Chapter Eleven

 

 

The raft was about fifteen feet square with a crude cabin of logs, chinked with mud, at its center. There was a long steering oar fixed in a notch at the stern and four oars to help control and drive the vessel.

 

J.B. had jumped on, pushing the raft off from the muddy shore with his boots, grabbing for the steering oar as the current immediately picked at the bound logs, swinging them out into the main stream.

 

The thrown stone and Jak's instant retaliation took everyone, including Ryan, by surprise.

 

It had looked as though they were going to get away with it.

 

Now there was murderous mayhem.

 

On the slowly moving, rocking raft, Ryan and his companions were at a great disadvantage. The villagers, most of the men with firearms, were able to open fire at close to point-blank range, pouring lead at them.

 

Ryan saw Jak hit in the center of the stomach, folding over and writhing in pain, his legs kicking on the wet timbers, yelping in shock.

 

J.B. had let go of the steering oar and unslung the Uzi, readying it to retaliate, but he hadn't yet opened fire. Krysty and Mildred had both been heading for the small cabin and were unable to start shooting straightaway.

 

Ryan snapped off a couple of rounds before he felt a devastating blow in his right thigh and he went down, grabbing at the wound with his left hand, feeling the warmth of spilling blood against his fingers.

 

It was a bad moment, with musket and pistol balls slashing at the water, some of them thunking into the wood, tearing off strips of white timber.

 

Doc saved the day, turning as Jak opened fire, his Le Mat already unholstered. He braced himself against the movement of the raft while it gathered pace toward the center of the stream, leveling the hand cannon and firing the .65-caliber round at the enraged mob. The buckshot starred out and blasted a gap in the packed ranks of the villagers, leaving two dead and half a dozen down, screaming and bloodied, at the side of the water.

 

It gave J.B. and the women the few seconds' respite they needed to get their act together and open fire themselves. The single barking explosions of Mildred's ZKR 551 and Krysty's double-action Smith amp; Wesson were counterpointed by the Armorer's lethal 9 mm Uzi.

 

It was a lot easier to fire from land against a moving target than it was to fire at stationary targets from a moving raft. But Ryan's company had vastly superior weaponry and decimated the enemy while they were still struggling to reload their single-shot blasters.

 

Ryan himself was lying flat near the edge of the raft, ignoring the bullet wound in his leg, shooting from the prone position at the scattering villagers.

 

Jak was still hunched up and moaning with pain from what looked like a triple-serious wound. A musket ball in the belly could easily turn out to be enough to book him a place on the last train west.

 

"Hold fire," Ryan called. "They've broken. Use the oars and get the raft out into the current. On the far side. Then all take cover in case they start trying to snipe at us."

 

"You hit, lover?"

 

"Ball in the leg. See to Jak. Think he got shot in the guts. More serious."

 

While Doc worked the steering oar, J.B. took over Ryan's Steyr rifle and kept watch for any resumption of hostilities. But the villagers had taken at least a dozen fatalities and had lost all heart for the fight.

 

Krysty and Mildred dragged Ryan and Jak behind the cover of the cabin while the doctor checked their wounds.

 

She first examined Jak, who was still folded up, hands clasped over his midriff, moaning to himself.

 

"Move yourself, Jak, so I can see what the damage is."

 

Ryan had reloaded his SIG-Sauer, holstering it and sitting up to peer at his own wound. There was a ragged tear in his pant leg, halfway between the knee and hip. He touched himself gingerly on both sides of the thigh, whistling with relief as he felt both an entrance and an exit wound.

 

"Think I'm lucky," he said. "Think the ball went clean through near the outside. Doesn't feel like it hit anything too serious on the way. How's the kid?"

 

"Don't call me that, Ryan," Jak said through gritted teeth. "I'm all right. Sore."

 

"But I saw you go down, gut shot."

 

"Look," Mildred said, her voice high with relief. "Look at his belt."

 

Ryan rolled on his side and looked across the cramped little cabin, seeing that Jak's broad leather belt had a massive brass buckle. And there was the soft lead musket ball, splashed in a bright blur across the brass.

 

"Lucky," Ryan said.

 

"Feel like kicked by mule," the teenager complained. "Bastards!"

 

"We did take their food and their raft," Mildred stated gently.

 

"Still bastards. How're you, Ryan?"

 

Mildred left Jak and knelt by Ryan on the rocking, shifting logs.

 

After a few moments she agreed with his own diagnosis. "Need to look properly when we can get a chance. But I think you're right. Seems to have gone clear through and not even nipped the muscle. Pure flesh wound. I'll wash it out, then tie it up for you to ease the bleeding."

 

Outside there was the hollow sound of a smoothbore musket being fired, and a ball struck the outside of the cabin. But it sounded partly spent, with little menace. It was followed almost immediately by the full-throated crack of the powerful Steyr SSG-70, and a whoop of elation from the Armorer.

 

"Got that son of a bitch!" he whooped. "Don't think they'll bother us no more."

 

"Anymore," Krysty said from habit, though J.B. couldn't hear her.

 

"How is young Jak?" Doc called. "And what of our beloved leader?"

 

"Jak's got a nasty bruise around about his navel," Mildred shouted. "Lucky pup, I tell you."

 

"And Ryan?"

 

"I'll be fine in a while," Ryan yelled himself. "Got a musket ball went in and out. Have it bandaged and be lighter than rain. How're we doing out there?"

 

"Making about eight or ten miles an hour," J.B. replied. "Think we're already clear from any more danger from the double-poor villagers."

 

Mildred had told Ryan to tug down his pants, and she examined the bleeding wound. "I think we should pull into the bank for a few minutes when it's safe," she said. "Like to do my medical work on dry land."

 

Jak was already on his feet, peering out of the cabin, wincing as he touched the deep purple bruise that had sprung up on his snow white stomach. "I'll help with oars. Steer us in."

 

"Me, too," Krysty said, stooping to kiss Ryan on the cheek. "Glad it's not too bad, lover. When you went down I thought Well, I just thought. That's all."

 

Ryan lay back, feeling slightly sick, the pain beginning to swell in his leg, which throbbed with the pulse.

 

 

 

THEY HAD MOORED THE RAFT among a grove of tamarinds that grew close to the banks of the Tennessee River. J.B. went a little way upstream, and Jak picked his cautious path downstream to keep watch while Mildred operated on her patient.

 

Krysty stayed to watch and help, while Doc relaxed on the deck, enjoying a burst of bright, watery sunshine.

 

"A wound of honor, my dear fellow," he said.

 

"Honor!" Ryan bit his lip to avoid yelping as Mildred bathed the wound with cold river water, making sure there was no residue of cloth or dirt left by the ball's passage that might remain and putrefy.

 

"A strange thing, honor," the old man mused. "I do believe that it has caused almost as much sorrow, despair and death as religion."

 

"I have the feeling that you're building up to one of your interminable anecdotes, Doc," Mildred said, bending low over Ryan's thigh, examining her work with close attention. "Go ahead. Take his mind off the bandaging."

 

"I am minded of the time of the Crusades in Europe," Doc went on, as serene as ever.

 

"That the knights against the infidel?" Ryan asked. "Saw a bit of an old vid about that once. Years ago."

 

"Correct."

 

Doc watched the bandaging. "You have good hands, Dr. Wyeth."

 

"Thank you, Doc."

 

"The story about honor?" Ryan prompted, concentrating on not yelling at the pain from the wound. Despite all of Mildred's efforts, it was like having a red hot needle drawn through the tender flesh of his thigh. Krysty was holding his hand tightly.

 

"Ah, yes. During the Crusades an alarming number of young men of good families died. Some from the swords and arrows of the blaspheming Turks, far more from dysentery and typhoid. Back home in England, it was vital that the daughters of the wealthy and famous married well. It was a source of deep shame to the fathers if they did not. But there were no longer enough young men of standing to go around."

 

"I thought they became nuns," Mildred interrupted.

 

"Some. But only a limited number. So some fathers came up with what were called 'marriages of honor' or 'marriages of heraldry.' Dreadful things."

 

The afternoon was wearing on, and the Tennessee River flowed placidly toward the south.

 

"The father of a distinguished family would discover the name and rank of a young man who had died fighting for the true cross against the scimitar. Then he would announce that his daughter would wed him."

 

"Though he was dead? How could they do that?" Ryan was becoming intrigued by the bizarre tale.

 

Doc shook his head sadly. "Of course they couldn't do it. But they did. The daughter and two or three of her attendants would be taken to an isolated part of the castle and there walled in together. The shield that bore that coat of arms of the dead 'husband' was placed against the barred door. A priest would recite the marriage ceremony, and then everyone went away."

 

"Leaving them to starve?" Krysty had become involved in listening to the story.

 

"Indeed, yes. A bleak and miserable passing for the poor souls. After a sufficient time had passed, the father would come back with the same priest. This time it would be the funeral service. The daughter, legally wed, was removed and buried in the local church, with full honor and dignity. And everyone concerned was happy ever after."

 

His tale was followed by a long silence, broken only by the river chuckling against the bound timbers of the raft.

 

"That is appalling, Doc." Mildred finished tying a knot in the length of torn material she'd used as a bandage. "That is simply dreadful."

 

"Is it true, Doc?" Krysty asked.

 

The old man ran his fingers through the mane of silver gray hair. "True? I believe so. But what is truth, my dear lady? Why, I am minded of an extraordinary tale set at the time that Kubla Khan had decreed his stately pleasure dome."

 

"No, thanks, Doc," Ryan said, lying back with his eye closed, breathing deeply and slowly to overcome the belated shock that was seeping through his body.

 

"But it involves a sled carried by Custer on his expedition along the Rosebud."

 

"No," Mildred said firmly. "Now, Ryan needs some quality rest. Everyone off the raft for an hour or so. Maybe find some fruit if we all look around."

 

"Careful," Ryan stated, puzzled that his voice was barely a whisper.

 

"Sure thing," Krysty said, finally letting go of his fingers. "You just sleep. Everything'll be fine, lover."

 

He felt the clumsy raft rock as everyone stepped off onto the lush grass on the shore.

 

His leg felt comfortable, tightly bound, and he flexed it experimentally, wincing at the stab of fresh pain. But he'd been shot and stabbed often enough to know that this wasn't too bad a wound. He began to think back to other times when he'd suffered from a bout of lead poisoning and quickly drifted off into a warm and comfortable darkness.

 

 

 

WHEN HE WOKE UP, starting from sleep with a momentary anxiety that he didn't know where he was, Ryan realized quickly that the raft was moving again. He was alone in the cabin, though he could hear the murmur of conversation from outside on the deck. When he checked his wrist chron, he found that it was eighteen minutes after four in the afternoon.

 

His leg felt less painful, and the shock of the shooting was already fading away.

 

"Where we going?" he called, his voice much stronger.

 

Krysty ducked in out of bright sunshine, blinking in the gloom. "You feeling better, lover?"

 

"Some. Where we going?"

 

"Where the river takes us. South. Just south."