruthie would likely be bald as an egg before another week was out.
Her father would have sorted them out in nothing flat by the joint exercise of charm and male authority. She gave a small snort of amusement at the thought. Come, he sayeth to one, and she curleth up at his feet, purring like Adso the cat. Go, he sayeth to another, and she goeth promptly out into the kitchen and baketh him a plate of buttered muffins.
Her mother would have seized the first excuse to escape the houseto tend a distant patient or gather medicinal herbsand left them to fight it out among themselves, returning only when a state of armed neutrality had been restored. Brianna hadnt missed the look of relief on her mothers face as she swung up into her mares saddleor the faintly apologetic glance she sent her daughter. Still, neither strategy was going to work for herthough the urge to seize Jemmy and run for the hills was pretty strong.
For the hundredth time since the men had left, she wished passionately that she could have gone with them. She could imagine the bulk of a horse moving under her, the clean, cold air in her lungs, and Roger riding by her side, the sun glowing off his dark hair, and unseen adventure to be faced together, somewhere ahead.
She missed him with a deep ache, like a bruise to the bone. How long might he be gone, if it really came to fighting? She pushed that thought aside, not wanting to look at the thought that came after it; the thought that if it came to fighting, there was a possibilityhowever faintthat he would come back ill or injuredor wouldnt come back at all.
Its not going to come to that, she said firmly, aloud. Theyll be back in a week or two.
There was a rattling sound as a blast of icy rain struck the window. The weather was turning cold; it would be snowing by nightfall. She shivered, drawing the shawl around her shoulders, and glanced at Jem to see that he was warm enough. His smock was puddled up around his middle, his diaper was plainly damp, and one stocking had fallen off, leaving his small pink foot bare. He appeared not to notice, being absorbed in babbling a song to the bare toes idly flexing overhead.
She looked dubiously at him, but he seemed happy enoughand the brazier in the corner was putting out some heat.
Okay, she said, and sighed. She had Jem, and that was that. That being that, the problem was to find some means of dealing with the Three Furies before they drove her crazy or assassinated each other with rolling pin or knitting needle.
Logic, she said to Jemmy, sitting up straight in the chair and pointing the quill at him. There must be a logical way. Its like that problem where you have to get a cannibal, a missionary, and a goat across a river in a canoe. Let me think about this.
Jem began trying to get his foot into his crumb-encrusted mouth, despite the clear illogic of the procedure.
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You must take after Daddy, she told him, tolerantly. She put the quill back in its jar, and started to close the ledger, then stopped, attracted by the sprawling entries. The sight of Jamies characteristically messy writing still gave her a faint thrill, remembering her first sight of iton an ancient deed of sasine, its ink gone pale brown with age.
This ink had been pale brown to start with, but had now darkened, the iron-gall mixture achieving its typical blue-black with exposure to air over a day or so.
It was not so much a ledger, she saw, as a logbook, recording the daily activities of the farm.
16 July Recd six weaned piglets of Pastor Gottfried, in trade for two bottles muscat wine and a goosewing axhead. Have put them in the stable til they be grown enough to forage conveniently.
17 July One of the hives commenced to swarm in the afternoon, and came into the stable. My wife fortunately recaptured the swarm, which she housed in an empty churn. She says Ronnie Sinclair must make her a new one.
18 July Letter from my aunt, asking advice re sawmill on Grinders Creek. Replied, saying I will ride to inspect the situation within the month. Letter sent with R. Sinclair, who goes to Cross Creek with a load of 22 barrels, from which I am to receive half his profit toward payment of debt on cobblers tools. Have arranged to deduct cost of new churn from this amount.
The flow of entries was soothing, as peaceful as the summer days they recorded. She felt the knot of tension between her shoulder blades beginning to relax, and her mind began to loosen and stretch, ready to seek a way out of her difficulties.
20 July Barley in the lower field as high as my stocking-tops. A healthy heifer calf born to red cow soon after midnight. All well. An excellent day.
21 July Rode to Muellers. Exchanged one jar honeycomb for leather bridle in poor repair (but can be mended). Home well after dark, in consequence of seeing a twilight hatch rising upon the pond near Holliss Gap. Stopped to fish, and caught a string of ten fine trout. Six eaten for supper; the rest will do for breakfast.
22 July My grandson has a rash, though my wife declares it of no moment. The white sow has broken through her pen again and escaped into the forest. I am in two minds whether I shall pursue her or only express sympathy for the unfortunate predator that first encounters her. Her temper is similar to that of my daughter at the moment, the latter having slept little these past few nights...
Brianna leaned forward, frowning at the page.
... in consequence of the infants screaming, which my wife says is the colic and will pass. I trust she is right. Meanwhile, I have settled Brianna and the child in the old cabin, which is some relief to us in the house, if not to my poor daughter. The white sow ate four of her last litter before I could prevent her.
Why, you bloody bastard! she said. She was familiar with the white sow in question, and not flattered by the comparison. Jemmy, alarmed by her tone, stopped crooning and dropped his toast, his mouth beginning to quiver.
No, no, its all right, sweetie. She got up and scooped him into her arms, swaying gently to soothe him. Shh, its all right. Mummy is just talking to Grandpa, thats all. You didnt hear that word either, okay? Shh, shh.
Jemmy was reassured, but leaned out from her arms, reaching after his discarded meal with small grunts of anxiety. She stooped and picked it up, eyeing the half-dissolved object with distaste. The crust was not only stale and wet, but had acquired a light coating of what seemed to be cat hair.
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Ick. You dont really want that, do you?
Evidently he did, and was persuaded only with difficulty to accept a large iron bulls ringused for leading male animals by the nose, she noted with some ironyfrom the shelf in lieu of it. A brief nibble confirmed the desirability of the nose ring, though, and he settled down in her lap to single-minded gnawing, allowing her to reread the conclusion of the offensive entry.
Hmm. She leaned back, shifting Jemmys weight more comfortably. He could sit up easily now, though it still seemed incredible that his noodle-neck could support the round dome of his head. She regarded the ledger broodingly.
Its a thought, she said to Jemmy. If I shift the old biI mean, Mrs. Chisholmto our cabin, it will get her and her horrible little monsters out of everyones hair. Then... hmm. Mrs. Aberfeldy and Ruthie could go in with Lizzie and her father, if we move the trundle from Mama and Das room in there. The Bugs get their privacy back, and Mrs. Bug stops being an evil-minded old... er... anyway, then I suppose you and I could sleep in Mama and Das room, at least til they come back.
She hated to think of moving from the cabin. It was her home, her private place, her familys place. She could go there and close the door, leaving the furor here behind. Her things were there; the half-built loom, the pewter plates, the pottery jug she had paintedall the small, homely objects with which she had made the space her own.
Beyond the sense of possession and peace, she had an uncomfortable sense of something like superstition about leaving it. The cabin was the home Roger had shared with her; to leave it, however temporarily, seemed somehow an admission that he might not return to share it again.
She tightened her grip on Jemmy, who ignored her in favor of concentration on his toy, his fat little fists shiny with drool where he grasped the ring.
No, she didnt want to give up her cabin at all. But it was an answer, and a logical one. Would Mrs. Chisholm agree? The cabin was much more crudely built than the big house, and lacking its amenities.
Still, she was pretty sure Mrs. Chisholm would accept the suggestion. If ever shed seen someone whose motto was, Better to reign in hell than serve in heaven... Despite her trouble, she felt a small bubble of laughter rise beneath her stays.
She reached out and flipped the ledger closed, then tried to replace it on the stack from which shed taken it. One-handed, though, and encumbered by Jemmy, she couldnt quite reach, and the book slipped off, falling back onto the table.
Rats, she muttered, and scooted forward on her chair, reaching to pick it up again. Several loose sheets had fallen out, and she stuffed these back as tidily as she could with her free hand.
One, plainly a letter, had the remnants of its wax seal still attached. Her eye caught the impression of a smiling half-moon, and she paused. That was Lord John Greys seal. It must be the letter he had sent in September, in which he described his adventures hunting deer in the Dismal Swamp; her father had read it to the family several timesLord John was a humorous correspondent, and the deer hunt had been beset by the sort of misfortunes that were no doubt uncomfortable to live through, but which made picturesque recounting afterward.
Smiling in memory, she flipped the letter open with her thumb, looking forward to seeing the story again, only to find that she was looking at something quite different.
13 October, Anno Domini 1770
Mr. James Fraser
Frasers Ridge, North Carolina
My dear Jamie,
I woke this Morning to the sound of the Rain which has beat upon us for the last Week, and to the gentle clucking of several Chickens, who had come to roost upon my Bedstead. Rising under the Stare of numerous beady Eyes, I went to make Inquiry as to this Circumstance, and was informed that the River has risen so far under the Impetus of the recent Rain as to have undermined both the Necessary House and the Chicken Coop. The contents of the latter were rescued by William (my Son, whom you will recall), and two of the Slaves, who swept the dispossessed Fowl out of the passing Floodwaters with Brooms. I cannot say whose was the Notion to sequester the hapless feathered Flood Victims in my Sleeping Chamber, but I hold certain Suspicions in this regard.
Resorting to use of my Chamber Pot (I could wish that the Chickens shared this Facility, they are distressing incontinent Fowl), I dressed and ventured forth to see what might be salvaged. Some few Boards and the shingled Roof of the Chicken Coop remain, but my Privy, alas, has become the Property of King Neptuneor whatever minor water Deity presides over so modest a Tributary as our River.
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I pray you will suffer no Concern for us, though; the House is at some distance from the River, and safely placed upon a Rise of Ground, such as to render us quite safe from even the most incommodious flooding. (The Necessary had been dug by the old homestead, and we had not yet attempted a new structure more convenient; this minor disaster, by affording us the Necessary opportunity for rebuilding, thus may prove a blessing in disguise.)
Brianna rolled her eyes at the pun, but smiled nonetheless. Jemmy dropped his ring and began at once to whine for it. She stooped to pick it up, but stopped halfway down, riveted by the words at the beginning of the next paragraph.
Your letter mentions Mr. Stephen Bonnet, and inquires whether I have news or knowledge of him. I have met with him, you will collect, but have unfortunately no Memory whatever of the Encounter, not even to Recalling of his Appearance, though as you know, I carry a small Hole in my Head, as a singular Memento of the occasion. (You may inform your Lady Wife that I am healed well, with no further Symptoms of Discomfort than the occasional Headache. Beyond this, the Silver Plate with which the Opening is covered is subject to sudden chill when the Weather is cold, which tends to make my left Eye water, and to cause a great Discharge of Snot, but this is of no consequence.)
As I thus share your Interest in Mr. Bonnet and his Movements, I have long since had Inquiries dispersed among such Acquaintance as I have near the Coast, since the Descriptions of his Machinations cause me to believe the man is most like to be found there (this is a comforting Notion, given the Great Distance between the Coast and your remote Eyrie). The River being navigable to the Sea, however, I had some Thought that the River Captains and Water Scallywags who now and again grace my Dinner Table might at some Point bear me Word of the man.
I am not pleased by the Obligation to report that Bonnet still resides among the Living, but both Duty and Friendship compel me to impart such Particulars of him as I have obtained. These are sparse; the Wretch appears sensible of his criminal Situation, so far as to render him subtle in his Movements until now.
Jemmy was kicking and squawking. As though in a trance, she stooped, holding him, and picked up the ring, her eyes still fixed on the letter.
I had heard little of him, save a Report at one Point that he had repaired to Francegood News. However, two Weeks past I had a Guest, one Captain Liston (Captain being no more than a title of courtesy; he claims service with the Royal Navy, but I will stake a Hogshead of my best Tobacco [a sample of which you will find accompanying this Missiveand if you do not, I would be obliged to hear of it, since I do not altogether trust the Slave by whom I send it] that he has never so much as smelled the Ink on a Commission, let alone the Reek of the Bilges) who gave me a more recentand highly disagreeableHistory of the man Bonnet.
Finding himself at large in the Port of Charleston, Liston said that he fell in with some Companions of low Aspect, who invited him to accompany them to a Cockfight, held in the Innyard of an Establishment called the Devils Glass. Among the Rabble there was a Man notable for the fineness of his Dress, and the Freedom with which he spent his CoinListon heard this man referred to as Bonnet, and was told by the Landlord that this Bonnet had the name of a Smuggler upon the Outer Banks, being Popular with the Merchants of the coastal Towns in North Carolina, though much less so with the Authorities, who were Helpless to deal with the Man by reason of his Business and the dependence of the Towns of Wilmington, Edenton, and New Bern upon his Trade.
Liston took little further Note of Bonnet (he said) until an Altercation rose over a Wager upon the Fighting. Hot Words were exchanged, and nothing would do save Honor be satisfied by the drawing of Blood. Nothing loath, the Spectators at once began to wager upon the Outcome of the human Contest, in the same manner as that of the fighting Fowl.
One combatant was the man Bonnet, the other a Captain Marsden, a half-pay Army Captain known to my Guest as a good Swordsman. This Marsden, feeling himself the injured Party, damned Bonnets eyes, and invited the Smuggler to accommodate him upon the Spot, an Offer at once accepted. Wagers ran heavy upon Marsden, his Reputation being known, but it was soon clear that he had met his Match and more in Bonnet. Within no more than a few moments, Bonnet succeeded in disarming his Opponent, and in Wounding him so grievously in the Thigh that Marsden sank down upon his Knees and yielded to his Opponenthaving no Choice in the Matter at that Point, to be sure.
Bonnet did not accept of this Surrender, though, but instead performed an Act of such Cruelty as made the deepest Impression upon all who saw it. Remarking with great coolness that it was not his own Eyes that would be damned, he drew the Tip of his Weapon across Marsdens Eyes, twisting it in such Fashion as not only to blind the Captain, but to inflict such Mutilation as would make him an Object of the greatest Horror and Pity to all who might behold him.
Leaving his Foe thus mangled and fainting upon the bloody Sand of the Innyard, Bonnet cleansed his Blade by wiping it upon Marsdens Shirtfront, sheathed it, and leftthough not before removing Marsdens Purse, which he claimed in payment of his original Wager. None present had any Stomach to prevent him, having so cogent an Example of his Skill before them.
I recount this History both to acquaint you with Bonnets last known whereabouts, and as warning to his Nature and Abilities. I know you are already well acquainted with the Former, but I draw your Attention to the Latter, out of due Regard for your Well-being. Not that I expect a word of my well-meant Advice will find lodging in your Breast, so filled must it be with animadverse Sentiment toward the Man, but I would beg that you take Notice at least of Listons Mention of Bonnets Connexions.
Upon the occasion of my own Meeting with the man, he was a Condemned Felon, and I cannot think he has since performed such Service toward the Crown as would gain him official Pardon. If he is content to flaunt himself thus openly in Charlestonwhere scant Years ago he escaped the Hangmans Nooseit would seem he is in no great Fears for his Safetyand this can only mean that he now enjoys the Protection and Patronage of powerful Friends. You must discover and beware of these, if you seek to destroy Bonnet.
I will continue my Inquiries in this regard, and notify you at once of any further Particulars. In the meantime, keep you well, and spare a thought now and again to your drenched and shivering Acquaintance in Virginia. I remain, sir, with all good Wishes toward your Wife, Daughter, and Family,
Your obt. servant,
John William Grey, Esq.
Mount Josiah Plantation
Virginia
Postscriptum: I have been in search of an Astrolabe, per your Request, but so far have heard of nothing that would suit your Purpose. I am sending to London this month for assorted Furnishings, though, and will be pleased to order one from Halliburtons in Green Street, their Instruments are of the highest Quality.
Very slowly, Brianna sat back down on the chair. She placed her hands gently but firmly over her sons ears, and said a very bad word.
ORPHAN OF THE STORM
I FELL ASLEEP, leaning against the bank, with Jamies head on my lap. I dreamed luridly, as one does when cold and uncomfortable. I dreamed of trees; endless, monotonous forests of them, with each trunk and leaf and needle etched like scrimshaw on the inside of my eyelids, each one crystal-sharp, all just alike. Yellow goat-eyes floated in the air between the tree trunks, and the wood of my mind rang with the screams of she-panthers and the crying of motherless children.
I woke suddenly, with the echoes of their cries still ringing in my ears. I was lying in a tangle of cloaks and blankets, Jamies limbs heavily entwined with my own, and a fine, cold snow was falling through the pines.
Granules of ice crusted my brows and lashes, and my face was cold and wet with melted snow. Momentarily disoriented, I reached out by reflex to touch Jamie; he stirred and coughed thickly, his shoulder shaking under my hand. The sound of it brought back the events of the day beforeJosiah and his twin, the Beardsley farm, Fannys ghosts; the smell of ordure and gangrene and the cleaner reek of gunpowder and wet earth. The bleating of goats, still echoing from my dreams.
A thin cry came through the whisper of snow, and I sat up abruptly, flinging back the blankets in a spray of icy powder. Not a goat. Not at all.
Startled awake, Jamie jerked and rolled instinctively away from the mess of cloaks and blankets, coming up in a crouch, hair in a wild tangle and eyes darting round in search of threat.
What? he whispered hoarsely. He reached for his knife, lying nearby in its sheath on the ground, but I lifted a hand to stop him moving.
I dont know. A noise. Listen!
He lifted his head, listening, and I saw his throat move painfully as he swallowed. I could hear nothing but the chisping of the snow, and saw nothing but dripping pines. Jamie heard something, thoughor saw it; his face changed suddenly.
There, he said softly, nodding at something behind me. I scrambled round on my knees, to see what looked like a small heap of rags, lying some ten feet away, next to the ashes of the burned-out fire. The cry came again, unmistakable this time.
Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ. I was scarcely aware of having spoken, as I scrambled toward the bundle. I snatched it up and began to root through the layers of swaddling cloth. It was plainly aliveI had heard it cryand yet it lay inert, almost weightless in the curve of my arm.
