Ghost Fire Read online

  “It sounds like Father’s dog,” said Abigail. “But how—?”

  “We must go.” Theo jumped up and put on his shirt. Abigail pulled on her dress. She headed for a path away from the clearing.

  “The dogs will track us through the forest,” Theo warned. He looked over the moonlit pool. “If we crossed the river . . .”

  “There are no paths on that side,” Abigail answered. “We must make for Bethel.”

  “But people will see us there,” Theo objected.

  “Yes, indeed,” said Abigail. “And that will be the only thing to stop my father murdering you.”

  •••

  Claypole and Jebuthan came out at the rocks by the pool. The moon was low in the sky; a faint light was breaking in the east. Claypole looked around the empty scene.

  “You sure what you saw, boy?” He pointed to the fishing rod leaning against a stone. “Not a man doing a spot of night fishing, and your imagination run away with you?”

  “I saw it,” Jebuthan insisted.

  The dogs circled the clearing, sniffing and growling. One picked something up in his jaws, brought it back to his master and dropped it on the ground. It was Abigail’s shift.

  Claypole’s face twisted in fury. “The little whore,” he hissed. He let the dog nuzzle it, taking the scent. “She will pay for her harlotry.”

  The dog barked and sprang away down the track toward Bethel.

  •••

  Even in the panic of the moment, Theo marveled at Abigail’s knowledge of the landscape. Little moonlight filtered through into the forest, but she moved effortlessly, flitting down paths he could barely see. The gray smudge of her dress led him on, like a ghost.

  There was no way of telling how far they had come, or how far they had to go. It was like running in a nightmare. Branches and briars slashed at Theo’s face and legs. Roots and stones tripped him. And always he had the dogs on his heels, closer and closer until he was convinced he would feel their jaws on his leg at any moment. He tried not to look back.

  They reached a fork in the path. Abigail stopped.

  “Leave me,” she gasped. “I will delay him. If he finds us both, he will kill you.”

  Theo grabbed her wrist and looked deep into her eyes. Images of Calcutta flashed through his mind. “I will not leave you. Whatever happens, we will stay together.”

  They had no time to argue. At that moment, the dogs came around a bend in the trail, snarling shadows in the gray pre-dawn light. With howls of triumph, they charged toward Theo and leaped at him.

  Theo grabbed a fallen branch and swung it at them. He clubbed the lead dog in mid-air, a heavy blow on the head that deflected the animal away from him. It fell to the ground, whimpering. The second dog halted, hackles raised and growling. Beyond, Theo heard running feet crashing down the track in pursuit.

  Undaunted, Abigail pushed past Theo. She went to the dog and knelt beside it, stroking the back of its neck. The dog stopped growling.

  “Run,” Abigail told Theo.

  This time, Theo didn’t hesitate. He saw light ahead, dawn rising beyond the edge of the trees. He ran faster. Suddenly his feet were no longer on the forest trail, but trampling the earth of a recently plowed field. Houses appeared. He vaulted a rail fence and ran through an orchard. Frightened chickens squawked and flapped; a cock crowed.

  He came out onto the road in the middle of Bethel. There was the boarding house, and the duck pond, and the church with the tall pillory in front of it. The dead animal trophies nailed to the church wall watched Theo mockingly. We did not escape, they seemed to say. Can you?

  Surely Claypole would not violate the sanctuary of a church.

  Claws clattered on the stony road behind him. Theo heard barking and snarling. He turned and grabbed a large stone from the ground.

  But the dog had learned. It delayed a fraction of a second. Theo pulled back his arm to hurl the rock but overbalanced and the dog leaped on him. Its full weight slammed into his chest and knocked him to the ground. Before he could get up, the dog was on top of him, paws planted on his chest, growling and snapping at his throat. Theo writhed and rolled, but the dog had its prey at last and would not be shaken off.

  A shadow fell. Claypole stood over him, breathing hard. The fury on his face transformed into grotesque triumph as he saw his enemy brought to bay.

  “Call off your dog!” Theo shouted.

  Claypole spat in his face. “You think you can make free with my daughter?” He pulled a knife from his belt, its curved blade wickedly sharp. “I will make sure you never touch a woman again.”

  He turned to his son. “Hold his ankles.”

  Jebuthan did as he was told. Claypole knelt beside Theo. He hooked the tip of the blade into the waist of Theo’s breeches. The cold steel pressed against Theo’s belly. He flinched.

  “That’s right.” Claypole leered. “Next time you feel a lustful stirring in your loins, think of this.” He jerked the knife. The breeches fell open. He pulled them down to Theo’s knees and gave a derisive glance at Theo’s shrinking manhood. “Can’t believe my daughter would throw herself away on a little thing like that.”

  He put the knife between Theo’s legs, forcing them apart. With the flat of the blade, he lifted Theo’s balls, so that the knife was against the base of his scrotum. “I done this plenty of times on hogs,” Claypole said casually. “Shouldn’t be too different. Easier, given the tiny size of the thing.”

  Theo saw in his eyes that it was no idle threat. “Please, God, no,” he begged. “You cannot do this to me.”

  Claypole slapped his face so hard that Theo tasted blood. “Do not take the Lord’s name in vain. His name is an abomination in your mouth.”

  Theo screamed, hoping it would draw attention from some of the shuttered houses along the street. Surely someone would come and talk Claypole out of his madness.

  Claypole caressed Theo’s testicles with his knife. It was so sharp, some of the hairs came away on the blade. He looked into Theo’s eyes, savoring the fear he saw.

  Theo had stopped screaming. He clenched his teeth so he would not bite off his tongue when the cut came. He could not even struggle, or he would slice himself on the knife that pressed firm and insistent against his manhood.

  Claypole’s ugly face shone with righteousness. “I warned you not to come back. Now you’ll learn your lesson.”

  A ringing broke through his words: the bell on the church steeple. A door slammed. Theo heard footsteps, a slow and measured tread along the road. He tried to twist his head around but could not move far enough. All he saw was sky, and the roofs of the church and surrounding houses.

  Claypole looked up. His hand froze, the knife still tight against Theo’s skin.

  “Peace, Goodman Claypole,” said a voice. Theo recognized it: the black-suited priest he had met on his first day in Bethel.

  “Do not interfere, Reverend,” Claypole warned. “Go back in your church.”

  The priest didn’t move. “You cannot do such a thing on the Sabbath.”

  “He seduced my daughter and made a whore of her,” Claypole declared.

  Theo heard shocked murmurs ripple around him. Villagers had emerged from their homes, some still in their nightgowns. They gathered round, keeping a safe distance. All wanted to see. None wanted to be called as witnesses afterward.

  The priest stared at Theo. “Do you deny it?”

  Theo said nothing.

  “Do you know the Tenth Commandment?”

  Theo had recited it a hundred times in church in Calcutta. Even with a knife at his balls, he remembered it effortlessly. “Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s house, thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s wife, nor his manservant, nor his maidservant, nor his ox, nor his ass, nor any thing that is thy neighbor’s.”

  “Clearly, that would include his daughter. You have broken God’s law, and you are guilty of fornication.”

  “And, by faith, he will not do it again,” growled Claypole. He tensed his
arm. Theo closed his eyes. The knife seemed to throb against his taut skin.

  “No,” said the priest, “‘Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord.’ We are governed by laws, not the whims of men, however justified their outrage. The punishment for fornication is the pillory, Goodman Claypole.”

  Claypole’s eyes smoldered. He stared at the priest with black hate. For a long moment, which felt like half a lifetime, Theo feared Claypole would castrate him to spite the priest. He saw Abigail watching from the crowd, held fast by her brother. Her eyes filled with tears, but she said nothing. It would not help Theo’s cause.

  With a grunt, Claypole pulled the knife away. Relief flooded through Theo so hard he thought he would be sick.

  “Blessed are the merciful,” said the preacher. “I leave you to see that your daughter is properly chastised, for the father is the head of his household as Christ is the father of the Church.”

  Claypole glanced at his daughter—a murderous look that made Theo fear for her life.

  “For the fornicator, I sentence him to stand in the pillory during divine service, with his ears nailed. Thereafter, he is to be branded on both cheeks with the letter ‘F,’ as a fornicator, so that all the world shall know his crime and his character.”

  Men ran forward from the crowd. They hauled Theo up and half carried, half dragged him toward the pillory. Theo remembered it from the day he had arrived in Bethel: a tall post, with a platform of about six feet for the offender to stand on, and a crosspiece above with holes to lock his arms and head in place. It loomed against the sky, like a cross ready for crucifixion.

  There was some delay while a ladder was fetched. As the villagers jostled, Theo suddenly heard a vicious voice in his ear. “Do not think you have escaped justice so easily,” hissed Claypole. “After church you will be pelted with refuse. It is not unknown for a few stones to be thrown by mistake. A well-aimed rock between the eyes will be the last thing you ever know. I will bury you, and my only regret is that you will not see what I do to my whore of a daughter.”

  The ladder came. Theo was forced up to the platform, prodded on by a pitchfork. The boards were old and well trodden, with a broad stain that looked like dried blood. Two crosswise boards stood in a frame, with holes for Theo’s neck and wrists.

  A bailiff came up. He locked Theo’s head and hands between the two boards. A hammer and nails were passed up. Theo writhed and squirmed, but he was fixed in place. The bailiff put the nails against his ears and drove them through into the wood with one meaty blow apiece. Theo was almost too tired to scream. Blood flowed from his ears, running down the pillory and dripping onto the boards. The pain was so excruciating he felt he would pass out.

  Then the townsfolk went to church, and Theo was left alone.

  The pillory was set at a height that meant he could neither kneel nor stand but was forced to stay bent over in an awkward stoop. Soon his back was in agony. The heavy board pressed on his neck and made it hard to breathe. Claypole’s last promise echoed in his ears. All he could think of was Abigail. He should never have gone to Shaw’s Pond. He should have known what her father would do if they were discovered.

  The minutes dragged by. He had not known time could pass so slowly. The church bell rang the quarter-hours, and he almost went mad waiting for the next chime to sound. One hour passed, then two. How long did the church service last in this place?

  But what did he have to look forward to? While he stayed in the pillory, he was racked with pain. When the service ended, he would be pelted with rubbish. Claypole would have his chance to knock him dead with a well-aimed stone—and even if he did not, it would not be the end of the ordeal. They would take him down from the pillory, tearing off his earlobes and leaving them nailed to the wood, then burn the letter “F” into his cheeks. He would be mutilated forever.

  Though how long would that be? Would Claypole ever let him leave Bethel alive?

  A crow flew from the church steeple and landed on the crossbar that held him. He heard the flutter of wings as it preened its feathers over his shoulder.

  A sharp jab of pain made him cry out. The bird had hopped onto his head, and its talons were digging into his skull. Panic gripped Theo. He stamped his feet on the platform and flapped his hands as much as the pillory would allow. He bellowed like a bull.

  The bird flew off and settled in a tree. But it came back. Theo shouted and squirmed again, but this time the bird was not so cowed. It retreated to the edge of the platform, watching Theo with a beady black gaze.

  What if it went for his eyes?

  The bell rang again, so suddenly that the bird rose squawking into the air. The church door had opened. The congregation filed out and formed a semicircle around the pillory. Some disappeared to their homes and returned with buckets of dung, rotten fruit and kitchen scraps. In the crowd, Theo saw Claypole stoop and pick up a large, round stone from the road. He hefted it in his hand, like a gunner weighing up a cannonball. He leered at Theo and sliced a finger across his own throat.

  The preacher addressed the villagers, detailing Theo’s crimes. Theo searched the throng for Abigail, but could not see her. At least she would be spared witnessing his ordeal.

  An egg hit his cheek and exploded over his face. Bits of shell and yolk lodged in his eye. A rotten apple struck him on the jaw, smearing brown pulp on his chin. The platform was high up, but the people of Bethel were practiced. Some of the more spiteful children aimed for his ears, making the blood flow freely around the nails.

  The mess on his face blinded him. It entered his mouth and nose with a taste like vomit, making him gag. The pain tore through his head. A hard pebble rattled against the woodwork an inch from his face. He braced himself for Claypole’s coup de grâce, though doubtless he would bide his time. He would want Theo to suffer as long as possible.

  In his misery, he did not hear the horn sound. He didn’t realize that something had changed, until the baying crowd had fallen silent. Instead of their jeers, he could hear unexpected music: fifes and drums playing—of all things—“The Grenadiers March.”

  Regimented feet marched onto the green, then stopped abruptly. Theo opened his eyes, though with his hands fastened he couldn’t wipe them. The slime on his face ran down into them unchecked.

  Soldiers had arrived. A dozen men, in blue coats with red facings, and squat tricorn hats. They carried long Brown Bess muskets. Behind them, in a more ragged line, stood a column of unarmed men in civilian clothes.

  A captain in a mud-spattered coat reined in his horse. He barely glanced at Theo. “By order of His Majesty King George II, and Governor Wentworth, I am authorized to raise a new company of New Hampshire volunteers to fight in the war against France.”

  The villagers eyed him sullenly, angry that he had interrupted their sport. The captain continued unabashed. “Any man who enlists will receive a bounty of three dollars, a full uniform, including coat and stockings, and a musket.”

  No one answered him.

  “The French are coming. With their Indian allies, they will spare nothing: your homes and farms, your crops and livestock, not even your wives and servants.” He adopted a more convivial tone. “Are there no stout-hearted men in Bethel? In Easton, I had so many recruits I could scarce write down their names fast enough. Surely the men of Bethel are no less bold than those of Easton. Surely the same martial zeal burns in your breasts. Would you have your sweethearts turn their backs on you, and seek solace in the arms of Easton men when they come home from the war garlanded with glory?”

  He looked around the village green and saw only hostility.

  “I had heard the men of Bethel enjoyed a better reputation for valor.” He circled his horse. “Perhaps I will enjoy more success in the next town.”

  Theo opened his mouth, spitting out gobs of rotten fruit and offal that had lodged there. “Wait,” he cried. “I will volunteer.”

  The captain squinted up at him. “Who is this man?”

  “A criminal,” said the preacher
, stiffly.

  “What was his crime?”

  “Fornication.”

  The captain gave a braying laugh. “If that barred a man from joining the army, our ranks would be thin indeed. Bring him down and let me look at him.”

  One of his corporals ran up the ladder. Stabs of pain tore through Theo’s ears as the corporal worked the nails loose, but the lobes stayed intact. The moment he was freed from the pillory, he collapsed and nearly fell off the platform. The corporal had to carry him down.

  Theo’s head swam with pain, but he forced himself to stand upright in front of the captain. He waited, covered with filth and bleeding from both ears, trying to ignore the hostile crowd around him.

  “What is your name?” asked the captain.

  “Theodore Courtney.”

  The captain gestured to the pillory. “A criminal, eh. Were you guilty?”

  “Yes, sir. I am in love.”

  “Well, the army can cure you of that. Have you fought before?”

  “At the defense of Calcutta, in the army of the East India Company. I commanded a redoubt in the front line.”

  “And lived to tell the tale.” The captain gave him a keen look. “Not many men can say the same.” He reached into his purse and pulled out a shiny coin. He tossed it to Theo, who had enough wit to pluck it out of the air. The captain turned to his corporal. “Enlist Mr. Courtney in the muster book—then throw him into the duck pond. I will not have my men stinking like a midden.”

  “You cannot do that,” said the preacher. He had stepped out from the crowd, with Claypole beside him. “His sentence has not been carried out in full.”

  The captain stared at him. “You have no jurisdiction over a soldier of the Crown. He has taken the King’s shilling. He is subject to military law.”

  An angry murmur pulsed through the crowd.

  “Justice must be done,” said Claypole, showing the blade of his knife.

  The captain peered at him. “Who is this man?”

  “The father of the girl Mr. Courtney debauched,” said the preacher.

  “Indeed. Well, if she resembles her father in any way then I would say Mr. Courtney was doing her a rare favor.”