P. N. Elrod - Barrett 03, page 5
At one time I'd regarded it as a refuge. Safe. But that illusion, like many others as my view of the world expanded, was gone.
Now I stood close by one edge, on the very spot where the musket ball had slammed into my chest, where interminable seconds later I'd gasped out the last of the life I'd known to fall helplessly into what would be the first of my daytime sleeps. If dreams had come to me during that period or if I'd been somehow aware of the goings-on about me, it was just as well no memories lingered to sear my mind. Those I did possess were sufficiently wretched, so much so that I had to cling hard to a tree to keep from collapsing beneath their sickening weight.
My knees had begun quaking long before reaching this ground, though I told myself that anticipation was making the endeavor more difficult than the actuality. Only by this inner chiding was I able to goad myself into coming, to attempt to look upon the last place on earth where I'd felt the then-welcome blaze of sunlight and had breathed the free air without conscious effort.
Nothing had really changed here, nor had I expected it to, only my perception of it had suffered for the worse. A childhood playground had been corrupted into a vile pit of black dread, and since the possibility that I might never see it again had become a surety, I'd conceived the perverse necessity to come in the hope of ridding myself of the darkness by facing it. But as I held hard to the tree to keep steady, eyes squeezed tight against the view, the need was all but drowned by long-denied reaction. I hadn't anticipated it being this bad; I felt smothered, cold . . . my hands, my whole body, shaking, shivering.
This was a fool's errand. An idiotic mistake. A disaster. A . . .
No. God give me strength to fight this. And I started to mutter a prayer, but could not finish it. No matter. The mere intent to pray was a calming influence, reminding me that I was yet in God's hands.
The experience of my death had been hideous, but it was past and done. Fool or no, idiot or no, I would not let myself be defeated by a mere memory. Back hunched as though bracing for a blow, I forced my eyes open.
Grass, leaves, twigs, and rock sorted themselves into recognizable shapes, no different from those cloaking the rest of our estate, to be walked over or kicked aside as needed. Trees emerged next, then a bit of sky. High above, the branches had laced themselves together. I stared at their canopy and felt my belly twisting in on itself. Not good. To look made me dizzy, not to look made me a coward. But a little illness was preferable now than to suffer lonely recriminations later; so I stared until my guts ceased to churn and the world left off lurching every time I swallowed back bile.
Better. I straightened, discovering my legs were capable of supporting me unassisted. Releasing my grasp of the tree, I stepped unsteadily closer to the edge of the kettle and looked down. Looked across. Looked to the place where the Finch brothers had crouched, hiding from Hessian searchers. Looked to where I'd seen but not comprehended the meaning of a puff of smoke from a musket aimed at my heart.
I looked and waited for the next wave of illness to pass. It did not seem as severe as the others. The shakiness gradually subsided.
Much better. I sat on the once-bloodied patch of earth where I'd fallen. Cautiously. It was impossible to rid myself of the notion that some trace of the agony I'd passed through might be lingering here to seize me once more.
An abrupt twinge through my chest did make me wince, but that, as I well knew, originated in my mind. A memory of pain, but not pain itself. No need to fear. No need. Really.
Father had taught us always to face our fears. Talk about them if need be, then look at them and decide if they're worth any further worry. That had ever and always worked in the past, and since my change I'd seen the need to face this one eventually. But I'd never once spoken of it; not even Jericho knew. Telling others meant I'd soon have to take action, and to come here was a labor I'd not yet been ready to assume, or so I told myself each time I put it off. But no longer. That luxury was no longer mine to have.
Drawing my knees up enough that I might rest my arms across them, I waited to see if more illness might overtake me.
Not exactly comfortable, I thought some little time later as a sharp stone ground against my backside. I shifted enough to allow a brief search for the offending rock, prying it free. I half expected it to be stained with old blood, but its rough surface proved to be as unblemished and innocuous as the rest of the area. Eventually I tossed it into the kettle, listening to it rattle through the trees and the faint thump when it struck the ground far below.
I looked and waited, taking in the night sounds as I'd done the previous evening on the banks of the stream, but it wasn't the same. The peace I'd known then had been sweet; was it so far from me now?
Yes, I grumbled, especially if I had to stay here much longer.
The tedium of waiting for another adverse reaction now became my chief adversary, not the illness. I began to drum my fingers, whistle without mind to the tune, and by degrees I came to think that I had more interesting things to do than this. But if I left now, would that be giving in?
Decidedly not.
Instead, I gave in to something resembling a laugh. It was breathy and had more than a small share of unease and subsided too quickly, yet was an indication of barely realized triumph.
It was absurd, of course. I was absurd.
My great and horrible fear had turned into boredom.
A second laugh, more certain than the first.
Absurd, and like many absurdities, it craved expression.
I found another stone and tossed it high. It arced through the trees and crashed into the tangle of growth far below. I grabbed another and another until none were left, then got up and searched for more, eager as a child. Circling the kettle, I let fly dozens of similar missiles. As though in a game of chase, I darted through the trees, shouting greetings at them just to hear the echoes.
Foolish, yes, but gloriously foolish. When one is suddenly liberated from a burden, one must celebrate. So I ran and jumped and called out bits of childish verse and song, careless and free.
The last thing I did was to throw myself over the edge of the kettle at a flat run. The world surged for a mad instant as I suddenly hurtled down, then vanished altogether. I'd swiftly willed myself out of all danger, spinning into that state of joyful weightlessness, like a leaf floating upon the wind. I drifted high, leisurely contesting the gentle pressure of the air, invisible as thought, yet in some way just as substantial.
I know not how long I played at this, but finally I tired and resumed solidity on the spot where I'd died. Whatever hurt I'd suffered, whatever anguish for that which I'd lost was no longer a part of this place. I laughed again, and this time the note of triumph was tempered only by a humble gratitude for that which remained: my life, changes and all, and my family.
My misgivings about a permanent parting from these lands was gone. Perhaps the reluctance most people feel when leaving a home has more to do with the inability to resolve any unhappiness that's occurred there, rather than the loss of the happiness they've had. The memories of dying were with me but could no longer instill their fear and pain. They had diminished; I had grown.
With a much lighter heart than before, I hiked back to the house.
———abbb——————abbb——————abbb———
Much to Father's relief the cattle arrived at the ship and had been safely loaded along with the rest of the baggage we were taking to England. There was quite a lot of it, for at the last we'd applied ourselves to additional packing in light of Father's decision to soon follow. Not everything could come; Elizabeth was already mourning the loss of her spinet, but I'd promised to find her another, better one in London. My own major regret was having to leave behind my favorite hunter, Roily. From the very start of the conflict I'd dreaded losing him to the commissary men, and I hated the idea of his falling into careless and cruel hands. It was one of the many questions I'd posed for Father during our lengthy talk, and one for which he had no ready answer.
I was held fast by my day sleep during the early morning rushing about as our things were piled into the carriage and wagon taking us to the ship. Though utterly oblivious to it all, I could count myself lucky to be well out of the maelstrom of activities attendant on our departure. That was the one positive aspect of my unconscious condition, and it stood alone against a legion of negatives, the chief of them being that I was forced to trust others to take proper care of me.
Not that I held anything in my heart but confidence for those in my family, but I didn't know the captain or crew of the ship, and it was easy enough to imagine the worst. Even the smallest lapse of attention during the process of putting me aboard could end with me plunging disastrously into the cold waters of the Sound. I'd received many assurances from Father that all would be well, but reluctantly surrendered to the effects of that morning's dawn with a feeling of dread and murmuring a hasty prayer asking for the care and preservation of my helpless body.
Elizabeth, with her talent for organization and the solving of problems, had early on determined the best means for me to travel while in this state. She had ordered the construction of a sturdy chest large enough for me to curl into like a badger in its dark winter burrow. As I was completely immobile while the sun was up, there was little need to consider the thing's lack of comfort. I'd tried out this peculiar bed and approved it, suffering no ill effects from its confined space.
No pillows or mattress layered the bottom; instead, it was cushioned by several tightly woven canvas bags, each filled with a goodly quantity of earth from our lands. The grave had rejected me—or perhaps I had rejected it—but it was still necessary for me to carry a portion of it with me whenever traveling. Not to do so meant having to spend the entire day in thrall to an endless series of frightful dreams. Why this had to be I did not know. I hoped Nora would enlighten me.
I was later told that there were no mishaps of any kind in transporting my box to the ship. The only time a question was raised was when Elizabeth insisted that it be placed in the small cabin I'd be sharing with Jericho. For a servant to be in the same room as his master was irregular but not unheard of, but the quarters were very limited and it was logically thought that less baggage meant more space. But Elizabeth turned a deaf ear to any recommendations of stowing the box in the hold, and so I was finally, if obliviously, ensconced in my rightful place.
By nightfall the ship was well on its way, a favorable wind and the tide having aided our progress. Too late now to turn back, or so I soon had to remind myself.
Jericho had been hard at work, having thoughtfully freed me from the limits of the box with the intent of transferring me to the cabin's narrow bed. He'd placed my bags of earth over its straw mattress, concealed them with a coverlet, then eased me on top. The story we'd agreed upon to explain my daytime absences was to say that I was a poor sailor and having a bad attack of seasickness. It was a common enough occurrence and entirely reasonable; what we had not reckoned upon was it being so wretchedly true.
At the risk of making a supreme understatement, this was the second most disagreeable awakening of my life. The first, of course, was when I'd come to myself in that damned coffin over a year ago. That had been awful in terms of straightforward shock; this one was nearly as bad in terms of sheer physical torment.
Rather than my usual instantaneous alertness, I floated sluggishly back to consciousness, confused and strangely anxious. I was wholly aware of an unfamiliar discomfort afflicting every square inch of my body, inside and out. Had I felt an illness upon my return to the Captain's Kettle? Would that such a mild case of it would visit me now. Someone had taken my head and belly and tossed them around like dice in a cup, or so I might conclude in regard to their present lack of settlement. They still seemed to be rolling about on their own. Every hair on my head and all down my back stood on end, positively bristling with alarm at this unhappy sensation. My limbs seemed to weigh twice as much as normal, and my muscles seemed too spent to move them.
"Mr. Jonathan?" Jericho hovered over me, and if I read the concern in his face and voice rightly, then I was in a rather bad state.
"We're at sea," I whispered decisively. The very air seemed to press hard on me. My skin was crawling from it.
"I have been told that Sag Harbor is well behind us, sir."
"Oh, God."
"Sir?"
"Mal de mer," I gasped, closing my eyes. There was a lighted candle on the lid of the closed trunk and the motion of its flame was not in keeping with that of our surroundings.
"You look feverish." He put a hand to my forehead.
"Cold."
He found another blanket and tucked it around me. It did not help, but he was worried, and it gave him something to do. I was also worried, but unable to act, which made things worse.
"We can turn back, sir. You look ill enough to justify—"
"No!" No matter how awful I felt, I'd get through this somehow. But even if some freak of the wind should sweep us to Plymouth in the very next minute, the voyage would still be much too long for me.
"Perhaps you need something to—"
"If you have any care for me, for God's sake don't mention food."
There was solace in the fact that I had no need to breathe, else the odors permeating the very wood of the ship—tar and mildew and tallow and sweat and night soil and old paint and hundreds of others—would have sent me lunging for the chamber pot.
Someone knocked at the door. The room was so small Jericho had but to reach over to open it.
"Is he all right?" asked Elizabeth, peering in. "Good heavens!"
"He is not feeling well," he said, confirming her reaction to me. He moved past her to stand outside that she might come in. With her wide skirts it was not easily done, but she managed.
Unknowingly imitating Jericho, she put a hand to my forehead. "You're very hot."
"On the contrary—"
"I think I should fetch the ship's surgeon."
"No. I won't see him."
"But, Jonathan—"
"No. We don't dare. I'm too different now."
She didn't care for that; all her instincts were to do something for me.
"I forbid it," I said. "First he'd listen for my heart, and God knows what he'd do next when he couldn't hear it. Bleed me, probably, and I know that would be an extremely bad idea."
Elizabeth perceived the sense of my words. Even the most incompetent medical man could not be allowed to examine me. Besides being loath to part with a single drop of precious blood, I was incapable of drinking anything else that might be offered as a restorative. No glass of wine, no cup of brandy, no purge or sleeping draught could get past my lips; my changed condition would not allow it.
"But for you to lie there and just suffer . . ."
"It will pass away with time, I've seen as much happen to others. I don't plan to lie here, either." With an effort I made myself sit up, preparatory to standing.
My dear sister immediately objected.
"I will be the better for it, so indulge me," I said. "If I have something for occupation, the time will go more quickly, and I'll be less mindful of this irksome state."
She and Jericho exchanged places again, allowing him to help with my shoes and coat and offer a steadying arm when I was ready to stand.
"You're not at all ill, are you?" I said to him, making it half question, half accusation.
"No, sir, and that's just as well, don't you think?" He got me out the door into a dim and narrow passage.
By their very nature, all crafts that venture upon water are given a life as they move and react to that element. Our ship was very lively, indeed, as might be judged from the motion of the deck as I staggered along. It also had a voice, formed from wood creaking upon wood and the deep and hollow sound of the sea rocking us. These features I could note, but not in any way appreciate in a positive sense.
Elizabeth led us topside, and only then did I fill my lungs with fresh, cleansing air. The wind was cooler and helped somewhat to clear my head. Fixing my eye on the unbroken gray horizon beyond the rail was of no help to my unsettled stomach, but rather a powerful reminder that we had a lengthy and lonely journey ahead. Lonely, that is, if we were lucky enough to avoid contact with rebels or privateers. I remembered what Molly Audy had said about prayer and vowed to spend some time at that occupation later tonight.
I was introduced to the captain, certain of his officers, and a few of the other passengers who were also taking the air. No one had any comment for not having witnessed my ever coming aboard. For that I could thank the natural activity of preparing a ship for sailing, everyone being busy enough with their own concerns, having no time to spare for others.
Many of the people aboard were fleeing the unrest at home, preferring to take the longer sea voyage to England over risking the unknowns of a much closer Halifax. What news that had come to us on the latter locale had given everyone to understand that it was an altogether dismal place as well as dangerous. The winters there were said to be hellishly cold, plagued by too many other refugees, too few supplies, inadequate shelter, and outbreaks of the pox. Much better to go to England, where all one had to worry about was the pox and which coffeehouse to patronize.
As I'd expected, keeping myself busy with conversation helped to take my mind off my interior woes. Within an hour of introductions, several of us had found enough commonalties in our lives to form quick and comfortable friendships. An excellent situation, given the fact that we were going to have to share constant company with one another for the next two months or more.
The universal lament was the detestable unfairness that we, the loyal and law-keeping subjects of His Majesty, had to give way to the damned traitors who were running amok.
"It's too perilous to stay while the fighting's on," stated Mr. Thomas Quinton, an apothecary close to my age traveling with his wife and young daughter. The ladies in his life were in their cabin, feeling the adverse effects of sea travel themselves. We two stood by the rail, braced against the wind and rolling of the ship. Somehow Quinton had been able to light his pipe and was quite enjoying a final smoke before retiring.
