AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Well, don’t.”
“And I like dumplings.”
Sally blew a lock of hair out of her eyes, feeling suddenly shy. “You do?”
He nodded. “Yes, and those look perfectly fine. Shall I carry the bowl to the hearth so you can drop them into the stew?”
Sally straightened her shoulders and nodded. She rubbed her hands to get most of the dough off, and Mr. Pynch picked up the big crockery bowl. Together they went to the fireplace, where he held the bowl while she carefully dropped spoonfuls of dough into the stew. She covered the kettle with an iron lid so the dumplings would steam and turned to Mr. Pynch. She was conscious that her face was sweaty from the heat of the fire. Strands of her hair had come down and were sticking to her face, but she looked him in the eye and said, “There. How’s that?”
Mr. Pynch leaned close and said, “Perfect.”
And then he kissed her.
MELISANDE PILED BLANKETS on the floor and watched her husband pace the room. He was agitated tonight, as if at any moment his control would break and he’d leave the room and run. Was that what Sir Alistair had been doing, riding so late and in the dark? Was he trying to outrun demons as well?
Yet Vale stayed, and she was grateful for that. He hadn’t answered her question about Spinner’s Falls yet. He drank from a glass of whiskey and paced the room, but he stayed with her. There had to be some comfort in that.
“It was after Quebec, you see,” he said suddenly. Facing the window, he might not have even been talking to her, save for the fact that she was the only other person in the room. “It was September, and we’d been ordered to Fort Edward to spend the winter. We’d already lost over one hundred men in the battle and left another three dozen behind because they were too wounded to march. We were decimated but thought the worst was over. We’d won the battle —Quebec had fallen to us—and it was only a matter of time before the French would be forced to surrender entirely and the war would be ours. The tide had turned.”
He paused to gulp from the whiskey and said softly, “We were so hopeful. If the war ended soon, we could go home. That’s all we wanted: to go home to our families. To rest a bit after battle.”
Melisande tucked a sheet about the blankets. It was a bit musty from the press where it’d been stored, but it would have to do. As she worked, she thought of a younger Jasper, marching with his men through an autumn forest half a world away. He would’ve been elated after a battle won. Happy at the prospect of going home soon.
“We were marching down a narrow trail, with rugged hills on one side and a river on the other that ran along a cliff face. The men were only two abreast. Reynaud had just ridden up to me and said he thought we were too strung out; the tail of the marching column was half a mile back. We decided to inform Colonel Darby, to request that we slow the head to let the tail catch up, when they struck.”
His tone was flat, and Melisande sat back on her heels to watch him as he spoke. He still faced ƒHe hethe window, his back broad and straight. She wished she could go to him, wrap her arms about him and hold him close, but it might interrupt the flow of his words. And she sensed that, like lancing an infected wound, he needed to let the festering corruption drain away.
“You can’t think in battle,” he said, his tone almost musing. “Instinct and emotion take over. Horror at seeing Johnny Smith shot with an arrow. Rage at the Indians screaming and running at your men. Killing your men. Fear when your horse is shot from beneath you. The surge of panic when you know you must jump clear or be trapped underneath the beast, helpless to a war axe.”
He sipped at his drink while Melisande tried to understand his words. They made her heart beat faster, as if she felt the same urgent panic he had experienced so long ago.
“We fought well, I think,” Vale said. “At least others have told me so. I can’t evaluate the battle. There’s only the men around you, the little piece of soil that you defend. Lieutenant Clemmons fell and Lieutenant Knight, but it wasn’t until I saw Darby, our commander, dragged from his horse that it occurred to me that we were losing. That we would all be killed.”
He chuckled, but the sound was dry and brittle, not at all like his usual laugh. “That was when I should’ve felt fear, but oddly I didn’t. I stood in a sea of fallen bodies and swung my sword. And I killed a few of those savage warriors; yes, I did, but not enough. Not enough.”
Melisande felt tears prick her eyes at the sad weariness of his voice.
“In the end, my last man fell and they overwhelmed me. I went down with a blow to the head. Fell on top of Tommy Pace’s body, in fact.” He turned from the window and crossed to a table where the decanter of whiskey stood. He filled his glass and drank. “I don’t know why they didn’t kill me. They should’ve; they’d killed nearly everyone else. But when my wits returned to me, I was roped by the neck to Matthew Horn and Nate Growe. I looked around and saw that Reynaud was part of their booty as well. You won’t believe how relieved I was. Reynaud at least had lived.”
“What happened?” Melisande whispered.
He looked at her, and she wondered if he’d forgotten she was in the room. “They marched us through the woods for days. Days and days with little water and no food, and some of us were wounded. Matthew Horn had taken a ball to the fleshy part of his upper arm during the battle. When John Cooper could no longer walk because of his wounds, they led him into the woods and killed him. After that, whenever Matthew stumbled, I leaned my shoulder into his back, urging him on. I couldn’t afford to lose another soldier. Couldn’t afford to lose another man.”
She gasped at the horror. “Were you wounded?”
“No.” He wore a horrible half-smile on his face. “Save for that bump on the head, I was perfectly fine. We marched until we reached an Indian village in French-held territory.”
He drank more of his whiskey, nearly emptying the glass, and closed his eyes.
Melisande knew, though, that this wasn’t the end of the tale. Something had caused the horrific scars on Sir Alistair’s face. She took a deep breath, bracing herself, and said, “What happened at the camp?”
“They have a thing called a gauntlet, a pretty way to welcome captives of war to the camp. The Indians line up, men and women, in two long lines. They run the prisoners, one by one, between the lines. As the prisoners run, the Indians hit them with heavy sticks and kick them too. If the man falls, he is sometimes beaten to death. But none of us fell.”
“Thank God,” she breathed.
“We did at the time. Now I’m not so sure.”
He shrugged and drank more whiskey. He sat slumped into a chair, his words slurring a bit now.
