Chapter 31 #3
The hens stalk the floor of the barn, scrounging corn.
Captain Harte walks a circle past the ropes and blankets that hang from the pegs, the tools that lean in the corners.
The buckets, the barrels; the hogsheads of cider, the bushels of corn.
Hephzibah remembers the long golden days at the end of September, shucking corn next to Beulah on the bench they had carried outside to the sunshine.
Hundreds and hundreds of ears until her arms ached—more corn, she thought, than they could possibly consume in a year.
Now the bushels are nearly empty. Do they feed the chickens or themselves?
Harte pauses before the hayloft and raises his lantern high.
The loft is so empty, the light finds the shadows in the corners.
“It is unfortunate, Miss Sykes, that the incoming tide prevented my ship from leaving harbor earlier in the day. It is impossible to conduct a thorough search in this darkness.”
Hephzibah stares at the pitchfork that stands against the wall beneath the loft.
She thinks of Ramsay, slinging it awkwardly in his left hand to pitch down the hay to the floor.
“The tide past the southwestern point is uncommon fierce,” she says.
“Not the mightiest ship can withstand it, even with the wind on your quarter.”
Harte detaches his gaze from the hayloft and looks at her. “I am obliged to warn you, should I find evidence that you have given me false report, it will be my unfortunate duty to have you carried to the authorities under arrest, for the capital offense of harboring a criminal.”
“Unless my chickens may be considered criminals, sir, I believe your duty has nothing to do with me.”
“Your levity is ill-advised, Miss Sykes. I am in earnest, I assure you.”
“And I assure you, Captain, that you will not find what you seek.”
A long breathing silence. Harte steps toward her, so that only a few feet of space separate them. He is not a tall man. If he were to step forward once more, his nose would strike the middle of her forehead.
In that instant, Hephzibah realizes they’re not alone. Ramsay is nearby. Where? She feels his watchfulness, his rising fury. His spirit on the brink of explosion.
“You are all alike, in this damned savage land,” Harte says.
“You think the law is like an article of clothing to be cast off if it doesn’t suit.
That a man who plunders and robs the honest and dearly bought goods of another man has done you a service because he has carried his spoils to your doorstep.
That the murder and mayhem he commits in this service are of no account because he has not murdered you. ”
“I think that a man who commits crimes in the name of the law is just as much a villain as the man who commits crimes against it.”
Harte lifts the lantern so the glow strikes her eyes.
“It would grieve me beyond words, Miss Sykes, to discover that you have fallen under the spell of this man. This pirate.” He snarls the word.
“This practiced seducer. I have seen it with my own eyes. Like the devil himself, he will beguile you until you’ll commit any villainy for him.
Until you have sunk into the same filth in which he wallows. ”
“I thank you for your concern, Captain Harte, but I believe myself capable to judge whether or not a man is a pig.”
“Then you are a fool.”
Hephzibah shrugs. “As you say.”
“You had better watch yourself, by God. You had better watch your tongue. You’re speaking to a king’s officer, do you understand? A king’s officer.”
“A king’s officer should remember himself, sir. He should not allow his temper to get the better of him.”
Harte seizes her chin with his fingers.
“By God, madam. If he has lured you into the carnal heat of his sinful bed. If he has bent you to his will, by God, you would do well to remember that it would fall to my unfortunate duty—mine, madam—to punish your wickedness without mercy.”
Under every hair of her skin, she feels the fury that crackles from its hiding place. The violence on the brink of explosion.
She grasps Harte’s wrist and pulls his hand away.
“I will let this insult pass,” she says, “for I know that God reads what is written on our hearts. But I tell you this, Captain Harte. If you touch me again without leave, you will not live long enough to regret it.”
On the rim of grass that falls to the shore. The boat pulling hard for the ship that lies at anchor in the channel, before the tide makes its turn.
“You shouldn’t have left the doctor alone,” she says.
“It was the doctor or you.”
“I can fend for myself, thank you.”
“Yes,” he says. “I see that now. I should never have doubted.”
The lantern blurs in the gathering fog. Still she feels Harte’s eyes, searching the dark shore. As if he can see the two of them, standing side by side in the night.
“He will return with the light,” she says.
Ramsay looks at his palm. “I could have killed him. With my one hand, I could have killed the bastard.”
“Thank God you did not. It would’ve meant the end of us all.”
“I knew that,” he says. “It’s the only reason he’s still alive.”