Sleep, Dearie, Sleep: Episode Three

You’re reading Sleep, Dearie, Sleep, a historical epistolary horror in which progress, modernity and reason are confounded by ancient, forgotten realities. This is Episode 3.

Previously, nature did its best to prevent construction of the bridge, and winter brought the project to a halt, and Archie’s employers gave him an extension, and a warning. In his desperation, he made an ill-advised plea.

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Original photo by Jimmy Emerson on Flickr (CC BY-NC-ND 2.0)

Diary, 30 March, 1793

My loves are here at last, sooner than expected. I received word from Bridget a fortnight ago that she had landed safely in Charleston, and hastened to go and retrieve her. If there has ever been a happier reunion than ours, I could scarce believe it. When she opened the door to her room at the inn to find me standing there, she threw herself at me and we stood in the hall, making quite the public spectacle as we laughed and cried, embracing and exchanging kisses.

Fiona was a wee bit shy at the first sight of me, but she quickly warmed up and rushed into my arms, shouting, “Da’! Da’!” while she peppered my face with kisses. She’s a bonnie thing, prettier than I remembered. Her portrait did her no true justice. She has quickly become my heart’s delight.

They are both safely ensconced in our home in Asheville, and Bridget is pleased with the accommodations, though they are smaller than what she is used to. She has been occupied these last few days with setting up housekeeping. Having heard of my troubles regarding the bridge, she has determined to make due with a small staff consisting only of her maid Maggie and the housekeeper so that I may afford increased wages for the laborers.

I admire her for her frugality and prudent sense, though it shames me that I cannot provide the manner of living to which her upbringing had accustomed her. That she agreed to marry a poor laborer who at the time only had aspirations to an apprenticeship, much to her father’s dissatisfaction and in spite of his objections, never ceases to mystify me. I promised her then that I would become the man she deserved and give her the life she was accustomed to, and I mean to keep that promise. A lady such as her should be dining in governors’ mansions and mingling in society, though she demurs at such things as wasteful frivolities. In any case, she should not be reduced to helping with the scrubbing and minding the garden, damaging delicate hands fashioned for more genteel pursuits.

She may needs do more and harder things than those if this bridge turns out to be my undoing. I had hoped to resume construction in March, but the ice and snow melt, combined with weeks of heavy rain, have flooded the river well beyond its banks, covering most of the foundation towers and making work impossible. Not until the waters recede will I be able to ascertain the damage, but my sense is that we’ll have to start from the beginning, or near to it.

The only good news, besides the arrival of my family, is that I’ve managed to assemble a new team of laborers and stonecutters, as well as hiring a foreman. Fraser and some of his men also had second thoughts and agreed to return with the promise of increased wages, though I was reluctant to allow it. I’ve half a mind that the troubles were all their fault to begin with, although I know I should not entertain such superstition.

But it is all too easy to give in to superstition, with the way things are going. My night terrors have not improved. Not even Bridget’s presence has served to abate them. They are now encroaching into my waking life. I’m seeing passing shadows that should not be there, fleeting movements in the corner of my eye. Hearing whispers, as if coming from the next room, too hushed to make out what’s being said, but falling silent when I barge into the room only to find it empty.

When I do sleep, it’s no better. Nightmares haunt my dreams and true rest eludes me. Last night I dreamt that the flood reached far beyond the banks of the river, growing to Biblical proportions, reaching all the way here to Asheville. It swept away the house, and Briget and Fiona with it, all while I stood by, helpless to prevent it. I awoke with a shout that roused Bridget from her sleep. She held me and comforted me until I returned to an uneasy, fitful sort of sleep.

I fear that this accursed bridge is driving me mad.

But I cannot let it. Too much rides on my success. There is still time. Despite the evil portent of my dream, the flood is in fact abating, and I surmise we shall be able to resume work in another fortnight. If we dedicate ourselves to working tirelessly and manage to have no more setbacks, we should still be able to complete it on time.

God save me if we don’t.

Diary of Bridget Katherine Stewart, 20 April,1793

The kitchen garden is coming along, I’m pleased to say. Maggie and I began tilling the ground for it shortly after our arrival here, and we sowed it a week ago, the Almanac having assured us that the last frost is safely past. Sprouts are already coming up and I am confident that in a few weeks we’ll have greens and herbs ready for plucking.

We have been here shy of three weeks and it’s beginning to feel like home. We women have fallen into a comfortable housekeeping routine, and I have just about got the furnishings arranged and appointed to my satisfaction. It feels a bit less homey with Archie gone, though so much of his time was spent in meetings or brooding in his study. I was just beginning to get used to sharing a bed with him again when he had to depart back to his work camp and see to his bridge. With the severe difficulties he faces, I don’t expect to see much of him until it is finished, though certain business matters and replenishing of supplies will bring him home from time to time.

I do hope and pray that getting back to work will lift his spirits. Although our first week back together was something of a second honeymoon, I have detected a change in him in our time together since. Even when he was present, he seemed far away. His sleep is deeply troubled, and I suspect he has not shared with me the true extent of it. This bridge is such a heavy burden on him, and I fear that he has notions of a certain standard of living, despite my best efforts to dispel them, which he feels it his duty to provide.

How I wish I could make him see that I am content so long as I have him and Fiona, and any other little ones whom the Lord sees fit to give us. I have never needed nor desired for him to become a master architect, though I am that much proud of his skills and the esteem in which they are held. I do wish him success. Yet if it eludes him, it makes not one whit to me if he goes back to being a laborer, or if we procure a few acres to build a cabin and run a humble homestead. I think I would be happy in such a simple life. So long as our family is together.

What troubles me the most is that his countenance towards Fiona has changed, and I fear that she can sense it. When we were first reunited, he behaved for all the world as though she was his joy and delight, doting on her and smiling at her every move. And she was certainly overjoyed to have her da’ in her life. Yet, shortly after arriving in our new home, a change came over Archie. He grew distant and harsh with her, treating her more like a nuisance, sending her away and shutting her out of his study. He softened a bit after I spoke to him about it, but not for long.

Not only that, but more than once I caught him brooding over her while she was playing or sleeping, with a look on his face that left me with a deep sense of disquiet. He looked as though he were trying to determine whether she was a changeling, or if she were truly his child, though she be his spitting image and I’ve never given him reason to doubt my fidelity or integrity.

But surely I am mistaken. Archie knows she is his lass, and I know he loves her with all his heart. It is only this bridge and all of its pressures weighing so heavily upon him. For his sake, I pray that his troubles will abate and he will achieve the success and acclaim he so desires. But I pray more that he will see that even if he does not, he still has a family who loves him and only wants to be with him.

In any case, I pray that he will come back to me, that his load will be lightened and he may find joy again. I don’t know how to help him out of this dark depression. May the Lord will that good tidings come to him while he’s away and he may return to us with a lighter soul.

Diary, 1 May, 1793

Damn this bridge. Damn it, along with Fraser and his men. Damn them before they damn me. Though I fear it may already be too late.

Today is the feast of Beltane, the significance of which is not lost on me, nor on the men in my charge. That they are in my charge makes me just as responsible for their damnable actions -- moreso, as I stood by and let them do it, turning a deaf ear and a blind eye, telling myself that it was just and necessary. Because for all my professions of faith in a higher deity, I know now that the old ways run deep in my veins. The old gods demand their due, even in this new world. To build this new nation will require blood. Mr. Hoban told me as much, though I did not take his meaning at the time. But I see it plain now. Already so much blood has been spilt, and yet the spirits hunger for more. They are insatiable.

If those poor Indian bastards had only passed our camp by…

If they had, then another victim would have been found, of that I am certain. I had already heard whisperings, hushed conversations about the old ways. About how the project was doomed for lack of a proper sacrifice. How many a castle and a bridge and any ancient building still standing in Scotland was built on the bones of a martyr to the cause, and we must needs such a martyr to sanctify this project and satisfy the local gods.

That the Indians chose the eve of Beltane to conduct their raid seemed more than coincidence. More like providence, though not from above. Fraser and his men had already determined a sacrifice for the occasion. Who they had in mind, or how they would have chosen, we may never know. The Indians attacked before they got around to it, not suspecting that the Highlanders would match them in ferocity and fighting prowess.

It was a small band of braves, hardy young men. I suspect this raid was meant as some sort of rite of passage, which Atsadi confirmed this morning when he and his brother resigned. They left at first light, calling us cursed and consigning us all to the devil as they went, and I could not hold it against them. The two of them had been overpowered and bound to a tree to prevent their interference, and so their hands, and, I hope, their consciences, are clean. I cannot help but suspect that they had been marked, had the other Indians not appeared to take their place, and they were fortunate to escape with their lives.

Three of the raiders got away. One was killed in the skirmish, after mortally wounding Liam Branagh, a Highlander who had been a braw worker. Two were captured. It was all too easy for Fraser to convince the rest of the men that justice demanded their deaths, that they must be made an example of so that no more such raids will be attempted. Even I could agree that swift retribution was necessary.

How we got from there to burning the raiders alive, with no one save the two Cherokee raising any objection, is something I cannot understand, even as I myself went along with it. This was far more than an eye for an eye. It was as though a sort of madness took hold and spread from man to man, filling each and every last one of us with a frenzied hatred and lust for vengeance and blood.

Their bones and ashes were buried at the foot of each foundation, both of which had been destroyed by the spring floods. The men labored through the night to raise up the stones around them, singing ancient prayers and incantations in Gaelic as they worked.

There is a sense of quiet in the camp today, which seems at odds with the events of last night. A sense of finality, even of relief, that what took place had been inevitable, and now we can get on with it. As loath as I am to admit it, and as impossible as it is for me to explain it, I sense that the spirits are pleased, and that we now have their consent to continue.

Even as I sense that the price paid last night was not merely the lives of those Indians, but our very souls.

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