Under the Same Sky (32 page)

He had a goal in mind. I could tell. I felt it in the set of his body against mine, the concentration that kept his breath silent.

Wahyaw was behind us, with Adelaide slumped in front of him. I had never been able to read Wahyaw’s thoughts. He was a blank wall almost all of the time. But I sensed a crack beginning to spider from one corner. He had taken a bullet, and it took all of
his power to focus away from the pain. I wished I could do for him what I could do for Andrew, give him my strength to fight against it, but I couldn’t. Wahyaw was on his own, as he always had been.

“Hold on,” Soquili whispered in my ear, and we dove down a steep hill, both of us leaning back to help the horse’s balance. The mare’s front hooves slid down the muddy hillside, but she caught herself and kept going. At the bottom of the hill raced a river, maybe twenty feet across. It curdled with excitement, white water swirling over hidden rocks and caverns.

Our mare hesitated at the bank, but Soquili didn’t. He kicked and moved his upper body, urging her forward, and she trusted him. Wahyaw’s mount did the same, plunging into the water upriver. I could see Adelaide now, curled against Wahyaw as if she were sleeping. Wahyaw saw me glance over and smiled. He nodded. He thought she would be all right.

Our horse arched her neck, concentrating on the hungry current. She stumbled on the uneven riverbed and threw her head up with concern, but Soquili spoke to her, his words encouraging. She seemed to take strength from him, and stepped with more confidence into the foamy water.

All at once the earth vanished from beneath her hooves. We dropped until icy water licked at our necks, and I felt the churning, panicked power of the horse’s legs beneath us. I visualised her muscles, bunching, flexing, struggling to cut through the current, and tried to blend my thoughts into her body. I imagined she felt me there, though I could never know if she had.

“Don’t let go,” Soquili said.

Beside us, Wahyaw’s horse laboured, but seemed to maintain a better footing. Wahyaw’s jaw was clenched, but his arm was tight around Adelaide, his eyes blinking away the mist of the rapids.

When our mare struck ground, we were jerked upright so suddenly we grunted. We ran, streaming water, back into the forest. Shots rang out behind us, splintering trees and cracking against rocks, but we kept on. We had to get away, but stop soon, to rest the horses.

The sound of pursuit ceased after a while, so we rode a little farther, then stopped.

Wahyaw slipped off his horse and pulled Adelaide against him, then carried her to a shaded spot where the forest floor was patched with soft moss in brilliant shades of green, yellow, and pink. I ran over the spongy plants and knelt beside her while Wahyaw straightened and went to his brother.

The bullet had caught her between her right shoulder and her neck. I couldn’t see the ball, but saw the bloodied path it had taken. I pressed my hands hard over it, concentrating on the injury as Waw-Li had taught me, focusing on the source, the severed blood vessels, encouraging Adelaide’s heart to slow the blood flow.

“There is another way around the river,” Wahyaw said behind me.

“I know,” Soquili said. “But their tracker will need time to find it. They cannot follow us now or their gunpowder will be soaked.”

“Can we stay here for the night?” I asked

Wahyaw grunted, then nodded. Soquili frowned and touched his brother’s arm.

“They shot you?” Soquili asked.

“Twice,” Wahyaw said, then spat into the moss with disgust.

“I can’t believe you got out of there alive,” I said, turning toward them. “Thank you, Wahyaw. Thank you for saving her.”

He didn’t like the attention, but when he shrugged, I saw him grimace with pain. “It would take more than an army to take me down,” he said, and I snorted.

“Come here,” I said. “Let me see your arm.”

“It’s fine,” he replied tartly, then settled stiffly on the grass beside me.

“Come here. Soquili, would you press here on Addy, please? Just for a moment.”

Soquili took over for me while I inspected Wahyaw’s shredded skin. The bullets had made a mess of him, but the injuries didn’t go deeper than his skin. He would heal as soon as the bleeding stopped. At the moment it ran down the side of his body in long, dark trails. He glared at me when I reached behind his neck, but his expression softened when he realised what I was doing. He wore a leather thong necklace, weighted by a bear’s tooth. I untied the necklace and cinched it around his bicep to stop the bleeding.

I went back to Adelaide’s side and Soquili stepped away. Her bleeding seemed to have stopped. I would have to go after the bullet soon.

“Will they find us here, Soquili?” I asked as Wahyaw disappeared into the trees.

He rose and squinted in the direction of the river, which we could no longer hear. “It will depend on their scout. I have seen him before, in the town.” He nodded. “I believe he can find us. We will have to move on soon. There is an easy way to cross the river, but it is maybe two miles upstream.”

Then it was up to Joe.

Poor Joe, the soul whose heart battled constantly with his head, his aspirations smothering his beliefs.

I needed to know what he was thinking. If I called out to him, he would know where I was. But if I didn’t, would we lose the tenuous connection we had built? Would he turn away from thoughts of me?

“Joe?”
I called silently.

He had been waiting for me. He opened the door to his mind and welcomed me inside. I said nothing, only watched.

The soldiers prepared to hunt us down. Powder was checked, horses were watered as the captain, brisk and efficient, walked toward Joe, looking for guidance within the deep woods.

I saw Joe’s regret, the understanding that this was the moment when he would have to choose. He had seen Adelaide fall, and had been relieved at her rescue. His thoughts filled with questions and answers, and a sudden understanding of me. Warmth swirled through his chest and he stood straighter. Something within him reached out and my own heart beat faster. I understood. He honoured me. He respected my right to be free.

He met the captain halfway, then made a circular motion with his hand, pointing downstream. The opposite direction from Soquili’s easier passage. The men discussed Joe’s plan and there was much nodding before the captain turned away to speak with the soldiers under his command.

Joe would lead them the wrong way. He would get them hopelessly lost, and then he would disappear. Joe was good at disappearing.

PART 6: ANDREW

Resurrection and Resolution

It was near midday when the ship landed in America, dropping anchor at Chesapeake Bay in Virginia. Andrew, Iain, Janet, Seamus, and little Peter and Flora all clustered together at the rail, kilts fluttering like flags, watching the unfamiliar landscape loom up before them.

Noises from the shore carried across the waves: chickens in crates, seamen whistling and yelling incoherent remarks, dogs barking, hooves clopping like rapid hammer blows. Ragged children ran amongst the boxes and people, playing, laughing, picking pockets.

Andrew ran his hand over the bristles covering his cheeks and chin, and thought how nice it would be to bathe properly. With a good, thick cake of soap. He breathed in, savouring the stink. The ship’s decks were cleaner than the streets, but the travelers had been on the sea for so long they drank the pungent town air as if it were ale. Gulls circled overhead, shrieking at the ship that bobbed beneath them, a treasure chest of food.

A raven cried out from the shore. It circled low over the docks, a black giant among the gulls. It flapped toward the ship and looped over the mast before returning to land, its wings caressing the sky like a lover’s touch. Andrew had the impression the bird had looked him in the eye. If it had, he wouldn’t have been surprised. Ravens had always come to Andrew in dreams. They visited him still, whispering messages from Maggie. He smiled at the thought of her, barely noticing the gust of wind that whipped his hair across his cheeks. The New World. A new life. Maggie was here.

The ship pulled alongside the dock, and the seamen heaved massive mooring ropes across to wind around cleats. A gangplank was lowered, bridging the pier and the ship. Andrew had visited the purser earlier in the day, and for his three months of labour he had been given two pounds, five shillings. Fair compensation, Andrew thought. He hadn’t hoped to become a rich man by working on the ship. The coins could buy a few things, beginning with a good night’s food and lodging. Andrew aimed his worn leather boots down the gangplank and finally stepped onto American soil.

He attracted the attention of more than one woman as he stepped off the ship. He was a large man, over six feet tall, with a ruggedly handsome face the sun and wind had darkened to a dusky bronze. His muscles were solid beneath his shirt, defined and stronger than ever from working the ship. He walked up the main road, feeling the heat of the sunshine on his back and thinking this warmth was one aspect of the colonies he already preferred to the perpetual mists of Scotland.

Andrew’s destination was the closest tavern. He needed a cup of ale to wash away the salt of the sea that had coated his throat throughout the journey. Real ale. Not the swill from the ship. He turned to wait for his friends, just coming off the gangplank, and they hurried to catch up.

“I was thinking,” Andrew said to Seamus, “we’d stop in at—”

“Say no more, my friend,” Seamus answered in his laughing Irish lilt. “A tavern was my first thought as well.” He gave Andrew’s shoulder a companionable smack.

Peter was perched on Seamus’s shoulders. Flora enjoyed the view from Iain’s. The group walked past a few unmarked doors until they arrived at one that practically vibrated with sound. A trio of men stood outside the door, teasing two women, who giggled in response.

“Seems as good a place as any,” Iain said, lifting Flora down and setting her on the ground.

Andrew pulled the heavy door open and, with a gallant bow, swept his palm across his body, ushering his friends ahead of him.

The pub was dark and smelled of spilled ale and unwashed bodies, but Andrew and his friends grinned as they stepped inside. It was crowded and noisy, men trying to yell over each other. Serving girls winked and flirted while they worked, delivering ale and meals through the comfortable pandemonium. Seamus, Andrew, and Iain moved into it with ease, Janet squeezed between them. Flora clung to a handful of Iain’s plaid, and Peter trotted to keep up with Seamus. The Irishman parted the crowds with a few words from his quick tongue and led his friends to an empty corner table.

Andrew couldn’t wait for a barmaid, so he sidled up to the weathered pine bar and ordered an ale. After the barkeep handed him a cup, Andrew turned and leaned back against the bar, sipping at the warm amber liquid as he perused the crowd.

The tavern’s patrons were mostly scruffy, unshaven men, and an occasional woman in subdued browns and grays. The men carried fatigue in their posture as well as in dark circles around their eyes. From what Andrew could surmise, most of the men were Scots. He didn’t recognise any of the faces, but saw reflections of himself
in their eyes. Many of them, talking Gaelic from behind grimy beards, would have been Highland warriors who had fled their homeland after last April’s battle. Like Andrew, so many defeated men had risked their lives and those of their families for the opportunity of a better life. Only time would tell if the risk had been worth it.

Andrew enjoyed the noise of the tavern. Unlike Seamus, he wasn’t one to demand attention. He preferred to experience its buzz from a distance. The sights, smells, and sounds of the place enveloped him like a blanket, smothering the relentless chill that had gripped his bones throughout the sea voyage.

From his observation post against the bar, Andrew watched a waitress bring ale to his friends’ table. He grinned as she gave Iain a beguiling smile, leaning over the table so her generous bosom was displayed to its best advantage. Iain took no apparent notice. The waitress nodded at something Janet said, then turned and waddled back to the bar, her pudgy arms balancing the tray she carried while simultaneously shoving customers aside.

Most of the conversations going on around Andrew focused on this land. He listened for a while, gleaning information. The farmland in the colonies was said to be second to none, and if one were brave and hardworking enough to settle deep in the backcountry, the government was giving away grants of land for next to nothing. That promise made it easier for newcomers to overlook the endless stretches of hostile forests before them.

Andrew ordered another ale and went to join his friends at the table. He sat, leaning against the wall with a sigh of contentment, always watching the crowd. The waitress returned, carrying a tray of meat and cheese.

After swallowing a mouthful of surprisingly tender meat of some kind, Andrew told his friends what he’d learned from the tavern
chatter. “So it seems we should travel the coast on one of the local flat boats,” he said. “It’ll take us to Cross Creek, in North Carolina. We’ll get a wagon there an’ go to Charleston.”