One of the soldiers aimed his musket at me.
Faster than I realized what was happening, Cullah threw the cleaver. He threw it so straight and true it lodged in the arm of the soldier while the man’s finger was still reaching for the flash pan. The other soldiers lunged at Cullah. Cullah fought but briefly, for they pummeled him to the ground in such a way that I was surprised later that he survived, and would not except they did not stab him with their bayonets. I wanted to run to him, but I could not move to him for they enclosed him, using the butts of their weapons on him.
“Get him in the wagon,” the officer said.
They dragged him, unconscious, to his feet. Cullah awoke. Raging, screaming curses in English and Scots, my Cullah struggled and fought, his meaty arms soon stripped bare of his linen shirt until bleeding, beaten, they tied him in the wagon bed behind the pile of goods from his shop, all the furniture yet to be delivered, all the tools they could tear from the walls and carry from the racks. The major gave a command. The soldiers got their wounded comrade, tied his arm with a kerchief, and helped him into the cart beside Cullah.
It began to roll away. “Cullah!” I cried. Gwyneth and Roland uttered cries, too. The wagon moved. Cullah roared in anger, blood coursing down his face, smeared with dirt and grit, his body lashed to the sides of the wagon like an animal. Fury filled my soul. Screams filled my mouth. The foot soldiers followed the wagon keeping up their terrible rhythmic tramping. “Cullah!” I screamed. I ran after the wagon, following them.
“Resolute! Stay back. Stay there, Resolute!” Cullah called. “Find Brendan!”
On a command from the officer, three of the foot soldiers stopped, turned, and aimed their muskets at me. I ran straight toward them. They had not loaded the pans. They could not yet shoot. I kept on. But they braced themselves and the bayonets gave them a reach far beyond a man with a knife. I stopped. We stood there while the wagon rumbled away, farther down the road toward Boston.
“Where are you taking him?” I begged. “Tell me where!”
The man who’d given orders said, “To be tried. It will either be a judge at the royal administration or back to London. It’s his lordship’s choice.”
“Who? Whose choice is it?”
“Lord Wallace Spencer. He’s who made the charge against him.”
“Wallace?” My word drifted away into silence. Then all I could hear was the grinding wheel of the wagon, crushing gravel beneath the iron wheel rims. Cullah’s head nodded forward as if he’d lost consciousness again.
The soldiers turned and trotted to catch up with their fellows. I ran behind them. I ran until my breath would not come, crying Cullah’s name, screaming my heart out, until I felt something burst in my throat. I tasted blood. I could not keep up. The horses and the men outpaced me and the wagon got smaller and smaller until it rounded a corner and I could see it no longer. I cried out once more and fell on my face in the road. I lay there for many minutes, breathing in the dust, sobbing into the rocks and grass and filth from years of horses. I had no shoes. I had no wrapper on. Blood dripped from my lips.
Gwenny rushed upon me with a cloak and wrapped it around. I watched, dull-witted, as if they would turn round and return. Gwenny brushed grass from my hair. “Ma?” I could hear. Someone called again, “Ma?”
CHAPTER 35
October 1767