The Fiddler's Gun Page 3

  Breakfast all but disappeared as soon as Brother Bartimaeus laid it on the table. The excitement of the day dictated that this was a meal to be quickly done with and swept aside. It would not do to bother tasting it as it went down, not when there were more important matters to be gotten around to.

  Sister Carmaline, of course, held no such anxiety. She enjoyed each bite of her bacon, eggs, two biscuits, and an orange just as thoroughly as ever. The orphans, having long since dispatched their food, wrung their hands and stared at Carmaline in silence. By the time she finished and called the room to attention, they were on the edge of bursting.

  “Children, I am happy to announce that Reverend George Whitefield is to be our guest today and will preach our service.” Her face lit up as she passed the news. “Reverend Whitefield is a great man and his patronage is an immeasurable blessing. I expect all of you to be dressed properly and to have your finest behavior on display. Tomorrow we shall make our choices for the chapel detail—and for Brother Bartimaeus’s assistant. I assure you that anyone causing an embarrassment today will certainly find dismay come tomorrow. Am I understood?”

  Heads nodded and “yes ma’ams” answered.

  “Good. Dismissed!”

  Reverend Whitefield had been instrumental in the finances of the orphan house and he visited whenever he was in the colonies. He always tended to be going on about God choosing people and folks being predestined for such and such, but Fin never cared much for sermons, and his talk about people not having a say in their own lives was more than enough to make her wrinkle up her nose at the whole affair. If there was anything she couldn’t stand, it was other people telling her what to do—even if other people happened to be the Lord.

  Sister Carmaline, on the other hand, claimed that Reverend Whitefield was the greatest Christian of the age, and if the crowd at the orphanage that morning was any indication, most of Georgia agreed. Folks began arriving soon after breakfast, and within the hour the entire courtyard was packed.

  The orphans busied themselves putting on their best clothes, and Fin was as anxious as the rest to get outside and join the excitement. She and the sisters parted ways, however, on the meaning of “best clothes.” To Fin it meant nothing more than her usual trousers, shirt, and bare feet. To the sisters, it meant the frilly blue dress they forced her into whenever they wanted to impress people. Fin loathed it.

  After a healthy amount of glaring at the offending garment, her desire to join the excitement of the crowd outside won her over and she put it on with a grumble. She felt preposterous. The way the other girls were forever brushing things, and powdering things, and primping things utterly confounded her. On occasion she did find herself having the merest concern for her appearance when Peter was around, but she tried her best to ignore the feeling and usually succeeded quite well. The matter of the dress, however, brought it to her mind and she quietly wondered what he would think of it. Then she cursed herself for the thought and promised not think such foolishness again. She jabbed a wretched bonnet onto her head and ran out the door.

  The courtyard was choked with people of all shapes, sizes, and smells. Plumped and powdered women in hoopskirts and endless petticoats stared down their noses at lesser-dressed folk, while black-coated gentlemen calmly batted away farmers, smiths, and anyone else they suspected might be untidy or of lowly account. These were in the minority, however, as most of the crowd were plainly dressed in various shades of brown and were smiling, shaking hands, and chatting away with country-folk they hadn’t seen since glory-knew-when. Fin pushed her way through them toward the chapel trying in vain not to be seen in the dress.

  At last, she gained the chapel doors and slipped inside to find her usual spot. Peter was already there, dressed in a black suit. She plopped down beside him and he eyed her up and down.

  “Nice dress, Fi—” A sharp elbow in the side shut him up. He winced and fretted under his breath, but on the subject of the dress, he wisely chose to stay silent.

  People continued to pack into the chapel until children were standing on the benches just to see the podium. The windows were open, and the crowd outside crammed their faces through to get a glimpse of the goings-on. Fin half expected someone to tear the roof open and lower down a cripple.

  After a good deal of grunting and grumbling in the crowd as Sister Carmaline plowed through, she popped out at the front and stepped to the podium.

  “Good morning, brothers and sisters in Christ,” she said, beaming with a hostess’s pride. “I am honored to welcome the esteemed Reverend George Whitefield back to Ebenezer today.” An eruption of claps, whistles, and amens peppered the air before she could continue. “Before Reverend Whitefield delivers us the Word, I’m pleased to welcome the choir from the Bethesda Church in Savannah to bless us with song.”

  She removed herself to the side and a double file of men and women clothed in black robes with wide white collars took to the stage. The choir director stepped to the front of the assembly and raised his baton. There was a moment’s pause and the first notes began. The sound that came from the choir was unlike anything Fin had ever heard. She’d never cared for Sister Carmaline’s vespers, much less her singing, but as the weight of the choir’s hymn rolled over her, she felt small and exhilarated like a leaf caught in a summer wind.

  The gathered crowd joined the choir. Men’s thundering tones rumbled forth while the soft voices of women and children soared bright and clear. The sound was tremendous and Fin feared for a moment that it might bring down the chapel. It ended, and for what seemed a long time, there was no sound at all.

  Then from somewhere outside, a commotion erupted. The crowd chattered and everyone looked around in search of the cause. Sister Carmaline bounced forward and called the chapel to order but few heeded her. The murmurs of the crowd indicated that someone was on the roof of the dining hall. Fin and Peter pushed their way toward the door, and Sister Carmaline was still trying to call order to the service when they broke free of the chapel doorway and plunged into a sea of people that clogged the whole of the courtyard. People sat aloft in the trees and on top of the fences and filled every open space. On the roof of the dining hall Fin spied an elderly man with silvery hair and black, flowing robes.

  “My friends! I deem the chapel is too small to house the many ears that have come. The Words of Life are not uttered for those that got here first, rather they are best fallen on ears that have never before come at all.” It was Reverend Whitefield.

  He began his exhortation and his voice carried across the crowd as if he were speaking to them each alone rather than to a multitude. He didn’t endeavor to speak to the church-going so much as to the drunken and tattered on the edges of the crowd, whose dirty faces streaked clean by rivulets of tears gave testimony of their gravest sins.

  “I am the chiefest of sinners,” said the Reverend as he closed, “and the least of all saints. I want to be converted from a thousand things, and from ten thousand more. Lord God, confirm me. Let neither spark nor flame of hell warm the feet of a man the Lord God has chosen. Before the sun was set in the sky, before we were formed in the womb, he ordained the calling of the faithful. Come now whom he calls and be born a new creature. Lord God, revive!”

  In droves, people went to answer his call, down to the Savannah River to let baptism carry away their sin. Fin and Peter went, too, and Reverend Whitefield himself plunged them beneath the cleansing flow.

  Fin watched Peter come up from the water. His face was radiant, yet she felt she saw him grow apart from her in some way. It seemed he was standing a step more distant than he had been only a moment ago. She reached her hand out to him, almost dizzy with the illusion of distance. He took her in a hug, but when he let her go she was stiff and withdrawn.

  “Fin?”

  She tried to manage a smile.

  “What’s wrong?” said Peter.

  “He said God chooses us before we’re born.”

  Peter wrinkled his brow.

  Fin
looked away. “Just like my parents. They wanted a boy. They didn’t want me. What if he doesn’t want me either?”

  She walked away and pushed Peter’s attempts to comfort her aside. By the time she reached the dormitory she was already pulling off the dress.

  CHAPTER IV

  Sister Carmaline placed her fork neatly onto the empty plate before her and wrestled her bulk out of her chair to call the room to attention. Rumor had it that a list of names for the chapel detail was under Sister Hilde’s watchful protection. The room was quiet before Carmaline could finish asking it to be so. Everyone was anxious to have the news. Everyone except Fin.

  “We have made our choices carefully in light of the hard work and responsibility required and have selected five of you to assist Mr. Hickory. Take care to understand that your work for Mr. Hickory is in addition to your usual duties and chores.” Carmaline turned and nodded to her sister. “Sister Hilde, if you please.”

  Hilde stood and produced a list from her apron. She cleared her throat and began to read. “Danny Shoeman, Lachlan McEwen.” At the proclamation of each name, murmurs of assent and dissent rose and fell. “Hans Richter, Thom Nodger”—the rest of the boys in the room held their breath—“and Peter LaMee.”

  Peter grinned at Fin and she half-smiled back at him. She knew Hilde would have her way, knew better than to entertain the thought of being chosen, but some treacherous depth inside her held out hope of things known better and betrayed her to disappointment.

  “Mr. Hickory tells me that from time to time additional assistance will be needed. That assistance will, of course, be chosen from whoever is most willing and deserved of special privilege.” The list disappeared back into the folds of Hilde’s apron, and she took her seat. Fin’s spirits rose at the promise that she might still get the chance to go to work as a “special privilege,” but she quickly squashed them back down.

  Sister Carmaline rose again and waited for silence. “You five may present yourself to my chamber after lunch to be introduced to Mr. Hickory. Is there anything else to be attended to this morning?” She looked around the room. Brother Bartimaeus cleared his throat at Carmaline. “Ah yes, Miss Phinea Button, you will report to the kitchen immediately following dismissal to attend to your new duties.”

  Murmurs, jeers, and sounds of sympathy bubbled around the room. Fin only stared at her plate in silence. Peter tried to wrap a consoling arm around her shoulder, but she pushed him away.

  Sister Carmaline excused herself while Hilde ordered the children to chores. Fin sat at her place as, one by one, the other children exited. Peter was the last to leave her. Of course, he would be. Able to find no words that might be of help, he gave up and left her staring.

  She raised her eyes when the room was quiet, thinking it empty. Brother Bartimaeus was sitting across the table looking at her.

  “You’d rather be out with the boys, eh, missy?”

  Her brow wrinkled a little more.

  “But from where I’m sittin’ it looks like I got me a fine, strong, and able set of arms and legs to help me out. Could even say my work just got lopped in half. Now that’s somethin’ worth grinnin’ about, see here?” He grinned at her, but she refused to unwrinkle her face. “What you say we get this place cleaned up so we can have some fun?”

  Fin was determined not to like any part of the situation, but she did her best to avoid outright meanness and gave herself over to cleaning up the dining hall as best she could. Washing dishes was a task she was certainly no stranger to, and they worked at it in silence. Fin scrubbed and Bartimaeus dried. By the time they were finished, Fin was soaked from the sloshing water and feeling even more miserable then when she started. Without a word, she snatched a broom from the corner and began sweeping out the room. Bartimaeus crossed his arms and leaned himself against the kitchen doorway to consider her while she worked. She glanced at him repeatedly, wondering why he was just standing there, but all he did was frown back. Finally, being watched so closely had worked on her long enough, and she stopped, leaned the broom against the table, crossed her arms in mockery of him, and glared.

  “What?” she demanded.

  “Stow that broom and come in the galley, or kitchen, as old Hilde would say.” He winked at her then turned and walked out of sight into the kitchen. She snatched the broom up and muttered under her breath as she put it away.

  “Somethin’ I want to show you,” he said. He turned around and motioned to the wall, spreading his arms out wide as if he were welcoming it. It was covered in shelves from the floor to the rafters and every one was filled with tiny bottles, vials, pots, and wooden boxes. “You know what those are?” he asked and raised an eyebrow at her.

  Fin shook her head.

  “Well, I’m goin’ to tell you, see here? These are bits what a cook can make a little magic with.” He picked up a small wooden box from the nearest shelf, opened it, and breathed deep of the contents. “Aaahh, rosemary.” He handed the box to Fin. “Go on, get a good smell of it.” She looked inside at the small pile of long, thin, grayish-green bits and smelled it cautiously. Its pungent odor instantly reminded her of the smell of chicken cooking for Sunday dinner.

  “Smells like chicken,” she said.

  “Well, no. It don’t smell nothin’ like chicken. But it does smell like dinner, don’t it? That’s because I use a pinch or two when I cook the chicken. Now see here, all these little pots and boxes got spices and herbs. Sage, bay leaf, peppercorn, orange peel, thyme, see here? And this is what we goin’ to make magic with.” The creases of his face spread out and refolded themselves into a giant smile. “Throw a chicken in the pot without the right magic and you get plain ol’ turd chicken. But throw in the right mix of this and that and—ooowwee!” He slapped his knee. “Mouths a-waterin’ from here to Charleston.”

  Fin gave in and smiled.

  “Now see here, we got work to get done for lunch and dinner, so let’s get to it.”

  Bartimaeus rattled on for the rest of the day about what spice to use, and how much, and for what sort of meal. He never tired of talking about cooking, and to Fin’s surprise she didn’t get bored of listening. He showed her the garden and made himself hungry just talking about how to tell when the various cabbages and peppers and beans were ready to be plucked and cooked. Then he took her to the barn and used a poor Charolais calf as a model to teach her where all his favorite cuts of beef came from.

  “Right yonder,” he patted the calf’s shoulder, “that’s a roasted piece of heaven just waitin’ to happen, missy. Little bay leaf, little salt, add some carrots and taters. Yes, ma’am. Sunday dinner in the flesh, ain’t you, darlin’?” He was talking to the calf and seemed to have momentarily forgotten Fin was there. Fin was thankful the calf didn’t understand what he was saying. He spoke so enthusiastically about his craft that Fin couldn’t help but be drawn along by him, and by the end of the day she was nearly convinced that she might enjoy her new chores.

  Bartimaeus gave her the duty of mashing potatoes for dinner to go with a stew he was stirring up out of nothing more than a few leftover pork rinds and some onions. When she was done, he dipped a spoon into the bowl and sampled her work. He closed his eyes and smacked his lips as he chewed, then frowned and sampled another mouthful.

  “Well?”

  “Best damned taters I ever ate. Bloody well done, missy.” Fin completely failed to mask her delight at his language. “Pardon me, Miss Button. Taters made me forget myself. Don’t go lettin’ on to Hilde about that, see here?” He winked at her.

  That evening after Sister Carmaline said grace over the dinner, Bartimaeus stood up and addressed the dining hall.

  “Miss Button here made the taters and done a fine job on her first day in the galley.” Hilde cleared her throat and exchanged a stern look with Bartimaeus. “Kitchen that is,” he amended. “Well, thank Miss Button if you like the taters, see here? She done a good job.” He sat down and Fin was glad of it. She was blushing.

  After dinner sh
e found Peter behind the chapel lying on his back, shirt off, covered in sweat, and apparently ready to go to sleep right there on the ground if he could get away with it. She kicked him.

  “Fin!” he said with no small bit of irritation. “Don’t touch me; it hurts everywhere.” He groaned.

  “Hurts? What did they do? Beat you?” she teased.

  “We spent all day making bricks.” Fin turned green with envy and narrowed her eyes at him. “Playing in the mud might sound fun, but I can tell you that after about six hours, fun it ain’t.” He attempted to sit up, failed miserably, and groaned as he settled back to the ground. “I don’t think I’m going be able to move tomorrow.”

  Fin laughed and sat down next to him. “How many bricks do you have to make?”

  “Only thousands. How was the kitchen?”

  “Hate it. I like Bartimaeus though. He’s funny.” She paused and then added, “I’d rather play in the mud,” with a devilish grin.

  “I’ll trade you,” Peter said.

  She smacked him on the leg. “Stop fooling around.”

  “I’m going to bed,” said Peter and groaned as he tried to stand. “If I can get up, that is.” Fin tugged him to his feet, and he limped off toward the dorm house.

  “Goodnight,” she called after him, and Peter grunted back weakly before stepping through the doorway.

  Fin was tired but not sleepy. She looked around to make sure Hilde’s nose wasn’t watching then headed around to the chapel door, ducked inside, and climbed up to the bell tower. She was surprised at how hard it was to remind herself that she didn’t like working in the kitchen with Bartimaeus. He was so different from the sisters. Fin sensed in him a hint of rebellion that intrigued her. Tattoos on his arms, muttered curses on his breath, magic in his kitchen—he was full of things the sisters never let on about. If she couldn’t be out in the sun with Peter, at least Bartimaeus was good company while scrubbing pots. A small consolation to be sure, but small was better than none at all. It would have to do.