Infernal Devices - KW Jeter [107]
The assurances made as to my comfort turned out to be well founded: the garment kept me reasonably dry, only my face catching the salt spray as the Brown Leather Man bore me above the waves, and provided sufficient insulation to retain the warmth of my own body. After my initial apprehensions had passed, I endeavoured to relax as much as possible, as though I were lying on the bottom of a secure boat instead of being lifted across the surging water by the other's arm clasped tightly about my waist. His powerful strokes with his free arm, and the easeful motions of his lower body, cleaved through the waves with a rhythmic grace, proving his natural adaptation to the element.
Against the splash of water, I suddenly heard a distant cry. I tilted my head back to look. The morning sun was just breaking across the cliffs; a figure stood at their crest, having spotted us in the waves below. It was Scape; from this distance I could not see the expression on his face, but his fist shaking in air was clearly visible.
"You sonuvabitch!" came his howl. "Running out on us – you'll see! You bet your sweet ass…" The sound of his voice faded as I was carried farther away from the island.
The singular voyage lasted more than an hour, despite the Brown Leather Man's speed of progress through the water. Only once, when a particularly high wave washed over us, had I experienced any degree of discomfort, and then only a mouthful of salt water that left me sputtering for breath. When we waded ashore on the Scottish mainland, the sun was well lifted above the horizon. Its rays brought an additional urgency to my companion's request for the return of his garment. I hastily stripped the dark skin off; finding my own clothes somewhat damp underneath.
"Extraordinary," I said, brushing my sodden hair away from my face. The island of Groughay was visible only as the smallest speck on the horizon. I turned to look at the heather-covered hills at my back. As I did so, a rifleshot rang out, sending up a puff of sand at my feet.
"Quickly!" The Brown Leather Man pushed me towards the shelter of an outcropping of rocks. "Run!" He was unable to follow me, the skin-like covering that would have protected him on the land still wadded up in his arms. He dived back into the sea and disappeared.
Another shot sounded before I reached the outcropping's safety. The marksman was evidently some distance away, by the faint sound of the report; no doubt I had been spotted from some high vantage point in the surrounding hills. With my heart pounding in my chest, I circled around the rocks and began climbing up the slope on the opposite side, screened from view by the brushy foliage…
I soon gained the top of the small hill. As I crouched down, the shore was down below at my left hand. In front of me, across the valley at the hill's foot, was the confirmation of my first guess as to what person might have directed the shot at me. I could recognize, even at this distance, the figure of Sir Charles Wroth, dressed in hunting tweed, his rifle cradled in the crook of his arm. He commanded a party of considerable size, tramping through the countryside's thick heather: on either side of him, more men, undoubtedly of the Godly Army, were arrayed in line, each similarly armed. Before them, several score of the local men, unarmed save for their keen knowledge of the terrain, swept ahead in the nature of grouse-beaters in search of game to flush for the hunting party's pleasure. It was easy enough to conjecture how they had been enlisted in this cause: the Highlanders' lack of education and sternly Calvinist religion would make them enthusiastic pursuers of anyone accused of deviltry and various other blasphemous acts. I could expect much the same fate from their bare hands as from the bullets of the Godly Army.
No doubt, this force