Chapter Nine
April 28, 1763
Temperance
Temperance Bay, Mystria
Owen awakened on the ground, dust in his mouth, a second before a booted foot caught him in the mid-section and lifted him back into the air. The Prince’s dinner gushed out, replacing the dry dust with the harsh wet of vomit. He landed on his side, bouncing, then drew his knees up to cover his belly.
“Think you’re so smart, do you?” A man’s deep-voiced question invited laughter from his confederates. “Think you’re better’n us, do you?”
Owen coughed, then spat. His stomach ached and the world swam. He could make out silhouettes—at least half a dozen—but there could have been more. The closest one to him, the man who had spoken, filled most of his vision—and that was a factor of his size, not just his proximity.
“There he is, boys, all curled up. A little Norillian dog, ready to die.”
More laughter, until another voice cut in.
“Now, Rufus Branch, don’t appear you’re making constructive use of your time here.”
“You stay out of this, Woods.” The large man thrust a finger at Owen. “You know his kind. He wears the red coat. He thinks he’s better’n any three of us.”
Light laughter came from the alley-mouth. “You ain’t never been good at your sums, Rufus, but even you can see there’s a mite more than three of you here.”
“You want to be evening up the odds?”
“I get to scrapping, ain’t going to be even. Like as not I’d shoot you again.”
Owen shook his head, partially clearing it, then pulled his hands and knees beneath himself. “Three to one? I’ve fought worse.”
Woods, at the alley-mouth, was little more than a tall, slender silhouette with a gun cradled in his folded arms. “Belike that knock in your head scrambled your brains, Captain Strake.”
“Not like he has any brains,” one of the others scoffed.
Owen got to his feet and staggered to his left. He let one of the men catch him and push him back upright. Owen twisted, burying a fist in the man’s gut, then snapped a knee into his face. The man dropped fast. Spinning, he got his back against the building, then jacked his right elbow into the face of the man by his other side. The man’s head rebounded off the building and he flopped forward, covering his compatriot’s moaning body.
It wasn’t the first time Owen had been jumped by a gang. He had one rule for such fights and applied it religiously: do as much damage as you can, however you can, and don’t stop.
The man on his left hesitated, but the one on his right came burrowing in. Head ducked and arms wide, he went to tackle Owen. The soldier hit him hard over the left ear, dropping him to his knees, then kicked him in the chest. The man somersaulted back, cutting Rufus’ legs out from under him.
Without waiting for the man on the left to act, Owen charged and caught him with an uppercut. Tooth fragments littered the dust. Owen grabbed the man’s jacket and tossed him onto Rufus’ back.
Another man raised his fists and broadened his stance. Slightly smaller than Owen, he had a confident glint in his eyes. He darted forward, feinting with a left toward Owen’s head. Owen’s hands came up, leaving him open for the man to drive his right into Owen’s stomach.
Pain exploded but didn’t slow Owen down. He snapped his head forward, smashing his forehead into the man’s face. Bones cracked. Blood gushed over Owen’s face. The man staggered back, hands rising to his ruined nose. Owen kicked out, catching him squarely in the groin. The blow lifted the man a foot or so in the air and dumped him, writhing, into the alley.
Rufus roared and Owen spun. The giant had tossed one man off him and rose to his feet. A head taller than Owen, and with shoulders broad enough to fill the alley, Rufus Branch curled his hands into bucket-sized fists.
“You should’ve stayed in Norisle.”
Owen swallowed hard and set himself. He had one chance. A quick kick to a knee, crippling Rufus; then finding something big enough with which to brain him.
All of a sudden Rufus’ head snapped forward, accompanied by the sound of a musket-butt being applied as a club. The man staggered and half turned. “Why’d you have to do that, Woods?”
“You’re not worth the price of powder to reload.” Woods hit him again, catching him in the forehead.
Rufus Branch collapsed.
Woods lowered his gun. “The last of them went running off. He’ll bring friends. I’m thinking a retreat’s the smart play.”
“Agreed.” Owen straightened up and felt around his right ear. His fingers came away wet. He stepped over Rufus and followed the Mystrian out of the alley. “You didn’t need to intervene.”
“I reckon you coulda took Rufus, but he’d agone and busted you up some. The Prince hired me to guide you. Ain’t no good if you is crippled.”
Owen stopped by a public wellhead and worked the pump, splashing cold water over his head and washing off his face. The shock brought a little clarity, but the aftermath left room for his body to report the aches and pains. Another wave of nausea washed over him, but he choked vomit back.
Nathaniel Woods came around and looked at his ear. “Nasty gash. You’ll be needing some sewing to fix half your ear back on. Good thing Mistress Frost is handy with a needle and thread.”
Owen straightened up again, sweeping dripping black hair out of his face. “They will be rethinking their offer of hospitality.”
“It won’t surprise ’em none.” Nathaniel shrugged. “Caleb likely told them what to expect after he told me.”
Owen looked back toward the alley. “He wasn’t…”
“He don’t have much truck with the Branches.”
The two men moved on through the dark city streets, heading uphill toward the Frost estate. “No love lost between you and Rufus.”
“’bout right.”
“You said you’d shot him before?”
Nathaniel nodded. “He was needing it. Wanted to shoot him in the head, but it was so far up his hind parts, alls I got was his sitting-down meat.”
Owen couldn’t tell if Nathaniel was joking or not. He got the very distinct sense that both in the alley and even now, Woods was measuring him. “So, tell me, Mr. Woods. Would you have intervened if it wasn’t part of your job?”
Nathaniel Woods stopped in the middle of the street and ran a hand over his angular chin. “I’m thinking I might have. Spoiling Rufus’ fun’s one of the pleasures of my life.”
“You’re not afraid of reprisals?”
“Not particularly.” Nathaniel started moving again. “I’m thinking he’s a lot less favorable on being shot than I am on shooting him.”
Owen pressed his handkerchief to the side of his head. “You’re not afraid of him shooting you first?”
“He gets close enough to take that shot, I ain’t deserving of much more life.”
They came to the Frost house. Owen opened the gate and waited for Woods to come in.
Nathaniel shook his head. “Your arrival will cause enough commotion. I’ll give you a day to rest, then will meet you at your supply depot.”
Owen nodded. “I’ve already requisitioned supplies.”
“So I’ve heard. We’ll get them right when I see you.” Nathaniel threw him a brief salute, then backed into the shadows.
The Frosts’ front door opened. Caleb held up a lantern and Bethany came running out, skirts gathered in her hands. Though the light only illuminated part of her face, her widening eyes and opening mouth made his head hurt worse.
“Caleb, quickly, help me.” Bethany tucked herself beneath Owen’s left arm and slipped a hand around his waist. “He’s bleeding.”
“I can see that.” Caleb joined his sister on the other side, and the three of them managed to negotiate the doorway with surprising ease. Without another word between them, they took Owen to the kitchen and sat him in a chair.
The mistress of the house fixed him with an iron stare. “I have seen worse. Bethany, take his jacket, brush it off, and start working on those stains. Caleb…”
Her son held his hands up. “A tot of rum, I know.”
“But none for yourself. You’re the reason he’s in this condition.”
Owen shrugged his coat off. “Mrs. Frost, there is nothing Caleb could have done…”
“Captain Strake, I would appreciate it if you do not presume to know Temperance or my son that well. When we learned you were dining with the Prince, we sent Caleb to wait for you. He did not do that.”
“He told Nathaniel Woods…”
“I am well aware of what he did.” Mrs. Frost took a clean cloth and dipped it in some hot water. She pulled his hand and handkerchief away from the wound and wiped blood away. “I know what a store the Prince sets by Mr. Woods, but that hardly makes him an angel.”
She set the bloody cloth down and picked up a needle. She threaded it, then held it in the flame of a candle.
Owen frowned. “What are you doing?”
“What must be done.”
Caleb returned and handed Owen a small cup of rum. “Virtuan superstition. You were up to deviltry tonight, so there’s demons in the wound. Heating the needle will remind them of Hell’s-fire and scare them out of there.”
Mrs. Frost scowled. “More than once you’ve been sewed shut with this needle and have barely a scar to remind you of it, Caleb Frost. Don’t be mocking God’s work.”
“Yes, Mother.” Caleb pulled back and mimed drinking the rum at a gulp. “It helps.”
Owen tossed off the alcohol. It burned all the way down and exploded in his stomach. He wondered for a moment if he would vomit again, but the rum’s warmth soothed things.
Mrs. Frost took the cup from his hand and poured the remaining drops on his wound. “A cup for your insides, a drop for your outsides.”
“That stings.”
“Good. Let it be a reminder to you next time.”
It felt odd to be stitched up. Not that he hadn’t before, but never around an ear. In addition to the little pokes and the tugs when drawing the stitches tight, he got to hear the popping of his flesh, and the rasp of the thread going through the hole. Mrs. Frost worked diligently, and put more stitches into that small wound that he’d gotten for a sword-gash on his thigh.
Finally she snipped off the end of the thread, then poured another drop of rum on her handiwork. She fashioned a pad out of some clean cloth, rubbed some green paste smelling faintly of mint into it, and set the cloth against the wound. She secured it in place with a bandage that went all the way around Owen’s head twice and tied off over his other ear.
“I should think, Captain, that should do.”
“Thank you, Mistress Frost.”
“You will thank me by staying out of trouble.” She turned to her daughter who was sewing up a tear on his jacket sleeve. “You will get him a pad for his pillow, so he will not bleed on our linens.”
“Yes, Mother.”
Mrs. Frost’s expression eased. “Is there anything else you require, Captain?”
“No, I think, well, perhaps, my writing case.”
Mrs. Frost’s glance dispatched Caleb to Owen’s room. He returned quickly with a boxy leather case. “I’ll put this on the dining table.”
“Thank you.” Owen moved into the dining room, the rum still warming his belly. Caleb had set the case at Owen’s place on the table and had lit a candle. He stood at the sideboard pouring himself a cup of wine.
Owen waved away the offer of wine and opened his case. He set out some paper and ink, then used a small knife to sharpen a quill. But who do I write first?
He saw no purpose in preparing a report on the incident. Langford would only laugh. He might even send his own version of the incident back to Launston to discredit Owen. Preparing a report and sending it directly to Horse Guards would do him no good. It would just be taken as confirmation of the craven nature of the Mystrians, and confirm him as being stupid for having been ambushed. The report’s very existence would be used against him—most likely by his uncle.
And writing to Catherine would not do. She would faithfully read the letter, but would keenly feel every blow. The letter would cause her great anxiety, and that was the last thing he wished to do. Catherine would be pleased and proud of victory, but heartsick at his injury. She would blame herself for his being in such danger.
Bethany came into the room bringing another candle, his coat, and her sewing kit. She smiled. “Please tell your wife that your jacket is in good repair.”
Owen blinked. “Excuse me?”
“You must be writing her, to tell her you are well despite things, yes?” She sat and hunched over his coat. “Caleb told me you are married. You must miss her.”
“I do, Miss, yes, very much.” Owen set the quill and penknife down. “I’m not certain she would care to know what has happened. Not about this, anyway.”
Bethany looked up, surprise cocking her head. “When Ira was gone I wanted to know everything, every detail. He wrote some—had someone write I mean—and my uncle wrote. We got letters in bunches, of course. Some long after…”
“I can imagine how much that hurt.”
She shook her head. “Not as much as not knowing. Men think that not telling saves us worry, but we know. We know when something is not being said, and that makes us worry more. We know you are not telling us something that will worry us, and that leaves it to us to imagine something truly terrible.”
“Alas, my wife is not of a temperament to deal with visceral details.” Owen half-smiled. “She could never have done what your mother did.”
“I know.”
“What?” Owen frowned. “You presume a great deal, Miss Frost.”
“No offense intended, Captain.” She held up his jacket. “I have noticed an indifferent pattern to the repairs. Your wife is not intimate with a needle and thread.”
“You notice my handiwork, I’m afraid.”
“I am certain she would want you to look your best, so I shall redo some things.” Bethany smiled and got out a small pair of scissors. “Go ahead, write. I love the sound of a quill on paper. I find it very soothing. It is one of the reasons I enjoy writing.”
“What do you write?”
Bethany looked up, her eyes widened. “Silly things, Captain. Scraps of poetry. Things that shall never see the light of day.”
“You shouldn’t be ashamed of what you write, Miss Frost. I am certain you have talent.” Owen sighed. “I’m afraid I am a better seamster than a writer, but I shall work at it. But I don’t think a letter is the thing. I shall commence keeping a journal. That will be good for this journey. I shall start tonight. Tomorrow I shall have to purchase journals to accompany me.”
“It should be my pleasure to find you a stationer, Captain Strake, if you so
desire.” She smiled. “With one proviso.”
“And that is?”
“When you return, I wish to read it all.”