Endure My Heart (30 page)

“When will I give them the word? As soon as Phillips has the wagons standing by?” Jem asked.

“Yes, eleven, we told him. I hope he remembers to have a fresh team harnessed up. Those wagons must be well on their way to London before Wicklow figures out what has happened. But we shan’t worry much about that. If Miss Sage has slipped through his fingers, he shan’t waste much time chasing Phillips.”

“That has been a blessing throughout, that he paid so little heed to Phillips. I’ll be back to ye later then.”

“No, Jem, I shall be there myself tonight. I’ll stay at the rectory—go up to the bell tower and see the dragoons are in place before I go down to the wharf.”

“There is no need to expose yourself so, miss. Let me do it,” he pleaded. A true gentleman.

“It’s our last job. My last chance for excitement. I want to be there.”

“I’ll take right good care of ye,” he promised. “I’ll be looking for ye at Owens’ warehouse door. If ye don’t see me, just meow like a cat, and the boys will pass the word I’m wanted.”

“The boys—do they have any inkling who I am, Jem?”

“None in the world. A few of the brighter ones have caught on Andrew is closely watched, and what with the crypt being used and all, they might suspect him, but then they know pretty well how bookish he’s always been too, and can’t quite believe it. Some of ‘em think Porson, but he wouldn’t treat us so generous as ye’ve always done. I’ve been called ‘miss’ myself a few times for that matter. They don’t know what to think, and that’s the way we want it, ain’t it, miss?”

“Exactly.”

By the time I had got up to the bell tower, darkness had fallen. I could see nothing of the men closing in around me, but with some little experience in the business myself, I knew well enough it was easy for a dark-coated person to move unseen on a moonless night. Certainly they were there, lurking behind trees, skulking behind bushes, straining their eyes for a sight of anyone moving, or a sound that hinted at company. They would become cramped, impatient, cold, as their vigil wore on.

Was Wicklow there with them? Of course he was. He would no more miss the final act than I meant to do myself. Did he have any regrets, I wondered. I would have a million later, but excitement pushed them to the rear of my mind, in abeyance.

Edna nearly had a heart attack when she saw me in Andrew’s trousers and my mask, but I would not be talked out of going. Tonight was too important to me. I left the house by the cellar door, as it is far removed from the crypt, and the shrubbery at its sides offers good concealment. I had made sure all lights were extinguished within. I crouched low, to prevent any shadows against the whitewashed house, a trick I picked up from Jem. I avoided the main street, taking the loop up behind, into the less desirable real estate of Salford. The less desirable was not so much less desirable as it had used to be. The homes of my people in particular sported a few signs of increased affluence, a coat of paint here, new shutters there. Surely it could not be morally
bad
to have helped them? I reached the warehouse, where no meowing was necessary for Jem to find me. He was waiting.

“We’re all set,” he said. Heartening words! “Phillips is down the road with fresh teams, and there’s no sign of the officers.”

The warehouse door was opened, the men filed in in pairs, soon to emerge, each with his two barrels of brandy, one in front of him, one on his back, making them resemble some strange, misshapen animals from mythology. We had twenty-five men; each had to make two trips with two barrels. This took some little time, for the tranter’s wagons were at the edge of town. The half hour Jem and I waited for their return dragged by on broken wings. We followed them partway down the road, to see they were safely en route, then slipped back to the warehouse, to crouch in the shadows, our ears perked for any sound. We peered up the dock toward the main street, out to sea, in all directions.

The cold black air seemed impregnated with danger. Every soughing wind, every tree that snapped its branches, every bit of twig or loose paper stirring in the breeze, every lap and ripple of the ocean held some menace. My own nerves, I confess, were at the breaking point, but through it all, Jem was unperturbed, his main concern being to wonder how long we would have to wait before the enterprise could be reactivated. His guileless chatter was all that kept me sane.

After an eternity, the men were back, again easing their way into the warehouse, while I counted them, trying to discern from their outlines which of my men I was looking at. They all looked very much alike, mere shadows in the night. Lady was rather excited by it all, but her muzzle kept her silent. After counting them in, I began counting them out. I was at number nine when a whistle pierced the air.

It struck my heart to ice. I clutched at Jem’s sleeve, while the unworthy thought flashed into my head that I should run for home, for I did not believe that we had been seen. It was a fleeting thought only, but an unworthy one. The instinct to survival is more pronounced in women than in men, I believe. Certainly Jem made no move to desert the scene.

“A raid,” he said, an edge of panic sharpening his usually calm speech. “We’re caught dead this time. Make a dash for it, miss. I’ll handle things here.” His instinct, you see, was not to run, to save himself, but to protect
me.
I began to see I had no right to the trousers I was wearing.

What generosity, what chivalry—I can still not think of a word kind enough to describe that advice that came spontaneously from Jemmie Hessler, a street urchin still in his teens. How many of those who call themselves gentlemen with the more usual connotation of the word would have done the same? It must be for such as Jem the phrase Nature’s Gentleman was coined. He made me thoroughly ashamed of myself, I can tell you.

But there was no time for philosophizing, with dozens of men flashing out at us, coming from all directions, except from the sea. Every tree, every bush, every corner of fence and it seemed nearly every pebble and stone of the road concealed a dragoon, some of them wearing the rough outfits of laborers or fishermen.

They descended on us like a pack of wolves, to devour my band. There was some scuffling, a few blows exchanged, but as the dragoons carried guns, flight was the saner course for my boys to follow. Those of them who were lucky or swift enough to flee did so. Poor old Jed Foster, who is really too old for the game, but who needs the money, was captured.

Jemmie and I recognized him at the same time. Without a word, Jem dashed out from our hiding spot, brandishing a homemade weapon he carries, to wit, a fist-sized stone held in a sock. He knocked the dragoon on the side of the head, urging Jed to run. It was a futile gesture. Another man grabbed Jed, and Jemmie too fell into the clutches of the dragoons. Captain Lawson it was who got his arms behind his back in a cruel grasp. He was half again as big as Jemmie, and I think he was possessed of a hitherto unsuspected streak of cruelty as well, for I heard Jem let out a squeal like a stuck pig. The man was twisting his arms, breaking them for all I knew.

Throwing caution to the winds, I was out with a weapon of my own, a hastily grabbed branch it was, which broke in two pieces as soon as I laid it across Lawson’s shoulders. It was rotted clear through, snapped like a straw, without even inflicting any pain on that brute. But it had at least diverted Lawson’s attack. Jem slithered out of his clutches and knocked him a blow on the side of the head with his homemade weapon. I nearly giggled, it reminded me so very much of the picture of David and Goliath in my old Sunday school Bible.

More dragoons were coming toward us. I looked about for another weapon. I never could understand the fascination of war for men, but in that instant, some inkling of it dawned on me. This was wretched, fearsome,
desperate
work, but it was the most exciting moment of my life. I saw what looked like a whip on the ground, and reached over to pick it up, to find it was no more than a broken branch of a bush, but it had some lash in it. Better than nothing, I decided, whipping it through the air to test it.

I just turned around to select my quarry, when I was grabbed from behind in a strong pair of arms. Twisting my head over my shoulder to see who had seized me, I looked into Sir Stamford Wicklow’s face, smiling with infinite satisfaction there in the darkness, his white teeth flashing. He looked to me like the devil incarnate. It was a diabolical smile.

“At last we meet, Miss Sage,” he said, in a gloating voice. He lifted a hand to pull off my mask. With only one hand holding me, I wrenched free and took a run. I did not get far, just around the corner of the warehouse. He caught me by the coattails and threw me against the wall, pinioning my shoulders against the tin wall with both hands. It gave an inch under the weight, making a hollow thump of a sound. He was breathing hard with the exertion. One would not think huffing and puffing could sound jubilant, but his anticipatory smile lent that hue to the sounds coming from his mouth. His right hand came up and jerked my mask aside.

I watched, breathing very hard myself, gasping in fact, while his face—fell. I always thought that a very strange, unlikely expression, as though one’s face slid off his head, but I know the true meaning of it now. His cheeks, his lower lip descended visibly, just seemed to drop, while his eyes swelled in disbelief. “Oh my God!” he exclaimed, then swallowed convulsively, looking about ten years old, and totally bewildered. “What the devil are
you
doing here?”

An answer was beyond me, and surely unnecessary. He didn’t know till that minute—had never suspected me at all! His shock at seeing me was too genuine, too great to make it possible. He was swift to piece the clues together, however. I watched as the knowledge descended on him. Shock gave way to rapid considering, to
knowing,
while I stood, pinned to the tin wall of the warehouse by his strong hands, by his accusing eyes. Helpless.

“You! It was you all the time,” he said in a voice that was still incredulous, higher-pitched than his normal voice. Not loud, but high.

Still speech was beyond me. I could only look, while my poor world fell apart. My enterprise, my gentlemen and my own particular gentleman—all torn from me at one stroke.

“Why?”
It was a pained howl, almost an animal sound. “Why did it have to be you?” What a strange way to put it. I had thought he would say why did you do it? It sounded almost as though he were blaming Fate, rather than myself.

“You know why I did it,” I said, in a shaking whisper. It was all I could manage.

“Get that mask back on!” he ordered, suddenly jerking to attention. In a state of total confusion, I did as he told me. Then he took my arm, very roughly, and pulled me along to the side door of Owens’ store, along through the dark passageway to it, without another word. He thrust me inside, where it was very dark. We were at the shoe department. Without any illumination, he dragged me across the shop, to that section where Miss Simpson used to come to be measured for belts. Fumbling in the darkness, he pulled some rope from a shelf and bound my arms tightly behind my back. I was too overcome to inquire what he was doing, and why. “Sit down,” he commanded.

“On the floor?”

“Sit!” he shouted, distracted; I sat, on the floor. My feet were then bound up in the same manner as my hands— tightly, that is, not behind my back. “Don’t make any noise. I’ll be back later,” he ordered. Still without being able to see a thing, to see how he looked, I heard him stalk from the store, setting the lock so that the door clanged with the finality of a cell door behind him. Though of course it was locked from the
inside,
and if I could get out of my ropes...

This was easier thought than done. I wiggled my hands, arms, writhed on the floor like a snake tied in knots till I was exhausted. The man was half a sailor, as well as a soldier. Between his two skills, he had tied me up in a way there was no getting out of.

Chapter Twenty-Four

You can do a lifetime of thinking in about an hour, when you are all alone in the dark. As though I were drowning, my life flashed before my eyes—the happy days at Fern Bank, the troubled days when I was helping Miss Thyme, the first flush of victory as Miss Sage, the advent of Wicklow into my life and my work—and now this. Defeat.

I warned you of inconveniences before you began this tale. It seems, upon further consideration, too mild a term. The situation was desperate. I was for the gallows. That was inevitable now, but worse, I had led my men into the same trap. I had done it out of a sense of false pride too, out of a desire to thumb my nose at Wicklow, to show him I was not afraid of him and his dragoons, could outwit them, even when they knew within a few miles’ radius where I was.

If I had done it only out of false pride, it would be inexcusable, but to have to acknowledge, there in the private darkness, that it was half spite and jealousy of Lady Lucy that was the true goad urging me on to this folly was nearly too much for human heart to bear. I thought of Andrew, his career in tatters when it was known what I had done, of Edna, even of Mrs. Harvey. All my family and friends ashamed of me. I was a monster.

I have heard it said that witches cannot cry. It even occurred to me that I might be a witch, for my eyes remained hot and dry throughout my ordeal. There was a thing in my throat that felt roughly like a pineapple for size and hardness and discomfort, but my eyes were dry. If a witch, I was a particularly ineffectual one, for I possessed no witchcraft to spirit me out of this slough.

My arms and shoulders ached, my back and legs were cramped, my head throbbed with misery so that I hardly noticed what went on around me. I heard scuffling sounds and shouts from beyond. There were no gunshots, but eventually the tramp of booted feet as the dragoons hauled my gentlemen off to some makeshift guardhouse. Then there was silence for some incalculable length of time.

Disoriented in the darkness, I know only that there was no sign of dawn breaking on the horizon yet. There was a scratching sound which I soon attributed to rats, the only evil missing from my ordeal. Soon I became aware that my rat must be a huge fellow, five feet at least, for he was lifting the little window across the room. A cool blast of air blew over me, the shape of a head, a human head, and shoulders a shade darker than the window hole loomed up. My heart beat faster, as I considered whether it were better to remain silent or call for help. I was so far gone that I did not even know it was one of my men, for Wicklow or any of his minions would use the door.