The Fiddler's Gun Read online

  “All right missy, now let’s see here.” Bartimaeus held the fiddle out. Fin took it and held it gently with her fingertips. “Put her up to your neck . . . uh huh . . . right there. Now hold the bow . . . uh huh—” before he could say anything else Fin slid the bow across the strings and made such a screeching racket that every dog for a mile around perked up its ears and sniffed the air in alarm. “Whoa, missy! Hold on now. If we do this, you got to listen to me.”

  “Sorry,” she said and squinted in embarassment.

  “Here, put your fingers like this . . . now pull the bow easy, loosen up . . . can’t be makin’ the beauty when you all tightened up like that. Relax, missy.” Fin put her excitement aside and did as he said. She pulled the bow across the strings and the fiddle sighed a note. “There you go, that’s right. Now then, let me have that back so I can show you how to do.”

  For the rest of the morning Bartimaeus immersed himself in the long process of teaching her to tame wild sound into music. Fin hoped she’d be playing like Bartimaeus by the end of the day but was a little daunted at how hard it turned out to be. Fin wasn’t one to give up easily, though. She resigned herself to keeping with it and meant to make Bartimaeus stick to his promise of teaching her, no matter how many mornings it took.

  At dinner, Fin relayed the entire experience to Peter.

  “Don’t let Sister Hilde catch you,” he whispered, throwing a cautionary glance toward Hilde. Her nose seemed to be quivering ever so slightly at the suspicion that someone was talking about her.

  “Don’t worry. Bartimaeus could deal with her anyway,” Fin assured him. “How was work?”

  “Mr. Hickory says that after the chapel is finished he wants me to apprentice with him in town.”

  “Really?”

  Peter shrugged unenthusiastically. “He’s already spoken to Sister Carmaline. She told him it would be fine.”

  “What’s wrong with that?” Fin couldn’t believe he wasn’t excited.

  “I’ve never been away from the orphanage. Going to live in town . . . it’s just different is all.”

  “Living in town?”

  “That’s what he wants. I’ll go live with Mr. Hickory, and he’ll teach me all about carpentry and stonework. He doesn’t have any sons. I think he wants me to take over his work one day.”

  Fin knew she ought to be happy for Peter, but she didn’t like the thought of not having him around. If Peter left the orphanage to live in town she’d rarely be able to see him unless she took to sneaking out—and that was liable to end up as more trouble from Sister Hilde.

  “It’ll be like you’ve got a real family, Peter. You’ll love it,” she said. She tried to sound optimistic but had the distinct impression she failed. Peter just shrugged.

  Winter came on hard enough that year to put the chapel work to rest and life slowed down for a while. Peter enjoyed his extra leisure time and spent much of it reading books borrowed from Sister Carmaline. Fin continued her daily fiddle lessons, and by the end of the year, she felt rather good about her newfound talent. The weekly Contemporary Happenstance classes continued, and Sister Hilde kept them all up to date on any news she heard during her supply trips to Savannah. All of the unrest seemed to be up in Boston, and folks in Ebenezer had little real concern for any of it. After all, the British weren’t killing people; it was just a legal mess over taxes.

  The boycott in Savannah had produced one effect, however, that did increase the tension in town—protests and the growing independence movement had spurred the Royal Governor to send out British patrols. Every week a small detachment of red-coated soldiers marched through town. Some of the townsfolk greeted them and waved while others spat or stopped what they were doing to afford them grim stares. Fin didn’t know what to think. The fancily dressed men parading through the town with muskets held at the ready were quite a sight to see, but it made her skin prickle. It was as if the entire colony was under the watchful eyes of an ominous Sister Hilde clothed in red.

  When spring finally came around, Peter was anxious to resume work on the chapel and the sisters were equally anxious to get him and the other boys out of their hair for most of the day. On Peter’s first day back to work, Fin ran out to the chapel site to find him. She spotted him talking to Mr. Hickory and stood nearby, bouncing on her toes in anticipation as she waited for them to finish.

  “Ready to get back to work?” Mr. Hickory asked.

  “Yes, sir. Been kind of bored the last few weeks.”

  “Good, good. I figure with a little luck we’ll be about done here by fall. Got them other boys working on pews down at the woodshop right now,” he said and motioned off toward town. “Let’s get to it, got bricking to do yet, and the sun’ll be sinking before you know it.” Mr. Hickory pointed to Fin, who was bobbing up and down like an excited puppy. “Think this little lady’s wanting to talk to you,” he said to Peter.

  “Peter! I want to show you something!”

  “I’m scared to ask.” Peter rolled his eyes.

  “Come off it! I’ve been working on it all winter and, well, when can you meet me down at the river?”

  “Not until after dinner,” said Peter with a look toward Mr. Hickory.

  “Ok, I’ll see you there.” She grinned and ran off to the dining hall, leaving Peter feeling like he was going to end up in trouble.

  Before dinner, Fin found Bartimaeus poring over a pot of stew and muttering that it didn’t taste quite right. She stood at the door considering him for a moment then ran in and hugged him.

  “What are you working on?” Fin asked.

  “Stirred us up a pot of stew for dinner. Used some of that old pork from last night.” He dipped in a spoon and sampled it. “Not got the spice just right yet, though; not sure what’s missin’. Taster ain’t as good as it used to be,” he said and chuckled.

  “Let me see.” She plucked the spoon out of his hand and tasted it. “Just needs a little pepper is all.” She reached for the pepperbox.

  “See here now! That’s my, missy.”

  She threw a few pinches into the pot and stirred it. “Try this.” She dipped the spoon and handed it to him.

  “Hee hee, you got the touch, Miss Button, got it right on the spot.” He smacked his lips and went back for a second sample. “Mm-hmm. Yes ma’am indeed, you have got the touch.”

  The winter had taken its toll on Bartimaeus. He was slowing down. It took him more effort to lug the pots up to the stove, and he’d more and more often ask Fin to reach things on top shelves because he couldn’t stretch so high as he used to. Watching his age wear him away made Fin sad. But more than sad, it made her necessary. When she first started working with him she felt out of place and underused; he’d been the one doing most of the work and seemed happy enough to be doing it. Now their roles had turned. Necessary wasn’t something she’d ever been before, and she didn’t think she could bring herself to leave him even if Sister Hilde ordered her to.

  “How you comin’ with that fiddle now that you been practicin’ all on your own?” he asked.

  “Wonderful, if you must know. I’ve composed something for Peter,” she said with a bit of a blush.

  “Oh, indeed? My songs not good enough, eh? Got to go to makin’ up your own, see here!” he balked.

  “He hasn’t heard it yet. I’m going to play it for him tonight.”

  “You two be careful now. Woods ain’t no place for two kids runnin’ around at night.”

  “The woods are safer than Sister Hilde.”

  “Heh, maybe they are, now, maybe they are. Let’s get to work on the biscuits. Dinner will be here before we know it.”

  Stew was never a big favorite with the children but it went over without complaint. Sister Carmaline took the opportunity to announce that with the foreseeable completion of the chapel, plans would soon take shape for the dedication ceremony and the first Sunday service. She and Hilde were both very excited.

  After dinner, Fin made quick work of cleanup, grabbed the fiddle
case, planted a kiss on Bartimaeus’s cheek, and disappeared through the door before he could get a word out. When she got to the river, the sun was just starting to slink out of sight behind the trees, and she found Peter skipping stones on the bank.

  “Bet you can’t skip one all the way across,” she teased him.

  “Bet you can’t either.”

  “You’re on,” she said. She set the fiddle case down and kneeled to find a perfect stone.

  “You’re mad, you know that?” said Peter.

  “We’ll see.” Fin found the stone she was looking for. She stood up and stretched her arms. “Ready?”

  Peter shook his head and chuckled. “Ready when you are.”

  “You first, Pete.”

  Peter turned, slung his stone, and watched it fly. Plink . . . plink . . . plink . . . ploop. It stopped about twenty feet short of the far side. “Your turn.”

  Fin made a big show of eyeing the angle and winding up then let fly the stone. Plink . . . plink . . . plink . . . plink . . . crack! It landed in the rocks on the far side. She looked supremely satisfied.

  “Do you ever lose?” said Peter, shaking his head at her.

  “Not if I can help it. Maybe I’ll let you win next time.” She smiled at him then grabbed the fiddle case and ran up the bank. She sat down between the knees of an old cypress tree and opened up the case. Peter dropped down beside her as she lifted out the fiddle and bow.

  “You have to promise not to laugh.”

  “And why would I do that?” said Peter with a grin.

  Fin smiled at him and shrugged playfully. “If you don’t promise, I won’t let you win next time.”

  “All right, no laughing,” he said though he looked as if he might burst into laughter at any moment.

  She played a few notes and tuned up the fiddle, then, satisfied, looked at Peter. “I made this up for you. If you laugh I’ll knuckle in your lip.”

  Peter grinned at her and nodded. She began to play, but she was nervous. Her hands shook and the notes came out unsure of their places. As she continued, she began to relax and the music smoothed like the river after a stone’s ripple. The song was a juxtaposition of two melodies: one light and dramatic, the other slow and steady. She wove them together into a tapestry of sound that stumbled and wavered until at last it found its way into beauty.

  All thought of levity now gone, Peter listened in simple awe. The last time he heard her play, he was reminded of Sister Carmaline’s unbearable vespers singing, but the sounds Fin formed now were sublime. Her eyes were closed and her face was lost in the playing. She rocked back and forth with the rhythm of the bow, and the melodies of her song danced and entwined, one around the other, until the sun crept away and the gathering dark won the night. The final note hung in the air for a golden moment like a whisper between lovers, then faded away to silence.

  Fin lowered the fiddle and looked at Peter. He was lost in shadow. A glimmer of moonlight caught in his eyes and gave him away. They sat in darkness for a long time, silently looking at each other, neither willing to break the spell.

  “Do you like it?” Fin whispered.

  Peter didn’t speak. He leaned forward in the darkness and found her face with his hands. And he kissed her. He’d wanted to kiss Fin Button for as long as he could remember. She always moved too fast or he too slow. But not now. They moved together.

  “I’ve been waiting for that for ten years, Phinea Button.”

  “Why’d you wait?”

  “You never stay still long enough for me to catch you.”

  She leaned forward and kissed him again. “I should be still more often.”

  Fin carefully placed the fiddle back in its case. The moonlight glinted off the silverwork on the handle of the old blunderbuss and caught Peter’s eye.

  “Hold on,” he said, “let me see that.”

  “Don’t, Peter!”

  “Why not?”

  “Bartimaeus made me promise.”

  “Promise what?”

  “Not to touch it. He said if he caught me with it he wouldn’t let me use his fiddle anymore.”

  “I only want to hold it,” said Peter as he bent over the case.

  “Peter don’t,” she pleaded.

  Peter reached out and ran his finger down the barrel.

  A shiver trickled down Fin’s neck, and she pulled his hand away. Then a cry rang out from the direction of the orphanage. Fin and Peter turned to look and saw people running. Someone was shouting in the dark. Fin snapped the case shut and they ran up the hill.

  Outside the front gates of the orphanage, a man on horseback was waving a piece of paper in the air and a crowd of people had gathered around him.

  “Damned Redcoats! They’ve started it, they’ve started it,” he cried.

  People were filing out of houses all over town and coming to see what the commotion was. The orphan house had emptied, and the sisters stood at the gate. Brother Bartimaeus spotted Fin and hurried over to her.

  “Calm down, man! What have they started?” said a voice from the crowd, and Mr. Bolzius stepped out. “What news and what proof?” he demanded.

  “A massacre in Boston, sir! Brits opened fire on a crowd peacefully gathered.” He handed the paper he was waving about to Mr. Bolzius.

  “It’s all there in The Georgia Gazette, the bloody Brits have started murdering honest folk in Massachusetts—only a matter of time now,” he said looking at the mayor to see if his message was clear.

  “I see.” Mr. Bolzius handed the paper back to him with a worried look. “Thank you, good sir. Now if you please, leave us to our thoughts and our beds.”

  The gentleman on the horse didn’t like Mr. Bolzius’s reaction. “Can’t trust them, you hear?” He began shouting to the crowd again. “Don’t trust a one of them. You hear me? War’s coming. Coming soon.” He looked around madly. “Coming to Georgia!” He spurred the horse and it jumped into a gallop. The crowd parted, and he rode out of town toward Bethany to break the news there. As he faded into the night, the crowd broke into a chatter of questions, worries, and fears. Fin and Peter looked at each other, speechless. Bartimaeus stared down the road after the messenger with worry in his eyes.

  “Do you think it’s true?” Fin asked Bartimaeus.

  He didn’t answer right away. When he did, he didn’t turn to look at her.

  “I expect it is. Was bound to come to it sooner or later.”

  “What are we going do?” asked Peter. Bartimaeus considered it.

  “Nothin’. We do nothin’ except go about our business like always. Might come a time when we got to decide what side of the fence we sit on. Lord willin’, we won’t. We do nothin’, see here?”

  He turned and walked back through the gate. Fin and Peter followed and ran to bed before the sisters could think to wonder why they’d run up from the direction of the river.

  The next day the community was buzzing with what-ifs and what-to-dos. Mr. Hickory told Peter that several fistfights had broken out the night before between loyalists—“Tories” he called them—and a few of the more outspoken continentals. One of the loyalist families had even started moving out of their house in town to make a permanent home of their farm in the country. “Didn’t feel safe anymore,” they said. Sister Hilde made use of class time to inform the children of the news and assured them that Boston was a very long way off and they had no reason to feel in any danger in Ebenezer.

  Fin was uneasy about the whole thing and had to push down fluttery feelings of excitement. She told herself there was nothing exciting about the possibility of war in Georgia, but the more she thought about it, the more ashamed she felt that she really was excited.

  While she and Bartimaeus washed the breakfast dishes, she fired question after question at him. “Who decides if there’s going to be a war?” “Where do you think the British will attack next? Savannah?” “Do we all get guns if they come to Ebenezer?” “How many British do you think there are?” “If there’s a war, do you think
King George will come fight? And if we kill him do you think we’d have to find someone to be king of Georgia?”

  Fin had more questions than Bartimaeus wanted to give answers to, and by the time the dishes were done, he’d gone quiet and dark.

  “If it comes to fighting here, in Georgia, will you fight?” she asked.

  Bartimaeus looked at her with a sharp eye and considered it.

  “These bones too old for fightin’, missy. Push comes to shove, I’ll hold my ground but I won’t be runnin’ off with the young fellers.”

  “Have you ever had to fight before?”

  “Fight? I done plenty, I reckon. Never for no cause or such, just young man’s foolery.” His tone told Fin he didn’t want to talk about it, but she didn’t let that stop her.

  “Like battles? Indians?”

  “That’s all dead now, missy. I’m dead to it. Different man now,” he said. “Leave it be.” It was an order.

  Fin pressed him, “You always do that. Why can’t you just tell me?”

  “I said leave it be!” He turned away from her and walked toward the door.

  “I don’t want to leave it be! I want to know you, who you are, who you were.”

  He spun to face her and his eyes changed. It was as if that hurtful place he loathed to look upon was now right in front of him and he exploded upon it.

  “Piracy and pillage! Is that what you want to hear? Murder, rape, rum, and ruin? That’s who Bart is! That’s who I was!” He was raving. The creases of his face spread to an unclenched visage of anger. “I killed men, women, and children. English, Colonist, French, Spaniard, Moor, Turk—you name it, I killed it, missy. This what you wanted?” Fin shrank away. “Don’t be scared now! You ain’t heard the worst of ole Bloody Bart. Laid down with a whore, he did, then cut her throat cause he didn’t want to pay! Killed his own friends for gold and a gallon of rum.”

  He flung open the old fiddle case. The morning light fell on the blunderbuss inside. Its silverwork gleamed as if freshly wakened. Bartimaeus grabbed the weapon and flourished it.

  “Me and ole Betsy here done our bloody work from Mexico to Mediterranean and left a trail of tears and blood that leads straight to hell, missy! Straight to the burnin’, fiery pit! You happy now, Miss Button? This what you wanted to know?”