Michael woke suddenly, to the sound of the front door being thrown
open, and a low scuffling noise in the passage which he could not
dissect. The door was closed again and voices were heard, along with
the muffled curses of a man bound. And for all the fugitive plans he
had tried to form, Michael knew his one defense now was utter silence.
"The old man's lost his mind," said the first voice, breathing hard
but speaking in hushed tones. "How long's he think he can keep things
dark, now it's come to this? We can't keep him stowed here like a
barrel in the hold forever."
"And you're a damned fool, Stubb," came the second, harsh and uncowed.
"All we've got to do is keep him out of sight till Arthur turns tail
and runs. And he will, or I know naught. The old man can't be took on
his own ground. And but for his majesty here, and them bitches in the
Tower, there ain't none as lived long enough to speak against him.
Master `enry does things proper, and no mistake."
"You may be right for now, Ballard, but how long do you think he can
keep it up? He's squeezed blood from these stones long enough. There's
Hell to pay, I'm sure of it."
"Tell it to the parson, Stubb, he'll put it in his Sunday speech."
"You don't understand."
"You're
the one who don't understand. You think I'm married to the old man,
but I ain't. If he comes out on top, I'll stand by him right enough.
But if he don't, he'll learn that Toby Ballard is no man's slave. Me,
I sticks with the meanest dog, and when he's killed I go my own
way..... Oh, his Lordship didn't like that. Here, loosen his gag. No
one to hear him now but the walls."
"---kill you myself!" cried the bound man. "So help me, Ballard, you
won't live to see the new year!"
"Ah, now, your majesty," said the other, unconcerned. "Maybe I will,
and maybe I won't. For the time, though, I think you'd best concern
yourself with yourself. It might trouble your father for a time if
some `accident' were to befall you while in my care. But he'd get over
it."
"You wouldn't dare."
There was a sinister pause, in which the only sound was that of a
saber being drawn, metal against smooth metal. Then with an icy menace
such as Michael had heard only once before, in the stockade, the man
put it to his throat and said bluntly.
"Try me."
Again there was silence. The gag was refitted.
"He's all yours, Stubb. Don't
leave him alone, even for a short time. I'll send someone to relieve
you in a day or two." He turned again to face the young Captain.
"Good night, or should I say, good morrow, your majesty
." Ballard's heavy tread reached the door, opened, closed, and went
beyond it, as he mounted and rode back to the Castle.
Michael tried to think what he must do. There were too many questions
here for which he had no answer. Only one thing was clear to him: the
man Stubb was the immediate danger.
There could be no thought of flight, in any case. A weapon, albeit a
treacherous one, had been placed within his reach, in the form of
Stephen Purceville. He must find a way to use it. With no clear plan,
but not without hope, he determined to bide his time, and watch for
some opportunity to ambush and subdue the guard.
He did not have to wait long. Apparently the officer had determined to
have a look at all the rooms. For after first checking those on the
main level, he was heard just below, as he put his boot to the first
rung of the ladder-stair, and began to climb.
Startled into action Michael leapt from the bed, and when the man's
face appeared above the level of the floor, kicked it squarely with
the flat of his foot.
He had not envisioned the consequences. Perhaps in fear he had struck
too hard; perhaps the man had thrown himself backward in sudden shock.
Whatever the reason, his body was sent hurtling back and down, and
crashed in a terrible angle against the joining of wall and floor
below. The man was killed instantly, his neck broken.
Stepping back from the opening, Michael pulled on his boots with a
trembling hand, trying to disbelieve what his eyes had just shown him.
But when he climbed down to examine his foe, all uncertainty left him.
No breath, no pulse. No life.
An anguish such as he had never known overcame him. By his own hand, a
human life was ended.
With hot tears stinging him, he gently lifted the body and carried it
to his mother's bed. His only thought, irrational as it may have been,
was to lay the man more comfortably, and block from his mind the
horrible contortion in which he had found him. This done, he staggered
toward the cold hearth as if for shelter, arms crossed before him to
block out the world.
But the world would not go away. Almost as soon as he entered the main
room he heard a muffled gasp, and the scrape of a wooden chair being
pushed back in alarm.
Michael lowered his arms in dismay, not remembering. He saw before him
an English officer, bound tightly to a stiff upright chair, and gagged
with a twisted length of black cloth. His senses told him he was
looking at Stephen Purceville, but his mind was too dazed to take it
in. In that moment he only knew that it was a man, like himself.
"I didn't mean to kill him," he choked. "I just wanted to knock him
out, and take his weapon."
Having said this Michael steadied somewhat, and tried to force himself
back to the present. With no clearer motive than to relieve the
discomfort of the other---his enemy, he knew---he loosened and removed
the gag.
Still Purceville could not gather himself to speak. All his life, he
had been the one to hold another powerless before him. To be so bound,
and at the mercy of an unknown Highlander---who by the look of him was
not altogether rational---terrified him. But at last pride goaded him
to words.
"Who are you?" he demanded. "What are you going to do with me?"
And with this, like the tolling of a bell, Michael saw the situation
laid out clearly before him. And into focus, doubly sharp, came the
memories of a lifetime of injustice:
The seizure of his father's home and property, the impoverished
conditions to which he was unused, and the contaminated well that had
taken his life. Then the War, the Battle, and the Stockade. And he
remembered, too, that the English held prisoner his nearest and
dearest, in some wretched place called the Tower, where they were no
doubt abject and afraid.
And though he couldn't hate to violence any man, now that the
soldier's fall had shown him the fragility of all human life. . .pride
he could feel, and anger. Roughly opening his shirt, he pulled it down
across his shoulder, then turned his back to show the numbers branded
there.
"What does this
tell you?" he demanded in turn.
"You were a prisoner," said Stephen. "I'm sorry. You're a free man,
now..... Look, you can't kill me. There's no reason---"
"What in Hell do you mean, free?"
The Englishman could not understand the vehemence with which the word
was spoken. "All prisoners of war have been pardoned. The word arrived
yesterday, with the new Secretary. You have only to turn yourself in,
and renounce your former cause..... Reconciliation."
"You're lying," said Michael desperately. "You're like your father. .
. you're lying
!"
"No. On my mother's grave, I swear it."
Then to his bewilderment, Stephen saw the man take his head in both
hands, and fall to his knees with a tortured cry. At length the worn
face looked up, and it was neither joy nor relief, but unutterable
sorrow that was written there. Almost a whisper.
"Then why. Why, in God's name, were you so Hell-bound to capture us?"
Purceville hesitated, fearful of another outburst. But the answer was
so obvious. "A last minute power play. You know. Politics."
And indeed another outburst came. Trembling with rage Michael stormed
to the lifeless hearth, and smashed his boot-heel against it.
"GOD DAMN YOU TO HELL!" he cried. "You, and this bloody world you've
made for yourselves! My cousin is dead because of your politics
. The man in the next room is dead, and I am a murderer..... Aahh!
Jesus!"
Stunned by the power of the man's emotions, and fearing for the
consequences, Stephen all but begged.
"It was an accident. I'll testify on your behalf. Look, it's not the
end---"
"No! Not for you and me. We're the lucky ones. We're left to go on
fighting." Michael brought his gaze back to earth, knowing his words
would never reach the younger man. But still they must be spoken.
"Can't you see, Purceville? When men hold in their hands the fate of
nations, there's no room for whim, or politics. Don't you see that
every time your King rolls angrily in his bed, a thousand lives are
swept away?
"You! You took away our land, our dignity, and gave us nothing in
return but the butt of your muskets. Do you wonder that it came to
war? Then for years those of us with the courage to resist you were
called `traitors', and hunted down like dogs. Now you say we are
prisoners of war, and all we have to do is walk away." He paused,
overwhelmed by the thought.
"Can a man walk away from his past? Can the cold stones of the grave
lose their shadow, and rotted flesh grow whole again to walk with the
living? God damn
you! We stand atop a pile of bodies four miles deep, over which you
would hold a pretty picnic. And ten times ten thousand left to grieve.
"Dear God, I cannot look at you, for the very sight is bile in my
throat. When ignorance leads the blind, how black shall the blindness
be?"
He walked out of the room, with all feeling gone from his soul.
Twenty-Seven
The widow Scott opened her eyes in the chill hour of dawn. Indirect
sunlight filtered through the high window, silhouetting the statued
form of her niece, who stood in silence before it. At her side the
girl held something metal that gleamed dully. Her eyes looked out
unseeing.
"Mary? What's that in your hand?"