A distant sound made Eleanor’s head come up as she listened. It sounded like corn popping over an open fire.
“Gunfire.” Old John rose from his chair and went to the door. He opened it and the sound grew louder, carrying on the breeze. “Aye.”
“Gunfire?” Eleanor put a hand up to her throat, the panic threatening to return. “Who is shooting?”
Old John shook his head. “I dinna ken.”
About a dozen men gathered in the yard and after a few harried moments of arguing, several of them left the fort, their muskets clutched in their hands.
“Why is there so much gunfire?” Eleanor asked, joining Old John at the open door.
Slowly, Old John closed the door, his eyes heavy with sorrow. He did not answer Eleanor but went to the musket he had brought with him and lifted it to his shoulder. He walked to the window and stared outside.
The sounds continued, though more sporadic. Each popping noise made her flinch, forcing her to consider where the bullets landed. Had any of those taken down Arran or William? She couldn’t even comprehend what might happen if it took down both of them—or any of the other men from the fort. Was Angus with them? What might Fiona be feeling?
“I must go to Fiona,” Eleanor said. “Nicolette, please come for me if Miriam awakens.”
“Nay.” Old John shook his head. “I canna let ye leave. Arran said to watch over ye.”
“I must go to my friend.” Eleanor reached for her bonnet on the hook near the door. “She must be afraid.”
“I canna allow it.” Old John’s wrinkled face was set like stone. “If those bullets took down our men, the enemy will be upon us shortly. I canna risk ye leaving now. I will defend ye with my life, as I promised Arran.”
The Bois-Brûlés might be upon them soon? A different kind of fear filled Eleanor—this time for Miriam. She could not leave Miriam now.
She nodded at Old John and then set her bonnet back on its hook.
An hour passed, and no one said a word. Miriam continued to sleep while the others sat in the common room. Isla stitched, and Nicolette ground wheat, but all Eleanor could do was stare out the window with Old John. Finally, she went to her room to check on Miriam and then brought her journal back with her. For another hour, she sat at the table and wrote.
Still, no one left the fort, and no one returned.
It was cathartic to spill her heart onto the page, and she had this overwhelming need to record everything that had happened, if—God forbid—she should perish today. Perhaps someone would come across her words and know the names of the people who meant the most to her. In some small way, she felt that if her journal remained intact, the lives of those who mattered would live on.
A commotion started in the yard. Eleanor looked up from the book, her heart pumping hard again.
“The gate’s being opened,” Old John said. He held his musket in tight hands, his knuckles turning white.
Eleanor gripped her pen, her fingers stiff from writing for so long.
Old John watched for several moments, then he moved toward the door. “It looks like two of our men. I’m going to see what they have to say.”
He left and closed the door. Eleanor stood, her journal forgotten, and went to the window.
Several dozen men had already congregated in a group as Old John joined them.
Though only a few minutes had passed, it felt like another hour before the group broke apart and Old John made his way back to the governor’s house.
Eleanor met him at the door and pulled it open wide. “What is the news?” She almost didn’t want to know—but she couldn’t wait another moment. “Is it good? Bad?”
Old John’s countenance was heavy. “It isna good.”
Eleanor briefly closed her eyes and pressed her mouth together, refusing to give in to her tears. She had to stay strong, if for no other reason than to care for Miriam.
“Mr. Burke and the ten others who left when the gunfire started were too late. Twenty-three men were already dead near Seven Oaks when they arrived. Mr. Burke was shot and another man from the second group was killed. The dead men were being robbed by the Bois-Brûlés who remained. It’s thought that some men got away and are still hiding, while others were taken prisoners of Cuthbert Grant.”
“What of Reverend West—or Arran?” Eleanor asked.
Old John shook his head, his brow tilted as he met Eleanor’s gaze. “The runners who just returned were sent back before they could identify the slain, though they did see Semple’s body.”
