PLUS
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
EMMETT SHIFTED ON the hard wooden bench. There was scant room on the little dray, and his muscles were cramping keeping a modest distance from the soft, feminine form beside him. Diana seemed unaware. She was bright-faced and scrubbed, craning this way and that as she took in the sights along the road. A faint, lavender smell rose from her—she was still fresh from her morning wash at the creek a few miles back.
Shannon had glossed over what had to have been the only realistic fate of New Kent. He didn't know if she believed him, or if she was pushing it from her mind. Either way, Diana was unforcedly cheery and viewing everything she saw on the road to Albany as an adventure. She seemed satisfied with Shannon's immediate plans for her. Among his friends in Albany, he'd said, was a prominent merchant family he knew would be delighted to take Diana in. With her "inheritance," she could set herself up and leave any long-range planning until after the war.
Emmett and Diana were three days out of New Kent. Moving at a lazy pace on their rickety dray, with a few bags of feed for Horse and provisions they stowed in the back, they seemed to be nothing more than a couple off to visit the wife's family.
Emmett shifted again, wishing he had a pair of the padded drawers green horsemen used until their rumps were callused. Ahead, the short, heavily muscled and light-brained farm horse plodded contentedly along—moving in a slow, endless pace which could not be hurried even with a fresh switch.
The animal was their first shared joke. After they'd purchased it, they'd spent an hour seeking a name to fit its personality. But there is dull-witted and then there is dull-witted. So they decided to just call it "Horse."
After New Kent they'd traveled hard for two days. Diana gamely kept up, but it would be foolish to continue afoot farther, even on the main road. She was wearing her most durable frock, but her shoes, although sturdy, were made for the town, not long walking. A tight-fisted backwoods farmer had provided the solution. They came upon his small, lush spread, with its tidy stone house the evening of the second day. Until Shannon offered to room or board, the farmer refused them even the shelter of a musty stack of hay. Even then, his greedy eyes measured as his wife spooned up bowls of thin gruel and cut crusts of hard bread for their supper. His wife was no better. Diana saw her hide the salt cellar and instead pull out a threadbare sack containing only a few rocks of dirty salt. Shannon decided a little fleecing was in order, and was surprised how quickly Diana picked up the game.
As usual, he spiced the dish he was cooking with heavy drams of the truth. Diana aided and abetted him as he described the British attack on New Kent and then painted a pitiful tale of how he and his poor wife—left with barely a stitch—were now making their way to family in Albany. Diana stretched the two days into four, inventing detail upon detail of their harrowing flight through the wilds, with British patrols and brambles blocking a path even wild hogs couldn't penetrate.
"So you can see the trouble we're in, sir," Shannon said, "all we possess gone in flames, and many miles between us and the safety and comfort of our family's bosom."
The farmer and his wife tsked, tsked and said what a pity, but the ways of the Lord are strange and wonderful, and besides, what could be done?
"When we approached your fine place," Diana said, "we noticed that you had an abundancy of animals for a farm this size—especially horses." Too quick, lass, Shannon thought as the couple reacted in alarm—smiles fading, lips compressing. "We were both saying how very sad people had to work so hard to gain the little that we could see, only to lose it in an instant to the British. Isn't that so, Emmett, dear?"
Emmett buried a harrumph of surprise in a cup of water, then nodded vigorously: yes, dear, how pitiful, but true.
"They're not many miles behind us," Shannon said, "sweeping through the countryside for their booty. And it's horses they prize the most, yes indeed. Horses."
He looked full into the farmer's shocked face. Then he let his eyes widen in brilliant inspiration. "Perhaps we could help one another," he said.
"Aha." This was as far as the farmer would go. But it was an interested "aha," Shannon thought.
"If you worked all night, you could hide most of your goods. But the animals pose a different problem. The British will know they're about and hunt until they find them. We, on the other hand, have a need of transportation and the means to pay. We could possibly spare a little cash for a horse and a dray; they prize drays as well—almost above wagons. For the officers, you understand."
"Ah." Emmett sensed growing committal, but still some doubt.
"We could leave you a receipt of purchase you could show them," Diana came in. "Put as much as you want on it, and you'll have proof there's nary a beast about." She turned to Emmett. "What do you think, dear? You're much wiser in these things."
Emmett pretended to ponder it carefully. Finally he gave a big, wide smile. "There's no reason it shouldn't work," he said. "The British are notorious fools about official-looking papers. You'd think they were Dutchmen. What's your thinking, sir?"
The farmer's thinking was eager. Before they knew it, he'd sold them the beast destined to be called "Horse," the dray, feed for the animal and provisions for them. Shannon also talked the farm woman out of a good, sturdy riding cloak with a hood on it for Diana. They came to the matter of payment. Diana hefted out her fat, leather purse. But the chink of coin brought no joy to the farmer's face. He was feeling gloomy, because he had been forced to keep the prices he was charging fair. Otherwise, no one would believe the receipt. For a moment Shannon thought the man might let his sense of injustice outweigh everything else and back out on the contract.
He fumbled out his sheaf of counterfeit bills and pretended he was going to pay with these instead of coin. The farmer refused. Currency, he said, had nowhere near the value of coin. Shannon acted hurt. Then he offered a slightly larger currency-to-coin ratio. It was the farmer's turn to appear hurt. It went back and forth, until the farmer had boosted the exchange rate up and Shannon humbly hung his head to his proven master in bargaining and gave up the last bill he had to his name. Diana said nothing during this final bargaining, and Shannon wondered if she knew the currency was worthless as a rich man's promise.
The next morning the two of them harnessed up the dray and drove off without a word to the couple, pretending to be still smarting and angry over the arrangement. When they were well out of hearing distance, Diana burst into laughter.
"You're not a kind man at all, Emmett Shannon," she said.
"Oh? I think I'm the kindest fellow you'll ever meet," he said. "A mean man would have laughed in that farmer's face when the papers were signed."
"I think you're bending a point until it looks like the back of that poor beast we bought," she said, still laughing. "Now, own up. Admit I'm right."
"Not until you admit," Emmett said, "how you loved every moment of it. You've a talent for it, Diana, and if you played dice with the Devil ... I wouldn't put a penny on the Devil!"
* * * *
"Have you ever visited Philadelphia?" Diana asked. "I mean, the Philadelphia with an H, not a K." She flashed him a malicious grin, and now Emmett knew she was well aware of his little currency deception.
"No, I haven't."
"Well, wouldn't it be like Boston? It's a city of great size, isn't it?"
"You don't want to go to Boston," Shannon said. "It's a city of cold hearts. And you've never seen such poverty."
When he saw her expression darken, Emmett gave himself a kick. Where's your sense, man? The woman doesn't want to hear that. She's wanting a little glamour in her dreams just now.
"Actually," he said after a moment, "city life has a great deal to be spoken for. There's always new and different folks about. Discussing thousands of things."
"Like what?"
"Like what? Oh, uh . . . the theater, say."
Diana was suitably impressed. "You've been to the theater?"
"Well, I'd be lying to you if I said I had. It's much too expensive. But my father used to care for the carriages of the theater folk, and he'd take me along to see all the grand people."
From the glow in Diana's eyes, he knew he was getting back on the right path. "But there's lots of other amusements. Some of them at no cost at all. Why, when the ships came in from the West Indies, we all used to troop down to the wharfs. There'd be monkeys and wondrous birds. I saw a bear from the far north one time. It was pure white, like the snow and ice they say always covers the land up there.
"And on Clarke's Wharf you could visit a circus in the summer. One time I saw a famous acrobat, direct from England. And you'd call me a liar if I described his feats. There was a woman on Clarke's Wharf—Mrs. Hiller, I believe—who had wax figures of the grandest people of Europe. They were dressed so fashionably, and people who knew said they were identical in every feature. There was another waxworks not far away that was a bit more of a scandal. The man who owned the collection had on display the image of the Countess of Heininburg, who reputedly had three hundred and sixty-five children at one birth."
Diana's lower jaw almost dropped. "Three hundred and . . . That can't be true."
"He had the figures there just the same. The countess and all her babes. I never saw for myself. My mother would have forbidden it."
"How did the countess . . . ? Oh, never mind. Still, it sounds very grand. A great occasion every day. What did the people look like? What did they wear?"
"Quite fashionable, as you can imagine," Shannon said.
Diana's left eyebrow twitched, and he realized she wouldn't be satisfied so easily. She'd want specifics. She was no farm wife who would be awed by a smooth tongue and talk of a "bit of lace." He'd seen a lace maker's pillow in her kit.
Emmett stumbled for description. "Uh . . . well, the ladies wore, uh . . . bows?" Diana nodded, encouraging. "Right. There were lots of bows on 'em. And, uh . . . ruffles?" Another nod. "Yes, bows and ruffles. They were covered with the stuff. And, uh . . . their dresses were all kind of tucked in . . . here . . . and, uh . . . billowy, thereabouts . . . uh, you know, like . . ." He made helpless, wavy gestures with his hands.
"You mean flounces?" Diana said.
"That's it! Flounces, they were. All bows and ruffles and flounces." Shannon was exhausted by all this. He glanced over at Diana, as if expecting congratulations.
"They sound daft to me," she said.
Emmett sighed. "So they were," he said. "So they were."
* * * *
As the days went by, they became easier with each other, unguarded in their thinking. Emmett and Diana were a little like a brother and sister who have rediscovered one another as adults and become friends. Not so sibling like was the growing sexual tension between them. But they both did their best to keep it at a distance, as if afraid it would spoil the rich broth they were cooking up together. This tension might seize them in a pause in conversation, or become the dark shadow behind an innocent touch. Once it was merely the unusual heat of an afternoon, when the sun bore up the sticky scent of pine and they both found their voices growing heavy and thick. Emmett leaned closer, and Diana found herself sagging back for him, and then she was flushing and turning away and Emmett busied himself with his pipe, spilling tobacco through trembling fingers.
Mostly they just talked; endlessly and about everything. Diana told Emmett about life in New Kent, the scandal of her birth and the powerful influence of Abigail Fahey. When Diana talked about the Hatches, Emmett grew so unreasonably furious, he wanted to turn back then and hunt them down for punishment. She reacted with equal fury when he told her about the sawpits, the cheating British officer, the petty and misplaced revenge of his Cherry Valley neighbors. When he talked about his dead wife, Sarah, she drew him out on the subject—asking questions of some detail; for what purpose, she didn't know.
She was also curious about his grandfather, and it wasn't just because of the effect two old people had on each of them. Shannon understood it was because Diana—born on the wrong side of the hedge—was a person whose beginnings were nearly as obscure to her as a slave from the African coast. If asked, she would have said this was only partially the explanation. To her it was mostly because the old man had reached directly over Emmett's poor, gentle father to gift him with the few things he treasured most. Brian Shannon's belief in the great importance of the ability to read struck her like a commandment that should be carved on a stone tablet.
They made camp early one day. The harness and the dray needed fussing over, and Horse's slow pace seemed even wearier. Diana took the opportunity to tend to her own things, such as whip-stitching a few rents in her garments.
As Shannon reached to hang the harness from a branch, the back of his hunting shirt gave way in a great ragged tear. He greeted it with a soldier's oath he cut off in mid-obscenity when he saw her laughing face. "I've patched it a hundred times," he said, "but it keeps getting the better of me. What's worse, the tear gets larger each time. Soon I'll be naked as Adam."
Diana had him remove it and examined the marks of endless patching. "You can't mend it this way," she sniffed.
"Ah, she gives herself away," Shannon mocked. "Underneath all that prettiness, the woman's sharp as a new stitch. I myself would never have guessed I was doing it all wrong."
Diana shook her head at his weak humor. "It's just that you cannot use needle and thread to right a bit of leather that's gone wrong this way," she said.
She showed him the old marks of the needle on the shirt. "With cloth," she said, "it would be different. Cloth heals itself, as we like to say. But leather is flesh, after all, and when you pierce it with a needle, the wound is permanent because there is no living thing underneath to grow it back."
"Then it's hopeless. My future is clear. I'm faced with burned skin by day and nights of trembling cold."
Diana didn't answer. Instead, she dug for her kit and drew out a small amber-colored stick. She had Emmett fetch two clean rocks from the creek and set them heating on the fire. She chipped a few slivers from her stick into a tin cup and put it near the fire. As the chips melted, Diana cleaned up the worst of the jaggedness with a sharp blade from her sewing kit, and then deftly constructed a patch out of a piece of the shirt's tail. Then she pulled the cup away from the fire. The chips inside had melted into a mass of goo. She stirred it with a stick, testing the consistency.
"What kind of glue is that?"
"It's just Diana's famous tailor's elixir. Handed down from generations of ancient Senecas. That's all."
"Right. A secret between us at last. Well, let's just see how this ancient brew works and if there's a fortune in your future."
With a clean twig she drew a bead along the edges of the patch and then on the shirt. She maneuvered the patch into place and then used the hot stones as a press. Emmett had to squint hard to see where the old tear had been. He was amazed at her skill and talked about it over the next few hours.
Near evening he remembered something. "Do you recall me telling you about the waxworks on Clarke's Wharf?"
"You mean the one with the countess and her three hundred sixty-five babes? In shuddering detail!"
"No, no. The one maintained by Mrs. Hiller."
"Yes."
"Well, I didn't tell you all about it. She made a good deal of money from the waxworks. But she made even more with her skill with a needle. She was well-known for miles about. Still, this was not the true genius of our dear Mrs. Hiller.
What she did was open a school of needlework. It was for all the daughters of the rich merchants and leather aprons in Boston. The school was very expensive, but as you know, if the rich find something to be fashionable, it becomes as great a need for them as a poor man wanting bread.
"Well, with that in mind—Mrs. Hiller's success, I mean— wouldn't that hold a possibility for you? Once you get set up in Albany, or Philadelphia, or wherever your heart takes you, couldn't you use your skill to start such a school?"
"Me?" Diana was astounded. "But I'm just a—"
"Don't be silly," Shannon said. "It doesn't rest easy with you. Why should you tell anyone from this day on where you came from? Or how? Or why? Your particulars are your own business, and if you give that great cold stare I know you have in you, they'll be ashamed they ever asked. Besides, greater men and women than you and I come from humbler places and more scandalous births.
"The point I'm trying to reach, Diana, is that you will do very well, I'm sure. But you'll have to work like a servant to get anywhere. Unless you find some way to make yourself a darling of the rich. Then everything you do will bring back gold instead of silver. Otherwise . . . the harder the labor, the meaner the pay, is the firm rule in this life."
Diana had to admit he made sense. Then she brought the conversation around to what he saw in his future.
"I'm no good as a farmer," he admitted. "I'd be better in some business where I could use my wits."
"Then, perhaps you should consider the city," Diana said hopefully, feeling an odd tick of hope in her heart. "From what you said about Boston, that's out, I suppose. But there's always—"
"Not one of those eastern flea holes," Shannon broke in. "Their narrowness would stifle me. I'd choke in their high-nosed Tory air."
"Then where?"
"Pittsburgh," he said. "That's the place for me."
He told her about Pittsburgh, the rough-hewn town along the Monongahela River in the Pennsylvania wilderness. People asked no prying questions of another in such a place. It was already growing—with rich land all about, and iron as well—but more important was the river trade. Shannon believed that in the future the city would number more than a thousand residents and there would be opportunity for a man who could use his wits.
Diana had heard travelers' tales about Pittsburgh and she had other thoughts than Emmett's. But she didn't say anything about them. Instead: "Why not go there, then?"
Shannon groaned. How could he ever accumulate the funds for such a venture? His farm was worthless, and there would be the added cost of setting up a household for his two sons, his sister and her son and daughter.
"Oh, I'm not too sure about that," Diana said, sounding wiser than her years. But she had kept her ears open and her mind darting during her time at the Black Lamb. "You claim the farm is worthless. I'd be speaking over myself to argue. But didn't you say it was on the crossroads, at the edge of the town?"
Shannon nodded, this was true.
"Then it's a perfect place for an inn," she said, excited. "There's a fortune to be made at any crossroads. That's one thing I learned from Nate Hatch! So it's easy, then. You start an inn . . . build up the business . . . sell it for a handsome ..."
She went on, happily planning Shannon's future. Building the inn stone by stone; where the hearth would go; how many rooms; the food; the drink. Shannon just lay back, listening. It was amazing. No matter how far you had to dig through her excited words, there was always a hard grit of Tightness about what she said.
They slept closer that night.
* * * *
The following evening, Shannon pulled the dray deep into the woods. They were nearing Kingston and it was time for caution. It was so dark under the trees, they couldn't see beyond the edge of their tiny campfire. Shannon got the oil lamp from the dray, filled it, and set it atop a rock to widen their small circle of light.
After they ate, they sat close together and listened to the stream that gurgled a few feet away, but in the darkness seemed to come from someplace far away. Then there was a slight shift of the breeze and the smell of moss drew them nearer to the stream's warm shallows.
Diana found herself staring at the glow of the oil lamp. Insects flashed at the lamp, their trails looking like sparks flying off into the night. She felt Emmett turn, and she looked at him. He seemed so sad, she wanted to tell him there was nothing . . . nothing ... to be sad about.
Emmett marveled how her hair shone so deep red and black in the firelight, and as Diana fell back, the hot scent of lavender rose up to embrace him.
* * * *
The next day would have been bewildering to any poor sane man or woman who had never been as fatally smitten as Diana and Emmett. In the manner of lovers, volumes of things were taken for granted—all without discussion. As they loaded the dray, it was assumed Diana was continuing with Shannon to Cherry Valley. They kept on planning the inn, its eventual sale and their new life-to-be in Pittsburgh. When the town grew as Emmett predicted, Diana would have her sewing school there, and Emmett was wondering about opening a waxworks exhibit annex, like the one developed by Mrs. Hiller on Clarke's Wharf.
Suddenly Diana stopped. "What are your sons' names?" she asked.
"Brian and Farrell," Shannon said. "Brian's the oldest."
"Ah. For your grandfather and your father," she said. "They'll both read as well as a schoolmaster, I promise you." And then she picked up the previous conversation in midstream.
A little later, each thinking private, pleasant thoughts under a drowsy afternoon sun, she asked: "Is your religion important to you?"
"No, not like most people," Emmett said after a moment's thought. "But I'll stick to being Catholic. First off, I despise churches, and if you're Catholic there aren't any to attend, are there? But mostly because the British have been trying to whip it out of us for hundreds of years. Anything they hate so much has to have something to say for itself, don't you think?"
Diana nodded, thinking this over a bit. She had even less religious feelings than Shannon; being raised by an old cynic like Abigail assured that. She didn't know anything about Catholics, but she was willing to give it a try. "What about Brian and Farrell?" she asked.
Emmett thought about this, then raised an eyebrow. "I don't know. What do you think?"
"They'll be Catholics like their father," she said firmly. Then: "Do you think your sister Ruth will like me?"
Shannon laughed. "There's no trouble there," he said. "A person would have to work very hard indeed to get on the wrong side of my sister. It's her fault and failing at the same time. She goes along too easily with people . . . not because she's afraid they won't like her, but because she's so . . . so . . . warm, I guess you'd call it."
It was only early afternoon when they made camp again. Even so, they were barely in time and Horse had to stand patiently in harness until evening.
NEXT: Warscape
*****
S.O.S. ALLAN'S NEW NOVEL
Between February and May of 1942, German U-boats operated with impunity off the Florida coast, sinking scores of freighters from Cape Canaveral to Key West and killing nearly five thousand people. Residents were horrified witnesses of the attacks—the night skies were aflame and in the morning the beaches were covered with oil and tar, ship parts and charred corpses. The Germans even landed teams of saboteurs charged with disrupting war efforts in the factories of the North. This novel is based on those events. For my own purposes, I set the tale in the fictitious town of Juno Beach on the banks of the equally fictitious Seminole River—all in the very real Palm Beach County, a veritable wilderness in those long ago days. Among the witnesses were my grandfather and grandmother, who operated an orchard and ranch in the area.
*****
A DAUGHTER OF LIBERTY
The year is 1778 and the Revolutionary War has young America trapped in the crossfire of hatred and fear. Diana, an indentured servant, escapes her abusive master with the help of Emmett Shannon, a deserter from the desperate army at Valley Forge. They fall in love and marry, but their happiness is shattered and Diana Shannon must learn to survive on her own. From that moment on she will become a true woman of her times, blazing a path from lawless lands in the grips of the Revolution, to plague-stricken Philadelphia, to the burning of Washington in the War Of 1812.
*****
TWO NEW AUDIOBOOKS ONLY $4.95!
Tales Sometimes Tall, but always true, of Allan Cole's years in Hollywood with his late partner, Chris Bunch. How a naked lady almost became our first agent. How we survived La-La Land with only the loss of half our brain cells. How Bunch & Cole became the ultimate Fix-It
Boys. How an alleged Mafia Don was very, very good to us. The guy who cornered the market on movie rocks. Andy Warhol's Fire Extinguisher. The Real Stars Of Hollywood. Why they don't make million dollar movies. See The Seven Pi$$ing Dwarfs. Learn: how to kill a "difficult" actor… And much, much more.
THE TIMURA TRILOGY: When The Gods Slept, Wolves Of The Gods and The Gods Awaken. This best selling fantasy series now available as trade paperbacks, e-books (in all varieties) and as audiobooks. Visit The Timura Trilogy page for links to all the editions.
NEWLY REVISED KINDLE EDITIONS OF THE TIMURA TRILOGY NOW AVAILABLE. (1) When The Gods Slept;(2) Wolves Of The Gods; (3) The Gods Awaken.
*****
A NATION AT WAR WITH ITSELF: In Book Three Of The Shannon Trilogy, young Patrick Shannon is the heir-apparent to the Shannon fortune, but murder and betrayal at a family gathering send him fleeing into the American frontier, with only the last words of a wise old woman to arm him against what would come. And when the outbreak of the Civil War comes he finds himself fighting on the opposite side of those he loves the most. In The Wars Of The Shannons we see the conflict, both on the battlefield and the homefront, through the eyes of Patrick and the members of his extended Irish-American family as they struggle to survive the conflict that ripped the new nation apart, and yet, offered a dim beacon of hope.
*****
NEW: THE AUDIOBOOK VERSION OF
THE HATE PARALLAX
What if the Cold War never ended -- but continued for a thousand years? Best-selling authors Allan Cole (an American) and Nick Perumov (a Russian) spin a mesmerizing "what if?" tale set a thousand years in the future, as an American and a Russian super-soldier -- together with a beautiful American detective working for the United Worlds Police -- must combine forces to defeat a secret cabal ... and prevent a galactic disaster! This is the first - and only - collaboration between American and Russian novelists. Narrated by John Hough. Click the title links below for the trade paperback and kindle editions. (Also available at iTunes.)
*****
THE SPYMASTER'S DAUGHTER:
A novel by Allan and his daughter, Susan
After laboring as a Doctors Without Borders physician in the teaming refugee camps and minefields of South Asia, Dr. Ann Donovan thought she'd seen Hell as close up as you can get. And as a fifth generation CIA brat, she thought she knew all there was to know about corruption and betrayal. But then her father - a legendary spymaster - shows up, with a ten-year-old boy in tow. A brother she never knew existed. Then in a few violent hours, her whole world is shattered, her father killed and she and her kid brother are one the run with hell hounds on their heels. They finally corner her in a clinic in Hawaii and then all the lies and treachery are revealed on one terrible, bloody storm- ravaged night.
BASED ON THE CLASSIC STEN SERIES by Allan Cole & Chris Bunch: Fresh from their mission to pacify the Wolf Worlds, Sten and his Mantis Team encounter a mysterious ship that has been lost among the stars for thousands of years. At first, everyone aboard appears to be long dead. Then a strange Being beckons, pleading for help. More disturbing: the presence of AM2, a strategically vital fuel tightly controlled by their boss - The Eternal Emperor. They are ordered to retrieve the remaining AM2 "at all costs." But once Sten and his heavy worlder sidekick, Alex Kilgour, board the ship they must dare an out of control defense system that attacks without warning as they move through dark warrens filled with unimaginable horrors. When they reach their goal they find that in the midst of all that death are the "seeds" of a lost civilization.
*****
TALES OF THE BLUE MEANIE
NOW AN AUDIOBOOK!
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Venice Boardwalk Circa 1969
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In the depths of the Sixties and The Days Of Rage, a young newsman, accompanied by his pregnant wife and orphaned teenage brother, creates a Paradise of sorts in a sprawling Venice Beach community of apartments, populated by students, artists, budding scientists and engineers lifeguards, poets, bikers with a few junkies thrown in for good measure. The inhabitants come to call the place “Pepperland,” after the Beatles movie, “Yellow Submarine.” Threatening this paradise is "The Blue Meanie," a crazy giant of a man so frightening that he eventually even scares himself.
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