The Runaway's Gold (24 page)

I screamed in agony, recoiling around the satchel. And then,
to me horror, watched as he stood above me, one of the stones I had loosened from the wall gripped tightly in his hand.

“Lor', John,” I gasped. “
You'd stone your own brother?
”

“Damn you, Chris Robertson. No one escapes Marwick and our life of misery without a sacrifice.
No one!
That's why we grovel here, generation after generation, clawing the barren land for food, fishing empty seas!”

For a moment he hesitated, and though the light was dim, I thought I saw tears on his hollow cheeks. “Hand over the ducats!” he commanded, voice trembling. “Don't make me do this!”

“Put it down!” a voice shouted from the darkness. A lantern appeared over the top of the wall, illuminating the barrel of a pistol and the familiar weathered face of Reverend Sill.

“Surprised to see a man of the cloth with a weapon as fine as this?” His knurled finger rested steadily at the trigger. “Accurate. Very accurate. Given to me by me Daa when I was just a lad. And though the Lord has blessed me with a voice and guides me to use words, there
has
been the rare occasion that a wayward sheep has needed more than words to chase him home from Satan.”

I glanced at John, the rock still defiantly poised above me. Then I saw his eyes dart to the opening under the lintel stone I had just tried crawling out of.

“A man never lost much till he lost his soul!” Reverend Sill bellowed, pulling back the pistol's hammer. “Although it would be a great blessing to the Godly people of Shetland to be rid of you forever, John Robertson!”

“Wait! Don't shoot!” I screamed, scrambling to me feet as John finally lowered the rock. In the dim light I could make out me once strong, bold brother's hands trembling at his side.

“Don't trouble yourself, lad,” Reverend Sill said. “I shan't break the Lord's commandments for the likes of him. That is, unless he gives me a reason. Although I haven't had the pleasure of firing this pistol in some time. Tell me, John Robertson, what do you suppose is in the satchel Christopher clutches to his chest?”

“I have me theories,” John said, swallowing hard. “And I expect they are the same as yours.”

“Go on.”

“Gold ducats. Dutch, perhaps. Or at least that's how the story goes. But the American spy was supposed to have buried them on Bressay Isle, not in Culswick Broch. So I suppose it's possible there is nothing in it at all.”

“Ah. You know the legend,” Reverend Sill said.

“Aye.” John scowled, jaw clenched. “Thought it but an island yarn till I overheard me brother and MacPherson chatting about the carving in their cell. It didn't take much to put the pieces together.”

“Then let's find out what's here, shall we?” I said, tugging at the brass buckle that secured the outer flap. “Once and for all.”

“Leave it, lad!” Reverend Sill commanded, still pointing his pistol at John. “Your brother doesn't deserve the pleasure of finding out what's inside.”

“Don't I?” John said, eyes flashing. “Chris and I found the carving. We've been coming here since we were bairns.”

“You, John Robertson, are a lad of deep moral delinquencies. This very night I will be relieving this island of your presence for a very long time.”

“Hah—you can't force me from the island.”

“Can't I? As we speak, anchored just off nearby Skeld Voe, my dear friend Captain Leisk awaits in his whaler. Word has it he is in need of another sturdy Shetlander to complete his crew. He leaves for the Davis Strait at dawn.”

John's eyes narrowed, fists clenched at his sides. “You'll not force me to sea!”

And at that moment, it seemed, everything happened at once. John sprang like a rabbit into the shadows of the partially collapsed back wall of the broch, Reverend Sill's pistol exploded, and the dusty odor of gunpowder spilled into the night. What followed was a great commotion of grunts and thuds—until a massive silhouette, holding John firmly by the wrists, bounded into the light.

Knut Blackbeard had found us already! I was so terrified me feet wouldn't move! And then, when the figure slowly edged into the light, yanking John ahead of him, I could hardly contain meself.

“Phew, Reverend! You nearly blew me head off when I scrambled over the wall to stop him.”

“Malcolm!” I cried.

He appeared more bedraggled than ever, hair a-fly, and a
bloodstain on the shoulder of his tattered prison smock. “Turns out the keeper was so full of the hooch, he only managed to graze me shoulder. When I finally slipped down the rope, you was runnin' so fast I just couldn't catch you.”

Malcolm looked about the inside of the broch. “You mean to tell me that this jumble a' stones is what all the fuss is about?”

I pointed to the carving of the tree. “Look familiar?”

He ran the fingers of his right hand over the etched stone while gripping John tightly with his left. “Your brother said you was the smart one,” he said to John. “So what were you doing tryin' to climb that wall when the reverend had a pistol to your back?”

John spat. “I'll not go to sea!”

“Aha!” Reverend Sill said, shaking his head. “He—like the dogs of Satan's tribe—fears the danger of the sea more than the wrath of the Almighty! Oh, you'll go to sea, John Robertson. And Mr. MacPherson here, in repentance for his
many
past transgressions, will volunteer to escort you personally to Captain Leisk's ship.”

John struggled wildly in Malcolm's grip.

“How did you find me?” I asked Reverend Sill.

He smiled. “Let's just say your brother's pride betrayed him.”

“Pride?”

“Aye. But there'll be time for explaining later.” He tossed a rope over to Malcolm, who quickly bound John's wrists.

“I'll not go down like our brother William!” John cried, pulling
this way and that as Malcolm muscled him up and over the crumbled wall of the broch. “Not in the dark waters of the north!”

“Aye,” Reverend Sill said. “With the Devil blowing wind through his teeth, you may one day try to return. But remember, lad—Sheriff Nicolson, Keeper Mann, and their crew will be waiting.” He primed the pistol, pouring in another measure of powder and shoving a ball down the barrel. Then he turned to Malcolm. “No time for delay, Mr. MacPherson. You, too, are a wanted man. If you're to get off this island undetected, you'll need the cover of darkness to do it.”

“Och, aye, Reverend,” Malcolm said. “You're not sendin' me away without first seein' what's in the sack, are you?”

“Have I not been clear about your mission?”

“Aye, ya have, sir. But just a wee peek? I never touched a ducat—”

“Lor', man, have you no shame? After the sins you have committed? Thefts of your neighbor's goods—leaving your wife and bairns with no father or means for sustenance. As I told you back in Lerwick, the time has come for penance, not treasure!”

Malcolm listened and dropped his head. “I stand by me word, Reverend. I shan't let you down.”

“I would expect no less.”

“But please—before I go—that wee matter we discussed . . .”

“Aye, man. On that you can lay your mind to rest.”

“Thank you! Thank you! It's everything to me!”

I reached across the wall and grabbed his thick, calloused hand.

“Made it, didn't we?” he said, a smile bursting from his bearded face. “Just like I told ya we would!”

“'Twas your rope that did it. We have Netty to thank for that.”

“Aye, we do, lad.”

“Hah!” John blurted, spitting at the ground. “'Twas me got you bumblers out! And you're not rid a' me yet!”

“Enough out a' you!” Malcolm said, pulling tight on the rope as he shoved John ahead. “We've got a ship waitin'.”

“Hunt you down, I will!” John shouted, turning back to me as Malcolm dragged him into the night. “Till I get what's rightfully mine.”

Coins

r. MacPherson and I weren't sure we'd find you here,” Reverend Sill said. “Although, with the Almighty watching over us, I knew there was a chance.” He placed a loaf of bread and wedge of cheese on the wall between us. “Now take some nourishment.”

I stuffed the bread greedily into me mouth, a thousand questions swirling in me head. “But—why?” I asked, between mouthfuls.

He grimaced. “Keeper Mann's trickery was the Devil's work. When I heard the cannons blast and news of your escape,
I knew it to be the work of the Almighty making amends for what had happened.”

“And you thought to come
here
?”

“No. Certainly not. On the night of your escape I searched the streets of Lerwick, hoping to find you before Sheriff Nicolson and his men. It was Mr. MacPherson I discovered instead. Poor soul—huddled in an alley off Quendale Lane.”

“He told you about the carving in the broch. And the spy.”

“Aye. The only problem was he knew not the name of the broch. Nor could he tell me precisely where it resided. There being who knows how many brochs across the island, this proved quite a dilemma.”

“Mary told you.”

“Aye.”

“But what of John?”

“Ah—well, as it turns out, I wasn't the first to find Mr. MacPherson that night. He hadn't but cleared Fort Charlotte's walls when he ran smack into your brother. And it was at this meeting that John boasted of knowing your plan to find the treasure hidden at the broch.”

“He helped us escape,” I said. “Why didn't he just make a break for it himself and head to the broch alone?”

“I have wondered that myself.” Reverend Sill shook his head. “Was it that he felt a tinge of remorse for what he had done? Or that he needed the distraction of your escape to accomplish his own? I suspect it might have been a little of both.”

“I wanted to tell you everything,” I blurted. “But if you
knew the truth, you'd have had no choice but to take me to the sheriff. And then I wouldn't have had the chance to get Daa's pouch back from John.” I looked down, picturing the bearded man with the knitted cap at the lodberry stuffing the pouch in his pocket. “'Course, I never did get it back. But I had to try.”

Reverend Sill gazed into the dark of the scattald. “That night, in the croft, you killed the Peterson ewe not because you wanted to but because you couldn't cross your Daa.” He looked back at me, eyes glassy, and continued. “When you finally confessed the truth, it jarred a memory. One I've kept buried deep. I, too, had a Daa, you see. And a fierce one at that. He was a powerful man in the Church—led the parish of Lerwick for more than thirty years. While I was a lad we had a servant boy, Jan Josephson, who was about my age. We were like brothers. I was the reverend's son and wasn't allowed to play with the other lads of the parish because they were considered wild and un-Godly. Jan was my only friend.”

I tried to picture Reverend Sill as a lad, but it hardly seemed possible.

“Then, one day, Jan was caught stealing a loaf of bread from the baker, and Daa decided it was time I showed him his place. Told me, ‘Son, you're to whip that boy, no less than twenty-five times, to be sure he has learned his lesson. For he has sinned, and we alone, as his masters, can show him the true way to redemption.' To this day I can still feel that whip in my hand.” He stretched his knurled fingers before him. “And hear the sound of Jan's screams. Begging me to stop, pleading, as blood
streamed down his back. But I didn't. I couldn't. For there, by my side, stood Daa—arrow-straight, in his black hat and cape—his steel-gray eyes willing me on with nary a word.”

He paused for a moment, his Adam's apple bobbing in his wrinkled, leathery throat. “It's a powerful force a Daa has over his son. A powerful force.”

I looked away, me arms hugged tightly to me chest. “And when that force is dark?”