Where the Dead Talk (3 page)

"I’d like to know where Samuel and Joseph are," a different voice said. "They were supposed to have been here an hour ago."

"I say we’re better off without them," Eldridge Carrier said. "Too much of the grave about them, as is – they’ll only bring their ruin on the rest of us.”

He drained a mug of ale. Several of the men – mostly farmers and craftsmen – murmured in agreement. They’d heard the stories.

"Don’t be a fool," Salter said, "the Chases do what’s right by this village, always have. Neither one’s a coward."

"Old Joseph ain’t one to fear killing a man, I think we know that much," Carrier said. "Wouldn’t you say, Brewster."

"You’d best find him yourself, ask him directly," Jude said. The talk got under his skin.

"Right, then," Salter said, "enough talking. We have our orders, and no reason not to get moving. Samuel and Joseph will catch up with us soon enough – they may already be on the road."

The gathered militia looked at him. Not every eye seemed glad at the prospect.

"Everyone outside and form up," he said, raising his voice.

The men drained their glasses and hefted their muskets and packs. A few of them – Eldridge Carrier among them – gave Jude dark looks as they left. He heard one of them mutter "loyalist", but he let it go.

The sun shone warm on the chestnut trees across from the tavern. Most of the shops near the tavern were shuttered, their owners part of that march, or off to see them set off. Jude started putting away the plates and mugs from the militia. There was a knocking from the kitchen. He went to the door.

"I needed to see you."

Jude’s heart sped up. Elizabeth slipped in past him, bringing with her a wave of spring air. She pushed the top of the cloak back from her head and turned to face him.

"I’m sorry," she said, "I know that I shouldn’t –"

She looked towards the common room.

"No one," Jude said.

"I watched them ride off, and half wondered if you’d be with them."

"And I half wondered if they were going to drag me with them by my neck," Jude said. "Not more than a half-dozen trust me."

Elizabeth stepped in close to him. He could see the light from the windows in her eyes. A few moments passed.

"I haven’t been able to stop thinking about yesterday afternoon," she said. Her voice was quiet. She reached out a hand to his own – carefully, as if he might topple over like an old scarecrow.

"I couldn’t sleep. It was the first time that I’ve felt anything in my heart – anything – for years," she said. "I didn’t think it was possible again."

Jude glanced to the common room.

"This isn’t a good idea," Jude said. "It’s broad daylight."

"He’s off watching the men leave."

"Still."

It was hard keeping his thoughts clear, with her standing so close to him. She kissed him, as she had the day before – soft as a gentle rain. Her arms slipped around his back and she pressed against him. He could feel her breasts, her belly. Jude forced himself to pull back.

"We can’t," he said. It was hard to find his voice. "It’s not that I don’t want to –"

She leaned in and kissed him again. He couldn’t not kiss her back. After a few long heartbeats, he pulled back again.

"No – yesterday was a mistake. We can’t. We’re asking for trouble," he said.

"I don’t care."

"But people," he said, "the village. They don’t stand for it."

She took his hand up and slid it into the top of her dress, between her breasts. Her own heart. She turned just so, and her breast suddenly filled his hand. All the words he’d had ready for her fell apart in his head.

"You’re a wonderful man with a kind heart, and I don’t care about any other thing," she said.

She kissed him again and her nipple rose under his touch. Every muscle in his body was suddenly humming. They moved into the morning shadows, pressing up against the table. The trees out back sighed with the wind and broke up the sunlight. Her hands fumbled with his breeches, and he lifted up her dress.

A Dark Rust

The afternoon shadows lengthened as a rider on horseback emerged from the woods behind the Chase farm. Major William Pomeroy sat back in his saddle.

"Now come along, dearies," he called over his shoulder, "you’ll be happy to learn that this tiresome forest isn’t quite as endless as that dreary marsh was."

He flicked a sprig of pine needles from his shoulder and prodded his horse out onto the edge a field. Behind him, two soldiers came out from the trees, leading their horses and one other. A third soldier was hunched over on the last horse, eyes squeezed shut.

"Where are we, Major, sir?"

"Look, Hutchison," Pomeroy said, "I’m starting to rather worry about your constant ‘where are we now, where are we now?’ Strikes me a tad unhealthy. It’s perfectly clear that we’re–" he swept his arm forward "— directly in back of this lovely farm."

The two soldiers leading the horses exchanged a look, no longer even careful not to let him see it. Pomeroy ignored them and headed straight across the field. His men could damned well think what they want – he was past caring.

"Let’s just see if our hardworking folk of the land would be inclined to assist a few of their good King’s loyal troops," he said. "Maybe we’ll get lucky and they’ll have one of their ingenious home-remedies-got-from-the-natives that can help Hawkes with whatever it is he’s come down with."

"His leg’s broke, sir," Private Hutchinson said.

"Ah, yes," Pomeroy said, setting his hat at a practiced angle, "that was quite a spectacular fall, now that I think about it."

They crossed the field and approached the farmhouse. Woodsmoke carried on the breeze as the shadows deepened in the surrounding woods.

"We may even be able to glean a bit of information about the location of the cannons and powder we’re after," he said.

"You’re sure this is West Bradhill, sir?" Hutchison said.

"As sure as the days spent listening to your constant questions are long, Hutchison."

They came around the corner of the house.

"A well," Hutchison said, heading straight for it.

Pomeroy didn’t stop him. Their own water had run out earlier and they’d found nothing but rank marsh water, black with muck and skimmed over with algae. Pomeroy stayed on horseback.

"Get Hawkes some first," he said, tossing Hutchison his own skin. He rode to the corner of the farmhouse. Over a few gentle rises, he spotted distant chimney smoke and the tip of a steeple, painted deep orange with the lowering sun.

"Hutchison," he called back.

The private came walking up, wiping water from his chin.

"Sir?"

"Where is everyone?" Pomeroy said.

Hutchison looked around, scratching the beard growth on his pale face.

"Don't know, sir," he said, "maybe inside?"

The horse stamped quietly. Pomeroy looked down at the private after a few moments.

"And the reason you’re still standing here?"

"Yes, sir," Hutchison said. He hurried over to the door of the farmhouse.

He knocked three times, loud.

"’Allo," he called, "open up."

Pomeroy dismounted, throwing the reins around the hitch set before the porch. Hutchison pushed the door in.

"Not locked, sir," he said.

Pomeroy walked past him and stepped into the house. The front room was long and narrow, the hearth cold. He looked down, then bent and picked up a piece of metal.

"Curious," he said, looking at it. He tossed it to Hutchison.

"Bit of the latch, sir?" Hutchison said. He turned to look at the doorframe. Splinters angled out from a spot over the handle.

"It would appear to be," Pomeroy said. He sniffed the air. There was a lingering hint of powder.

"Bayonet forward, check the other room," he said.

Hutchison brought his weapon around and held it in front of him. He stepped through a narrow doorway on the same wall as the fireplace.

"Bloody hell. Sir..."

What struck Pomeroy first was the blood crusted on the beams of the ceiling – little bits had collected and dripped, forming small rounded stalactites. The floor was smeared with blood and bits of flesh. The streaks on the opposite wall looked a dark rust in the muted sunlight.

"Christ on the cross," Pomeroy said.

Hutchison turned and stepped to the doorway, seeking air that wasn’t heavy with the coppery tang of blood.

"I believe supper is usually slaughtered outside somewhere, don’t you, Hutchison?" Pomeroy said. He wrinkled his nose at the strong smell. The private pointed near the large fireplace.

"Ah. Handy," Pomeroy said. He stepped over and nudged the severed hand with the toe of his boot. Behind him, Hutchison lost his stomach. All the water he’d guzzled splattered on the wood floor, along with the last of the hardtack he’d eaten earlier.

"Just a little joke, Private," Pomeroy said.

Kneeling down, he looked more closely. The edges of the hand’s skin were torn, the bones pulled clean from the end of the arm it was once part of. It was cold to his touch. He stood up and walked to the other side of the kitchen. Blood trailed into the hallway.

"Go get Cooper and have Hawkes keep watch as best he can," he said.

As Hutchison hurried back outside, Pomeroy walked down the hallway, listening. A staircase climbed to the second floor. The trail on the floor stretched to a small door set in beneath the stairs. The cellar, likely. Hutchison and Cooper came through the kitchen; Cooper’s eyes were large, following the trail on the floor.

"I’m rather curious now," Pomeroy said. He nodded to the door beneath the stairs.

"Privates first," he said.

"Sir," Hutchison said, after a moment, "I see it goes right through that door and all – but we’re after cannon and powder stashes. Not... this."

Pomeroy looked at him.

"I see," he said.

A few moments passed in silence. Both Privates kept their eyes straight ahead.

"And you, Private Cooper?" Pomeroy said.

Cooper cleared his throat.

"I agree with Willie, sir," the short Irishman said, "I think we should get Hawkes fixed up and rejoin the Regiment. We ain’t found nothing but bugs and marsh and woods and I don’t see as how getting involved in somewhat like this is, er – really for us. Sir."

"Admirable candor, gentlemen. Really," Pomeroy said, "I certainly wouldn’t want soldiers under my direct command to feel as though they were doing something that wasn’t ‘really for’ them. I know – let’s all just sit down and think this through."

He lifted the pistol he carried and casually waved it towards them.

"On second thought," he said, "you'll do as commanded by your officer – unless, of course, you’d prefer six months in the stocks and an ongoing relationship with the lash for insubordination."

He stepped over to the door and turned the knob, keeping his eyes on the other two.

"Now," he said, "I’m ordering you to go down there. Let’s see if we can find out what happened here."

The doorway was black, stairs leading down into the cellar. They had to duck their heads and feel for a railing.

"Dark as anything, sir," Hutchison said, "can’t see me own hands."

Pomeroy stepped into the room at the end of the hall and found a lantern. He lit it and handed it forward to Hutchison. As they went down, their shadows flickered on the stone wall, the shadow of the railing to their left spilling out across the floor. The air was musty, and Pomeroy could feel the crusted blood beneath his boots. They paused at the bottom.

"Where does it go?" Pomeroy said.

Hutchison held the lantern low to the floor. The blood smeared across the floor at a diagonal, away from the bottom of the stairs.

"What was that?" Cooper said.

"What?" Hutchison said.

Pomeroy hadn’t heard anything – though the time he’d spent commanding artillery in the Scottish Highlands two years earlier hadn’t left his hearing the better for it.

"I heard something," Cooper said.

Hutchison held the lantern out, driving back the shadows to the corners. Narrow shelves lined with bottles and preserves became visible on the wall to their left. The bottom of the chimney cast a dark shadow behind it.

"Something’s not right," Hutchison said.

"Just see where it goes," Pomeroy said.

They didn’t move, listening and watching the other side of the basement.

"And then we can go," Pomeroy added. Hutchison went first, Cooper a pace behind him with his musket lowered. Pomeroy watched as the deep shadow behind the chimney base shifted to the right as they got closer to it. Just as Hutchison came up even with it, a second shadow leaped up onto the wall. Hutchison gave a sharp inhale.

"Mary help us," Cooper said.

The trail of blood ended in a wide pool. A body hung upside down over it. The ankles were tied together; the rope was looped over the end of one of the crossbeams of the ceiling. Both arms hung down, splayed out at angles – and the left arm was missing a hand.

"God, look at that," Hutchison said.

The face was swollen and discolored, splotched with blue and black; the mouth was open wide from the pull of gravity on the rest of the head. Hutchison lowered the lantern. The eyes were open and watching them. From the darkness of the distorted face, the eyes followed the three of them. The pupils were milky and hazed, not right at all. Hutchison stepped back and the eyes followed the lantern. The man’s mouth began to move, darkened lips curling like worms brought up by a night rain. No sound came out save a dry flapping of lips and cheeks.

"My God, sir," Hutchison said. He made a gagging sound and took a step back, leaving a bloody boot-print.

During his stint in the artillery, Pomeroy had once seen a soldier get his arm blown off by a misfired shot. The blood loss had been massive, and the fellow hadn’t lasted the hour. Looking at the amount of blood on the floor – not to mention what had covered the kitchen and trailed down the stairs – he could find no good way to explain why those eyes should move at all.

"Perhaps you soldiers were right," he said, standing up straight. "This really isn’t our business."