By My Sword Alone by David Black (ebook reader ink TXT) 📕

man’s feet as he took after him, yelling his lungs out. ‘Ah’ve fun’ ’im! Ah’ve fun’ ’im! He’s here! He’s here!’

James ran on in blind instinct, headlong into darkness, hoping his gut would plant each footfall on solid-ish path and not the ooze on either side. He didn’t dare to look back.

And then there was a brief flash seen out a corner of an eye, and a loud explosion; the militia man had fired his musket. James had no idea where the ball went, it certainly came nowhere near him. The militia man renewed his pursuit, his lantern’s light jolting wildly and spilling all over the place. ‘Ah’ll huv’ this bayonet in yer tripes, ya baistert!’

And suddenly one of James’ feet hit ground that was more sodden tussock than beaten earth. He jerked, almost over-balancing. And stopped. There was no path ahead. He stooped, peered, and saw that it was not a dead end, but a dog-leg. At first it wasn’t clear … and then the lantern’s spill bouncing closer, cast a shadow on the path’s kink. He took off again, sharply to his left, following the veering ribbon of beaten earth that the light had revealed, and as he did, the militia man got good sight of him, and veered to left too, running hard to take advantage of the angle now opening to cut him off, as if he was following the hypotenuse of the triangle the pursuit was now describing on the ground – except it wasn’t ground that the militia man ran into, but ooze and filth.

A splash. A scream. James juddered to a halt and turned.

A gothic shadow-play presented itself, of endless shades of dark, and tiny splashes of dancing light. A mere few yards behind him, the militia man was sprawled in the mire, his lantern held but inches above the filth, its light dancing on its surface crust – his musket arm flung back as if in pointless hope there might be a hook on the end of his bayonet to drag himself back with – and his body, the entire bottom half gone under, and the upper part, wallowing in the ooze. Most of the red of his coat showed clear in the lantern light, but a slice of it, from waist to armpit, was black as he rolled to and fro like a walrus trying to emerge from a viscous sea.

Beyond the man, however, was a more alarming sight. A row of jingling lanterns. His fellows coming on fast.

‘Help, man, fer pity’s sake!’ screamed the militia man. ‘Ah’m goan’ doon, man! Ah’m goan’ under! Ah kin feel ma’sel’ sinkin’!’

James could now see clearly in the waving lantern light, the man’s bloated, surly, ill-natured face, skin etched across bone in sheer terror.

A premonition of what it would be like to drown in this pit crept across James’ skin.

Shouts. Yells. From down the path. James stepped back and grasped the barrel of the militia man’s musket.

‘Lord bless ye! Lord bless ye!’ the man began repeating, like it was an incantation. James pulled on the barrel, and felt the man’s iron grip on the other end. But the militia man’s body barely moved a foot, and when James relaxed slightly for another heave, the ooze sucked it back.

‘Oh Jesus! Oh Jesus!’

They both could hear the banging feet of the militia party clearly, and James could see the lights in file now, coming at him. There were yells. ‘Haud ’im there, Shuggie! Haud ’im fast!’

The militia man’s eyes bulged white in his head as he sensed James waver.

‘It’ll go easy oan ye’ if ye save me!’ hissed the man, trying to sound friendly through his choking panic. ‘Ye’ll see. They’ll be pattin’ yer back and giein’ ye a dram, man. Jesus, the fucken sheriff hissel’ ’ll kiss ye!’

But even as the man beseeched, they both knew it was a lie.

If James let go of the musket, this man would die. If he didn’t, then James would die. Not right now, not tonight. But the arrest warrant these militia must be carrying could only be for a capital charge, and in these times, that could only end on a gibbet.

The militia man guessed James’ decision, even before he had made it himself.

The scream tore the night. James forced himself not to look into the man’s eyes as he let go of the musket barrel. Then he turned and fled.

*

It was long past midday when Davy Hume found James, sitting propped on a pile of fresh hay in the small stables behind Mistress Cantly’s establishment. Her one horse, a slight chestnut filly that served to pull her trap, was standing over him protectively as he fed her an apple.

‘James,’ said Davy, ‘the mistress said she thought you’d be safer out here … but you don’t seem too distressed by such plain surroundings, not with your lady horse for company.’

James looked up and said, ‘What news of the militia man?’

‘Here,’ said Davy, handing James his shoes, all shiny as new, Mistress Cantly having assured James in the early hours that she’d have them polished for him. A fearsome woman at first encounter; all brusque and business-like and entirely without curiosity. But then she’d mellowed, and she’d been as good as her word about the shoes.

‘As fer yer militia man. They’re callin’ it murder, James,’ said Davy. He’d been on the point of asking what the hell had happened, but the look on James’ face silenced him. He wasn’t looking at the lad he’d left last night, but at a man’s face; composed, still and eerily resolute.

A moment passed as the two friends regarded each other with maybe a fleeting thought as to the future nature of that friendship, now that one of them had so obviously changed. Then Davy said, ‘I have a purse for you … it’s no’ much but it’ll