The Law of Dreams (14 page)

Hooves scratching.

Leather noise.

A horse was coming up the road.

He gestured for the Bog Boys to skip over the nearest wall. They tumbled
across and squatted in thick, cold grass along the base of the wall, their backs to the
stones.

The land before them sloped from the road. Carmichael's orchard of
small, tough apple trees.

He listened.

“Only one alone,” Luke said.

Shamie was using his teeth to tear open a cartridge.

“No firing!” Luke whispered.

Fergus peered over the wall.

“Who is it?” Luke asked. “Travelers? Churchmen? Can we
rob them?”

It was the farmer, Carmichael, sitting heavy as iron aboard his beauty
mare.

Shamie banged the butt of his musket on the grass, tamping the charge,
then brought it to his shoulder.

“Shamie — no!”

The shot was simple and abrupt, like a piece of wood splitting. Shamie was
enveloped in dense white smoke.

The farmer slumped on the mare's neck for a few paces before
tumbling off. His foot caught in the stirrup and he was dragged along the road by the
frightened mare like a fox dragged by hunters.

“Have we killed them?” Johnny Grace asked eagerly.

Boys were hopping up and down to see over the wall.

“Is it dragoons?”

“Where's the rations?”

“Is it fighting?”

Shamie was tearing open another paper cartridge. Fergus felt sick. Luke
touched his arm. “There it is, Fergus, there it is,” she said softly.

Shamie grinned, his long face stained with powder. “Took him in the
brains. Now we may help ourselves.”

Luke stepped up to the soldier and Fergus thought she was going to strike
him, but she stroked his arm instead. “You must keep up steady firing, Shamie,
when we reach the farm, and hold the others off.”

“You can't go now,” Fergus insisted.
“They'll be waiting, he has sons, they have a bell gun. We'll never
get away.”

“Come on! All of you!” Luke cried. “Over the wall!
Boldly now! Up the road!”

Clutching their double-pointed sticks, yelping, the Bog Boys swarmed over
the wall as Fergus watched, stunned. Even Shamie went over eagerly, climbing like a
spider, his military equipment creaking. Smaller boys struggled to hoist themselves.

“Come on,” Luke said, holding out her hand to Fergus.
“Here is war, old man. Be sweet, Fergus. This is our night.”

Boys were running up the road and disappearing into the dark,
screaming.

His throat was painfully dry, as if a fire inside had scorched
everything.

“Live or die, don't matter,” she said. “Not
really. I'd be better with you, Fergus.”

He still did not move. She turned away. He watched her throw her spade
over the wall. He imagined her torn to pieces, her blood entering the ground. She went
over neatly.

He saw her pick up the spade, start down the road. She did not look
back.

The aroma of apples filled his head.

He heard the crack of a shot from Shamie's musket and a deep,
answering boom from another gun.

His bones felt heavy. He would only have strength to travel a little way
alone. He would be sick. He'd lie down in some ditch.

If you lay down alone, you'd never get up. You needed a reason. She
was the reason.

Sharp screams, two gunshots, and an undertone of yelling floated down the
road.

He climbed over the wall and started down the road toward the shouts and
firing.

THE IRON
gate at the entrance was swinging loose,
squealing on its hinges. He stood by the pillar. The farmhouse was closed with iron
shutters except one upstairs window where a light burned.

He could see Luke, Shamie, and a group of boys sheltering behind the
storehouse. Boys were being boosted up and wriggling through a narrow window, dropping
inside.

Two more boys were lying in the open between the buildings, and he could
tell from their flat, uneasy shapes they were dead.

As he watched, Shamie stepped out briskly from behind the storehouse, took
aim at the farmhouse, fired, then stepped back to shelter. Acrid smoke hung in the
air.

He heard a horse whinnying. The red mare was pacing restlessly in front of
the stable, dragging Carmichael on the stones.

As Fergus dashed for the storehouse, a gun fired from the farmhouse
window, and he saw bits of iron shot sparkled on the paving. He made it to safety behind
the storehouse wall, crashing into Luke, who threw her arms around him and kissed his
mouth. Her lips tasted of salt and he felt her quick wet tongue; felt her bones through
the clothes.

“They are killing my boys, the fucking farmers.”

He was glad for coming after her, glad for courage, if that was what it
was. Glad for being ready to die.

Shamie finished reloading and cautiously peered around the corner.
“You take care,” Luke said, patting his hip. “Don't let them
clip you.”

“Takes a farmer a year to reload,” the soldier said
disdainfully.

Stepping out from the wall, he brought the musket smartly to his shoulder,
discharged, then stepped back and immediately began his drill of reloading.

“Beautiful firing, Shamie, beautiful!”

The Little Priest was tugging at Fergus's sleeve.
“They're eating butter inside.”

“Fergus, if you please, go inside and stop the fellows gorging.
Start passing out whatever we can carry way. We must get away before light. Shamie and I
will hold the farmers off — never I seen such beautiful
firing, Shamie! Fergus, you must get 'em started passing out the
rations.”

“Farmers have pikes,” Shamie said. “Don't you go
inside, Luke! Stay with me, as cavalry supports the infantry.”

“I will, Shamie, I will, I'll spike them and you can shoot off
their heads.” She turned to Fergus. “Yellow meal, butter, bacon, ham —
whatever you think we can carry off. See if there's any axes, pikes, or blades we
can use. Quickly, now. It'll be light soon.”

Boosted on the shoulders of two boys, he wriggled through the deep little
window and dropped into the storehouse. Sickles and scythes hung on the walls on pegs
— the same ones he and his father had used, making Carmichael's crop in the
sun.

There were unopened crates of nails and sacks of sand, for mixing cement.
A rack of fir planks, sorted by size. Sheet iron, intended for the roof of a new
piggery, lay against one wall. Carmichael worshipped neatness, never trusting what he
could not lay his hands upon. Insisting ground was his, even if others had named it and
were buried in it. If Carmichael couldn't see something, it didn't exist, as
far as he was concerned.

A trapdoor yawed open to a root cellar, once a place of concealment for
saints and martyrs hiding from the bloody invaders. It was lit by a yellow lantern that
greased the air with its fumes. Peering through the hole, he could see the Bog Boys
feeding like maggots on a bone. He started down the ladder rungs.

The floor was awash with spilled yellow meal, and the Bog Boys were
feasting. They had hacked open sacks, broken into casks, smashed clay jars. Boys were
cramming their mouths with ham and butter and fighting over beakers of honey and
jam.

He cut himself a slab of ham, then took an apple and rubbed it in butter
and ate it before he started dragging the Bog Boys away from their gorging. He could
feel his lips swelling from salt and grease. He knew if the Carmichaels rushed the
storehouse, and Shamie and Luke were unable to hold them off, the boys trapped in the
cellar would be killed like rats.

“Come along, men, we must get as much as we can.” Organizing
them into a line, he started them passing rations up the ladder to Johnny Grace, who
dropped the goods through the window to Luke and the others waiting outside.

They heard a shot and a piercing scream. The boys on the ladder froze.

“She's killed, I reckon,” the Little Priest said.
“Luke is killed, Fergus. Are you chief now?”

Shoving boys aside, he scrambled up the ladder. In the tool room Johnny
Grace was standing on the bench, peering out the window. Pushing him aside, Fergus
squeezed out through the opening, dropping feet first into the yard.

She was squatting against the wall, panting.

“Are you shot, Luke?” She nodded to Shamie, lying on his back
a few paces out from the protection of the wall. “The poor one, see how he
spills.”

They could hear the blood gurgling out of Shamie's chest, spreading
wetly on the stones.

Little boys huddled along the wall behind them were munching apples. Luke
stepped out before Fergus could stop her, grabbed Shamie's ankles, and started
dragging him in. “Fergus, fetch the musket!”

He stepped out, snatched the musket, and jumped back to safety.

Luke was kneeling beside the soldier. “He's dead.”

Shamie's jacket was black with blood. Both eyes were staring. Luke
began unbuckling the white cross-straps and pulling off the ammunition pouches.
“You must reload quick, Fergus, they'll be coming for us now. Powder, ball,
wad — you seen him do it.” She peered out around the corner.
“Hurry!”

Ripping open one of the paper cartridges with his teeth, he spilled powder
down the barrel then dropped in a ball.

“Here they come!” Grabbing her pitchfork, Luke stepped
out.

He knew she was shot before he heard the report — she was turning to
him, mouth open, when the pitchfork fell from her hands, and he saw the wound blooming
on her clothes.

The noise of the shot sped past like a bird in the dark.

Johnny Grace leapt down from the window and tried to seize the musket from
him. Luke lay on her back on the cobbles, snorting, her lips wet. Shaking off Johnny
Grace, Fergus looked up to see Saul Carmichael running across the yard, horse pistol in
one hand, ax in the other. Without thinking or aiming, Fergus raised the musket and
fired. The ball caught Saul in the chest and knocked him backward, the pistol and ax
flying from his hands, screeching on the cobbles.

With Johnny Grace's help, he dragged Luke behind the storehouse. Her
clothes were steeped in blood. They sat her up against the wall, her legs splayed. He
couldn't look at her anymore. Methodically, he reloaded, stepped out, fired at the
farmhouse window, stepped back, and began reloading again. A gun flashed from the
upstairs window and the iron shot cracked on the stones. Reloaded, he peered around the
corner. He kept watch until he caught a shadow of a movement — they were firing
from one of the bedrooms. Stepping out briskly, he aimed and fired, hearing a muffled
scream as he stepped back to shelter. He began reloading.

When he stepped out again, a shot sang past his ear, snapping on the wall.
He fired again at the upstairs window and stepped back again to reload, then repeated
the sequence, exchanging shot after shot with whoever was gunning from the
farmhouse.

After each returned shot, when they must be reloading, Johnny Grace raced
out to plunder Saul Carmichael's body, taking the pistol first, then Saul's
beaver hat, then the ax.

Boys dropped down from the slit window and huddled along the wall,
cramming food in their mouths and staring at Luke. Fergus could hear her asking for
water.

“We must get away, Fergus, it'll soon be light,” Johnny
Grace said. “You lead us the way, Fergus.”

Fergus ignored him. Stepping out again, he fired at the house. He tried to
avoid looking at Luke as he was reloading.

Boys began escaping the farmyard in the intervals between shots. Lugging
sacks of food, they cleared the walls or raced through the open gate. Johnny Grace was
shot dead while trying to pull Saul Carmichael's boots off his feet.

One by one the Bog Boys fled, until there was no one but Luke and Fergus
sheltered behind the storehouse. As dawn leached into the sky he could see the dead
scattered across the yard. Luke was making coughing sounds. Ignoring her, he placed shot
after shot at the upstairs windows, until he noticed she had fallen over on her side.
Propping the musket against the wall, he sat her up. He had a handful of bullets left,
and four or five powder cartridges, and he began to reload. After firing and stepping
back, he saw she had fallen over again. This time when he tried to sit her up, she was
dead. He sat her up anyway. Then he peered around the corner at the farmhouse.

He could see the kitchen door had been left ajar, probably by Saul.

He looked down at Luke. Her black hair had come undone, spilling around
her shoulders. “I can't put you in the ground. You'd like me to, but I
can't.” His fingers were busy reloading. “I'll finish it if I
can. You'd like that, wouldn't you?”

Instead of stepping out and firing, this time he held his fire and ran for
the house. Crashing into the kitchen, racing for the staircase. Abner Carmichael
appeared at the top with a bell gun and Fergus shot him then galloped upstairs. The
upper floor was crowded with gray, sour smoke. Stepping over Abner's body, he
heard groaning and saw dim light spill through a doorway. Coughing in the dense smoke he
reloaded hastily then advanced down the hallway.

Cautiously he peered into the bedroom. His eyes stinging, he could hardly
see through the smoke. Phoebe Carmichael lay on a massive four-poster. The smoke poured
from a smoldering carpet, set alight by a spilled lamp. He began to stamp on it but it
was no good; he couldn't squelch the smoke.

He approached the bed. The pillow and bedclothes were brown with blood.
Her eyes were fixed on his. As he came close she made sounds. A piece of her jaw had
been shot away. He couldn't understand her mumble; her lips were bubbling blood.
There was water in the stand, and he filled a cup and tried pouring some in her mouth,
but she seemed unable to swallow. He kept stamping the smoldering carpet. Bits of spent
shot gritted underfoot; the room stank of gunpowder and burning wool. He fell into a jag
of bitter coughing. When he looked back at the bed Phoebe was unbuttoning the front of
her dress.