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inside before anyone could catch him.
     Strings of fire drooped from the roof. Embers stung his neck. He tried to reach the
     ladder for the loft but couldn’t find it in the smoke. Burning scraws of turf were
     falling everywhere. His parents’ bed was ablaze — he saw their arms lifting
     up, flames shooting between his father’s legs. Fergus tried dragging him from the
     bed while the fire pecked his hands fiercely. His father’s clothes were alight,
     his eyes were open, wide and white; his mouth was open, a hole. A burning scraw of turf
     dropped onto Fergus’s neck. He let go of his father and wriggled and danced trying
     to shake the fire off himself. Now it was so hot he felt himself breathing fire. The
     smoke clawed at his eyes and he couldn’t see. Blind and wheezing and scratched by
     fire, his body stumbled for the doorway. The moment he was outside, someone knocked him
     down then threw a horse blanket over him to smother his burning clothes.
    Shrouded under the rough wool he lay thinking this was death — this
     was how it felt. A weird remove. A sense of distance, and vivid pain stinging in the
     hands.
    Death smelled strongly of horse.
    Then Abner Carmichael snatched the blanket away, pulled him to his feet,
     and wrapped the blanket about his shoulders. “There you are, old man, there you
     are.”
    The soldier who had offered the biscuit was facing the
     cabin, holding out his palms to feel the heat. The officer had dismounted and was
     standing with his back to the fire, adjusting girth straps on his horse.
    Saul and his father stood holding the iron-tipped ram, ready to tumble the
     walls.
    Fergus watched the roof crumbling as it burned. In a few moments it
     collapsed entirely, and the cabin was a white cup holding nothing but flame.

Succor?
    HE STUMBLED DOWN the path after the men, clutching the
     horse blanket, unsure if he was their prisoner. They ignored him; perhaps they were
     ashamed. They had biscuit, so he followed.
    As they came into the farmyard he looked about for Phoebe but saw no sign
     of her. Carmichael, his two sons, and the officer disappeared inside the house. The
     soldiers headed for the stable. Clutching his blanket, ignored, Fergus finally stumbled
     after them.
    Where was Phoebe while her men were tumbling? What kept her busy? Where
     did she hide?
    In the stable, the soldiers stacked muskets, unbuckled their white
     crossstraps, and shrugged off their knapsacks and ammunition boxes. The sergeant handed
     him a biscuit, then allowed him a swallow of fiery
poitin
from a clay jar.
    The old mare, disturbed by the presence of strangers, was fussing in her
     stall. The soldiers settled down to filling and lighting their clay pipes. They
     continued to ignore him as if he were a ghost and they could not see him. Perhaps he
was
in a dream. Or perhaps he was a ghost; perhaps he was dead already. How
     would you know if you were dead? He finished the biscuit quickly and licked the crumbs
     from his hands. The old mare would know.
    Approaching her stall, he started whispering to her, then stroking her
     nose. It seemed to settle her, so he must be alive still. Her warm, sweet breath cloudedhis face. He felt tears dribbling down his cheeks. Climbing one
     side of the stall, he settled himself aboard her, legs astride. Leaning forward, letting
     his arms fall down either side, he lay on her neck, absorbing her heat.
    â€œFergus? Is Fergus here?”
    Startled, he looked up and saw Phoebe at the stable door.
    â€œMiss, if that is the name,” the sergeant said, pointing at
     Fergus. “The creature found in the paddywhack.”
    He gripped the mare with his knees, knotting fingers in her mane as Phoebe
     approached.
    â€œCome with me, Fergus.”
    â€œI’m sick, I’m dazzled.”
    â€œI’ll give you something to eat.”
    â€œThey are all dead, the cabin is tumbled, no one is buried, they are
     burned.”
    Phoebe