Lost Nation (50 page)

There was a fresh load of angry men in the country. And he knew Mose Hutchinson was not done with him. From the look of the men off the wagon it seemed probable it would be a few days before they grouped enough. And Blood did not care for that slender margin—those same men might be tired and worn and have great cares and undertakings ahead of them. But they had spent a week confined as well as the long rough ride home. Plenty of time for plans and schemes. Blood thought I’m weary of all this. Indeed. The hour was upon him.

There she was. The grime and anger all washed away in her slow floating paddling around the clear-tea water of the pool—she could not swim but the water wasn’t deep and she had no panic of it—using her hands to scrub herself in slow motions, the motions softened by the water and exactly what she thought a lover’s hands should feel like although none had yet, but in that time it seemed her body was in a place it belonged. Her anger had frothed high and then worked itself off into the water as if her hands pushed it clear. Now she lay out in the sun with only mild regret and a sensation of near sadness.

Regret that she’d been so swift to leave the camp as to not think to bring clean clothing for after bathing—those she lay atop she was done with. It wasn’t even a question of washing out the grass and mud stains. They would be left here. And so her return to the camp and the boys would be brazenly naked.

Anger, she thought was like so many things. Once spent, the hollowness was revealed. Let them ride out in the morning. One more night in the camp might not be such a bad thing. A chance, before they left, to make clear she was no prize. That she belonged to no one. If they—if Cooper did not like that, better he know now than a day out on the road. She’d be honest. And let them see Blood was safely gone. If by chance she and Cooper stuck, she’d not have that between them.

Thinking of Blood. The terrible mistake of his years of misbelief. His choice to run, to not stay and face his deeds, real or not. And so the relentless punishment of himself. It was some mystery that led a person
from one fate to another. How easy it would’ve been for Blood to have chosen some other girl to bring north. How easy for her to still be in Portland. She owed Blood, always would.

Then came a thought. Cunning in its simplicity. It had been more than a week since she’d fucked for money. She couldn’t recall who it had been and made no effort, wanted no face to be the last. But she was done. She didn’t know what would happen next in life, couldn’t and wouldn’t predict. But she knew this. She was done whoring. If it came to it she could work honest in a public house. She’d learned to garden; there were worse things than being a hired girl on a farm somewhere. But even these things she considered remote—she could go where she would and three things were true—she was not destitute and she was a little more than pretty. And she had wits. Yes. Blood had taught her some of this but most she learned on her own. Because of those wits, she could thrive and she knew it. And she was not a whore.

So. Blood’s tale was sad but not horrible.

Sally sat up now. The early autumn sun was dropping behind the trees and the air was cooling. She was determined to remain alone as long as she could. She did not want to hear whatever Cooper and Fletcher were discussing. She did not want to talk over the events of the day. And if all three chose silence, she preferred to take hers here, alone.

She wondered how Blood was proceeding. What he had made of the day. She truly hoped he was underway. She wondered over his mind.

She wondered if he realized he was only a coward. Nothing more. The coward who ran.

Sometime later she plucked her way through the marsh back to the fire. The brothers were cleaning weapons. Both looked up as she came in and wordless watched her dress in her best clothes. The fire was dying.

Cooper spoke briefly. They would leave before dawn. But once certain Blood was gone, they would backtrack up Perry Stream—where best they knew Van Landt had the only remaining farm, the others burned—and from there over the crude untraveled trails to Canada. No one there would question their leaving such a place behind. Following Sally, the boys dressed in their fine clothes to travel, to appear distinct
from the inhabitants of the territory. Unfortunate travelers making their way from an ugly place.

The horses stood saddled. The gear and arms in three separate piles.

Sally said, “We need sleep.” And went for the last time into the tent and still dressed knelt and smoothed out the layers of blankets, then turned back a corner and slid in. Waiting for no one she closed her eyes.

Eight

Sometime after midnight Isaac Cole came at a tired trot down the road along Perry Stream. Only baleful starlight through the trees but the road was clear and firmed again with the night cold and the footing was good. This roundtrip for nothing—Van Landt not only refused to join with him but didn’t even have a horse to sell. Or so he claimed. That was all right. Cole saw opportunity a-plenty.

When he came out on the road by the river he turned north and went on, past the dark tavern that he watched for his full passage and here his heat increased slightly and his pace also as if the sight fueled him. Then came abreast of the mill, dark with the doors shut tight. The miller had purchased freedom for the men but at great cost to himself. Cole was grateful but did not regret Emil Chase’s leaving. Isaac Cole and the miller’s brother Peter now the senior men. Whoever was sent to operate the mill would soon learn that. For by the time that man arrived, whoever Mose Hutchinson found willing to take on the hazards of the mill and the people, there would be a lesson and example in place. One that no newcomer would take lightly.

He passed the frost-burnt garden piece beside the heap of charred timbers that had once been his home, bits of rail fence still standing, black bars against the frost-whitened ground lit pale in the night. Each rail of which he’d split himself on some other innocent day. Even after ten days and the alternating wet and dry weather there still came the faint smell of burnt home, of clothing, of goods, of livestock slaughtered in the barn and their carcasses left to burn with the barn and the remains
rot slow with the freeze and thaw. Then he was beyond it and running harder now. He’d been traveling three hours this night but despite the failure with the Dutchman he was not tired but exhilarated. He was going toward a group of men waiting his leadership. He swung north with the curve of road along the lake and saw a light burning in a window, the light dim, a single candle-lantern with the shutter closed upon it. He already anticipated the heat of the room, the cloister of men.

Isaac Cole slowed to a walk and opened his blouse buttons to the night air. He wanted to go in cool. Not drenched in sudden sweat. For the measure of ten paces he allowed himself to smile. Somewhere on the high country beyond the lake a fox barked. Cole slowed even more and by the time he paused before his single rap on the door he was ferocious.

In the firelight Blood dressed the wound a final time. There was still an ooze but the fluid was clear and the rind around the wound seemed less bright, less angry. Once done he discarded the split-leg breeches and slowly worked his legs into his one pair of loose-legged trousers. Sagging on him. He’d lost weight since he last wore them. He sliced from the bear haunch and ate his fill. Seared and pink at the bone. He cut the remaining meat in great slices and piled them on a scrap of paper and tied it up with string. That meat and the money—the paper money of greatest value—that he would carry with him, he wrapped tight in a blanket that he made into a slender roll to sling over a shoulder and bind with a thong from that shoulder to the opposite hip. The least encumbrance on his back. From the storeroom he loaded pouches with powder and balls; the rifle and horse pistols took the same caliber. He filled a third pouch with wadding and caps. That pouch did not sling but was looped to fit his belt so it would be tight against his side. When he was done he locked the storeroom but left the money chest on the table and laid the two keys atop it. He sat at the table and whetted his belt knife until he could slice hair from his arm with the edge. Late in the evening he pulled close to the fire and fed the lesser banknotes into it. Left the stack of promissory notes on the table for whoever might find them. A pale reminder of what was owed him, of what he’d provided.

Around midnight he let himself slowly out into the yard. The door left ajar. With a pistol shoved in his belt he carried the chest of remaining
coins. His teeth gripped the set of keys. When he was satisfied he was alone he stumped to the road and onto the bridge. He opened the chest and poured forth the stream of coin. They dropped invisible into the night, dull nuggets signifying nothing. A spatter against the current. One coin turned falling and caught the briefest slash of starlight. He locked the empty chest and dropped it also. It was heavy but had a tight seal and so would float. He watched it twist away downstream out of sight. When it was gone from sight he spat out the two keys. They so slight he didn’t even hear them strike the water.

Back in the tavern he barred the door. Emptied the pistols and rifle and swabbed the bores clean and reloaded and charged all three pieces. Then he stood in the faint light from the dying fire and equipped himself: blanket roll, pouches, pistols stuck through his belt, rifle in one hand and goad in the other. It was a load but not so much he couldn’t manage. And he saw himself, two three days out, toughening, walking, his legs learned their pace. In a sense, he was already gone. It was an old feeling. Twelve hours—four sleeping, eight walking—and he could trust his luck.

He piled his equipage on the table in neat order but remained fully clothed. Even down to his boots. He took off only his coat, folded and laid alongside the rest on the table. Then went into the girl’s room. He had no regret she was gone. Better she was where she was. He thought briefly of the three hundred dollars in gold she’d taken from him and in a way was proud of her. And the children had the horses.

The room was warm from being shut tight through the day and he eased himself to the far wall and quietly let down the narrow shutter from the opening. The thickness of one log, too high and narrow to admit anyone but a child. He needed the cool air. He was warm and feared it might be fever but felt too sharp, too quick for that. It was just hot air captured in a tight building.

He sat on the edge of the bed, atop the bearskin covering. And for the first time all day he felt of a piece. His leg felt sturdy, his mind clear. It had been a day of inflicted trauma—he’d known that starting out. And then the blow of revelation. Looking back he now thought it a wonder he’d made it through the rest of the day to reach this point. Not a matter of pride but simple fact. He began to consider how his life could have been and stopped himself. He was changed, and in the weeks and
months and years to come he’d have ample opportunity to examine the past. Or not. There was no repair to be done.

The brief revelatory moment at the marsh returned. Detailed. His burden was gone. If the golden glow of redemption was more faint, less blinding, it was replaced with something more lasting. His future was open to him. There was a stirring, some faint notion and for a moment he held his breath, half expecting it to shrivel away. But instead it came full-blown as a series of scenes—a plan. He would retreat the very way he’d come, back the rough trail to the Dead Diamond River and on then to Maine. Where he would take ship to Boston. From there he would write his bank in New Bedford for a letter of credit upon his accounts. And then somewhere away. Someplace warm, he thought. Where a man would not suffer the damp cold, rain or snow. Perhaps Savannah, which he’d heard was a city of refinement and comfort. Or perhaps even further, warmer. New Orleans. He had the means to set himself up well. Modestly, to begin, as a newcomer ought. But with a level of comfort new to a man of his age and hard years. He would rejuvenate. He imagined himself in a white suit of some fine light cloth, a small knobbed walking stick. He would learn the dialect of French spoken there. He would slowly visit the churches of the city and see which denomination struck him as right—a process he contemplated with satisfaction. He would read newspapers, obtain books. And in time, he would write letters. To Cooper. To Fletcher. But first to Sarah Alice. A long letter he already knew. Pages, a packet of pages on good paper. The letter of his life.

And he would reclaim his name. Not yet. Not this night. But when he reached Portland. He would leave Blood there. He would be simply Bolles. Micajah Bolles.

He paused then. And there came again the lambent grace and glory of redemption and he saw that it would be so.

He swung himself onto the bearskin and stretched out, not sure he would or should sleep. His brain felt hot with motion. He saw himself out in the autumn woods, moving. He needed some brief rest. It had been the longest day. But he was restless, ready and eager and considered rising, hiking into the night a few hours and halting for a catnap then. It was the right thing to do. He lay a moment loath to leave the softness, the comfort. Then he slept hard.

* * *

Sally woke to a cramp in her leg, that ran from balled toes up into a knot in her thigh. She jerked upward and saw Fletcher sitting out by the fire, Cooper sleeping against her side. She worked her hands hard on her thigh and crimped and loosened her toes until the spasm passed. When she lay back again, Cooper, his mouth close against her shoulder, said, “You all right?”

For answer she reached and touched him, her hand falling against his bare stomach. She felt his shiver under her touch and she held her hand there a moment longer and took it away. She whispered, “No.”

“What can I do?”

“Nothing.”

He sighed and lifted the arm that was next to her and did not touch her face but let his hand cup lightly over her hair, his fingers just resting there. Then took the hand away.

They lay silent side by side.

Out on the rock Fletcher sat, barechested against the frost, the straps of bandage over and around his chest and shoulders. His free hand held their single pistol, a gift from their Great-grandfather that until this night had been wrapped in oiled cloth in a pack-basket, a beautiful thing of polished walnut and brass fittings. Not truly a tool of the woods. He had his legs crossed at the knee, the pistol loose atop the knee, his hand easy but for a slight motion of the barrel indicating he covered the hemisphere of darkness before him. Behind the tent the horses shifted and settled one against the other, sleeping upright. They the best measure of peace available.