McDermott's Fox

Canada 1850 A doctor takes in a boy found sleeping in a barn.

                     ALEX

        Part One: Kilmarnock

Chapter One :  McDermott's Fox

“Alex!”

A gloved fist thumped against his door shaking Alex out of a troubled sleep.

“Wake up, Alex! You've a patient.”

Five bony fingers reached out from underneath a dirty patchwork quilt.  They groped their way over the surface of a washstand. The fingers skirted a shrunken brown cake of lye soap, moved past a shaving brush of badger hair and an old bone-handled razor.  The fingers touched the bridge of a pair of wire-framed spectacles and hauled them back underneath the blankets.

The knocking resumed, louder and more determined. “Alex! For God's sake man, open up.”

Doctor Alexander MacTavish coughed and pushed himself up into a sitting position.  He cursed the caller.  If no one wanted to see him during the daytime, why in God's name would they choose the middle of the night?

“Alex!”

The voice, although muffled by the door, Alex recognized as belonging to Ian Campbell, blacksmith and constable of Kilmarnock.  Alex stumbled out of the bed.  He poked his feet into the darkness underneath the bedstead until they found his slippers.  Scratching at the stubble lining his throat Alex shuffled toward the door.

“Hurry up, Alex.  It's pouring out here.”

Alex grunted his lack of sympathy.  He groped for the ring of keys in his vest pocket.  No sooner had he unlocked the door when Ian Campbell shouldered his way into the room.

“It took you long enough,” grumbled Ian.  The constable in his heavy black coat resembled a great bear shaking himself.  Water splattered the front of the doctor's room.  The glint of a lantern shone through the open doorway.  Behind the lantern Alex could see another man clothed in oilskins and wearing a flat wide-brimmed hat.

“Waiting for an invitation, Sam?” Ian asked.  “Come on in. Alex isn't particular.”

Sam finished scraping the mud off his boots.  The high collar of his oilskin coat and a red woollen scarf covered his face.  As he stepped inside Alex called to him. “Close the door before you let the cold in.” Sam closed the door.

“A little early for calling, isn't it, Ian?” Alex asked.

Ian nodded and walked over to Alex's stove.  The dull red of dying embers still shone inside it.  He picked up a stick from out of the wood box and poked at the embers.  He then reached down. Collecting a handful of shavings he tossed them onto the ashes.

“You said I have a patient,” Alex asked.

The sometime constable pointed at Sam.  “You know Sam McDermott?”

Alex nodded. He knew the McDermott farm.  It sat just inside the southern edge of what had once been MacTavish land. “Aye. I know Sam.”

Sam pulled off his hat to reveal a mop of curly reddish hair.  He unravelled his scarf to show the large-nosed features of a gaunt man in his late forties.  Nodding at Alex and stepping past the constable, Sam cleared a space on Alex's desk for his bull's eye lantern.

Ian grinned. “Sam apprehended himself a dangerous felon.”

“I thought he was after my chickens,” Sam muttered.  “I heard this noise in the barn and thought it was a fox.  One got two of my best layers last week.”

“Got any tea, Alex?”  As Campbell checked the tea in Alex's pot he wondered when Alex had last cleaned the pot.  Ian could never understand how Alex, a man once scrupulously clean, could have allowed himself to sink into such squalor.  The man's poor health during the winter, he surmised, had been a reason, that and the whiskey.

Alex took the tea canister down from the shelf above the desk and handed it to the constable. “Where's the patient?”

Ian tossed more sticks into the fire.  Straightening   his back he took a critical look at his surroundings.  The growing light from the stove combined with that of the lantern revealed the room in all its glorious disarray. “ God, What a mess.  Don't you ever clean up, Alex?”

He rummaged through the dishes, and left over foodstuffs strewn over Alex's table.  Finding a stained

teaspoon, he rubbed it against the sleeve of his coat.  He squinted examining it for any lingering particles of dirt. Satisfied, Ian dipped it into the tea canister.

Alex repeated his question.  “Where's the patient?”

“Down in Sam's cart.” Ian settled himself down in Alex's leather armchair,

“Why didn't you bring him up with you?” Alex asked.

“I didn't know how you would take to getting pulled out of bed this time of the morning.  I didn't want to bring him up for nothing.  It wouldn't do him any good or me when it comes to that. “

“I thought he was a fox,” McDermott continued to mutter. “Couldn't see anything.” 

Alex pulled on his navy blue greatcoat. Although frayed at the cuffs, it still kept out the cold.  He pulled his old, round grey beaver hat down over his ears, opened the door and peered out into the rain.  “Where's the cart?”

“Bottom of the stairs,” said Ian.  “Sam'll show you.”  He planted his boots on the footstool.

“Damn it, Ian” Alex snapped. “Take those boots off.  Where do you think you are, in your forge?”

Looking a bit sheepish Ian kicked off his left boot.

“Why didn't you see Doctor McKay,” Alex asked. “Why bother me?”

“Sam's  idea.  You were closer.  Besides, I thought you could use the money.”

Mollified Alex muttered, “I could also use the sleep.  Sam, bring that light of yours.  I'll end up breaking my neck on those damn stairs.”

The rain had softened but not the cold.  Alex shivered and pulled the coat's wide collar up to protect his neck.  A dull pain throbbed in his abdomen.  He thought of that extra piece of cheese at supper.  He would make up for it by eating a little less.  Through the white mist formed from his breath Alex saw the oxcart in the street below.  A yoke of reddish-brown oxen stood waiting patiently.  Steam rose from their nostrils and warm hides.  The corner of the building hid the back of the cart.  Alex gripped the rain-streaked railing with his left hand and began to descend.

The cart was a sturdy, home made affair held together by leather thongs and oaken pegs.  Thick black mud smeared the two large wooden wheels. A large bundle of sodden canvas lay in the back of the cart.  Alex bent over the side of the cart. Sam held the lantern up over the bundle.  Alex pulled the canvas away.  By the glow of the lantern he saw a boy's dirt-streaked face  and  cap-covered light brown hair. A heavy black cloak covered his neck and shoulders.  The boy could not be more than twelve years old Alex thought.  He placed a hand against the child's face.  The bone-white skin felt as cold as the morning air.  “Who is he?” he asked McDermott.

“Don't know,” said Sam. “Thought you might.”

The doctor felt the child's throat.  “You should have waited until this storm was over.”

“No telling when that'’ll be.  Besides I have to get some supplies at Harrison's.”

As Alex covered the boy he told himself that the sensible thing to do would be to send the boy to Doctor McKay at Kilmarnock Hill. McKay was an abler, younger man.  That would also mean another two miles in this cold and wet.  Two miles could be the difference between saving a patient and losing one. “He's half-dead now from exposure.  No telling what other damage you've done to him. Give me the light.  You brought him. You carry him.”

Sam nodded and handed Alex his lantern. 

Ian was dozing by the time the two men re-entered the room.  The water in the kettle whistled. Alex shook the constable awake. “Put some of that water in the basin.  You're supposed to be representing her majesty's law.  Act like it.”

To avoid soaking the doctor's bed Sam placed the boy in Alex's armchair.  He pulled away the canvas, bundled it up into a large ball and dropped it onto the floor.  He then poured himself a mug of tea.  Sipping  it, he sat in the chair in front of the Doctor's desk.

Ian brought the old man a basin of hot water and his black bag.  Alex removed the boy's clothes.  He began with the heavy, black cloak.  An expensive thing for a tramp to be wearing he thought, but the cloak may have saved the boy's life by keeping his chest dry.  From the waist down he was soaked.  Pulling the boy's shoes off, Alex noted that the leather was of good quality.  However, having been cut below the ankles they had not kept the mud and wet away from his feet.  Alex removed the boy's shirt and trousers.  He found the trousers to be as blackened on the inside as they were on the outside.  The boy had soiled himself.  A bout of flux, he thought.  He turned his attention to the shoulder wound left by Sam's musket.

Someone had bound up the wound with clean linen, a remnant of one of Sam's old shirts.  A tidy piece of work, Alex thought.

“Mary did that,” said Sam.

                Alex nodded.  At least one of the McDermotts had some sense.  He cut the cloth away. The ball had torn through the upper part of the skin but the shoulder bone remained unbroken.  The wound would require stitching and cleaning but did not seem too serious.  What worried Alex was the shock and loss of blood combined with the fever. Having scrubbed his hands he cleaned the wound.  He stitched and bandaged it.  He then washed off the filth that covered the boy's legs and feet.  As he cleaned the child's feet Alex noted the bruised, blood encrusted soles.

His examination finished Alex told Ian to put the boy on the bed.  Alexthen  wiped his hands.  Sam poured him a mug of tea, lined with a generous dollop of whiskey “to keep out the cold.”

“You said he was a fox, Sam?” Alex asked as he took a tentative taste of the tea.

“Aye,” the man shrugged. “It was so dark I couldn't see anything proper.”

Alex glanced out of the window.  The night was fading into the grey of early dawn. “You should have waited until morning. It looks like the storm's blown over.”

“I couldn't know that, could I?  Mary and me, we thought it best to get him to a doctor.  Someone dies on my land; it might be a legal matter. I don't want no trouble with the law.”

“If he dies here, that'll make it legal?” Alex asked.

“That's not what I meant,” Sam grumbled.  “I've just too many other things to do.  It's ploughing time.”

“What's your opinion, Ian?” Alex asked.  “You're the Queen's law here.”

Ian shrugged.  “Bringing him here is no worse than leaving him in the barn.  With or without the help of Sam's musket he wasn't in much condition to be going anywhere.  Won't be any skin off Sam's nose.  Won't be any off yours. Court'll see to your expenses.”

“Court?” Alex stopped in mid-sip.

“Sam here is pressing charges, ain't you Sam?”

“For what" asked Alex. "Sleeping in a barn?”

“Trespassing isn't it,” said Sam. “Besides, how do I know if that was all he was intending?  Hell, if he wanted to get out of the rain, he could have knocked on the door.  I wouldn't have turned a dog away in weather like that. No reason for him to be there unless he was up to something not proper.”

Alex considered Sam's reasoning.  One thing puzzled him.  “I thought you wanted to avoid legal problems?”

“I got a right to keep trespassers off my land,” Sam sulked.

Alex took down a bottle from the shelf beside him.  He refilled Sam's cup, and then Campbell's. “The quality of mercy Sam is not strained.  It . . . um . . . falls as does the gentle rain from Heaven.  It blesses him that gives and him that receives.”

Sam shifted in his seat to keep himself awake.

“It is mightiest in the mighty.  It is enthroned in the hearts of kings.”

Sam could restrain himself no longer. “How much?”

The question caught Alex in mid-flight. “What?”

“How much?”  Sam  repeated.

Alex pondered the man's stolid face.  “How much is what, Sam?”

Sam, gratified that they were now getting down to business, wrinkled his forehead in concentration.  “For my trouble.  Five pounds seems reasonable.”

"Sam, I am not going to pay you five pounds for the privilege of cleaning up your mess.”

“Then I'll press charges.  He can rot for all I care.”

“You mean that, Sam?” Alex asked.

“Aye. I do.”

Alex thought about what he had seen when removing the boy's shirt.  A scar, about an inch long, ran across the vein of his left wrist.  “This  your idea, Sam?  It doesn't sound like Mary.”

Sam shifted in his seat.  “Not her concern" he muttered.  "Man's business, this.”

“We wouldn't want to have women concerning themselves with children, would we?”

Sam glowered.  MacTavish always did have a way of twisting things.

Alex rose and went over to the chest of drawers standing between the bed and the wall.  He pulled out the top drawer.  From it he took out a small, cheap, tin box battered from many years of usage.  He opened it and shook the contents out over the bed.  Coins thudded against the blankets.  Two one-pound notes fluttered down to join them.  Alex's savings of a lifetime, eight pounds, seven shillings, nine pence and a solitary American dime tumbled onto the bed. Both Sam and Ian gawked at the small heap strewn over the quilt.

“I've known you for more than seventeen years, Sam.  I've known you to be pig-headed, ignorant and mean. I never once thought you would be mean enough to squeeze money out of a sick child. Take what you want.  Then get out.”

Sam stared at the money.  The amount was almost twice what he had wanted.  All he had to do was to reach out and pick it up.  He touched a pound note. Underneath the note, he felt the child's body stirring.  His fingers paused then dropped away.  “Oh the hell with it.”

The farmer rose, picked up his lantern and the bundle of canvas, and headed for the door.  Before he left he turned to Ian.  “You keep him away from my property,” he said pointing at the boy. “I don't want him near my place.”

Ian nodded

Sam wished Alex a good day and left.

“What got into him?” Ian asked.

“A bad attack of self-respect,” grumbled Alex putting the money back into the box. “Shouldn't  worry.  Never lasts too long.  It's not very contagious.”

Ian grunted. “I'd best be going myself.  You'll be wanting to get some sleep. I have a forge to see to.” As he buttoned his coat, Ian watched Alex pushing his armchair closer to the bed. Alex should have got a little money out of this business. “Um . . . Alex?”

Alex dropped into his chair. “Aye?”

“If Sam doesn't press charges you don't get paid for this.” Then he added. “I could charge him with vagrancy.  Keep him in your custody until the quarter sessions.  Court would have to reimburse you.”

Alex shrugged “Never mind, Ian. It doesn't matter.” He tried to stifle a yawn.

                In the growing morning light Ian could see in sharper detail the old man's yellowing, opaque skin, his thinning hair, and his sunken eyes.  He wished that Sam had slept through the night. “Um . . . Alex?”

“Aye?”

Campbell pointed at the bed.  “What are you going to do with him?”

Alex smiled a pale tired smile. “I haven't the faintest idea.”

Ian nodded.  Gently as he could he closed the door behind him.  Alex laid his head against the back of the chair and slept.

Squelching back through the mud towards his home, Ian's thoughts drifted back to the time when he was sixteen. His father, Angus had been a healthy bull of a man of forty-three when he had fallen from the roof of his forge while shingling and broke his neck.  The accident left young Ian with the managing of the forge. Despite his youth he had persevered. Two years after his father's death, his mother, Sarah, and he met with Alex in his office to discuss the renewal of the lease his father had concluded with Alex's older brother, James in 1831.  James had died of cholera in 1834.  With the death of Angus in '39, the matter now rested between young Ian’s mother Sarah and Alex, the trustee of James's land.

Mrs. Campbell suggested that her family could buy the land upon which her husband's house and forge stood.  Alex nodded and replied that it might be possible. Sarah took a deep breath and asked what he thought a fair price would be.

“How much have you got?” Alex asked.

 “I could raise twenty pounds,” said Sarah

 “No, Mrs. Campbell. I mean, how much do you have with you?”

                Flustered Sarah admitted to two shillings and a sixpence.

“Good.  Let me have a shilling.”

She fumbled with her purse and took out a coin.  Alex wrote out a transfer of title, deeding the land to Mrs. Campbell for the price of one shilling. Alex had then attached conditions to the transfer of ownership.  Ian promised free stabling and blacksmith work for Alex and any members of his family.  The conditions, not being in writing, were all the more binding.  It was a matter of honour Sarah told her sons.

Standing in front of his door scraping the mud off his boots, Ian thought of the old man asleep in his chair.  He should not have brought the tramp to him.  Somehow he would have to make up for it.

***

The pain woke the boy pushing him out of his sleep and dragging him up into the morning light.  He turned away from the light twisting deeper under the blankets.  The pain deepened.  He placed his left hand against his right shoulder to find a white cloth wrapped around it.  He moaned as the pain cut deeper into his mind.  The boy had been unconscious for just over three days.

A warm breeze slipped through the half-opened window puffing the faded curtains inwards. It brushed past him causing him to open his eyes.  He lay on a pine bed painted a dark green. Stiff, thin white sheets covered him..  Spread over the sheets was an old patchwork quilt marked by faded red , blue and yellow rectangles. The boy remembered where he was. He must be in the house he had turned away from before he had groped his way into the barn.  The man who had found him had taken him there.

His body ached for sleep but his mind considered why the man would want him.  Wincing from pain, the boy pulled himself up until his back rested against the headboard.  He turned his head to see a crude pine washstand.  A white stoneware basin and pitcher topped the stand.  Beside them was a thin brown cake of lye soap.  He looked about the room, searching for a way out.

The man would have locked the door.  How else could he have been left alone? They would take him back.  Perhaps he could find a way to keep from going back. He must try to do something.  In front of the bed was a small deal table on which were set a clutter of dirty dishes and a pewter mug.  Beside them was a whale oil lamp.  Someone had thrown a ragged dishcloth over a plate. At the other end of the table lay a book turned face down.  Behind the table was a window. It might offer a way out. Two bookcases, jammed with volumes flanked the window.  A pigeonhole desk stood near the door, fronted by a straight back pine chair.  The sagging cane seat of the chair needed repair.  A small pot-bellied black stove stood between the desk and the table.  A black pipe rose from the stove disappearing into the ceiling.  On the stove sat a soot-blackened kettle and an ancient cast-iron frying pan. At the base of the stove was a rough wooden box that held firewood.  Leaning beside the box was a black fire iron. Between the bookshelf and the desk was a battered old chest, the sides nicked and roughened from use.  The letters A.M. were burned into its front.

He turned his head again to see a large curved-back leather chair and footstool, the cracked leather of both worn paper-thin.  A small, yellowed pillow streaked with dried perspiration, and an old navy greatcoat lay on the chair.  Beside the door other articles of clothing dangled from pegs. None of them belonged to him. That presented him with another problem.  He had no clothes.  How could he get away without anything to wear?  Of course they had known that.  Taking away his clothes was another way of keeping him here.

Traces of sound drifted through the open window into the room; the clopping of horses’ hooves, the rattle of wagon wheels, the barking of dogs and the faint chirruping of birds. He could also hear occasional snatches of human voices.  The voices reminded him of the need to rise.  Pushing aside the blankets he tried to stand.  His legs refused to support him.  A spasm of pain shook him as he tried to support himself with his right arm.  He sat on the edge of the bed.  As the pain ebbed two other feelings rose in his mind; his need to relieve his bladder and his hunger.

He looked under the bed to see a large white ceramic pot. Crouching down he pulled it out from under the bed. The boy gasped as another spasm burned through his shoulder.  Standing upright he urinated into the pot. Finished he pushed the pot back under the bed.  One need satisfied, he could now concentrate on two others.  Slowly, still unsure of his balance, he stepped over to the window.  Looking out, he realised that he was no longer on a farm. The window looked out over a wide dirt street. Eight feet below him was a wooden walkway. It would be an easy drop but that was something he could only do when no one would see him. On the other side of the street was a new, two-storied frame building boasting a large sign, HARRISON'S: DRY GOODS AND PROVISIONS. Jo. Harrison, Prop. Beneath that sign a fat, balding man swept the entrance to the store and chatted with two ladies.

A prop? Afraid of being spotted the boy moved back from the window and looked at the bookshelves.  His fingers ran over the backs of the volumes, pausing every so often when he recognised a familiar title.  One book caught his attention, a small, soft-covered volume, Smith's Canadian Gazetteer. The boy examined it. Folded inside the front cover was a map.  He unfolded the map tearing the thin paper as he did so.  It showed lakes and rivers but only a few settlements.  Still, it might be of use. The boy shoved it back into its place resolving to study it later, if he had a later.

He went over to the table. There he found something else that he needed, food. Under a ragged piece of linen was a half-loaf of bread, a hard piece of cheese and a small pot containing oatmeal porridge. Picking up a spoon he stuck it into the porridge and tasted it. The porridge was still warm.  He then scooped the porridge into his mouth. When he had finished emptying the bowl he wolfed down the bread and cheese.  As he ate, he found the one other item that he needed.  Between the cheese and the bread he saw the brown wooden handle of a large carving knife hidden under the cloth.  The boy pulled the cloth away and looked at the knife. Dried crumbs of bread and cheese smeared the blade. He wrapped his fingers around the handle and held it up. Knife in hand he made his way back to the bed.  He dropped back onto the bed, making a soft moan as his shoulder struck the mattress. He pulled the blankets up around him and settled his head down on the pillow. The knife he slipped under the pillow.  Sleep creeping back over him,  he looked through blinking eyes at the locked door.

***

Alex unlocked the door and stepped inside.  Placing his bag and hat on the desk, the doctor glanced over at the boy. The child lay on his back, asleep.  His right arm was under the pillow.  The left rested on his chest.  Alex wrinkled his nose.   The sour smell of urine tainted the air in the room. He went over to the bed and felt the sheets to find them dry.  Alex glanced down at the chamber pot.  He remembered having emptied it that morning.  The boy must have awakened and used it while he was away. He lifted the pot, checked the colour of the urine and then sniffed. Both colour and aroma seemed healthy enough.  The doctor took the pot over to the window. A quick glance down and then he emptied it.  After returning the pot to its place under the bed, he scrubbed his hands and began his examination. 

The boy's face felt cool. The fever had burned itself out. The boy would sleep for a few more hours. He would be hungry when he woke.  Alex noted the crumbs smeared over the boy's face and lips. He had eaten. Strong appetite was always a good sign.  When he woke Alex would give him a bowl of broth and dry toast. 

He washed the boy’s face.  Then he straightened the blankets.  Adjusting the pillow he felt something hard underneath it. Lifting up a corner he found the fingers of the boy's right hand gripping a knife. He stared at the knife for a moment.  Gently, one finger at a time, he pried the knife free. The boy stirred but did not wake. Alex picked the knife up and went over to his chest.   He knelt, drew out a ring of keys from his vest pocket and unlocked the chest.   He placed the knife and razor inside the chest and locked it. The chest having been secured Alex sat in his large chair beside the bed. Resting his chin on the back of his hands, he studied the sleeping child.

***

Alex bit through the thread and examined the stocking he had been darning.  The situation reminded him of a time two summers before.  While riding along the North Mountain Road he came across a lynx sunning itself on a rock. When it heard Alex approaching on horseback it sat up and peered down at him. Why it did not dash under cover, Alex never knew. It might have been digesting and felt too sleepy.  It might not have sensed any immediate danger in the man's presence. The lynx remained there staring down at him. Alex stared back. They remained like that until, growing bored, the cat turned and padded away into the trees. Alex had looked up from his darning to see the boy’s brown eyes staring at him with an expression that reminded him of the lynx, a mixture of curiosity, suspicion and fear.  He pushed his spectacles up higher onto the bridge of his nose. “Evening.”

The boy shrank back until only his brown eyes and hair remained above the blankets.  He stared at the ugly, old man.  The man's hair had thinned to a few wisps of white.  His teeth were yellowed.  White stubble of two-day growth encrusted his face.  The man's eyes resembled reddish dots sunk into black pits, eyes shielded by dirt-streaked spectacles.

“I'm Doctor MacTavish. Just call me Alex. Most people do.” Alex placed the stocking and needle on the footstool. “I've some broth on the stove. Would you like some?”

The boy wondered how much they were paying the man and where they were.

“It's a bit chilly this evening,” said Alex. “You'll need something warm.  I might have something that will serve.”

From out of his vest pocket Alex pulled out a brass ring.  Three keys dangled from the ring, all worn and stained by age. He selected the middle one and kneeling in front of the chest inserted it and turned the lock.  Alex rummaged through the chest until he found a white linen shirt. His niece, Maureen, had given it to him as a Christmas present three years before.  He had never worn it, having kept it for a special occasion that never came.  As he approached the bed, the boy pressed his head down deeper into the pillow and pulled the blankets up over his head.

“You'll have your clothes back tomorrow.  I've had to have them cleaned and repaired.  This is a wee bit big but it'll serve for tonight.” Alex placed the shirt on the foot of the bed. He waited for a moment trying to think of what else to say.  Unable to think of anything more to say he decided to check the broth.

The man, standing no taller than five foot four, stank of whiskey and of unwashed clothing.  He was the kind of man they would have chosen, someone who would do anything for a few dollars.  They would be here tonight or tomorrow. When the man was busy stirring the broth, the boy sat up, reached out for the shirt and pulled it back under the blankets.

Spooning tea leaves into the kettle he heard the soft pattering of bare feet on the floor.  He turned to see the boy grabbing for the knob.

The boy twisted the knob to find the door locked. His fists beat against the door but he could not force it open. Giving it up he turned to face the doctor.  His eyes moved from the man to the window, the only other way out. The stranger stood between it and him. His eyes darted about seeking for a weapon or at least for a hiding place.  The small room offered no place to hide.

Alex placed the kettle on the stove. “You've no place to go, lad.  Even if you did, you can't leave without trousers.  It's too cold.  Have some broth.”

His back pressed against the wall, the boy inched his way away from the man.  Upon reaching the chest he slid down, crouching beside it as if it offered some form of shelter.

Shock, Alex concluded. “I'll . . . I'll put the broth on the table.  If you like . . . you can help yourself.” He poured some of the yellowish-brown liquid into a bowl and plopped a spoon down beside it.  He shuffled over to a bookcase.  picked out a small volume and went over to the large chair.  He sat and opened the book.

The boy waited for a moment.  He then lunged forward towards the stove.  Seizing the fire iron he retreated into his space between the chest and the bookshelf.  Back he slid as far as he could squeeze himself, the poker in front of him.  He waited to see what the man would do.  If the man should fall asleep, he would try for the window.

Three hours passed.  The broth had cooled in the bowl.  Alex had remained in his chair, his mind dipping into the book, The Poetical Works of Robert Burns. 

Is there, for honest poverty,

That hings his head an' a' that

The coward slave we pass him by

We dare be poor for a' that

 

He had assumed the boy would grow tired and fall asleep or take the broth.  Neither had happened.  Alex pulled his brass watch out of his vest pocket.  Eight minutes past eight.  Careful to keep his eyes from turning towards the watching child, Alex concentrated on his book.

The pith o' sense, the pride o' worth

Are higher rank than a' that.

 

The scar on the boy's left wrist puzzled him.   From the weathering of the tissue Alex estimated it to be two or three years old.  The scar could have been from an accident. He had found no other mark on the boy apart from the one left by McDermott's musket ball.  What was he doing in McDermott's barn anyway? The nearest farmstead coming up from Kingston was a good six miles away.

The fire iron thunked against the floor.

“Maminka.”

Alex picked up his lamp and went over to where the boy was crouched. The sleeping child's eyes were open. He murmured words Alex did not understand.  One word he kept repeating, priester.  Alex thought the language might be German. He did not speak the language but he had met a few Prussian officers in Paris in 1814. The muttering increased. Alex reached out to touch the boy in an attempt to comfort him. The child twisted away.  Alex pressed closer. Two balled fists pounded his chest and arms.  Alex held him until the child settled into exhausted silence. Alex then lifted him up and carried him back to the bed.

Alex   Amazon Press

Author's Note

Canadian English