Then came the thunder.
It was no heavenly visitation this time but the work of men, and it ran along the entire length of the strip, which a newly put-up sign identified as Lodenhead (a name generally presumed to have derived from the dominant color). Ulrich had issued the command to his assembled work force: the jacks from the Bolt camp, others from the companies Enoch had bought out, and a number of men Ulrich had brought with him, who looked about as much like loggers as he did. The genuine ones had been slow to believe what they heard, and some had insisted he could not mean it, but his reiteration had settled all doubts: the forest was to come down, and by the fastest means possible. The clearing of those saplings had been only a first step. Perhaps Nigel's store of dynamite had suggested the plan to Ashley, or perhaps he had arrived at it independently; it was altogether in keeping with his way of doing things.
So charges were laid all the way up the strip–and then, fatally, set off. Trees fell and flew, like so many matchsticks dropped, flung, or broken; some nearly whole, some halved, some shattered entirely. Teams of oxen stood at hand to drag those that could be dragged–and whither? To block the flumes and the skid roads striping the property, and the creek that bounded it on the east side, the Bridal Veil side, whose water was already cluttered with leaves and wood chunks.
Joshua had spent the morning looking up Enoch's representatives, he and Jeremy having agreed that continuing the investigation was the best hope of turning up weapons, if any existed, that might be used against Ashley. They had also decided to continue in the meantime with the work they owed under the contract, using the small crew they had left, lest the company declare them in default, but for the moment the accident on the pier had granted them a temporary respite.
Joshua's overtures to Enoch's people had met with rebuffs from all except one. Later he learned that Ashley had issued an edict forbidding disclosures to the press, and especially the Gazette; only Quentin, who did not like being told whom he could and could not talk to, had risked defiance. But apart from his own resentment of Ashley's high-handed methods (which Joshua had surmised for himself at the saloon), he had had little to disclose.
Thus frustrated, Joshua had taken a walk out to the railhead to see Fiske, hoping that his comparative independence from Ashley would encourage him to speak more openly than the others. So it might have done, but the railhead was now completed, and Fiske and his crew were gone. The track lay three miles outside town, far enough so that when the booming began Joshua could not identify its nature or its source. He ascribed it at first to the elements and then, vaguely, to some new project of Fiske's. But on his walk back the sounds grew louder, and his worry deepened with each step he took.
On reaching the north end of Lodenhead he got his first glimpse of the destruction proceeding. Half the laborers were strangers who looked to him like city toughs; others, he recognized as Bolt men. Along the borders spectators had gathered and were exhibiting feelings that ranged from dismay to indignation. As Joshua continued down the strip's western fringe he saw more clearly what the crews were doing, where the logs were going–and why.
His mind fought the understanding. As one who approached the lumber business coolly and methodically, he could only view the scheme that presented itself to him as that of a lunatic, and self-defeating, too: Enoch appeared to be sabotaging what Enoch itself had paid for. It made no sense. But the evidence was too plain to deny. And so was the danger: how could they not see it themselves? He felt he must warn someone. But whom? Those who had created it, and alone might yet avert it? Or those who, yet unseen, might fall into its path?
He had not time to decide, for then he heard, in one of the pauses between bouts of blasting, the rumble of logs in a flume. He saw them first as a brown streak shooting down the mountain. Nearer him, where the flume crossed the strip, wood had been piled as for a bonfire. The train of logs was speeding toward it. The rumble grew to a roar. Ashley's men stood watching, not doing anything–and what could they do now?–as the first log hit the pile with a loud crack. It recoiled into the log behind it, that log into the next one back, and so on all the way up the race. Logs bounced, reared up, tumbled over the sides.
On the far side of the mountain Jeremy had barely heard the blasting and thought, without thinking, that it must be Nigel again. He had brought a gang out to finish the tasks left unfinished by those who had decamped the day before. The aggregate of the remaining men was so small for a camp so large that none of them had chanced on a view of the activity below till almost noon. The first to do so had been Swede, who had taken up his old job again in the assurance of an imminent marriage. He had run out to fetch Jeremy, Jason still being gone no one knew where, and Joshua being in town, no one knew why. Once Jeremy had seen for himself what was happening he had rounded up everybody, left Swede and two other men to watch the camp, and led the rest down to Lodenhead.
Approaching, they had foreseen and then seen the collision. Now, having arrived, they ran to where one of the work gangs was just prising open another dynamite case. "No more!" Jeremy ordered them. "You're blocking our flumes!" He looked for faces he recognized. "Billy," he said, "you should know better than this."
Some of those he did not recognize looked to Ulrich, and Ulrich to Ashley, who was standing next to him. Ashley nodded, Ulrich copied his example, and the gang made to resume work. Jeremy and his men began to shove or drag them away from the dynamite, they resisted, and the struggle quickly turned into a fight. Billy, stricken with a sense of impropriety that was his closest approach to guilt, proclaimed, "I won't raise a hand against Jeremy!" and turned on the other workmen; this inspired some of his brother loggers to do the same. None of them had noticed that several of Ulrich's men, at a signal from their captain, had slipped away and were starting up the mountain. They were armed with guns.
Reaching the end of the strip, Joshua found Ashley watching the conflict with as much pleasure as if it had met a cherished expectation of his. Joshua ran to him and insisted he put a stop to it. "All right," Ashley said easily. "Sheriff?" He turned to Ulrich, who, Joshua saw, was now wearing a badge.
"Sheriff? On whose say-so?"
"Ours," Ashley declared. "Conditions in Seattle threaten our interests. The civil authorities have abandoned their responsibilities. Stempel has left town"–this was news to Joshua–"and your brother's heading up the ruffians who started this fight. The sheriff was a witness to it–weren't you, Sheriff?"
"Sure was. Assaulted your men on no provocation whatsoever."
"Arrest 'em." Immediately Joshua's mind was filled with a single thought: to warn his brother. He started forth across the ruined wood. "Him, too," Ashley added. He reached for his cigar case.
Seconds later the bay of an ox horn echoed through the hills. "Cookie!" Corky said.
"No, Swede," said Jeremy. "I told him to blow the cook's horn if there was trouble." He knew what it was, too. "They're taking the camp!" They must get back and save it, if saved it could be. As they retreated they found themselves pursued across the creek and up the mountain. It was too late for Joshua to deliver his warning, and now it was unnecessary. Half the sheriff's men disappeared into the Bridal Veil forest after his brother; the other half were advancing on him. At the sheriff's order they accelerated to a run.
Joshua quickly looked round him. The creek stood nearby; the bushes were dense on its bank. He ran for them and dived into their midst. In and out he scrambled, on all fours, following the creek north, not taking time to look behind him. At last he reached a shallow ditch, where he stopped to catch his breath. He listened but could not hear his pursuers' footsteps. Had he escaped them? And if so, for how long? One thing he knew: he must find Jason. But where? Where?
Jeremy's band never reached camp. Halfway up the mountain they were met by Swede and the others, fleeing at top speed. "Sorry," said Swede, "they took us by surprise." Between them and the men below, Jeremy saw that the only choice but escape. "Where will we go?" asked Swede.
"Barnsdale," Jeremy said at once. It was a thick wilderness in the furthest part of the mountain, where they could safely hide and make plans–if they reached it.
Once Joshua had made sure of eluding the posse he left the bushes and continued north along the creekside, having a notion the Waterworths' cabin lay that way. Eventually he found himself near the railhead again. From it he heard the puffing of a locomotive engine. He could hardly have resisted looking at any time, but especially now. He found a hill from which he could watch as the train steamed past. She was pulling two boxcars.
As she squealed to a halt Joshua moved over a few yards to obtain a view of the terminus, where a group of men was waiting. Ulrich was standing at their head. Joshua recognized them as the ones who had been chasing him; so this was where they had gone. When the train stopped moving they went back to the cars and slid open the doors. Now at last Joshua understood Ashley's reason for wanting the railway completed. The cars were filled with men: more of Ulrich's, probably–enough to make a small army. They were not in uniform, though some of their garments looked like cavalry issue.
As they were debarking one of them happened to spy Joshua on the hill. He pointed and gave a cry. Joshua turned and ran up through the wood. He continued till he was stopped by a bluff that overlooked the river. While he was weighing whether to try it where he stood or to follow its edge along till the slope eased off (if it ever did) he heard voices behind him: the army had started up the hill. They were farther away than they sounded and were not within sight of him yet, but soon would be. He had no choice but to attempt the descent directly below. He looked across to the hills on the far side–and nearly fell off the precipice. Surely what he was seeing was a mirage–or if not he had lost his reason. For on the summit opposite, exactly matching the engraving his uncle had once shown him, stood Kilmaron Castle.
At the same time, on the mountain Joshua had left behind him, Jeremy and his foresters were leading the sheriff's men a merry chase across the sun-splashed slopes, between colonnades of trees. Not knowing the ways of the woods like those who roved them daily, the pursuers soon lost the track. And worse, once they had penetrated into the wilds of Barnsdale they began to encounter spirits. A leg would kick out from behind a tree and send its target over a hillside; a pair of arms from nowhere would whisk their victim into a copse. Verily, eftsoons didst ye wights flee affrighted; and the laughter of their unseen tormentors rang after them. The sanctuary thus purged, the woodsmen emerged from hiding to set about finding themselves a camp by what remained of daylight.
Gazed at by the same lowering sun, the stones of Kilmaron Castle blushed pink. Its towers stood out clearly against the mist that veiled the mountains behind and hovered over the river below. From the picture he had seen Joshua had no doubt of the building's identity–but what was it doing here? He had no leisure then to wonder further, for the army was fast closing on him. The castle would be his best refuge, if he could make it; and he was burning to see it more closely, anyway.
The cliff was practically vertical but thickly coated in shrubs. Using these alternately as foot stops and handholds, he made his way down to the glossy silt of the bank. He entered the river without hesitating, and tried not to notice the chill that slithered through him at the water's first touch. He used his legs to propel himself to the sandy bottom, where he stayed as he glided across. He had not foreseen that his jacket would weigh him down, and he was forced to shed it; he was also forced, a little past halfway, to ascend to the surface for more air, after which he returned below and completed his crossing. Clambering out onto the east shore in the cool dusk, he felt the press of his wet clothes against his body. He looked back. The army had found a gentler slope a little farther south and were beginning their descent. He should reach the castle well ahead of them.
The hill proved less steep than many he had climbed at home. At a moderate speed he threaded his way between the stiffly leafed shrubs and over the slabby rocks to the high rim, where he paused to take in the castle at closer range. It was set back thirty yards and rose to the same height above. He had never before seen a castle so close–or indeed at any distance. Its stones were large and bore the wear of time. The broad oak door, the small, thickly glazed windows, the corner towers with their merloned and crenelated crestings recalled the calf-bound volumes of Scott he had read on his pillow in boyhood, and some distance into manhood.
He looked behind him again. The army stood clustered at the far bank while its captain strode to and fro, probably ruminating on whether to swim or build a raft. He lifted his head at a hail from up river, where his scout had discovered a partial land bridge.
Joshua waited no longer. He cleared the ground to the castle door and rapped insistently with the lion's-head knocker. The door did not open. He ran his eyes over the wall: to scale it would require a rope and a grappling hook. The side wall was just the same. But at one of the far corners stood a tree–one only: a tall slim spruce with a crookbacked trunk whose tip nearly abutted the tower. Joshua made for it at a run. The distance was greater than he had supposed: the stones were broad and the walls long.
He stopped at the roots of the tree. The climb looked fairly easy, for a lumberman anyhow. As he shinnied up the first few feet his wet trousers chafed his legs, but they cleaved securely to the rough bark. He reached the lowest limb and stepped onto it; when he heard it crack under him he swung up to the next one above it; and so he progressed rung by rung. Two-thirds of the way up, he chanced to look beyond the leaves to the wide round tower. At one of its windows he saw a woman's face–or thought he had, but a moment later it was gone. He thought he well might have dreamed it, for it was one of the prettiest faces he had ever seen, with eyes like bluebells and cheeks like the palest pinks. Come to that, he was not sure he was not dreaming the whole business; it was fantastic enough.
Reaching the treetop at last, he found himself looking down on a wall walk, at a distance he could leap, if his aim were true; if not he would plummet forty feet, perhaps to his death. In the absence of an alternative, he girded himself for the attempt. With a deep breath–the thin air dizzied him a little–he sprang out into the void.
He did not make the floor but landed with a smack on the edge of the parapet. A second later he began to slide off. Clutching the cold stone with hands and forearms, he pulled himself up and over onto the flagstones. He lay crumpled there for a minute, retrieving his breath, and then raised himself to peer over the battlement. As he surveyed the vacant ground, listening to the rustlings and chitterings from the woodland below, he believed for a moment that he had lost his trackers. Then he heard a shout from the hillside, in a voice he recognized as Ulrich's. They were certainly going to a lot of trouble on Joshua's account; Joshua wondered why.
At each end of the walk stood a door resembling the one in front. As he was pondering which to take, the nearer one swung open. He slipped through before stopping to consider how the residents of this isolated keep might feel about trespassers. Immediately the door shut behind him and he found himself within a small round chamber lit dimly by two windows like the one at which he had seen, or imagined seeing, the woman's face.
A moment later he felt the prick of cold steel between his shoulder blades, penetrating to the skin through his sopping shirt. He heard a woman's voice: "Up with your hands." Its unmistakable Scots burr was palliated by the sweetness of its timbre. Joshua did as commanded. "Now turn aroond, slowlike." Again he obeyed–and to his amazement saw opposite him the face from the tower, burnished by the dusklight, haloed by the tricolored glass of an adjoining chapel partly visible through its archway. The figure below the face was tall and willowy, the hair around it the color of buckwheat flowers. The woman was clad in a long skirt and a white blouse, with a plaid shawl round the shoulders; and she was holding a foot-long dagger at Joshua's chin.
Presently he dared to speak. "I'm not generally one to stand on ceremony when making a lady's acquaintance. But may I know how long I'm apt to be staring down the flat of your blade?"
"Till the question's settled in my mind whether to kill ye or nae." Her wariness seemed mixed with curiosity. "Ye dinna doot I wuid?"
"Don't doubt it a bit." He could not have said that of any other woman he had ever known, even Candy. His range of experience had been woefully provincial, except for Lottie Hatfield and a girl belonging to a dance hall troupe that had summered in Seattle once (and who, oddly, had resembled one of the brides). But here was a woman as real, whole, and immovable (short of blasting) as the pines and the boulders of his mountain, and who pierced no less to his heart; the kind of woman he had been seeking his whole life, though he had not known it till now. He only wished circumstances had permitted him to appreciate her at more leisure. Yet, grateful as he was for their meeting, he deemed it not worth the forfeit of his life–almost, perhaps, for he was exceedingly romantic, but not quite, for he was also exceedingly practical, and he did not want to die before mastering the intricacies of his new press.
A shout sounded from farther in. "Morna! Come quick!"
"Och," she said, obviously disappointed, "noo Ian's settled it for me. Come!" With her blade she guided him past the chapel and down a tightly winding stair into a narrow passage, and then into another, which opened onto a balustraded landing overlooking a great vaulted hall. Even in his present straits Joshua felt a rush of awe on realizing this to be the hall of his ancestors.
A good fire was going; above hung a hunting scene woven in wool. The other walls were hung in solid colors with borders in ancient patterns. The rush mats on the floor and the sturdy oak tables and chairs looked randomly placed, as if the occupants had been used to pushing them about at their whim. The room seemed to Joshua to resemble more than anything else in his experience Seattle's big meeting hall. It was not at all like a home; yet for some reason he felt at home there. Looking at the men below with their pronounced Scots features, he might almost have believed he looking at his forebears. They were crowding to peer out the windows at the front; all except a large man with a red beard at the foot of the stairs. Morna inquired from the landing what the matter was.
"Matter aplenty," said the bearded man ominously. "The Philistines are upon us!" He looked up at them. "Wha's he, then?"
"The first o' the lot." She ran her eyes over Joshua as a man might a mare he proposed to buy. "Though he's nae Goliath, tae be sure." Joshua felt rather hurt by this. "Where he entered, his comrades may follow."
"You mean the men outside?" Joshua asked. Morna paid him no notice.
Ian hurried upstairs to them. "Where? Show me, lass." He started up the passage they had come by. A prick in the ribs instructed Joshua to follow, and Morna walked behind him with the dagger between them. "How mony are ye?" Ian asked him. "It'll do ye nae guid to lie, we'll ken it afore lang."
"I saw seventy, maybe eighty. But I'm not with them. It's me they're after." Ian turned canny Scots eyes on him. "Sorry to have led them here. But yours was the only harbor that offered." It never occurred to him that either of them might doubt his word.
Ian pursed his lips. "How do ye reckon him?" he asked the woman.
"Bit of a gowk," she said, with a trace of a smile, "but an honest lad. I'd stak' my life on it."
"What's a gowk?" asked Joshua, though he had a fair idea. Again she ignored the question.
Ian nodded, pleased. "And sae wuid I. Put up your dirk." She did so, to Joshua's great relief, and they continued on the way to the parapet. "Dinna fash yourself, lad. 'tis hither the villains were bound, onyway, or I'm a sassenach. Ye see, we're trespassers in this hoose–though it be our ain hoose."
"Yours!"
"Ours. And damned be the mon who says otherwise."
Joshua was disappointed. "Then it isn't the house I thought. It isn't Kilmaron."
Ian halted. "Kilmaron it is, as ever was. But how d'ye ken that?"
"Kilmaron belongs to the Bolts!" He remembered his uncle's story. "Or did till they sold to–"
"The bluidy English. Aye, sae we did, curse the day. But noo we've tak'n it back."
"'We'?" Joshua slowly realized what that meant. "You're not a Bolt?"
"I am."
"But I'm a Bolt!"
"You're nae!"
"Which Bolt are you?"
"Ian, son o' Duncan, brother to Gordon and Hamish. And you?"
"Joshua, son of Jonathan, brother to Jason and Jeremy."
"Cousin!" The two locked in a hearty embrace.
Joshua looked at Morna. "And is she–?"
"A MacBaxter." Joshua's countenance brightened. At the same time Ian's turned dark. "Alas, the Bolts are but few in these days. We called on our kinsmen, and the clans that owe us fealty of auld, tae join in our crusade. These devils think to drive us out, but we're sworn to hold this keep and hold it we sha', though a' their armies be raised against us. And if we shuid fa' we'll mak' such a noise in our fa' as will resoond in the hielands for aye."
The words sounded grand, no doubt; but coming from the same family, Joshua had had an abundant experience of grand-sounding words, and had spun more than a few of them himself. Choosing a more practical vein, he asked how large Ian's force was; he had seen only a dozen or so in the hall below. And the biggest question of all had yet to be answered: "How does this castle come to be here?"
"Mon, I've nae time to read ye a history the noo. We've a battle brewing!"
The three emerged onto the wall walk. Ian craned to peer over the side. "How ever did ye gain this?" he asked.
Joshua pointed to the spruce. The other two looked up and down its length, and then at each other. "Ye're doughtier than ye luik," Morna said. The compliment pleased him less well than it might have; but Ian made up for it by clapping him on the back and avowing that only a Bolt could hae duin that.
Joshua looked out toward the front of the castle. "Maybe not," he said. The army had divided to reconnoiter both sides, and one party was following the same path as he had, under the walk they were standing on. They quickly stepped out of view. Presently they heard a voice below: "Look here, cap'n!" Their enemies had discovered the way up. Joshua peered down again. "They have ropes," he whispered. "Unless something's done they'll be on top of us directly. Are you armed?"
"Armed, ye say?" Ian opened his jacket to reveal a pair of silver-handled pistols at his waist. He drew one of them and held it out to Joshua. "Noo ye must decide–will ye stand with us or nae?" The question made Joshua realize that he had already joined their fight without thinking about it, or indeed about anything that had befallen him since first spying the castle. When he had lacked time to consider, he had felt no reservations; now one gave rise to the other. Ian misinterpreted his hesitancy. "Understand, lad, I've nae wish tae compel ye. But if ye willna ye can see I've little choice but tae throw ye doon on top o' them."
This resolved the issue speedily. "Then I'll stand with you, by all means."
"Aye, I thocht ye wuid." Ian passed the pistol to him and drew the other for himself. The men on the ground hefted their ropes in preparation to fling them over the tree limbs, as for a hanging. Ian and Joshua stepped forward to one of the crenels and took aim. They fired at the same time, Joshua past the men's heads, Ian past their feet; and then both ducked out of sight. "They'll think it's sperrits," Ian chuckled. Joshua doubted this strongly but concurred that keeping their foes ignorant of who and how many they were was their wisest strategy. He hoped he was not thinking too much like Ashley. They heard feet pattering off, and when they next looked the men were gone. But another attempt would certainly follow.
Joshua thought the matter over for a moment. "Have you any rope?" (The enemy had taken theirs away with them.) "And such a thing as an axe?" Ian nodded. "Fetch it. And more men." Morna was sent, and returned shortly with the items he had called for. The axe was not of a type he used in his trade, but a single-bladed Lochaber. He learned afterward that till then it had been relegated to use as a wall ornament, and he felt an unreasonable satisfaction in recalling it to duty.
The Scots watched with curiosity as he put the plan he had devised into action. He fashioned one end of the rope into a noose, looped and tightened it round one of the merlons, and tied the other end round his waist. Then he pulled himself up onto the ledge, took the axe in one hand and the rope in the other, and lowered himself down the outer wall, stepping backwards. He stopped when the rope tautened, as he had calculated it would, at a point about halfway down. From there he let go, swung round to face the tree, pulled himself over by one of the limbs, and set his feet astride a thicker limb beneath it. Once sure of his footing, he lifted the axe and began to hack at the trunk. The blade was sharp, and the work proceeded rapidly–to his eyes, though to his allies, who had no means of marking his progress, he seemed to be taking the devil's ain time aboot it.
After roughly an hour he saw that the upper half was ready to fall. He climbed up to straddle it, rocked it to and fro till the core snapped, and then rode it down as it toppled over: an old trick he had been fond of showing off in his younger days, till Jason had put a stop to it. This time, it made Morna gasp (as had been part of his plan also). As the trunk fell out from under him he swung back to the wall and called to the men above to pull him up. So they did, and when he had safely regained the walk they contended with one another to express their congratulations, and their happiness to have him on their side.
When the party returned to the hall they learned that during their absence the army outside had made an attempt on the front, probably supposing the main body of its defenders to be at the parapet; but the attempt had gone no farther than repeated runs at the door. This was not so puzzling on the assumption, proposed by Joshua, that Ulrich was under orders from the owner to keep the building intact. If so the defenders gained thereby a double advantage, for despite their resolution to preserve it at all costs they would not scruple to impose a little damage–and indeed had done so already, having repelled the evening's attack by battering out two of the glazings and firing blindly, but with fortuitous accuracy, out through the small window-holes, thereby sending their foes scurrying away down the hillside.
Long since, Morna had noticed the wetness of Joshua's garments but had been precluded by events from acting on the discovery. Now, with Ian's permission, she led him to a chest upstairs from which she took out a set of dry ones. She did not know that, by virtue of his profession, he was used to being wet for long periods; but tonight he welcomed the offer of a change. His clothes, which were soaked entirely through, were weighing on him more than usual. Their replacement, however–and the only type of attire not in service at the moment–turned out to be a traditional Scottish dress rig, consisting of a white shirt, knee-length hose, and a plaid kilt. There were no shoes to be had, and so Joshua was obliged to retain his own, which clashed somewhat with the rest of the ensemble.
When he had finished changing he inspected the result in the bedchamber mirror. The clothes were a tolerably good fit, he thought. Their panache made him feel just a little foolish, but they recalled his reading of Scott, and all in all he was not displeased. In the mirror he spied Morna peeking in (for a glimpse of his bare chest? perhaps, then, she was not as prim as she appeared), smiling in a way that suggested she was not displeased, either. Noticing that his eye was on her, she ducked out of the room; and when he rejoined her in the hall she had reverted to her customary gravity.
The castle had a tower at each corner, no two alike, and each connected to the next by a walk like the one by which Joshua had acceded to the castle. While he had been changing, the Scots had made an inspection of these and satisfied themselves that none of them could be attained easily and also that, taken together, they commanded a comprehensive view of the exterior wall, except for the outermost part of the southwest apse, which protruded a little farther than the others. Ian had ordered a watch to be kept on all sides, round the clock.
Upon Joshua's return the others remarked the transformation approvingly. "Ye're a true Bolt and no mistak'," said Ian. He assigned Joshua a turn on watch after supper, which Morna had gone off to prepare. One reason for Ian's bringing her had been to have a cook at hand, since his own had refused to accompany him and he had had no confidence in his clansmen on that score; but it so chanced that one of these also had the knack, and was able to take turns with Morna in the kitchen. The information made a pleasant surprise for Joshua, who had not thought before to wonder whether the occupiers had had the foresight to provision themselves; at the lumber camp food flowed so plentifully the residents came to take it for granted.
Off in Barnsdale, Jeremy's men did not bother to hunt up supper; they might have, but none of them (excepting Swede) had the will for it. Sitting around the fire, but little consoled by its warmth, they discussed their plight and how, or if, they could mend it. "Will they find us here, do you think?" Billy asked.
"Have to learn the woods first," said Corky.
"Only got to hire them a guide," said Swede. "'There's plenty 'nough trappers and Injins around, ain't there?" They all looked discouraged.
"Why hang around and wait?" said Jeremy. "We can strike first."
"Ain't enough of us to go up against them," Corky objected.
"You mean to let them take Seattle without a fight?"
Swede hushed their talk; he had heard a padding out beyond the clearing. Jeremy had heard it, too. At his silent command they slipped off into the forest on the other side and hid there behind the thick trunks of the firs. Seconds later they heard footsteps in the clearing, and then a familiar voice: "Jeremy? Where you got to?" With a sense of relief he and his band re-emerged to greet Harv and some of the men from the mill. "We come to join you," Harv said. "Ain't right, what Ashley's doing. Ain't right at all."
Jeremy felt a warmth beyond that of the fire. "What was that you were saying, Corky?"
"Still ain't enough of us," Corky insisted. Swede seconded the opinion.
Jeremy made a count. "All right. Then I'll get more."
The town was always quiet now at night; but this night was different. A loud succession of clinkings and clankings from the flour mill had beaten back sleep from everyone living at that end of town–except the widow Longmeyer, who was deaf, and Biddie, who wore earplugs in bed. Curious, and a little fearful, Candy pulled on her robe and set out to investigate. Coming up on the side window of the mill, begrimed as it was, she saw a troop of shadow forms inside (Ashley's men, no doubt) smashing Joshua's press to bits. "Of all the nerve...!" she said, rather unnecessarily. They could not have heard her, even if they had not themselves been creating enough noise to raise the dead, but just then one of them chanced to turn his face to the window, and no sooner had he done it than Candy was off like a bowshot.
As she hurried back across the yard of the boarding house, a figure sprang out from the shadow of the porch. With one hand he grabbed her tightly round the waist, and clamped the other over her mouth. "Don't scream," he whispered, "it's only me."
He removed his hand; and she did not scream. "Ashley's men are over there," she said. "You know what could happen to you if they catch you?"
"But I had to come. To carry you off to my mountain lair. Isn't that what outlaws are supposed to do with fair damsels?" Candy looked at him doubtfully. "Uh, just kidding."
"Oh," she said, sounding disappointed. He motioned her to follow him into the crawlspace under the porch, and she did not protest, as normally she would have. On hands and knees they entered the recess and then wriggled around to sitting, with their knees drawn up and their heads very bent. They had not sat close together for many months, especially in the dark. Candy's heart was pounding like Indian war drums. She wondered if Jeremy could hear it, or if he would care, or if–
He interrupted her train of thought. "I really came to ask for your help," he said.
"Anything!" she said at once, and then feared that had sounded over-eager.
"It'll be dangerous. If Ashley finds out–"
"He wouldn't hurt a woman." She hesitated. "Would he?" And before he could reply she said, "I don't care" (which was not quite true). "Whatever has to be done." The drums were beating faster now; faster almost than she could stand.
"They broke up the press," he said.
"I know. I saw."
"So now our only way of spreading news is the same one we had before."
Candy nodded. "The brides." A second later the obvious question struck her. "What news?"
"I want you to get the word to everyone, except Ashley's people. You know where the skid road crosses the creek south of Chadwick's?" Candy nodded again. "We'll assemble there at dawn day after tomorrow." His eyes foresaw it as he said it; she thought she had never seen him look so brave. "We're taking the town back."
Till the hour arrived, he decided he could do with a change of clothes as well as a couple of other amenities from the family cabin. Guessing that Ashley would have this guarded on the chance of his return, he chose to approach it roundabout, by way of the hill from which Spoonbread had ambushed them so short a time before. As he was starting up it he heard a patter of hooves and the creak of a wagon. He crouched behind a rock from which he could see the path but could not be seen himself, unless the seer had known where to look.
The wagon trundled past so close he could have jumped on board–and he would have had time, for it moved sluggishly, burdened down with crates. They were headed to the camp; that was the only place the path led to. Jeremy wondered what was in them, and why their transport had been reserved to that late hour. After the wagon passed out of his sight he listened to its sounds fade up the mountain. When all was silent he completed his climb, and from the top of the rise looked across to the clearing–
The clearing. His heart froze. The cabin was not under guard; could not be, for it was no longer there. Where it had been lay scattered chimney stones, fragments of charred logs, ashes–ashes which had been their most cherished things, keepsakes, heirlooms; everything the marauders had not taken away as booty. At first he would not believe it, insisted to himself that he had mistaken the location, that their cabin still existed somewhere up the way. At last he could deny it no longer. He did not weep; his anger swelled till it left no room for tears. "You'll pay for this, Ashley," he whispered, for only the darkness to hear, "I swear you will."
Earlier that night–at nine o'clock, promptly–Joshua had taken up his duty on the south wall, with which he was becoming well acquainted. He hoped he might soon say the same of Morna, whom he found waiting when he got there. Whether she had been assigned to keep watch with him or been assigned the preceding shift and was staying to keep him company, he neither knew nor cared; her presence was enough. Surrounded by those venerable stones, treading them as his forefathers had done, he felt the call of his blood; of kindred, history, homeland. But for a toss of the die he might have been laird of the castle, and she his lady–and who knew but what they might be, one day? She answered his remaining questions. "Aye, the house was sold to the bluidy English–then bought from the same by one of your Yankee capitalists wha's mair money than he weel kens what tae dae with."
"Who is he?"
"Some grand mon in the milling trade, apparently–a Mr. Enoch Loden."
Enoch! The name touched off a spark in Joshua's mind. Behind those high walls in the tranquil night he had been feeling remote from events in Seattle, never considering how they related to those at the castle, though the very men who had driven him from the one were laying siege to the other. The spark leapt the gap between to make the connection, shocking him into awareness. He had heard of the Loden Mills and the fortune generated therefrom, a large measure of which evidently had been poured into Enoch Navigation–and thus into Seattle. The castle was part of the plan, and showed it to have long preceded Jason's deal with Ashley.
But why this castle, the Bolts' castle? Was that only coincidence? And why was the town not abuzz with the news of its existence? It was not far away, as the hills ran. On the other hand, this section of country was little traveled; Joshua himself had never been there before. And Loden would have taken pains to keep the installation a secret. How Ashley worked into the plan, Joshua could not quite grasp; but its extent was clear now. "He bought himself more than a castle," he said, "he bought a whole town. With this as his feudal manor." A wave of fury surged over him. "We can't let him have it! Not Kilmaron!"
"Aye, Ian was o' that mind as weel. His heart brak' tae see the hame o' his fathers tak'n doon. Sae he followed it to America and tuik up residence afore the owner cuid his ain self. Ian says a man wha wuid pluck such an edifice from its native soil has nae richt tae be called its master."
Joshua approved the sentiment, and the Scots' valor, but knew their undertaking was a hare-brained scheme that could only end in defeat. He did not say so then, however, for there was a more important matter to be settled first. "And you came with him as his kinswoman?"
"Aye, wi'out a woman this lot'd be helpless."
He would have joined in her laughter, but was too much concerned with his next question, which for some reason unsettled him more than the prospect of facing the enemy. "How close a kinswoman exactly?"
He had not been looking at her. Now he raised his eyes to hers and found them brimming with unexpected warmth. "Ah, nae sae close." She laid her fingers softly on his.
All at once they heard a crackling on the ground below. Looking down, they spied a company of the enemy's men hiding, or trying to hide–some with backs to the wall, others clustered round the abbreviated spruce, whose felled half was not to be seen. The silent approach they had been attempting and had nearly achieved had been spoiled when their boot soles met the litter of leaves, twigs, and flakes of bark left from the tree's felling. "Were they invited?" asked Joshua.
"No, but we'll gi'e 'em a braw welcome, I promise ye. I'll rouse the fowk." She ran to the farther door. On an impulse he followed, and once in the tower, in a chamber half as large again as that in which they had met, grabbed her hand from behind. Morna pulled it away. "Are ye daft, mon? We've nae time for dalliance. Or is that a' ye dae in Seattle?" We do a good deal of it, Joshua thought despite himself, as he watched her tripping down the curved stair.
When he returned to the wall the image of her was still in his mind, and came near to undoing him. He had been in the tower when the slap of braided hemp had sounded against the stone cresting, and a pair of lassos, much like the one he had made for himself, had tightened round two of the teeth–the two nearest the door he had just taken, at the opposite end from where he had seen the men hiding below. For theirs was not the only party.
While the Scots had been at supper Ulrich had seized the opportunity to bear away the severed half of the spruce tree and propped it against the right front tower–in the blind spot as one looked down from the battlements; Ulrich, too, had figured that out. Shilts, his lieutenant, had scaled the log like a ladder and from its top thrown out a pair of lines; not a long throw. Their near ends, he had made fast to the bars of the lowest tower window. By these ropes the men would ascend, two at a time, hand over hand to the parapet.
The first pair had just gained it as Joshua, with his thoughts still on Morna–and not expecting intruders anyhow–passed them without seeing. But they had not expected him, either, and allowed their steps to grate on the stones. He turned just far enough to glimpse them, a moment before they jumped down, and dodged them as they landed. Outweighed as he was by either, he was able to hold his own against the pair. But soon another pair tumbled over the wall and then another, and he saw that his position was hopeless. After wrestling free of his two adversaries, he raced down to the far door, then through it, and shut it behind him. It had no lock, and he saw no furniture to block it with. He struggled to hold the latch bar down while those on the other side tried to work the press. But they exerted little more force combined than any one of them could have alone, and he was able to hold it secure till he heard the clatter of reinforcements. Then he swung the door open and threw himself onto the enemy, who were turned away to face the new threat.
The two sides ran at each other, met, and grappled at close range. One of Ulrich's men drew a revolver, but it was shot out of his hand. Another was picked up by three of Ian's men and tossed over the wall like a caber. He was the last casualty, for the others, fearing a similar fate, fought off the highlanders long enough to hoist themselves up onto the battlement and raced back along its staggered top, up, over, and down, to the ropes, by which they began to descend as they had ascended, hand over hand. With knife and axe the Scots hacked through the ropes, and they swung downwards, taking the men with them. Some clung tight; others, nearer the ground, jumped off; all survived. Plainly the battle had ended, and the Scots, only a little bruised, retired in triumph for the night, whatever the next day might bring.
At Lodenhead it brought an announcement from Raynor Chadwick, speaking on Ashley's behalf, that since the job was nearly done (though from the loggers' point of view it had barely started) the firm would no longer require the services of the extra men they had taken on–that is, those who had defected from the Bolts and not yet defected back. Perhaps Ashley regarded their loyalties as suspect, or perhaps they had simply outlived their usefulness. Otherwise, the day was one of waiting and watching: waiting in Barnsdale and watching at Kilmaron, whose besiegers, more cautious after last night, did no worse than watch back.
During the lull Joshua remembered the original purpose of his expedition, which had been to find Jason. While the current siege lasted he was trapped in the castle (though he did not feel so with Morna there), but it did not matter, since he had only a flimsy idea of where Jason's abductor resided. If he had known, the knowledge would still not have profited him; for later that day, and sooner than Joshua could have reached it, Jason's tenancy came to an unexpectedly sudden end.
He was making butter–showing the Waterworths how, as he still pretended to himself, but with the same relentless lack of success. As he was draining a second scoopful of water from the churn, Spoonbread hazarded voice for almost the first time that day. "Make sure the water shows clear, elsewise the butter'll be runny."
Jason had always cherished a special dislike for wagon-bed drivers. "What do you suppose I'm–?" He stopped, considering, and looked at him. "How would you come to know that?"
"Done it myself, ain't I?" An instant later a wave of self-reproach washed over his features. His wife was glaring at him.
"You've made butter?"
There was a long silence. "...maybe."
"But never fried a fish or an egg?"
"Didn't say I hadn't." But his eyes shifted as he said it.
"Spoonbread, do you know how to cook? Tell me honest. Axe true as your word, and so forth."
Spoonbread saw he had no choice. "Why do you think they call me Spoonbread?"
"Yet all this while I've been tryin' to teach your wife the knack you never once opened your mouth. I call that willful. Matter of fact, I call it being a plain hindrance."
"Zanie never opened her mouth, neither, when you was showin' me how to fish!"
"Why should she?"
"Her? She can outfish and outhunt most men!"
Zanie slapped him on the shoulder. Jason, who was finding the conversation more fascinating by the moment, shifted his attention to her. "Can you, indeed?"
Though hesitant to speak, she seemed to see it now made little difference. "My mama died when I was a baby. I was raised by Papa. He wanted a boy but got me instead. Tried his best not to notice."
"I see." Jason stared at the churn. "I do see." The couple glanced nervously at each other. "So here I been indentured to you two these weeks, sweatin' up a storm, and turns out you could have been doin' my part all along." He realized something else. "On top of which, you aren't yellin' at each other like you were. Why is that?"
Spoonbread searched his small mental closet. "Guess you fixed things betwixt us. Like you promised."
Zanie nodded. "Thank you, Jason. You saved our marriage." She hooked her arm around her husband's, and the two simpered at him.
Jason hated the suspicion that had reared up in his mind. "Did you–was this–?" He shook his head. "Don't want to know. Rather be blind than see myself wearing donkey's ears. I'm going home." He was aware that the day was waning and he might have to spend the night in the woods, but he did not mind; anything to be shut of these two. He gave each of them a final scowl, shook his head, and walked out. Thenceforth he took care not to have dealings with them again.
"Well, he got the chores done," Spoonbread said.
"Told you it would work, didn't I?"
"Sorry I opened my big mouth."
"We couldn't keep him forever." She gave a sigh of regret. "Shall I hunt up supper?"
"You hunt it, I'll cook it. Like always." His helpmeet picked up the rifle from the corner and went out with it on her shoulder as he lifted down the frying pan.
One and a half hours ahead of the next day's sunup a long, rolling crash from the Seattle waterfront woke the nearby residents, if they had been asleep, and caused those woken to wonder what had done it. Aaron would have known had he been there, and Ashley did, too, distant as his room was from the docks. He dressed hurriedly, hoping against hope he was wrong.
He was not. There lay his lumber, not all but a good part of it, floating in the water or heaped up to where the floor of the pier had fallen through. Other people had come down to look but seemed disinclined to offer help and could have done nothing useful in any case. Nor could Ashley, beyond pacing, re-inspecting the site of the catastrophe, and estimating the money, time, and trouble it would cost the firm to salvage its property. One by one the onlookers withdrew but he remained, continuing to pace and inspect and estimate till he had used up all the cigars in his case. By then the sky had grown light but the shore breeze was still cold; though his frame was naturally padded, he wished he had worn his hat. He nested on a bollard and brooded.
An Enoch company wagon pulled up to the dock carrying a driver and a single passenger, an old man who had arrived by rail that morning. And not just any old man: the old man. At the sight of the sunken lumber, his face contorted to look like a Chinese mask. He jumped down from his seat with surprising agility and trotted out to Ashley. "What's that down there?" he demanded, though of course he need not have asked. "Is that our lumber at the bottom? Eh?"
Ashley had paled a little on seeing him but now recalled himself to a counterfeit of his usual bluffness. "I can explain–"
"You said you'd ship it immediately you bought out the mill owner. But you didn't, did you? Eh? Why not?"
"The fleet never showed up. Must have met with bad weather in the Strait."
"Been meeting with a lot of bad weather lately, haven't you? Eh? Like that turncoat Dean. Your Pinkertons located him yet?" Loden had his sources, too. Ashley shook his head. "Another bluff that ended up bluffing you!" He silently swore to track Dean down himself. "You've cost me, Ashley–cost me dear. Seattle was always too much of a gamble. I said so from the outset, but you didn't listen. Did you? Eh?"
"You want us to pack our bags and go home?"
His tone was not over-respectful, but Loden paid it no notice. "Too late now. I want you to get over these stoppages and return to the timetable I set down."
Ashley controlled his temper with an effort. "I've been trying. It hasn't been easy."
"Why? More problems you haven't seen fit to report to me? Eh?"
Ashley was spared the labor of answering, if it had been his intention, by a string of gunshots some distance off which served as answer. "Good Lord," said Loden, "what now?"
"The Bolts," said Ashley, with a certainty bordering on the religious. He was equally certain where the shots were coming from, and appropriated the wagon to convey them thither. The driver sliced through town at a gallop, with no one on the street to impede him. "Looks like a ghost town more than a boom town," said Loden, frowning. "Where is everybody?"
"Must be keeping their heads down. The cowards!" Loden doubted this–as, increasingly, he was doubting Ashley. His frown deepened.
When they drew up at their destination, which had been named in Loden's honor (though he did not know it till he saw the sign), he found battle lines drawn. At the far end the logs that had been dumped into the shallows of the creek made a kind of rampart for the enemy, while the small body of men Ulrich had left behind had formed a staggered line opposite, couching behind the stumps and scattered sections of trees that had survived the blasting. The two sides traded occasional fire (the shots Loden had heard from the dock), but neither was disposed to more aggressive action, each being uncertain just how great the opposing force was, and the deputy Ulrich had put in charge being uncertain generally.
Jeremy's band was more numerous than before, having been joined that morning by his former employees, lately discharged. He welcomed them back, less from the example of the ninety and nine than from the need of every hand he could find. Weapons would have been even more useful: they had only three guns among them, and one of those was the camp shotgun, theretofore used only to ward off bears. Otherwise they were armed mainly with logging tools pilfered from the companies Enoch had bought out. Jeremy himself was carrying an Indian-style bow, of his own making; never having been partial to guns, even as a boy, he had learned the use of it from a half-breed logger. Some of his band had been inclined to ridicule it at first but had since realized that in their present position arrows were perhaps the next best thing to bullets.
"Thought this was going to be a surprise attack," Corky said, sounding slightly petulant.
"Would have been," said Jeremy, "if one of us"–Billy was wearing a sheepish look–"hadn't felt an urge to visit the creek this morning at the same time as one of them."
"Where's the others you said wass coming?" Swede asked.
"Dawn, you said," Corky added. "It's 'way past now," This, Jeremy had not needed to be told. On the other side of the field, his discouragement was matched by Loden's as he sized up their force: surely they must be outmanned. Ashley had contracted with Ulrich for a much larger number; where were the rest of them? Ashley took satisfaction–rather perversely under the circumstances–in telling him where, and pointing out that they had been dispatched on his own order. The consequence of this was that soon after, while standing watch at the castle battlement, Ian beheld a marvel, which he assembled the others to witness: the army was withdrawing. Called to battle elsewhere, Ian surmised. Joshua knew in his heart that if this were so it must be Jeremy they were going to fight. He wished he could have been there to fight at his side.
So Ulrich's ragtag unit tramped back as they had come through the hazels and the buckthorns, putting the deer and the crows to flight. In their march they kept an eye out to either side and intermittently shivered the scrub with their rifle butts, obeying their captain's order to be wary of ambushers. Presently they came upon a big man lying in a thicket, snoring loudly. Ulrich shouted to Shilts to get him to his feet. Shilts–short and beefy, and among those dressed partly in cavalry cast-offs–gave the sleeping man a hail and a kick, with no visible result from either. He motioned to two of the others, who hauled him up by the shoulders. The man opened his eyes and looked around at them with evident distrust (as was natural enough in the circumstances). "Why you hiding out here?" Ulrich demanded.
"Shoot, cap'n," said Shilts, "he ain't naught but a tramp. Jist look at him." The man's appearance certainly seemed to bear out the theory. His clothes bore spots of grime, and of other compounds more mysterious–and was that butter on his sleeve?
"Maybe. Maybe not." Working for Ashley, Ulrich had learned never to rely on appearances. He stepped up to the tramp, if tramp he were. "What's your name, you?"
When the man did not answer but only stared dumbly (rather like the Waterworths, in fact), Shilts kicked him again. "Cap'n asked you a question!" The tramp opened his mouth and made words without sound. "Why, he's a mute!" said Shilts.
"Maybe. Maybe not." Ulrich studied him for a few seconds and then slapped him hard across the face. Still the tramp made no sound, but looked mournful at the ill use. Then his eyes grew wide, as with a sudden childlike hope, and he pantomimed spooning food into his mouth. "Any of you boys got a bit of jerky to spare?" Ulrich prodded. Shilts fished out a strip, tore off a piece, and held it out to the tramp, but when he reached for it Shilts flung it to the ground a few feet off. He smiled proudly around at the others. The tramp scrambled for the treat on hands and knees, lifted it with care as if it had been a magical object, then crammed it into his mouth, and gulped it down, after which he bobbed his head at Shilts in an exhibition of doglike gratitude. Shilts and the others laughed.
Ulrich, who liked to encourage that kind of callousness, snapped a short branch off a tree, tossed it a few yards ahead of them, and waved the tramp toward it. "Hey, boy! Fetch, there! Fetch!" The tramp bounded after it, almost on all fours, and brought it back to its sender. "Good boy!" Ulrich said, tousling his hair (which was curly already). Now some of his men were doubled up with laughter, and others aped the tramp's idiocies. "Fetch him along," Ulrich ordered. "He'll make us good sport."
Shilts took this, accurately, as a license to treat the stranger however he pleased. He pulled off another branch, threw it out, and gave the slave another kick. "Fetch that, you damned cur!" Once more the slave obeyed, but this time with his teeth gritted, as if every fiber of his being revolted against it. Servility did not come naturally to him. But the moment required it; his instinct told him these were dangerous men, whomever they served, and probably no friends to him or his. So, subjugated from within as well as without, he accompanied them the rest of the way to Seattle, or to its edge.
...except that it was Seattle no longer. It was a different town now; different from the one that had been, the one that had always been. He had not been prepared for such a change, and tried to imagine what agency could have brought it to pass. Down deep, he knew there could be only one answer; there was only one new power in town–but how could it have done so much, so quickly? The mill whistle was silent now; the streets were dead; a pall, invisible and insidious, lay over them. It penetrated into the men around him, for they ceased their talking and laughing, and by the time they reached Lodenhead were gripped in a restive sullenness.
Corky watched them above the makeshift rampart and beckoned to Jeremy to come see. When he did his heart sank utterly. The increased force was double theirs, or more; and they were hard men, trained and armed. Among them he thought he saw Jason, or his twin, being kicked along by a smaller man, but he could not be sure, for almost immediately the two of them were absorbed into the mass. He hoped, for once, that it was not Jason; he did not want him to see how badly his brother had failed the town in this crisis. He had no doubt Candy had done her best–she always did–but this time her best had not been good enough; and this had been his fault, not hers.
"I was wrong," he admitted to Corky. "I thought some of them would come–some at least." He sounded like a very young man, as always when others disappointed his hopes of them. "Thought they'd feel the same way as us about a bunch of land grabbers coming in and pushing them around." That they had not was evidence even to his eyes that the Seattle he had known was gone–or, worse, had been a figment of his very innocent imagination. But, imaginary or not, failed or not, it was the cause to which he was committed. He dropped behind the barricade to collect his courage for a hopeless defense or a still more hopeless attack, it hardly mattered which. He shut his eyes and mumbled a brief prayer, too low to be heard by his men.
Before he had finished it a sound carried to his ears–if he were not imagining that, too. He kept his eyes shut to listen. Surely it was music–of a kind, anyhow. It might have been issuing from the opposing army but seemed too far away, and unlike any music they would have been likely to make, if indeed they had been likely to make any. It was the music of a pipe and drum. And it was growing louder. Jeremy climbed onto the logs to look again–and, looking, he could not help smiling.
Far down the strip, at the head of a valley abutting the eastern hills, came marching a double column of men in kilts of the Bolt tartan–green, of course–with the piper and drummer in the lead. Marching among them, as one of them, was a woman, shockingly clad in the same attire as they, recut to her form. Joshua was with them, too, though Jeremy could not recognize him at that distance; he it was who had brought them, and on no more than a brother's instinct that their kinsman was in peril. To a man (and a woman), they had elected to hie to his relief, few as they were. Who they were, and how they had come, Jeremy could not guess, but knew by the same instinct as Joshua's (and perhaps by the kilts) that they were on his side.
And they were not alone. A little behind them, now rising into sight over the edge of the vale, marched others; how many exactly, he could not say. Three–six–a dozen–no, more! Many, many more! He climbed higher, trying to see them all. And then he laughed for joy; laughed as he had never been moved to laugh before in his life. There was all of Seattle–all those who could walk, limp, or (almost) crawl–and not only them, but their neighbors from up and down the Sound, with Candy–his Candy–at their head. She had led the other brides in raising the cry, not only in Seattle but through all the towns of the coast; the news Ashley had wanted spread had spread, and ignited a reaction he had not foreseen. The countryside had risen up, grabbing any arms at hand, to fight with Jeremy's beleaguered band. So they did feel the same way, after all; he was not alone. The pipe and drum pealed out their battle hymn.
Jeremy's band cheered loudly; Ashley stood stunned. At the border of what he had defined as the battleground, the new citizens' militia–town and country folk united as one–stopped and stood, ready to fight for the land that was theirs. And the woman at the fore, with auburn hair flowing in the wind and chin held high, sent the man on the rampart a look proud and defiant, as if to say: Well, Jeremy Bolt? Was this what you had in mind?
There was more in the look, too, something even stronger, something that for reasons Jeremy did not understand made the tears come to his eyes. "Boy," said Swede, standing at his side, "that girl sure loves you!"
Gazing down at her, Jeremy realized how true that was, and how much he–he–Holy Mother, he thought, I'm stuttering inside my head!–how much he loved her: more than his heart could stand, without weeping. The tears bounced from his cheeks, and he had to wipe them away. A fine warrior he was! Filled with passion for her and, through her, for his cause, he climbed to the summit of the barricade and raised his bow on high. "For Seattle!" he cried, in a voice he did not know he possessed. "For Washington! And for freedom!"
"And for you," Candy added, but so low only Biddie heard it.
"Charge!" cried Jeremy, and he and his men stormed over the rampart. "Charge!" Candy echoed, and she and the throng behind her rushed forward in a body. The forces joined to make an L, which Ulrich saw would pin his men in; he ordered them back, but not soon enough, so that before their guns had time to even the odds the Northwesterners fell on them and they were fighting hand to hand and against an array of improvised weapons–axes, pitchforks, rakes, hammers, saws (one of them twin-handled and wielded by two)–or fighting with those same weapons, when they could be wrested from their owners.
Jeremy and Candy met on the field, eyes shining, but blind to the battle swelling about them. They sought out each other's arms and kissed deeply. Recalled to the business at hand by sundry people knocking against them, they joined shoulders to fight as one. Candy's weapon was a broom handle, which she swung with no mean force; Jeremy's the bow, which he used likewise; and together the two of them comprised a four-bladed machine which their enemies, and not a few of their allies, rapidly learned to steer clear of.
Joshua, dressed in the Bolt kilt and armed with the Bolt battle axe, charged into the thick of things, swinging to right and left–not to slay, as he might have done, but only to remove from the action. "Ah, cousin," Ian mourned, "if we'd but had ye at Pinkie!" At one point Joshua could have sworn he saw–but saw as through a cloud, and for only a little–men beside him in rough mail coats, fearless and proud of mien, wielding spear and claymore; and all looking like Bolts.
Angry at the new, unfriendly odds, Ulrich spied the man he had abducted watching him with a smile of a mirthfulness so provoking that he stamped over to him and tried to force into his hands an axe he had found abandoned on the field; but the tramp's arms hung limp and refused to accept it (quite in the Waterworth manner). "You'll fight, you gypsy," Ulrich said, "and no maybes. Or I swear I'll–!"
The tramp had been keeping his body bent and head bowed, as befitted his station. Now he raised himself to his full height, which Ulrich had not suspected, and flashed a brilliant smile he had not seen before, though all of Seattle had. "Man, sure I'll fight!"
Ulrich gasped. "You talk?"
"Ask my brothers," said Jason Bolt, tramp no longer, and with that delivered a blow that knocked Ulrich senseless. Seconds later his lieutenant, standing nearby, momentarily apart from the fray, received a kick that sent him flying. "But I hold to the opinion," added Jason, somewhat sententiously, "that a picture is worth a thousand words."
The brides fought ruthlessly, with weapons borrowed from the household: brooms, mops, pots, pans, washboards. Their opponents were under orders not to harm women or children if the injury might become publicly known; being each assailed by several women together, they would have had a hard time of it even without the restriction, and the brides won every contest. Lottie was acting as their commanding officer; she had been Candy's first recruit, and her family recruits two and three. Her son-in-law had surprised her by his willingness to fight with them, and she had commended him for having the courage in changing sides. "I'm not courageous," he had insisted, "and I never changed. I didn't sign on to be part of a conquering horde. Leave that to men like Ashley."
As a conqueror, Ashley was proving no Genghis Khan. He seemed content to watch the fighting from his wagon, only now and again barking a directive to the troops. His manner changed, however, when Jeremy wandered into sight. He was searching for Candy, from whom he had become separated in the confusion. Seeing him, Ashley began to shake so violently that Loden, sitting next to him, drew back and asked what in blazes the matter was. The only answer he received was a low growl, which burgeoned into a roar. Loden watched with some fear, but more of fascination, as Ashley rolled his bulk off the seat and began to scour the ground; for what, he seemed hardly to know. Then his eye lit on a leather belt such as toppers used. He grabbed it up and ran at Jeremy like a bear, but a bear armed. Seeing him so ungoverned, Jeremy was the better able to stay calm.
He grinned as Ashley brought up before him. "Did I upset your plans?"
"You've come to Lodenhead once too often."
Jeremy's eye flashed steely blue. "When this is over, my friend, there'll be no need for me to come again."
With another roar, Ashley cinched the end of the belt round his knuckles and began flaying wildly. Jeremy fought him off with the bow, using it as a quarterstaff, and after a few minutes got in close enough to snatch the belt away. He wrapped it round his own knuckles and began laying on in his turn–for the intrusion into his home country, for Ulrich and the strip and Joshua's press, for the death of their cabin and all that was in it, for the corruption of the town that Ashley purposed–and he felt it meet and right when Ashley cowered and whimpered beneath each blow. But the pleasure palled soon, for Jeremy had not a vengeful nature. The moment he stayed his hand, Ashley ran off, and he was not seen on the field again till the fight was over.
In that fight, erstwhile rivals–Seattleites and Tacomans, loggers and mill hands, temperance leaguers and saloon rats–stood side by side in common cause as they never had before and never would again. In one set-to Hawser saved Nigel's scalp, and felt very big about it, till Nigel did the same for him in the set-to following, whereupon Hawser was generous enough to own him the equal of any man living, himself excepted.
In a short time, from righteous zeal as much as numbers, the people of the Sound gained the upper hand over Ashley's mercenaries. But they had no time to recognize the fact, or to claim the glory that should have been theirs, for then, surprisingly and inexplicably, a third force intruded. Heralded by their bugler, whisking up a dust storm around them as they rode, in clattered a twin column of men in blue, the yellow stripe on their trousers marking them as U.S. Cavalry, to divide the field and its combatants, none of whom understood what was happening or could imagine what might follow. The Bolt brothers were able at last to seek out one another and to indulge in a long-delayed embrace. Jeremy told the others about the cabin, and Joshua about the castle: they had lost a family home and gained one, maybe. Whether their town were gained or lost, they and their neighbors had yet to discover.
So the battle ended.
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