The Fiddler's Gun Page 11

  “Ma’am, if you’re looking for Bart Gann, you’ve only to step outside and view the gallows pole,” he said.

  “I’m sorry?” said Carmaline, confused. Fin froze.

  “Ma’am, Bloody Bart Gann—the pirate—is going to hang this very day at noon.”

  Carmaline’s face turned white. “No, no you’re mistaken. Our friend, Bartimaeus, was brought into custody only two days ago. We’ve come to find a date for trial and find a lawyer,” said Carmaline.

  “Trial? Ma’am, he admitted, by his own mouth, his crimes and felony. He’s been wanted for hanging some twenty years by the Crown. The judge spoke his end last evening, and today it carries out. Now, if you please, I have work to attend.” He dismissed them and bowed his head back to his scratching.

  Fin’s blood ran icy cold. Her mind reeled. She turned and fled out the door. From the steps, she could see that three men now mounted the gallows. One was standing at the rear of the platform, his head cloaked in a black mask cut through with eyeholes. The second was a red-coated soldier standing by the steps, holding his arms out in front of him and reading in a loud voice from a curled parchment. The third was Bartimaeus. He stood bent and wrinkled below the arm of the gallows pole and round his neck circled the hangman’s noose. His face wore no expression.

  “For the crimes of Piracy, Murder, Mutiny. . .” As the soldier pronounced each crime, the roar of the crowd swelled. They stomped their feet and raised white-knuckled fists. In the distance Fin barely registered the tolling of the noonday bell. “. . .you are hereby ordered to hang by the neck until dead. Have you any last utterance before such sentence be made sure?”

  “Bartimaeus!” shouted Fin. She ripped off her bonnet, sprinted down the steps, and flung herself into the crowd. She flailed her arms, pushing and pulling people, trying to make her way to the foot of the gallows. “Bartimaeus!” she cried again as she swam through the masses of humanity come to watch the villain swing.

  Bartimaeus turned his head and saw her then. His face melted into something of both a smile and a look of deep mourning. Fin reached the rank of soldiers at the base of the gallows and tried to claw her way past, but they held her fast. She looked up from behind red-coated shoulders and cried out to him.

  “I’m here, missy,” he spoke softly down to her. “I’m standin’ right here.”

  Then he turned to the soldier that read the decree and nodded. The hooded man stepped forward and stomped on the floor near Bartimaeus’s feet. A slight board snapped below him, and Bartimaeus plunged to ruin. The rope pulled his neck into a long unnatural shape. He trembled a moment then stilled and swung in the wind.

  Fin screamed amid the gasps and cheers of the crowd then slipped to her knees and tore at the ground.

  Sister Carmaline begged the Royal Governor not to put the body on display to be eaten at by crows, and at last, he agreed. British soldiers threw Bartimaeus’s limp body into Carmaline’s wagon, and Fin climbed in and laid her head on his breathless chest. With no words to say between them, Sister Carmaline and Fin rolled away home.

  They buried him under a green cypress on the south bank of the Savannah River. Men and women from the whole town wide came to see him laid to earth and sang hymns to waft him heavenward. Fin knew no song or speech to mend the loss and no embrace could break her stony face.

  Peter sat at her feet when all was done and offered the solace of company since no words reached her. For a long time they remained that way. Fin stood stone-like, her eyes transfixed upon the meager planted cross, the last witness to a man’s earthly passing. Peter sat next to her in the grass, quiet and still.

  Again and again, Fin saw him fall, saw the rope snap taut, heard the cruel jeers of the crowd. And his face, she couldn’t escape it, looking at her to the end, smiling and sad. He should have been blaming her. She sent him to die. If he hadn’t come to rescue her, he’d be here with her now, playing the fiddle and laughing his creaky laugh. It was her fault. And yet he smiled.

  Fin didn’t move; she was afraid that if she did, she’d crumble. Peter stood and walked away. She wanted to turn, to stop him. She wanted him with her. But she couldn’t bring herself to move or call out to him. Then he was gone and the sun was sinking behind the trees. The shadow of the grave marker stretched across the ground like the cold, incriminating finger of a ghost. It inched closer until she backed away out of its reach.

  Then from her left, movement. Peter returned, holding the fiddle out like a gift. Bartimaeus’s fiddle. Fin took it and caressed it. Then she reached out and took the bow as well. Peter’s eyes quietly pleaded with her, urged her to create something beautiful out of the twisted knot of pain she clung to.

  She stretched out her arms and began to play. Sound eddied out of the fiddle on a wave of notes as long and deep as grief itself. She poured all her broken pieces into the song and offered them up, struggling to weave notes enough to mend a heart so finely shattered. The song lifted her, lightened her, each note siphoned out bitterness and in its place left something as pure and sweet as rainwater. Her song rose and spiraled and sailed as a cool wind blew off the river and carried leaves, whirling, into the air like dervishes wrapping her in a tree-fallen lament.

  When she lowered the fiddle Peter reached out for her and she welcomed him. She didn’t crumble after all. He bore up her timbers and held them fast. Fin laid her head against him and found rest.

  “How long, Peter?” she whispered.

  “Soon.”

  CHAPTER XII

  The dining hall felt colder and smaller to her now that Fin had to tend the meals alone. It was eerily quiet and devoid of the muttering and chuckling she’d always known it to hold. Every corner and doorway held a memory, and each time the floorboards creaked she turned, half-expecting Bartimaeus to step out of the shadows and tell her it had all been a dream. She knew better, though, and reminded herself that although mourning was well and good, there were people counting on her to have a meal ready.

  She tried to shake away the melancholy by fetching the beeswax to polish the table. It had more scuffs and pockmarks than sheen. She remembered when the finish was as clear as a mirror, many meals ago. Even the waxing didn’t restore the shine like it used to. In some ways it made it more beautiful; it looked aged. In other ways it just looked old and used. She did the best she could and headed back into the kitchen to start the meal.

  Biscuits and bacon were the course of the morning, and when the sisters came in at daybreak, she felt a dash of pride at the looks of surprise and approval they gave her. The children followed soon after, and within the hour, the meal had gone from pan to plate to belly, and not a crumb or gristle was spared. Fin felt the work and routine of the day begin to take hold and anchor her; it drew her back to shore from within the current of grief that threatened to drown her.

  Peter promised he would talk to Mr. Hickory about finding a plot of land for them. He didn’t think the timing was right, but he was as anxious as she was to start a life of their own. Fin contented her mind with work, but she knew herself well enough to know that time would make monotony out of routine and she’d end up clawing at the walls sooner or later. Peter knew it too.

  At the end of the week, Peter came with good news. Mr. Hickory had agreed to talk to Mr. Bolzius on their behalf. In the days that followed, Fin was almost happy. She put body and soul into her work, and no one heard any complaint from her lips.

  She petitioned Sister Carmaline and won permission to walk in the woods each day after lunch to forage for herbs and spices. This gave her a chance to visit Bartimaeus’s grave, and with each visit she found more good memories to take comfort in and felt less sting from the bad.

  She often took the fiddle along and played by the river, although she knew Hilde would forbid it, and each time she raised the lid, the sight of Betsy laying in the case made her wince. It brought memories of Bartimaeus back to her. She tried not to think of him but failed much of the time. Little things brought him back when she least expe
cted him: spotting an herb in the wild, hearing a wisp of music on the wind, seeing a ship on the river and thinking of the sea. But she refused to touch the weapon. It was wholly evil to her. It was the instrument of Bartimaeus’s fate, and she loathed the sight of it. At times she thought of removing it, getting rid of it, but she feared seeing the empty imprint of it in the case would be worse. So there it lay, asleep and in wait.

  A few days later, Peter cantered up the road on horseback trying his best hide a smile. Fin knew the moment she saw him that he had news.

  “There’s something I want you to see,” he said and offered her his hand. She took it and he hauled her up into the saddle behind him.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Just hold on.” He dug in his heels and they galloped off down the road.

  Two miles outside of town, Peter turned off the road and they made their way through a stand of trees and out into a broad clearing. Half the open space was plowed in rows and the other half was fresh, wild grass. Peter pulled up the reins and jumped down, then helped Fin off.

  “That’s the edge of Mr. Hickory’s property there, where the field ends,” he said and pointed to the plowed rows. “And this”—he motioned at the uncut grass between the field and the trees—“is where ours begins.”

  Her mouth fell open in a joyous gape. She stepped up on her toes and planted a kiss on Peter’s cheek, then turned and ran, laughing, through the field. Peter stood back and watched her. She was beautiful: red hair wild, dancing in the green field, arms out, twirling, jumping, laughter like music. It was the first time she’d been so carefree since Bartimaeus had gone. She fell down and rolled in the grass and Peter ran out to catch up with her. She was lying on her back looking up at the sky.

  “Ours, Fin,” he said as he lay down beside her, “Only two acres, but it’s all ours.”

  “It’s beautiful, Pete.” She rolled to face him and propped herself up on her elbows, her smile was wide and bright.

  “I’ll start building a house in my free time. I figure two months, three at most, and we can move in.”

  “Two months?” said Fin, her smile faded for a moment.

  “We’re almost there.”

  They spent the rest of the daylight pacing off dimensions, pointing and planning the house and field. By the time they climbed back onto the horse to ride home, Fin’s cheeks ached from all her laughter and mirth. It felt like years since she’d been happy.

  When they got back to the orphanage, they announced their engagement to the sisters. Carmaline made a big show of hugging and kissing and blessing them, but Hilde had little to say. Fin expected as much. The next day, Carmaline cornered Fin in the dining hall and measured her from head to toe, stating her intent to make the wedding dress herself. She put her hands on her hips and explained in clear terms that she would hear no argument whatsoever about whether or not Fin intended to wear a dress at the wedding. She even claimed that the Bible stated that women must wear dresses at weddings, though she was hard put to find the exact scripture. Fin hadn’t actually given any thought to the wedding itself. Other girls might fancy big engagements and laced dresses, but Fin was more concerned with the wedding night and her freedom thereafter. Sister Carmaline prattled on and on about decorations and banquets and a hundred other things that flew out of Fin’s mind as soon as they’d flown out of Carmaline’s mouth. Fin simply went about her business as usual and left the details up to those who cared.

  The two months that Peter expected it would take to build the house was an eternity of waiting for Fin. She kept herself busy with her duties in the kitchen, and each day when she finished, she’d run down the road and out to their plot of land. Often she’d find Peter there. He had started cutting timber immediately, and inside the first month managed to frame out the makings of what Fin thought was the most beautiful sight in the world: their home. It was simple, only two rooms, a bedroom and common room, and it would have a long porch down the front and east side. When she found Peter there, she helped him with the work—planing and jointing lumber, sawing logs. Anything she found to do filled her with deep satisfaction. Other times, when Peter wasn’t there, she daydreamed, imagining what their lives would be like: children playing in the grass, crops at harvest, Peter coming in after a day’s work and taking her in his arms. The frustration of the waiting was her constant companion, and she longed to be rid of it.

  Meanwhile, tension in the countryside was rising. Calls for independence filled the papers, and more and more people were taking sides on the issue. Fin, of course, was for independence, but many of the people in town clung to their old loyalties. It infuriated her. Most of the townsfolk had come from Germany, and why they would side with the English once they got here was beyond Fin’s reckoning. British troops became a common fixture on the roads from Bethany in the west to Savannah in the east, and they posted official notice in town that citizens were to provide boarding for the king’s men at need. Several times a week the familiar sight of six or seven men in redcoats came plodding through the town, their eyes always full of suspicion. They terrified Fin. She never wanted to come face-to-face with another soldier as long as she lived.

  Sister Carmaline approached her one afternoon and asked how she liked her work in the kitchen. Fin answered with a shrug. She enjoyed it as much as one could expect.

  “What would you think of staying on here as our cook?” asked Carmaline. Fin didn’t understand what she was asking. “You’ll be moving outside of town soon. That means we’ll be out of a cook and I, for one, am not anxious to see Hilde back in the kitchen.” Fin shivered as she remembered the meals Hilde had cooked while Fin had lain wounded in bed.

  “But I’ll have work to do of my own,” Fin said.

  “I know that, dear, but we’d compensate you. You’d be able to take home food for Peter and yourself. Keeping a home is hard work, and I’m offering you the chance to ease some of that by earning your way.”

  “I don’t want to stay here forever, Sister Carmaline. I can’t.”

  “I know, Phinea, and I wouldn’t expect you to stay forever. Just until we—you—can train up someone to take your place. Delly Martin is of an age now that I think she’ll make a fine helper.”

  Fin took a deep breath and agreed. The sisters deserved that much.

  Everything was falling into place. The house was nearly finished, and Sister Carmaline declared the wedding date would be set for the Sunday following its completion. Fin was mad with anticipation. She swore the sun mocked her by stretching days out longer than they ought to be. Nights, she barely slept and considered that the legions of chirping insects keeping her awake were quite possibly in collusion with the treacherous sun. She pestered Peter constantly about when the house was going to be done, but his deliberate nature demanded that every detail be perfect and nothing be rushed. She wanted to choke him.

  In late autumn, Peter declared the end in sight, and Fin wasted no chance to run out and help him finish. Peter put her to work nailing down the floorboards of the porch while he sat in the shade of a water oak carving table legs with a spokeshave. As Fin pounded in one nail after another, she smiled to herself, remembering how she had longed to work on the chapel with the other boys. That all seemed so far away and silly to her now, and yet here she was after all, hammer and nails, building a house and revelling in it. She entertained the brief thought that at last she’d won out over Hilde’s restrictions and constraints but she knew at once that the part of her that cared was gone. This would be her own home, she her own woman, and not for spite or pettiness but for the love and life she wanted to share with Peter.

  She pounded in another nail and stood up. The porch was nearly done. Another few hours of work and she’d be finished, but a look at the sun told her she’d already stayed longer than she ought have. Dinnertime was sneaking up, and she was needed back at the orphanage to prepare it.

  “Peter, I have to go,” she called to him.

  Peter put down his tools and walk
ed to the house. He stepped onto the porch and stamped his foot on the board she’d just finished nailing down then studied the whole of her work with his bottom lip pushed out in concentration.

  “Suppose that’ll do,” he said.

  “I guarantee it’ll do better than you could’ve done.” Fin playfully elbowed him in the ribs.

  “Hmmph.” Peter grinned. He reached out and pulled Fin to him. Fin dropped her few extra nails into her pocket and put her arms around his neck.

  “How long, Peter?”

  “Just until Sunday.”

  Fin marveled that three days could seem so far away. She stretched up on her toes and kissed his cheek.

  “I’ve got to start dinner. I’ll be back after and I’ll bring you something.”

  “As long as it’s not your stew.”

  She pulled back and narrowed her eyes. “If it is, you’ll eat it and like it.”

  Peter laughed. “I suppose I might.”

  “See you in a bit. Wait for me, okay?”

  “I’ll wait. I always do.”

  Fin walked to town eager to be done with dinner and back with Peter. The day was chill and she was glad when she stepped back into the warmth of the dining hall. The sisters were about the business of the other orphans. Fin could hear Hilde in the distance berating someone for running in her presence, and it made her smile.

  She’d become efficient at the preparation of meals and her hands began their work out of habit, leaving her mind free to wander. She found herself imagining nights alone by the fire with Peter, and children, and a life forever free of the orphanage.

  She’d almost finished cooking when she was startled out of her reverie by the sound of harsh voices in the courtyard. Fin peeked out a window and saw a detail of six soldiers milling about and calling for whomever might be in charge. Sister Carmaline wobbled out of her chambers and hurried to meet them.

  The man giving orders had a scar running across his face from temple to temple. The scar passed over both eyes; one was pale and blind, the other glared around, wide open, its lid removed by the knife that cut him. Periodically, he scrunched up his cheek in order to close the eye in a lidless blink. Fin knew at once who he was. It was the man Bartimaeus had cut, the man who fled into the woods, the one who had put his hands on her.