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Father Bartholomew opened the door quietly and looked in both directions before he stepped out into the dark hallway. They moved quietly through the building toward the side door, cutting through the main dining hall as they went. Several votive candles in red holders burned on the mantelpiece, and Jack could see a long row of tin cups behind them. Thirty-seven of them; he knew how many without counting.
Thirty-seven.
“It was a great kindness to send us those, Jeremiah,” Father Bartholomew said when Jack stopped to look at them. “We keep them in a place of honor, and I believe our boys know we are remembering them.”
Did they? Jack thought. He had no idea. At the moment he had other things to worry about. If he were caught, his attempt to escape would only underline his already-presumed guilt.
He would just have to see to it that he wasn’t caught.
Ike waited by the side door, reeking of the O Be Joyful just as Father Bartholomew had said. Thunder rumbled in the distance, a sound they both mistook for cannonading for a brief moment. The wind was picking up and the trees on the grounds of the orphanage began to sway.
“A good storm will give you cover,” Father Bartholomew said. “Be watchful and Godspeed to you both.”
“Thank you, Father,” Jack said, offering the old man his hand. “This is twice now you’ve given me my life.”
“I believe it to be worth the effort,” Father Bartholomew said. “You’re a good man, Jeremiah. Sometimes in spite of yourself. Now go! Hurry!”
The rain came only moments after they’d left the grounds. Ike led the way, alert as he always was whenever the Orphans’ Guild—or one of its members—was in danger. He zigzagged through back lots and alleys Jack had never even seen before or didn’t recognize. It was taking twice the time it ordinarily would have to reach the old cemetery where the horse was supposed to be. As the thunder grew louder, Jack began to lose hope that it would still be there. Tied securely or not, horses didn’t wait well in a thunderstorm without a human in attendance, and even then it could be difficult.
“Wait,” Ike whispered when they were about to cross a street. His warning was well-timed. Two of the city’s watchmen were coming out of the narrow lane they intended to travel. They waited in the shadows until the men had passed.
“Now!” Ike whispered, and they began to run, the noise of their passing hidden in the sound of the rain and wind. “Not much farther—”
It took only minutes to reach the iron gates. Ike pulled one of them ajar. It creaked loudly, and they hurriedly took refuge behind an ornate but eroded angel-covered tombstone until they could be certain that no one had heard the sound.
“That way,” Ike said after a moment, and Jack followed him as best he could in the dark, stumbling several times over footstones along the way.
“I don’t see the horse,” Jack said.
“Over there—”
Jack still didn’t see it—and then he realized that Ike meant inside a nearby mausoleum, one he immediately recognized.
Ike laughed and slapped him on the back. “I knew you’d be thinking that horse was long gone. Ain’t, though, is it?”
“I’ll tell you after we actually find it,” Jack said, making Ike laugh harder.
But the horse was where Ike had left it. Dry and out of sight inside an ostentatious marble structure dedicated to the erstwhile Horne-Windham family. Jack remembered playing in the mausoleum when he was a boy. It was a good place to hide—except that Father Bartholomew always found him.
“Don’t reckon the Horne-Windhams ever expected a horse to be in here,” Ike said as he lit a candle stub he had in his pocket. He let some hot wax drip onto a narrow ledge and planted the candle firmly into it. The rain was barely audible inside the thick marble structure and the candle flickered in the draft from the entrance.
“They’re not the only ones,” Jack said, wiping the rain from his face and attempting to calm the horse because it had become unsettled by their sudden appearance.
Despite the animal, there was still enough room to get around. He looked at the many bronze plaques placed one above the other on the opposite marble wall and appearing to reach well above his head. “It’s a good thing there were so many of them.”
“Biggest marble box in the place. Here,” Ike said, bringing a small bundle out from under his coat.
“What is—?” Jack began, but then he recognized the weight and the feel of it.
“Things must be bad if Father Bartholomew is giving me a sidearm.” He turned the bundle over in his hands.
“He ain’t,” Ike said. “I am. It’s loaded so don’t go throwing it around and shoot the horse or something. Now all we got to do is get you out of here.”
Ike moved to the entranceway, alert and watchful as Jack led the horse forward.
“Ike,” Jack said. “I...don’t know how to thank you. I can’t ever repay you—”
“There ain’t but one way, Jack,” Ike said without looking at him. “Die in your own bed when you’re ninety—and don’t you ever come back here.”
“Ike, if—”
“Shh!” Ike said sharply. “Watchmen—I think it’s the same two.”
The horse, alarmed by the sudden tension in both men, began to toss its head and shift about.
“Easy,” Jack whispered, hanging on to the bridle. “Whoa! Easy!”
“Out the candle. I’m going to draw them away,” Ike said, slipping outside before Jack could stop him. Incredibly, as his footsteps faded into the darkness, Ike began to sing, a rousing song about a little chicken that wouldn’t lay an egg, the one he used to sing on the march to make the Orphans’ Guild perk up and laugh.
“O, I had a little chicky and he wouldn’t lay an egg...”
Jack waited, listening hard, but the storm was nearly overhead and the walls too thick for him to hear whatever it was Ike had heard. All he could do was stay put and try to keep the horse from bolting. His hands were beginning to shake, but he didn’t let go of the bridle. He leaned his head close to the animal’s nose and breathed evenly, quietly, until he could loosen his grip. Then he reached into his pocket and gave it a piece of the peppermint candy.
“All right,” he said to the horse after what seemed a long time. “In for a penny, in for whatever’s in that leather pouch.”
He moved to the doorway and stood for a moment, then led the horse outside. It was still raining, but the worst of the storm had passed. He couldn’t see or hear any activity in the cemetery.
He made sure his haversack was secure, then he mounted the horse and let it find its own way among the tombstones until he reached the road leading out of town. He knew better than to take it. He cut through more back lots and alleyways instead, hoping the watchmen would be more interested in staying dry than in obeying Farrell Vance. Eventually he found a part of the town he could still recognize even in a downpour. He cut across a field, careful to stay between the rows of corn and not leave an irate farmer in his wake. Heading into the mountains was a better plan than Father Bartholomew had realized. Jack had impulsively told Elrissa that he was heading out West, and it seemed likely that she would have told her husband.
In a very short time and through any number of plowed and planted fields, Jack had ridden beyond the Lexington town limits, but he stayed off the main road until he was certain he was beyond any watchmen assigned to monitor the comings and goings of nighttime travelers. It was still raining, and he stopped for a moment and listened to get his bearings. Then he crossed into yet another field and ultimately came out onto the road again. He headed for London, and he didn’t look back.
Chapter Four
“Who are you?” The voice was muffled behind the closed cabin door, but Jack could understand her. He had managed to get this far—from Lexington to Knoxville and over the Tennessee border to Asheville, and then the final long hard trek toward Jefferson—without ever having to fully answer that question. At one point he’d even ridden rear guard on the stage heading through bushwhacker country on the so-called buffalo road, apparently the only way to get through the mountains, still without identifying himself by name. He had no intention of breaking that precedent now.
He wasn’t here by accident. Somewhere on the way to London, he had checked his haversack, and he had realized that he had a true destination after all. He just hadn’t expected how hard it would be to get this far.
He had some serious misgivings about his decision at the moment—since it was becoming increasingly clear that this endeavor could be as dangerous as facing Farrell Vance’s men. The best plan he could devise under these circumstances was simply to wait for the woman inside to give him the information he wanted and to hope she had a bad aim.
“I’m looking for someone,” he called after a moment. He couldn’t see the musket trained on him, but even without Ike’s skills, he could feel it.
“I don’t know you,” she said, and it was clearly a serious accusation. “Leave your hands where I can see them!” she shouted when Jack would have reached for his haversack.
“I was asked to deliver some letters and personal—”
“Letters for who!”
“Mrs. Garth.”
“And what Mrs. Garth would that be?”
“Mrs. Thomas Henry Garth,” he said. “Sayer.”
“Sayer?”
“Yes.”
“They come from Thomas Henry? Is he dead?”
“Where can I find her?” Jack asked instead of answering.
“Is he dead?”
Jack didn’t say anything, and after a moment the door cracked open and a woman stepped outside. The musket was still trained on him, and he had no doubt that she would kill him if she thought it the least bit necessary.
“Is he dead?” she asked again.
“Yes,” he said, and the woman let the musket fall.
“Oh, no! Oh, no,” she said, lifting the musket slightly and then letting the barrel swing downward again. “That poor girl.”
“Can you tell me where to find her?”
“She ain’t here,” she said, wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand. “You’re on the wrong ridge.”
“I’ve come a long way,” he said. “I just want to give her the letters and then I’ll be gone.”
“I’ll take them to her—if she’s alive.”
“What do you mean?”
“They got sickness at the Garth cabin. The two little girls—I don’t know about Sayer. She didn’t holler this morning.”
“Holler?” Jack asked blankly.
“It’s how we know one another’s all right. Give a loud holler so whoever lives closest can hear you. You send it back to them and if there’s anybody else can hear you, you pass it on. She didn’t holler. Ain’t no smoke coming out the chimney, neither.”
“You can see the place from here?” he asked, looking around for a clearing in the trees.
The woman stared at him warily without answering.
“I don’t mean her any harm. I just want to give her the letters and tell her what happened.”
“You was with him at the end?”
“Yes.”
“He die easy?”
“No,” Jack said truthfully, mostly because she had lifted the musket again and because he thought that this old woman would spot the lie before he got it out.
“You ain’t going to tell her that.”
“No. I’m going to tell her what he—Thomas Henry—wanted me to say.”
“Who are you?” she asked, studying him hard, and they were back to that again.
But he still didn’t answer the question.
“You soldier with him?”
The horse was growing restless, giving him the opportunity to ignore that question, as well.
“You the one what killed him?” she asked bluntly, her voice louder now.
He stared back at her and drew a quiet breath. “I...don’t know.”
“Well, at least you ain’t a liar,” she said after a moment. “These here hills is full of liars and I can’t abide any of them.”
“Where’s the Garth cabin?” he asked, still hoping to get some information out of her.
“You going to help or hurt?”
“I told you. I don’t mean Thomas Henry’s wife or his little sisters any harm.”
She continued to stare at him and the minutes dragged on. “You wait for me,” she said abruptly, as if she’d suddenly made up her mind about something. “I’m going to get my sunbonnet. Make that there horse come up here by the porch.”
He considered it an encouraging sign that she left the musket leaning against the door frame, and he walked the horse forward. She returned shortly, wearing the blue-flowered cotton bonnet she’d gone to fetch and carrying a basket. The bonnet was faded but clean, and her withered face had disappeared into the deep brim. He thought she would have a horse of her own someplace to get her to wherever they were about to go, but she had other plans.
“Hold that,” she said, shoving the basket into his hand. “Well, let me grab your arm. How do you think I’m going to get up there?”
He shifted the basket and the reins to his other hand while she awkwardly caught him by the forearm and swung up behind him. She was much stronger than she looked. He expected to have to help her a lot more than he did.
“My name’s Rorie Conley,” she said when she was situated and he’d handed the basket back. “And yes, I already know—you ain’t got one. That’s Rorie Conley. Try to remember that. I’m a old widder woman and I don’t suffer fools gladly. That’s something else you need to remember. That way,” she added with a broad gesture that could have meant anything, and poking him in the ribs for emphasis.
He set the horse off in the direction she’d more or less indicated.
“That basket’s heavy. You got a revolver in it?” he asked after they’d gone a short way.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” she countered.
“I would,” he said.
“I ain’t telling you.”
He waited for a time, but apparently she meant it.
“Well, they say ignorance is bliss. I’m not feeling particularly blissful, though.”
