Текст книги "The Pesthouse"

Автор книги: Jim Crace

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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

Franklin and his enslaved comrades had learned enough in the previous few months not to risk for even the highest of rewards the anger of these idle, mounted men, their captors. They’d seen too many beatings over the winter, too many throats cut, too many punishments for crimes no greater than muttering under their breaths and being weary before their work was done, to chance any kind of rebellion. They were not fed well enough to have reserved any courage. They were dispirited and fragile. Who’d be the first to call out for mercy for the Baptists? That one might lose his supper for the night, and be denied the promised fire. Which one would call out to the disciples to run? That man might have his tongue cut out or nailed to a tree. Who’d be the first to dare to reach out for a sword? That one might be the first to die. So all the labor gang did was stand and watch as the devotees who’d come to stop the disinterment of the Devil’s metal were encircled by the horses. Franklin and his comrades heard the final prayers and the cries. Curses, even. But they rubbed their hands against the cold. They stamped their feet and watched the horses’ breath sculpt clouds. A hundred heartbeats and the horsemen pulled away again, to leave the Baptists dead or dying in the snow.

Margaret hesitated. Two opposing instincts fixed her to the spot. The first instinct was to gather up Jackie in her arms and scuttle from the Ark as quickly as she could. She already knew what kind of men these were, even if the only one she recognized was the bandy leader in the stolen and recurring goatskin coat. Their bloody swords and pikes stood for what they had already done that morning and what they would continue doing until the raping and the looting began. After so many quiet and uneventful months, even the sight of these men’s perspiring horses, left to graze the paving in the Ark’s inner courtyard while their masters went about their trade, was alarming in itself. A horse had never come this far before. But that was nothing compared to the menace of the raiders’ cries and the hard set of their faces as they ran across the open space toward the building work and the accommodation sheds, looking first of all for men. These were the Anti-Baptists that she’d heard about all winter, strong-armed and cruel-handed outlaws beyond redemption, intent on forging the blood and metal of the Devil’s work, the subject of so many dinner sermons. She and Jackie should run for the gate as quickly as they could, before their moment passed and they were spotted by any of these sinners.

The second impulse held her by the ankles for the moment. That coat was Franklin in a way, or at least it might be a route to him. Just that glimpse of goatskin brought Margaret’s decent, blushing friend alive for her after the months of forgetting. She had lightning images of him, his shoulders working between the shafts of the barrow, his big frame at the Pesthouse door, drenching her in shadow, his fingers between her toes. Franklin Lopez, tall and tender, taking care of her. Franklin Lopez reaching over with his outsized hand to tear the blue scarf from her head. She ought to follow the coat. Her heart demanded it. She was in debt to him. She ought at least to beg the small man for word of Franklin’s whereabouts, if he was still alive enough for whereabouts. She ought to drag the coat off that impostor’s back and press the goatskin to her nose for any trace of her lost and never lover. The word was lover, yes, the lover she had never even kissed, and never would unless she called out to the coat. This might be her only opportunity for getting close to him again.

But this was just a passing impulse. Margaret was wise enough to shake it off. Her first duty was to Jackie. She did what any mother would. She put the child before the man and ran, with Jackie struggling under her arm, toward the raiders’ loose horses and the exit from the Ark.

As soon as they were among the animals, they were hidden from sight and safe for a moment. Margaret was a town girl, and although her family had always owned a burden mare, she was still a little nervous of horses in a group, their nipping teeth, their kicks. The last time she had ridden had been that day when she’d been taken up to the Pesthouse, almost unconscious with fever, by her grandfather. But now she recognized her opportunity. As anybody knows, making an escape by horse is nearly always preferable to making an escape on foot. The horse provides the speed and the distance and is also saddled with the tiredness. Only a sailboat is faster than a horse and then only when the wind is in a helpful mood.

Margaret shielded Jackie from the horses’ teeth and hoofs and pushed her way through the animals to one of the smaller mounts at the back of the group. It was equipped for travel, with a heavy striped blanket for a saddle and leather panniers. She tugged it by its reins. It came readily. She wouldn’t mount it yet. She wanted first to get outside, beyond the Ark’s outer gate. Then she would shelter under the high palisade and consider her options.

The next few moments would be difficult. If anyone was in the small outer courtyard between the two gates, she could not escape unnoticed. Perhaps she could use the horse as a shield, or as an excuse. “I was told to take this horse outside,” she could say. “The small man with the patterned coat said I should.” But no one was there to challenge her. She reached the Ark’s great timber gate. And it was unattended, with just a heavy block of sunshine wedging it open.

They went outside, the three of them, the horse, the woman, and the girl, into the thin warmth of the morning. There was a breeze, a shell-blue sky, the earthy smell of winter melting, and a sound that she hadn’t heard for months, the clatter of metal tools. Had she closed her eyes, she could have imagined she was back in Ferrytown, with everything and everyone well. But still she did not dare to mount the horse. To sit on it was to declare that she had stolen it, and stealing a horse was an act that would earn no mercy. While she was leading it, she could at least maintain the lie that she was being helpful, doing what she was told, making a mistake, that she was muddled, that she had found the horse roaming free – yes, that was best – and was only looking for its master in the hope of getting a reward. She even smiled to herself, relieved to have found a story that might save her, or at least win her time.

There was still no one around to challenge her. She walked between the horse and the timbers of the palisade, with Jackie now growing heavy and starting to snivel in the crook of her arm. The girl reached out and touched the horse’s flank, more baffled by its size than scared. “Horse, horse, horse,” her ma said, a new word for the child, but it was too strange a word and too unmuscular for Jackie to attempt the sound.

The wind intensified as they came out into the open ground beyond the western corner of the Ark, with its high views along the estuary toward the roofs and curling smoke of Tidewater. Now Margaret could hear the metal tools distinctly, but at first her eyesight was too poor and her face was too beset by the wind to comprehend the scene before her in any detail. She could see three mounted horsemen, turned away from her and looking out across the flat approaches to the Ark. Beyond the horsemen, if she screwed up her eyes, she could make out the trenches that she had noticed on her way in the previous fall. The invalid chair that was used to transport the Helpless Gentlemen was lying on its side. She could make out the flash of white tape and what had to be the bodies of disciples. Just as she’d expected when, earlier, she’d seen the bloody swords and pikes.

She moved to the far side of the horse, out of sight and out of the wind, and hurried on, counting away the moments beneath her breath. Fifty to be past the rustlers. One hundred to be relatively safe. Two hundred to be out of sight and out of harm’s way. But something, some half-digested shape, had lodged itself inside her head. She ducked beneath her horse’s reins, still keeping her body and Jackie out of sight, and peered again at what was going on among the trenches. Again she saw the horsemen, still with their backs turned to her. Again she saw the upturned chair and the dark outline of fallen bodies. But now, for the first time, she spotted the gang of men on their hands and knees in the earth, some almost buried, or so it seemed, in the diggings. There was nothing there to give her pause, at least not until one of the horsemen blew for attention on an elk horn and half a dozen of the men stood up and looked in his direction. A tall man was among them, thinner than the one Margaret remembered but otherwise just his shape. She could not see his face in any detail, but the beard was right, a little longer possibly, but its jut was reminiscent of Franklin’s beard. “No, surely not,” she said out loud. Surely it couldn’t be him. She understood her hopes were playing tricks on her. They would make her recognize her Franklin in any man of any height above the average. She should not fool herself. That one sight of the piebald coat had robbed her of her reason, and would rob her of her life and liberty if she stayed too long. She had to get away before one of the horsemen turned around on his mount, saw her there, and recognized his comrade’s horse from its color and its tack.

She pulled the distinctive blanket from underneath the horse’s saddle strap and bunched it up to hide it from the riders, some of whom had matching cloths. She started trotting the animal like a trainer in a corral, with her head close to its and their legs moving in unison. Eighty-five, eighty-six, eighty-seven…In moments they would be relatively safe. Then she heard a sound she half recognized and could not ignore. A laugh. A sudden donkey laugh, but from a man. She looked toward it. No tricks of hope. This time she truly found the laughter’s shape familiar. It seemed to buckle his whole body. His hands were shaking and his head was down. Franklin’s signature.

Margaret knew at once that she’d been blessed. It was a wonder that their paths had crossed again in such a vast and wayward land. It was as well a miracle that Franklin should have laughed at all, for what was there for anyone to laugh at on such a day of slaughter? Without his laugh she would have hurried on with Jackie to Tidewater and been none the wiser. She stepped out of the shadow of her horse and raised her hand to show herself to Franklin.

What next? Margaret hadn’t time to think. She’d not remember what happened after that, not exactly, not in all its detail or its order. But there were images that stuck, amid the commotion: one of the horsemen had dug his heels into his mount and was moving toward Franklin with his stick raised, meaning to put an end to any laughter; Margaret was calling out with a reckless abandon, too desperate and elated to be limited by any fear or caution, “Fran Klin! Fran Klin!”; Franklin was raising his arms, either to wave at her or to shield himself against a beating; a second horseman had already turned and started riding up the slight incline toward her, calling out for her to show herself and put her hands on her shoulders; she was stepping clear of the horse and holding up Jackie, just to show that she was nobody more dangerous than a young mother with a child.

By the time Margaret had looked again across the corpses and the open trenches, Franklin had already taken three blows to his shoulder and a fourth to his head. The next never made contact. Franklin, too stunned to be cowardly, caught hold of the horseman’s leg and flipped him from his saddle. Such an easy thing to do. The rider fell heavily on his shoulder and was slow to rise, too slow at least to defend himself against the flat back of a spade, wielded by one of Franklin’s comrades in the gang. Now Franklin somehow had a heavy mallet in his hand and was swinging it wildly. The third rider, already off his horse – because he had been dragged out of his saddle or had dismounted – was running for his life toward the Ark.

The second rider, now halfway between Margaret and his dismounted colleagues, was quick to realize that he could not manage on his own with such a large gang armed with heavy tools and waste metal and so clearly ready to be mutinous. He turned his horse and started to ride for assistance. In moments he’d come back with his fiercest friends, and there’d be punishments.

Margaret, too, was moving quickly. This much was clear to her. She had to be valiant. She had to be a horsewoman. Thank goodness that she’d taken such a modest, willing animal. She pulled herself onto its back, tucked Jackie between her thighs, and held her tight with her left arm. She surprised herself by riding efficiently with just one hand on the reins, though more rapidly than she’d intended. The group of men from the labor gang were beginning to look more frightened and confused than exhilarated. These unpracticed heroes were alarmed. What might be the consequences of their hotheadedness? Some, seeing Margaret bearing down on them, were already running toward the cover of the trees. Others headed toward Tidewater, putting their hopes in the distant streets where they might disappear among the crowds. A few had stopped to help themselves to jewelry and valuables. Others seemed too scared to run. They stood and watched the woman on the horse, not knowing what to expect from her.

Franklin had not moved off either, but not because he was rooted to the spot by fear. He was standing with his hands above his head, clapping and still laughing, despite the pain in his shoulder and the bruising across his forehead. Again Margaret called his name. But he’d already seen her. He’d recognized her voice and the redness of her now almost thumb-length curly hair as soon as she had shouted his name the first time. He might have taken that second blow to his head if he had not known that Margaret was watching and would be ashamed if she observed what sort of slave he had become.

The slave master whom Franklin had thrown so easily from his mount was sitting up among the bodies of the slaughtered devotees and was holding his head between blood-red hands. But his horse was loose and for the taking. Franklin had it now. He’d been used to horses on his farm. They trusted him. Before Margaret had reached the trenches on her horse, he was mounted, too. He turned its head and dug his heels into its sides. He was its master now.

Margaret found her way between the open trenches and the spoils heaps, winded and elated. “Let’s go,” she said, and loved herself a little for her poise. He shook his head with disbelief. There were so many questions to be asked. Where had she come from? Whose little child was this? He rode with Margaret at his shoulder – at his aching shoulder – toward the north side of the Ark, scarlet with pleasure, too breathless even to say a word to her. He had overexerted himself that day, but joy was fizzing in his lungs. His mouth, and hers, were stretched too wide with smiles for them to form a single sound.

Fourteen

Time now for Margaret and Franklin to take stock of themselves and each other. They’d spent the afternoon riding eastward into the salty scrubland beyond the Ark. Franklin led on the larger horse, with Jackie (as yet unexplained) tied round his bruised shoulders in the loops of the saddle blanket. Margaret, less used to riding, allowed her mount to chase its companion’s tail, half expecting at any moment to hear the beats of a pursuit. The slave masters would try to hunt them down, that was certain. It would be a matter of pride, for a day or two at least, Franklin said. So, hardly minding where it led so long as it was away from any building and therefore any immediate danger, they chose to follow a wet and shingled creekbed, where their horses would not leave any trackable hoofprints. When Margaret’s horse, a mare, lifted its tail to drop its dung, Franklin dismounted and kicked the still steaming muck away into the undergrowth, out of sight. And when any branch or twig was snapped, he took the time to disguise its clean, pale end with mud.

The couple kept to low ground when they could, but as the afternoon dimmed and quieted, so did their anxiety. Conversation was not easy. Now that they were back together, they were awkward and tongue-tied. This was an encounter rescued far too suddenly from their dreams. So many times that winter they had imagined this meeting, what they might say, how they would hug and weep, but they had never truly believed in it. The world was not as generous as that. This dream-free moment was too great a gift. They felt too ill at ease to embrace each other and exchange kisses of relief. They were not kin, after all. They had not been lovers. It did not seem possible that last fall (though only for a few days) she had been his Mags and he had been her Pigeon. Whatever feelings there had been between them then (and it was difficult to know which memories were genuine and which were fantasies) could not be acknowledged openly yet. It was too soon to express out loud any joy at being free, united, heading east. Instead they concentrated on the practicalities – moving onward as quickly and as quietly as they could, hoping to find shelter and a meal, keeping Jackie amused with softly sung rhymes until, exhausted by the motion of riding and the warmth of Franklin’s back, she slept.

Margaret found comfort in the hope that the rustlers would have more immediate priorities than chasing after their absconded labor gang – if any others, apart from Franklin, had had the sense and the guts to run away, that is. Surely new slaves could be seized easily from among the next influx of springtime emigrants, she told herself. So why waste fresh horses and good muscle tracking down those few who had broken loose when there were more pressing matters to attend to? First the loot from the metal burial ground would have to be secured and taken, probably – oh, sacrilege – into the Ark for division or safekeeping. Then the Ark itself would have to be secured or burned to the ground. No doubt all the Baptists were now united with their God and lining up to have their bloodstained devotional tapes replaced by halos. The Helpless Gentlemen would be standing limply at their Maker’s side at last. But what of Margaret’s fellow emigrants? She could only hope her winter friends were being treated well, though in her heart she feared otherwise. Could she hear human voices calling in the distance? Could she hear other horses sneezing? She turned her head like an owl to listen on all sides. No, nothing. Just the usual sounds of a cooling countryside. Finally, when twisting in her saddle she could see no sign of any roofs or any smoke or any hoof-raised dust apart from their own, she said, “We’re free of them, I think. There’s no one at our backs.”

Franklin knew these men more intimately than she did. The loss of slaves might not matter to them, but the loss of face and the loss of horses would be intolerable. At the very least, the two rustlers on guard duty who had been dragged off their mounts and dishonored in the labor gang’s sudden rebellion and the third guard who had ridden for help would want, and would be expected, to put right their blunder. He could almost hear Captain Chief mocking and haranguing them in that deranged voice of his. How could three strong men, mounted on good horses, armed, fail to keep control over that rabble of low-life refugees and farmers? he would want to know. Perhaps these flimsies would prefer it if he found them some less complicated duties in the future. Could he trust them to guard a herd of goats, perhaps, without a couple of the goats pulling them from their saddles? No? Too hard for them to manage on their own? Well, then, did they have the brains between them to take charge of a trussed duck without the duck chewing through its ties and disappearing into thin air with a horse tucked under each wing? He doubted it. He doubted that these three men deserved to have anything for supper except a beating, unless they succeeded in getting back each lost man and both lost horses. At once. Today. “Go bring them in!”

“They’re coming for us, never doubt it,” Franklin said. His only hope was that the three blameworthy guards would check out the obvious hiding places first: the forest just beyond the Ark, and then the shacks and beds for hire of Tidewater. A second, less likely hope was that if Franklin’s labor-gang comrades were recaptured in any numbers, all of them perhaps, then the rustlers and Captain Chief might decide to settle for the loss of one tall man. But two good mounts? Franklin could not convince himself of that.

“They’ll come to get their horses back, I promise you,” he said after a while, wanting to break their silence. “Good mounts are valuable. A man like that without a horse is not much use to anyone.”

“Let go the horses, then,” Margaret suggested.

“And walk?”

“We’ve walked before.” The word beforeseemed sensuous.

Franklin thought about her suggestion for a moment before rejecting it. “Can’t do that,” he said. “A horse will find its masters if you let it go and then lead them back to us. They’ll have our scent.”

“They’re horses, not dogs!”

Franklin laughed. “Only a woman from the town could think that,” he said, and blushed.

Nevertheless, Franklin and Margaret dismounted from their horses as soon as they dared. It would be best to keep their mounts fresh and rested, just in case they were discovered by the rustlers and needed to take flight again. They led them by the reins and took it in turns to carry Jackie on their backs in the blanket sling. Franklin liked her fingers tugging at his neck, the smell of her, the weight of her. He’d worn jackets that were heavier. At least the girl, whoever she might be, was warm in her blanket, but it wasn’t long into the afternoon before the sun was too low and too obscured by cloud and treetops to offer much comfort. Franklin was in his shirtsleeves and his work pants. He had nothing else. The morning of laboring had kept away the cold, but now he was shivering. He did, though, have a pair of stout work boots that made the walking easy. All Margaret had were some yard sandals, a pair of knee-length socks that she had knitted herself over the winter, a long patch skirt, and a smock tied at her waist. No hat. And nothing personal. Everything had been left behind at the side of her bed in the Ark, including her comb and hairbrush, her spark stone, the fishing net with which she had trapped a bird for breakfast months before, and her beloved blue scarf, that remnant of her youth in Ferrytown.

She had lost her pot of homegrown mint as well, just when it could be expected to show signs of springing into life again. She had a haunting image of it bleached into her memory: their barrow being raided on that dreadful night on the Dreaming Highway when the rustlers had kidnapped Franklin, the mint being dashed onto the ground as if the plant were worthless, and then the sudden spinning of her head as her blue scarf was dragged away. “Not her,” the short man had said. “We don’t want her.” And she was saved.

Franklin seemed to hear her thoughts. He smiled at her and raised an eyebrow. “Go ahead, ask.”

“What happened to you afterward?” she asked. Beforeand afterward. “What happened to you when I wasn’t there?”

“You mean the horsemen? All of that?”

“Everything.” Had he missed her? Had he thought of her? Was she in his dreams?

He understood what she hoped to hear – he hoped to hear the same from her – but no, he could not find the words just yet. He spread his hands and blew out air. Overwhelmed and at a loss. Such sudden freedom winded him. There was a lot to tell. There’d been so many hazards to survive over the winter and there was so much distress to put to rest, now that it all – touch wood – was history. “Bad months,” he said. “And you?”

“Bad months as well,” she said.

Neither wanted to be the first to give an account. So they came to an agreement: the one carrying Jackie would do the listening and the other would talk. But they would take it in turns with the girl and the storytelling, exchanging both of the burdens whenever they grew weary of either.

Margaret was first. It was important to explain the child to him. She told Franklin about her travels with the Boses and the two murderous men in the woods, how she’d come to be Bella’s adopted ma, the Helpless Gentlemen, the hilarious and temporary safety of the Ark, why Bella had been renamed Jackie, how that morning she’d recognized the short man in Jackson’s long coat, and, last, Franklin laughing with his great loose arms.

Franklin explained the boredom of slavery. “My story can’t compare with yours,” he said. “We worked, we slept, we nursed our bruises. And I was starving all the time. I could have eaten rope. I did eat rope. And cockroaches.” It felt too personal to mention the punishments he’d witnessed, the deaths or the provocations of the man he’d nicknamed Captain Chief.

Margaret listened with her stomach tightening at the prospect of any news of Acton Bose, Jackie’s – Bella’s – father. She was afraid that she would hear that he had been one of the labor gang in the trenches outside the Ark and that somehow she would be required, for duty’s sake, to seek him out and reunite the father and the daughter. She was relieved and ashamed of herself to hear that Acton had been sold to work in mines and could be anywhere. “I haven’t seen him since that day. Not heard a word of him,” said Franklin. “Poor man,” she said, but could not truly mean it. She wished Acton well, but also she wished him far. “Poor man,” she said again, and felt that the second time she had sounded more convincing.

Franklin checked the mare’s panniers, hoping to find some better protection against the cold for himself and Margaret, but there was nothing suitable, just an empty water bag, some damp nuts, and a few twists of meat that were almost too stiff and rancid to be edible. They had to find some shelter very soon, shelter for themselves and shelter for the horses. At that time of year, the land could not store the day to warm the night. The early spring heat was too thin a sheet. It melted almost as quickly as the last light of the afternoon. They also had to find some food. The adults might be resigned to sleeping with nothing in their stomachs except a knot, but Jackie would not understand. The child, already unnerved and overexcited by that day’s events, was bored and fretful, and tired of being sung to. She wanted her friends, she wanted to play, and she wanted something sweet to suck.

“What happened to those taffies, Mags?” asked Franklin, and Margaret rewarded his familiarity with her broadest smile.

“Those Boses stole them from me,” she said, and, once she’d swallowed hard, added, “Pigeon,” not quite loud enough for him to hear.

It was almost dark when they discovered the outline of a long, uneven roof with a tall chimney on slightly higher ground above the track that they were following. They could smell smoke and supper, but no lights were coming from the building. Franklin found a stick and went alone to see if there was any danger. After a few moments he called out that it was safe to bring the horses up “if they’ll bear the smell.”

The building was a row of connected wood cabins with a square stone smokeshop at one end. And it was mostly empty. No fires were burning, and the only signs that it was still a working place were the sheets of scraped leather that were curing and the hands of stiff smoked fish hanging from the rafters of the house, discarded and forgotten remnants of last season’s netting. There was no other food there or in the cabins, so far as they could tell in the fading light. A side of bacon would have been welcome, or a butt of apples. But there was water in a deep trough at the far end of the buildings, and some forage drying for tinder that would make do for the horses’ evening meal. They were out of the wind, if not the drafts. At least they could stay relatively warm, although they could find nothing with which to strike a fire. Tomorrow when the sun was up they might discover greater comforts.

But for the time being, once they had picked at the smoke-toughened skin and flesh of a fish that they had never tasted before and would pray never to taste again, Margaret and Franklin – Mags and Pigeon – stretched out together as a family on a wooden pallet as far from the stench of the smokeshop as they could, separated only by the girl and sharing the saddle blanket for their bedding. It had been a busy day. They were exhausted, and they slept “midsentence,” as the saying goes, with things that mattered left unsaid and drying on their lips.

Margaret woke in the middle of the night and took a moment to remember where she was and who was at her side. She panicked for a bit, but the sounds that she could hear were only breathing and the wind, and the restlessness of horses, and something deeper, far and near, a sort of restful quake. That was a sound she’d never heard before, but still she recognized it from the stories she’d heard. The snoring sea. The grieving sea. The Waters of the Whispering. The river with one bank. The Deep. She checked that Jackie was well covered and kissed her on her forehead. Then she leaned toward Franklin, a large dark shape. She put her hands into his hair and kissed him on each cheek, beneath his eyes. A tiny sin. Then nothing else. He was asleep and could not know how motherly, how sisterly, how loverlyshe’d been, or how her fingers and her mouth still smelled of last night’s fish. He could not know how full of sudden hope she was, and warm. They’d reached the ocean, then. She was embraced and heartened by the thick of love.