The Runaway's Gold (14 page)

“Then out the back with you—quickly!” he commanded, taking her hand and pulling her to the door. “It's not safe!”

“We canna leave you to fend for yourself,” I said. He might be Wallace Marwick's son, but I wasn't about to leave a lad alone with a drunken mob at his door.

George stared at me a moment, as if shocked by me offer, then puffed out his chest.

“I've held them off this long,” he said. “Another night won't be the end of it. Besides, Sheriff Nicolson promised me Daa that his men would keep watch on the house. Lor' knows Nicolson owes him some favors after all these years.”

“Are you sure?” Mary asked, grabbing his sleeve, hand trembling. “Promise me you'll be safe.”

“Aye, lass! And I'll get to the lodberry—eventually! Now leave—quickly—before they catch a glimpse of you!”

But as I followed her out the door, George's thick fingers held fast to me arm. “Robertson, is it? From Culswick? A Marwick tenant, are you not?”

I nodded, me breath quickening as he spoke.

“I remember the name from my Daa's books, your rent being long past due. Do you deny it?”

“I cannot,” I said, willing meself to stare defiantly into his deep-set eyes.

“Then it's in
my
hands that your Daa's pouch of coins belongs, is it not?”

I looked away, brow furrowed, his words slicing into me
like the shards of glass he had just brushed from Mary's boots. “You own me, sir,” I breathed. “You own us all.”

George nodded, eyes narrowing, and then leaned but inches from me ear.

“Then know this,” he hissed, sweat forming on his pale, dimpled brow. “See to it Mary Canfield gets safely home and then bring me those coins.
By morning
. Or I'll have your family cast from their croft by week's end.”

Spit flew through the gaps in his brilliant white teeth as he spoke.

“Do we understand each other, crofter?”

“Aye, we do.” Hate flooded like venom into me veins as it never had before. “We understand each other perfectly.”

The Lodberry

top! Mary!” I raced after her down a dark alley, darting left and then right, until finally I reached her side. “Where are you going?”

“To the shore, of course. To warn me uncle. But we must take the back lanes to avoid being seen.”

I grabbed fast to her arm and pulled her around. “Thought George was taking care of that,” I said. “Besides, I gave him me word I'd get you home.”

“Hah!” She pulled her arm free. “With townspeople rioting at his window? He'll never get away. Besides, you can't find
your way in the dark. Why, I bet you couldn't find your way back to Hillhead even if you had a compass!”

“It's not safe,” I said. “You can't walk the streets at night with rioting mariners round every corner!”

“Aye, but I can. Been doing it every night for the past week.” She turned from me and marched ahead. “Someone has to warn me uncle.”

“George said he'd—”

“Trust me, he won't.”

“Then I'll do it. I'm headed there to find John. Just tell me how to get—”

“Chris Robertson,” she said, turning abruptly down a narrow lane to her right, “you've no idea where you are. If you're not careful, it'll be that smelly Blackbeard man you'll find—not your brother.”

As I opened me mouth to protest, she cut me off with a wave of her hand. “Either follow or let me be. I'll not be returning home just yet.”

The moon was high when we finally came upon the marketplace along the water. Despite George Marwick's parting threats ringing in me ears, I couldn't keep me eyes from darting to the shop windows along the shore, all brimming with things I had never before laid eyes on. T. Shakman, Clockmaker, with all sizes of clocks, their pendulums swaying back and forth as if in a frenzy. Van der Kloot Chandlers, with its stacks of ropes and lines, barrels of tar and turpentine, mops and brooms. Beatrice
Le'Hare Sweets and Confections, with its cakes, bowls of licorice, and platters of what Mary told me were called pralines. How was it possible, I wondered, that people had even a copper to spare to purchase such goods?

When we passed Larsen Brothers Map Makers, I could hardly break meself away.

“Have you never seen a map?” Mary asked.

“Aye, I have. Just one. Not nearly as fine as this.”

I was looking at a map of the British Isles propped on a stand directly against the glass, beautifully colored with greens, reds, and blues.

“There,” Mary said, pointing to the north of Ireland. “That's Belfast. Near where me Daa and Midder are from.” Then she pointed to a cluster of islands to the north of Scotland. “Here's all of Shetland. And here's Lerwick.”

I studied it a moment, running me finger from Lerwick to Skeld Voe, and then a bit farther to the west. “This is me home. In Culswick.”

“Are there many crofts?”

“Och, no. Only five. All tenants on Marwick land. But the scattald is a sight in the summer—a deeper green you'll never see. And there's an ancient broch, just up here,” I said, pointing to where I guessed it must be. “The view is grand. You can see as far as Fair Isle when the sky is clear.”

Suddenly there were voices.

“Quick—back here!” Mary said.

We ducked into the shadows at the corner of the building
and watched in silence as a group of men, one carrying a jug and the others stumbling behind him, drew closer. When the fellow with the jug fell to his knees and began to retch, the others erupted in laughter.

“Ah, old Mick canna take the whiskey!” a balding man with a short-cropped beard taunted. He kicked the fallen man squarely in the gut. I winced as the other men laughed, thinking of Daa and Knut when they'd had too much of the gin.

“Hey! You dunna boot a mate when he's down,” another said, charging the balding man and pulling him to the ground. They twisted and rolled on the sand, just feet from where we squatted, snarling and punching as the others cheered.

Then, suddenly, the balding man drew a knife.

It was when Mary gasped that I grabbed fast to her hand and pulled us back through an alley between the buildings, so narrow that we had to turn sideways to fit. Not daring to utter a sound, we sped through a courtyard behind a church in the next block, there discovering a path between houses leading up what appeared to be a bluff above the wharf. Fearing even to look behind us, we raced up the steep incline, stopping only when the path ended abruptly, high above the harbor, at a towering wall of lichen-covered stone.

“Lerwick has a castle?” I asked.

“Och, no—the fort is all,” she said, her chest still heaving.

“Royal Artillery?”

“Aye. Me Daa told me it was built long ago to ward off the Dutch, but then it was left in ruins until King George rebuilt
it and named it for his wife. The main barracks was turned over to the county a few years back for the Sheriff Court and Prison.”

“This is . . .
Fort Charlotte
?”

“Aye.”

I looked at her, heart racing, remembering John's words in the broch—
They say those that get locked up are never seen again
. “Well, I'll not be lingering, then.” I nearly choked on me words. “Come, lass, quickly—let's get on to the shore!”

We crept along in the moonlight, finding another path on the far side of the bluff leading back down to the street. Before us the harbor sparkled in the moonlight, a stiff breeze over the water. Mary pointed to the gray stone buildings, jutting like thick fingers into the rippling waves of Bressay Sound.

“Lodberries,” she whispered.

Except for the sound of our steps and the clanging of ships anchored in the harbor, this part of Lerwick was eerily silent. “Are you sure you know where we're going?” I asked when we reached the water.

Mary nodded. Not long after, she stopped at a plain oak door with a heavy iron latch. Above the transom, in gold block letters, were the words
WALLACE MARWICK, MERCHANT
.

I peered into the window but couldn't make anything out. Then I tried muscling open the latch.

“Shhh!” she whispered and closed her warm hand over mine. “If the warehouseman's here, he'll hear you.”

I looked up, startled by her touch, but she quickly pulled her hand away and pointed to a wide ramp of stone that ran along the outside of the lodberry. “Let's get a better look.”

We tiptoed out to the end, but the lodberry was deserted. I gazed at the schooners and sloops moored before us, bobbing and creaking in the harbor. “Perhaps your George has the night wrong.”

“
My
George?” Mary asked, an eyebrow raised. “And what are you meaning by that?”

“I saw the way you looked at him, Miss. And how he looked at you.”

“You think yourself an authority on such things, do you?” she asked, hands to her hips. “A lad from the croft?”

“Not nearly as learned as you Lerwick folk, I suspect.”

“Well, I don't see you holding down your Daa's business and protecting your family home from rioting mariners.”

“Ah, so you're defending him, then?” I scoffed. “He who's gone to battle with the sheriff by his side?”

Her eyes narrowed as she rounded on me. “You mock him, do you? And what about being grateful! Wasn't it he who told you where you could find your brother?”

“Grateful?” I turned up me head in disgust. “For what? The years of keeping me family half-starved so his Daa can have his bank and his ships, and his fine gabled house? For me wee sisters, waiting at home, no food in their bellies—me kin left with debt they can never repay?”

I stormed back up the ramp to the street.

“I'm sorry,” she called, following after me. But I was too angry to face her. “I didn't know.”

“Aye. Well, I guess you Lerwick folk
don't
know everything, now, do you?”

For the moment we stood in silence. I had never felt so hopeless or unsure of what to do.

“Come,” I said, starting back down the shore. “Let's get you back to Hillhead before I face George's wrath, your Midder sends out the sheriff, or both.”

“No!” she said, grabbing me hand and pulling me around. “Wait with me.”

I stood for a moment, teeth clenched, but when I finally brought meself to look at her, I was startled to see tears in the corners of her eyes. “Don't be foolish, lass,” I said softly. “What if this isn't the night? What if they never come?”

“But they will—they must! And if they do, chances are your brother will be here too.” Her voice was strong and unwavering. “Please, Chris. I can't leave until I'm sure. I can't let Uncle go to Lerwick Prison for Mr. Marwick.”

The breeze chilled our faces and hands as we crouched across the street from Marwick's lodberry, scanning the dark harbor for signs of the
Ernestine Brennan
. And it was there, in the hours that followed, huddled on the wretchedly cold sand, that I told her about me life in Culswick. About Daa, Gutcher, Aunt Alice, me troublesome sisters, Catherine and Victoria. And about losing dear William and the death of me Midder—
things I'd never spoken of to anyone else before. I told her of Culswick Broch, of its carving of a tree, so strange on the treeless island of Shetland, and of everything that had happened in its crumbled walls on the night of the gale.

“What made him do it?” she asked when I told her of John's letter.

I shrugged, glancing out at the harbor. “For as long as I can remember, he's wanted to break free. To find a better life.” I thought of George Marwick and his small, menacing eyes. “I can't say I blame him.”

“And you? Did you ever dream of something better?”

I looked away. “Aye. At one time I fancied a life as a blacksmith. Having me own forge, working by the warmth of the fire instead of the cold of the sea. But Daa'd never allow it. And lately, with the times as desperate as they've been, what I've wanted mostly is to fill me belly.”