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"I was tol' t'make shawls fer them was massacreed last night," the little man said. "I done that. But I needs a proper officer t'make his say. This is the first time I put landlubbers in shawls an' I don't know if'n I'm t'do it the seaman's way."
Lieutenant Gray moved off with the sailmaker to where several rows of body bags were aligned perfectly above the high-tide mark. Gray stopped at the first of the body bags, and found himself staring down into the face of Mary Clark. She looked serene, almost smiling, in death. Someone had wrapped a cloth around her neck where the Acadian's tomahawk had almost severed it. Gray tore his eyes away. Everyone in Dartmouth who had been living last night was dead this morning. No, he thought, that's not right. The soldiers lived; they had stayed safe in their fort. I lived; I ran for the boat with Denham, but they got him. Gray's flesh crawled when he realized he was almost at the spot where Denham had been tortured and died. Gray was breathing heavily and his mind whirled as he remembered all he had seen and heard last night. He shook his head to clear away the vile memories. "Well, sailor," he finally said, "what is it you want?" | |||
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Ensign Bancroft spotted his quarry: a girl, the redheaded renegade Englishman and his wife. There was still a good shot.
"Give me a musket, sergeant!" Sergeant Pollard handed the officer a weapon. Bancroft sighted on the broad back of the man. He took a deep breath. Steady . . . steady . . . he exhaled slightly. The redhead turned to help the women over the fence at the end of the property, and their eyes met. The redhead pushed the young girl out of the way and said something to his wife. She turned and faced the musket as well. The wife cried out, "Jerrie-e-e-e!" Lieutenant Jeremiah Bancroft, the officer with dreams of honour and righteous causes, shifted his weight slightly and fired. The three persons climbed the fence and disappeared into the bushes. That night around the campfire the soldiers said they thought the redhead had saluted just before he disappeared into the trees. Sergeant Pollard thought it unlikely. The men also commented on their musketry officer, the best shot in the regiment, missing an easy mark. "It happens," Sergeant Pollard replied. | |||
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The small boat took a starboard tack to make the entrance to Sambro Harbour. Molly and William Gray were standing among the boxes of possessions and supplies they were bringing with them to start their new lives.
Molly was slim again, and in her arms, wrapped snugly against the nip of the sea air, lay Charles Gray, their first son and the first of a long line of Grays who would live and die on the edge of the Atlantic. The little boat caught the swell once, twice, throwing salt spray high in the air before settling on her new tack. She passed the headlands and entered the harbour where the water was much calmer. Molly pulled the shawl away from her son's face. "Look Charles! We're home." She grasped William's hand, "And we're here to stay." | |||