The Runaway's Gold (22 page)

I swallowed hard, eyes fixed on the cord, Malcolm's hand raised just inches from me neck.

“Just relax. Won't take but a minute if you don't put up a struggle. The bristles cut at your flesh a bit at first—but before you know it, the worst part's over and you don't feel a thing.”

“Is—is—is that what you said to Gilbert Bain?” I blurted, me back pressed so tightly into the door I thought me spine
would crack. “Did you strangle him, Malcolm? Did you use a rope?”

As me words spilled out, his mouth dropped open. And then he slowly stepped back. “Lor', lad! Were you thinking I was about to do you in?”

I held me breath, staring at his hands.

And then Malcolm suddenly burst into laughter. “I was handing you the skein is all—so we can twist it into the rope. Remember what I told you? Takes two to do the job!”

“John said . . . ,” I started, not daring to exhale. “I asked you a question!”

And as I spoke, his expression turned to ice. “What happened in Unst is between me and the Almighty.”

“You're wanting me trust, when you can't tell me the truth?”

“And you, Chris Robertson, is there nothing you've ever kept to yourself?”

As he uncoiled the cord from his hands, I thought of Mary and what I hadn't said about what I did to Pete Peterson's ewe.

“Och, lad, you have every right not to take me at me word,” me bedraggled cellmate continued, his voice beginning to soften. Then he threw the unfinished rope at me feet. “You've known me but a few hours. To expect that would be asking more than I deserve. 'Twas fate brought you here—I know it. And whether it's with me or with your double-crossing brother that you bust out of this place, you owe it to that American spy to find what he meant you to find.”

I stared at the cord, throat tight, not knowing what to believe.

“You've an entire life ahead of you,” Malcolm continued. “Do you want to help your family or spend the next few years locked up in here?”

I pictured Catherine and Victoria, waking hungry, as pudgy George Marwick's threat of eviction loomed over them.

“All right.” I swallowed hard. Then I reached down and grabbed the cord with both hands. “Show me how it's done.”

Unexpected Help

oot, lad! Will ya sit?” Malcolm chided. “Much more of that pacing and you'll get me nerves up.”

“Sorry,” I said. But I couldn't keep me mind from spinning. I had hardly slept, and the trial was set for ten o'clock the next morning. “Explain to me again where the stairs are?”

Malcolm rolled his eyes. “Partway down the hall on the right, just opposite the entrance to the washing room and airin' room—you've passed them three times now.”

“And you're quite certain Keeper Mann will stop?”

“Always does. Trust me, there's nothin'll keep that dreep from looking in on Priscilla Pepper. She's as bonnie a lass as
his ugly face ever gets the chance to see. Even has one or two teeth left!”

“You're sure she'll be there?”

“Hasn't missed an evening since last Christmas.”

We had already completed the rope, me standing at one end of the cell and Malcolm at the other, turning the pig bristle and horsehair skein in opposite directions until it was taut, and then folding it back on itself, causing it to twist naturally together into one two-ply cord. Malcolm had wrapped the finished piece around his waist, carefully hiding it under his tattered, gray smock.

All that was left was to wait.

But when the keeper unlocked the door for the evening trip to the trench, the whiskey on his breath was our first clue that something wasn't right. His nose was purple, eyes like slits, and as he barged in, pistol raised above his head, he did so with such force that the door slammed back against the wall and dented the plaster.

We were nearly down the hall when Gill Lawrence leaned his head to Malcolm's.

“Look sharp,” I overheard him whisper. “Word has it the keeper's had a bit too much a' the hooch. Got a bee in his bonnet 'cause the rumor is the laundress is bein' replaced.”

Gill was still speaking when Mann's pistol came driving into his back.

“Any more outta you, Lawrence, and that chamber pot'll be overflowin' before I let you out again!”

I tried to get Malcolm's attention. There were no more chances—me trial was the next day!

Suddenly John butted between us. Then, just as we neared the washroom, he caught me eye and winked. It was at that moment that he kicked out his foot, and before I could register what he had done, the already unsteady keeper flew face-first onto the cold stone floor.

“Over here!” John shouted, waving his hand to the others as he burst through the door into the airing room, where I had met with Reverend Sill. “Let's stretch our limbs a bit, lads!”

“Hey!” Keeper Mann bellowed, flailing on the floor. “Get back here, ya good-for-nothin', haf-krakked crofters!”

But as I and the other men dropped our chamber pots and started after John, a hand tugged firmly at me arm. “
Opportunities
,” Malcolm whispered.

The next thing I knew, we were flying up the rickety set of stairs to the second floor.

“In here!” he said, grabbing the latch of the first door we came to on the right at the top of the stairs.

But it held fast.

I darted to the door on the opposite side of the hall. “How about this one?” I was about to grab the latch, when Malcolm jerked me arm back so hard that he nearly pulled it out of its joint.

“That's the sheriff's chambers!” he whispered, a finger to his lips.

We raced down the hall, hearing voices shouting below
us. But when I reached for the next door on the left, he again pulled me away.

“Courtroom. Windows open to the side—they'll see us climb out!”

That left only one more door, at the end of the hall on the right. Together we charged toward it—but its latch, too, held fast.

“We're trapped!” I cried, me heart pounding so hard inside me ribs I thought they might break.

“Not yet we're not,” he said, throwing his massive frame at the rough, splintered boards. “Keeper Mann's quarters.”

In an instant we burst into a sparsely furnished room, an unmade iron bed by the window. Outside, a thick fog had taken over Lerwick. Malcolm flung up the sash, then lifted his smock so I could unravel the rope from his waist. We had just finished tying it to the bedpost when we heard footsteps clambering up the stairs.

“Down you go!” he shouted.

“It's your rope!”

“Don't be daft—you're the only one knows the way to the broch!”

“What about Netty and your bairns?”

But before I could finish, he grabbed me by the waist and hoisted me over the sill. “I'm right behind ya, lad!”

Me feet had just touched the ground at the edge of the trench when there was a loud crash from above.

“MacPherson! You're a goner!” Keeper Mann's voice bellowed.
And then there was the ear-piercing blast of his pistol and the smell of gunpowder.

“Prisoner escape! Prisoner escape!” a voice cried. “Secure the gates! Fire the cannons!”

Malcolm had been shot at close range. Even if he was still alive, I knew he wasn't coming down that rope.

Not daring to look back, I leapt over the trench. Then I felt me way through the blanket of fog along the fort wall, slipping under the archway of the west entrance behind the barracks, shouts and a parade of heavy footsteps thundering behind me. When I disappeared down the high-walled lane, I could hear the cannons boom three times from the garrison wall. All of buildings had been alerted to me escape.

It was dusk, but you'd never know it, the fog clinging to buildings in every direction. If only I hadn't been wearing the prison smock, I thought, there might be a chance to slip out of the city unnoticed. And then I remembered me clothes behind the hedge at Canfield House.

For nearly an hour I searched frantically for landmarks that would lead me to Hillhead—ducking in and out of alleys, anything that seemed familiar. Sounds carried around me, confused by the misty air—every lane looking like the last. If only I had paid more attention when I had been with Mary. I turned left and then right, nearly finding meself back at Fort Charlotte twice before finally hovering in an alley behind a shop to collect me thoughts. The one thing I knew for certain was that I had no idea where I was.

And then I heard a voice from but ten feet away.

“Saw a lad just a minute ago, Sheriff Nicolson,” a wee, bent woman said, standing in a doorway a hundred yards away from me. She motioned to the familiar angular outline of a man inspecting his pocket watch, then turned and pointed in me direction. It was at that moment there was a cry from down the lane and the sound of gunfire. And as the faint outline of Sheriff Nicolson darted away, I sprinted up the nearest alley, sparing not even a second to look behind me.

Hair matted and body trembling, I stumbled one way and another, hoping for something—anything—that I recognized. Then I saw it: the grand stairs leading to Canfield House.

In minutes I was in the back behind the hedge, stripping off the prison smock and pulling me old shirt, gansey, breeks, and rivlins from behind a rock in the wall. They had never looked so good!

“Chris?”

I must have jumped five feet in the air as Mary's face appeared through the branches. “Lor', lass!” I said, hugging me worn garments tightly to me chest. “You nearly frightened me to death!”

But before she could say another word, we heard more shouts from the street, and she ducked behind the hedge next to me. For a moment we cowered, too frightened to breathe, as the fog turned into drizzle. Then, finally, the voices passed.

“Midder and I heard the cannons, and the calls about the prison break. I hoped it was you!” she whispered.

“How did you know I'd come here?”

“I remembered the clothes. Thought there was a chance you'd be back for them.”

“Aye. Your Midder was cheering they'd catch me, no doubt, after all the trouble I've caused.”

“Well, I admit I didn't tell her why I was stepping out,” she said, a smile creeping from her lips. And then she noticed the wound on me bare shoulder. And me newly bent nose.

“Lor', Chris. What did they do to you in there?”

“I must be a sight,” I said, eyeing me shoulder. “Was John did that. Found him in the Marwick Lodberry, just after you left with your brother.”

“And what of the pouch—did he have it?”

I sighed. “Already spent. It's a long tale. Perhaps one day I'll have time to tell it.”

“And Sheriff Nicolson? They say it was he who brought you in.”

“He and Knut found us. Right there on the dock. Your uncle was lucky to get away when he did.”

“We made it south of the harbor without even a chase. After I explained all that had happened, me uncle and Charles couldn't believe they had slipped away so easily.”

“Aye. Well, before Sheriff Nicolson took John and me to Fort Charlotte, I happened to mention we were expecting a shipment from the
Ernestine Brennan
at the Marwick Lodberry. The Revenue Men are still waiting there for your uncle, I expect.”

“You threw them off?”

I smiled quickly, happy to have done at least one good deed. “Figured I didn't need any more reasons for your brother not to approve of me. He already has quite a list.”

Her cheeks colored as she glanced away. “We came ashore before dawn at the Sands of Sound, just south of here. When Charles brought me home, Reverend Sill told us about you being taken to the prison. He was fuming when he left to see you, but quite distraught when he returned.”

“Hah! The old goat nearly managed to get me the Transportation!”

“Och, Chris, you can't mean it!”

“Aye. Well, they'll have to catch me first.”

She gingerly touched me shoulder. “I should get this cleaned and bandaged.”