Dangerous Dreams: A Novel (104 page)

Allie’s eyes blinked open. Blurry, can’t see, gonna puke. Must be the pills. She started to roll out of bed, felt the tug of electrodes. Damn it! She plucked the electrodes from her body. Hurry, Allie. She stumbled into the bathroom, retched into the toilet. Jeez Louise, this sucks! Dizzy, clumsy. She retched again. Oh my God. She started toward the vanity, but her legs buckled; she dropped to her knees. “Holy shit! I’m a mess.”
She pulled herself up, leaned on the vanity top; poured a glass of water, took a sip, another, then a gulp; looked in the mirror. “Big wreck, O’Shay.” She stepped slowly toward her bed, her sluggish mind recapping her dream. Things going to hell . . . but at least she told Ellie and Emme. She smiled weakly. And she got back with Isna. Finally! Really love each other. Lakota beliefs, totally cool . . . wonder if they think that way today. She frowned. Tayler . . . prick . . . took Virginia. Gotta get back. She stumbled to the bed, sat, caught her breath, looked at the window. Dark, what day is it? She looked at her watch. Wow! Sunday night. Stuff really works, out for almost two days. She glanced at the pill bottles. Gotta get back, stuff happening fast. Gonna feel miserable when I wake up, but . . . but what the hell. She took a swig of water, looked at the tangle of electrode wires on the bed beside her, shook her head, then brushed them onto the floor. She parceled out three sleeping pills and three Mestinon, eyed them in the palm of her hand, glanced at the family photo. No tears, Allie, you’re already gone. Gonna be a mess when you wake up . . .
if
you wake up. She thought of Ian and her suspected overdose. God, why am I doing this? She tossed the pills into her mouth, gulped some water, then rolled onto the bed, looked at the ceiling fan. “Head ’em up, move ’em out! Burnin’ daylight.”

Chapter 22

A
s Waters sucked in a big gulp of air, he savored the fresh, lingering smell of the previous night’s downpour, decided it was the cause of the spring-like feel in the air that had invigorated his usually reluctant loggers. But at the same time, he wondered if he’d been hasty in restarting the palisades work on such wet and muddy ground—too much slipping and sliding, and the wet bark increased the risk of an axe glancing off a tree trunk into someone’s leg. He stood with a small group of sawyers and limbers on the far side of the clearing from the palisades, watched two axemen vigorously attack a sixty-foot tree from opposite sides. Deciding they were exercising proper caution, he forced his mind to the unpleasant reality that it was now unlikely the palisades would be finished before John White returned—too many now hunting, fishing, guarding—only a small contingent left for palisades work, and most of them ill fit for the task. Nonetheless, even though the work was slow and laborious and the heavy, green logs had to be carried ever farther, each new log brought added protection to the village. So persevere, persevere, persevere.

He then daydreamed of Rebecca Roberts—her smile, long brown hair, green eyes, somewhat plain yet captivating face, and slightly buxom body. It had been her smile that attracted him; and when he thought of her, it was always the first thing he saw, a permanent fixture of her visage. They’d fallen in love immediately; but her father had harbored nagging doubts about his daughter marrying a soldier—not because he had anything against soldiers, especially officers of good breeding, but because he didn’t want his daughter to be a young widow. So he’d withheld his blessing for a time—too long
a time—and the day before he’d given it, Waters had accepted the Virginia command, which was a career opportunity he could not pass up—a lieutenant in sole command of a contingent that would normally be commanded by a senior captain. His superiors had told him if all went well, he’d be immediately promoted upon his return—perhaps two ranks—a prospect that somewhat lessened the pain of Master Roberts’ awkward timing. But now he was beginning to wonder if he’d live to see England and Rebecca Roberts again.

Peripherally conscious of the rhythmic thuds of the two axes striking the tree, his thoughts drifted to something that had nagged him all day: Elyoner Dare’s curious reply that morning when he’d asked her about Emily Colman, voiced his distress at seeing her with Hugh Tayler. Elyoner had told him that when she’d seen Emily the day before, she’d initially been quite distraught over something but had calmed when she’d found Virginia with her parents at Governor Baylye’s cottage. Elyoner had then started to tell him something else but stopped in mid-sentence. The entire exchange now chewed on his mind like a dog relentlessly gnawing on a bone. What had Elyoner started to tell him? Why had she held back? Why had Emily been so frantic about finding Virginia? He rubbed his chin. What was she afraid of? He stared at the ground for a moment then raised an eyebrow. Perhaps Tayler’s threatened to harm Virginia . . . or . . . or worse . . . if Emily does not do his bidding, and . . . and the poor lass bears the entire burden alone. He shook his head, stared dejectedly at the forest. So what did Elyoner start to tell me? He rubbed his chin again. Perhaps she knows something of Emily’s plight . . . and . . . and she’s sworn to secrecy but started to tell me anyway because it torments her to keep it inside . . . then she changed her mind . . . and two shillings says Tayler’s taken advantage of Emily and will do so again. He stared vacantly for a moment. “Bastard.” I cannot abide this, must somehow persuade her to tell me what’s happened, so we can prosecute this swine and give him what he deserves . . . protect her. He sighed, shook his head. ’Twill be an arduous task to draw her out . . . unbearably painful for her to speak of it, but I must try. He glanced at the two axemen, thought they’d moved too close together, particularly since one was left-handed.

A loud crack ripped through the air as the tree snapped from its stump, plunged toward the ground, and crashed with a muffled thud into the mud. Taking a deep breath, Waters looked around, saw Thomas Stevens, Private Taverner, and Humfrey Newton whispering secretively to one another as they approached the tree to trim limbs. It had not escaped him how quiet Tayler and his miscreants had been of late; but he’d wondered about Newton, who’d previously been little more than a shadow—yet a shadow with a reputation for sudden, stupefying displays of rage. Ah! He smiled faintly. Forgot he’s one of the two former convicts—not surprising to see him with Tayler’s bunch after all . . . wonder what they’re plotting. He picked up his axe, looked around the clearing; accounted for each of the four guards, ensured they were alert, looking in the right directions; then walked toward the far end of the tree just as several ladies arrived with smoked fish, water, and pemmican.

The men received their rations, dipped their cups in the water buckets, then walked back to the downed tree, sat wherever they found space between the branches. Several picked up sticks that had broken off when the tree fell, used them to scrape the huge globs of sticky mud from their shoes before they ate. Stevens and Taverner sat ten feet from the other six men, but Newton sat barely four feet from Cuthbert White, who meticulously removed not just the
big
globs of mud from his shoes but
all
of it.

Waters watched White with amusement from a hundred feet away, thought how, despite always being impeccably dressed, and wrongly voting for Tayler in the election, he seemed a good man—ever willing, naturally helpful, in spite of being gentry. Waters smiled as he watched him shift his food and stick between hands to avoid dropping the food as he experimented with stick positions to effectively remove the mud. Finally, he seemed to tire of the endless juggling, carefully set the food and cup on the log beside him to concentrate on the muddy shoes.

Waters looked back at Stevens and the other two, saw nothing to arouse his interest, started to look toward the palisades, but his periphery caught Newton sliding down the log toward White.

Newton looked back at Stevens and Taverner, smirked knowingly, then turned to White, said something Waters couldn’t hear.

White stopped scraping, stared incredulously at Newton, mouthed something.

Newton responded with more words and an angry glare. The other loggers stopped eating, focused on the two as White suddenly snatched his food from the log, placed it in his lap, covered it with both hands as if to protect it, again spoke to Newton.

Newton sneered, barked loudly, “Perchance you didn’t hear me, White. I said give me your food, now!”

White shook his head, again spoke too softly for Waters to hear. Waters started toward the two.

Newton stood, reached for White’s food; but White pulled it to his chest, turned his back to Newton.

Newton grabbed White’s collar, yanked him off the log, shoved him to the ground, then kicked him twice in the back.

White groaned, rolled toward the log, still clutching his food.

Waters pulled his pistol, broke into a run. “Newton, stop!”

Newton stepped over White, turned about, kicked him in the stomach.

White groaned, dropped his food, grabbed Newton’s foot with both hands, then twisted until Newton, a slight man, spun about to avoid disjointing his leg, dropped to his knees, and tried to kick free. “Let go of me, you son-of-a-whore!” He wiggled back closer to White, stood, and twisted toward him; whipping a dagger from his belt, he stabbed it into White’s shoulder, then into his back.

“Ahhhh!” White flattened onto his stomach.

His leg freed, Newton grabbed an axe from the log, lifted it overhead, started to swing it downward at White’s head, but stayed the blow when the bore of Waters’ pistol pressed harshly against his head.

“Drop it, Newton!”

Waters summoned three soldiers, who tied Newton’s hands behind his back while several of the loggers attended to Cuthbert White. The soldiers then placed a rope around Newton’s neck, led him like a donkey behind Waters to Roger Baylye’s cottage, where they waited until Baylye and Ananias Dare arrived, followed by Myllet and Smith. Waters motioned the sergeants to take charge of Newton and follow Baylye and Ananias inside.
He turned to the soldiers. “Find Sergeant Gibbes. Tell him I said to post four guards around this cottage, fifty feet out from it. Let no one in or out. We’ll be conducting a trial. Understood?”

“Aye, sir.” Two soldiers immediately took up positions fifty feet from the cottage while the third trotted off to find Gibbes.

Waters entered Baylye’s cottage, nodded at Baylye and Ananias, then spoke to Myllet and Smith. “Sit him down; don’t let him move.” He looked at Baylye and Ananias, flicked his head toward the door, led them outside.

Newton watched them leave then anxiously eyed the two sergeants. “What are they going to do to me?”

Myllet said, “They’re going to try you for assault with intent to kill . . . perchance also for stupidity in doing so in front of the lieutenant and the others.”

Newton spit on the ground. “I care not, been tried before.”

Smith said, “For a hanging crime?”

“What . . . what do you mean . . . hanging crime?” He swallowed hard. “I ain’t killed no one.”

Myllet said, “Matters not. You should read the charter, Newton . . . if you can read. Says assault with intent to kill, and several other things, are capital offenses under martial rule . . . which we are under.” He slowly eyed Newton from top to bottom with a studious glare. “You’re not a heavy man, Newton . . . probably kick a long time before you strangle and die.”

A sudden pall of fear spread over Newton’s face.

Waters, Baylye, and Ananias re-entered. Waters walked to Newton, glared down at him. “Master Newton, as a witness to your crime, I charge you with assault with the intent to kill; and since we are now under martial rule, we’ve no need of further discourse. Accordingly, the tribunal, composed of myself, Governor Baylye, and Master Dare, has judged you guilty and hereby sentences you to be immediately hanged or beheaded, as you choose. We’ll not waste good shot and powder on such as you.” He looked at the sergeants.

Newton looked shocked; he panicked then scowled. “You can’t do this, Waters.”

“No?” He looked at Myllet and Smith. “Very well. Hanging it shall be . . . cleaner than the axe. Lead him outside to the tree where we hanged Clement. I shall meet you there with the rope in a moment. Have the guards accompany you, and tell one to bring a tall stump to stand him on while we adjust and tighten the noose. We’ll then draw straws to see who kicks the stump over. Meanwhile, Master Dare and Governor Baylye will summon the colony.”