by Jerri Hines
TIDES OF CHARLESTON
PART III:
ANOTHER NIGHT FALLS
by
Jerri Hines
WHISKEY CREEK PRESS
www.whiskeycreekpress.com
Published by
WHISKEY CREEK PRESS
www.whiskeycreekpress.com
Copyright © 2012, 2015 by Jerri Hines
Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 (five) years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.
Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
ISBN: 978-1-63355-672-0
Credits
Cover Artist: Gemini Judson
Editor: Melanie Billings
Printed in the United States of America
To my loving husband, Bob, who encouraged me to follow my dream.
Chapter 1
Backcountry of South Carolina August, 1780
Summer Meador wiped his brow with the sleeve of his shirt as he strode into the Hearth n’ Stone. Grim satisfaction washed over him. He had returned home. After all this time...after all the battles he endured, he was home to the place of his birth—Hanging Rock Creek in the heart of the Carolina backcountry.
Three long years he lived the life of an American militiaman. A true Patriot, he fought for independence from England. Sacrifice and hardship became a way of life, but, if the truth be known, he found the struggle for freedom easier than facing what he left behind in Charles Town.
At night when he closed his eyes, memories of his past assaulted him. Faces of those he loved—those that he lost—flashed before him. His loving wife, Mary, his mother and his father were all dead; all gone from his life for good, but it was the raid that haunted him.
Over and over, he would relive the raid at Elm Bluff, trying to find some semblance of acceptance, for the blame was his. He should have found a way to save his mother and Mary. Instead, they died a cruel and brutal death.
Returning home brought back the vivid pain of that loss, but also served as a reminder of his need for cold revenge against the man responsible for the raid. Sumner swore that William Peyton would rue the day he was born.
Sumner couldn’t remember the last time he set foot in this tavern, but it had been before the British siege of Charles Town. He was making a huge gamble that no one would acknowledge his presence. Spies were everywhere and he was under no illusions. He knew well he was a wanted man by the Red Coats.
The British laid hold of this territory shortly after he left Charles Town on a mission for General Benjamin Lincoln, commander of the Southern Continental army. He had been instructed to carry intelligence back to the Continental Army in Virginia, but it came too late.
Before help could arrive for the Patriots, Charles Town fell, forcing General Lincoln to surrender the whole of the Southern Continental army to the British. When General Lincoln handed over his sword to British General Henry Clinton, the defeat came as a crushing blow to the Patriot cause. In one fell swoop, five thousand soldiers were lost and the vital Charles Town harbor was under British control.
Ducking down to avoid a ceiling beam, Sumner leaned against the bar. He had no desire to call attention to himself, but it was an indomitable task. He knew he stood over six foot two, and was long of bone and muscle, but he held doubts if most of his old acquaintances would be able to recognize him readily.
His once fine garments had been replaced with more practical apparel for the life he now led. His most recent glance in a mirror had revealed eyes that looked much darker than in his youth, no doubt flamed with an intensity directed upon his mission and the revenge he sought. A scar now ran across his face, down his strong jaw and stood out whitely against his tan skin. His dark hair had grown, accenting the Cherokee blood that ran through his veins. No, he looked more like a backwoods man than the fine Charles Town gentleman he once had been.
“Ya wan’ something, Mister?”
Sumner nodded to the old man behind the bar. He recognized Graydon, the owner of the establishment, readily enough, but gave no indication of their prior acquaintance. Graydon, a tiny-boned man with a pointed chin and skin like old leather, smiled a broad toothless grin.
“Ale,” Sumner responded. “And a plate of what you have left over from dinner. I’m famished.”
Graydon plopped down a mug of ale. Sumner accepted the drink and turned around to get a good look at the place. Taking a long sip, he made a mental note of the room.
The open windows did little to alleviate the sweltering August heat. Sweat trickled down his back. The smell of old ale and yesterday’s stew lingered in the air, but it was the patrons that held Sumner’s attention, far fewer than he remembered on his last visit.
These were hard times for most. The war hit hard in the backcountry. Since the foolhardy mistake of handing the Southern campaign to General Horatio Gates, the hero of Saratoga, the battle for supremacy in this region had turned in favor of the Loyalists. The countryside had been ravaged with Tories wreaking revenge upon their Patriot neighbors, claiming it retaliation for the way they had been treated the last few years.
The conversations hushed as Sumner found a gaze fixed upon him from the back booth. He bore the scrutiny and returned to his drink in hand. A moment later, Sumner caught sight of the man he sought entering the tavern.
Cautious, the man made no immediate move toward him. Instead, he went to the far side of the bar. From the corner of his eye, Sumner found the reason, the three men in the back booth whose attention was fixated on him. He could feel their gazes skimming over his deerskin pants and the long barrel rifle by his side.
His appearance came at a risk, but one he would face. His mission demanded it. Tonight, he was just another backwoodsman passing through the area.
“Gotta name, Mister?” Graydon asked, filling up his mug once more.
Sumner eyed the old man with understanding. He sensed Graydon wouldn’t betray him, and the thought of someone having his back gave him comfort. For the last few years, Sumner had trusted few men.
“Farley,” Sumner lied, throwing a coin on the counter.
“Farley, is it?” the man at the far end of the bar sidled up beside Sumner, joining in the conversation. “Have you any news from where you’ve tarried?”
Sumner smiled at the man and played along even though he had known the man for years. He had fought beside Warren Parker at the beginning of the hostilities back in ‘75 when the British first attacked Charles Town.
“Not good if you hold to the Patriot cause. The Brits took ‘em out at out at Camden less than two days ago,” Sumner said. He hadn’t lied. It had been a devastating loss and the reason he was here at Hanging Rock Creek.
Glancing over his shoulder, Sumner saw the attention of the tavern riveted on his every word.
“Too bad if your heart cries out for freedom. But if you ask me, it’s best not to get involved with either side if you value your life. The men around here have done gone lost all their good sense. It has seemed this war has given clearance for every fool to avenge any offense against his neighbor that he now calls enemy.”
“I have no other interest than resting up f
or the winter, old man,” Sumner said. “Planning on taking shelter up at the old Meador place. Told it needed a homesteader. Yall know if it’s still vacant?”
“Far as I know,” Parker offered. “Aaron Beltcher fell over dead last spring. One moment, he was talking to Malcolm Feller, the next he laid dead. Heart just gave out. Haven’t seen anyone up there since, but it’s isolated. Sure you want to go there? There’s a place just outside of town that might serve you better.”
Sumner frowned at the implied warning. He needed a quiet place to heal. He had been ordered to do so, having taken a musket bullet to his shoulder at Camden. Nothing more than a flesh wound. It was the bayonet wound he had taken to his thigh that left him with a slight limp.
Major General Marion Francis, the Swamp Fox, met with Sumner after the battle at Camden. “You know the area up by Hanging Rock Creek. You’re from there, aren’t you?”
“Born and raised.”
“Go home and recoup,” the Fox commanded. “Get the feel of the land. Meet up with Shelby. I’ll set you up with a contact. After this disaster, we need to know what we are dealing with before we make another move.”
Home, Sumner thought. He had always considered Elm Bluff his home, but he wouldn’t dare return there. The plantation was swarming with Red Coats who quartered there now.
“The Meador place...Laker’s Grove is in dire need of work,” Warren said, calling Sumner back to the present.
“Just want a quiet place,” Sumner acknowledged. “Never minded a good day’s work.”
“Then don’t tarry,” Graydon warned. “Make it known quickly you feel n’ver one way or the other over the conflict. Then you might have a chance of not being raided. Lost many a friend last spring when Bloody Benny reaped his revenge on any and all in his way calling themselves Patriots.
“For that matter, any with ties to the cause. Laid down twenty-one good men and one entire family,” Graydon’s voice cracked. He shook his head as if to rid himself of the memory. “N’ver a one had a chance. He swept through like a fire on a hot dry day.”
“I heard those rumors.” Sumner paused. He had to be careful not to say too much and not mention his own personal loss to a vicious raid. Rumors would have been rampant three years ago when Elm Bluff was attacked...when his beloved mother and wife were brutally murdered.
Revenge kept him going these last few years. A desire to plunge a knife into the heart of the man responsible for the atrocity, a man he once called friend. Now, William Peyton was Sumner’s bitter enemy.
Sumner looked over at Warren. “Now tell me, friend, what do you know about Laker’s Grove?”
“About as much as anyone else in these parts.” Warren shrugged. “I’ll tell you what I could do for ya if you insist upon staking a claim to the place. I could take you out there. Being tomorrow’s Sunday, I could ride over late afternoon. I own the general store in town. Figure you might be needing supplies.”
“I know the way,” Sumner said. “But if you can deliver some supplies tomorrow afternoon, I would be mightily appreciative. I want only to lay my head down upon a bed. I suppose it’s furnished.”
“Sparsely so,” Warren replied. “It should suit you. Beltcher was a bachelor. I assure...”
“I have no wife if that is what you ask.” Breathing out deeply, Sumner grimaced. The thought of his having a wife at this moment in his life was ludicrous. A woman? He wasn’t ever planning on marrying again. Though, he had to admit, there had been a time when all the beautiful ladies of Charles Town vied for his attention, but that was long ago. A different lifetime. Why, he hadn’t even been with a woman since Mary!
“That’s good with the place being isolate and all. Ya wouldn’t want to leave a woman up there by herself.” Warren glanced over at the men in the booth and then back at Sumner. “I will be able to deliver your supplies in the afternoon if it suits you.”
Sumner understood. They could talk tomorrow without fear of being overheard. “The afternoon will suffice.”
Graydon motioned to a table where a serving girl set a plate of beefsteak. “You’re lucky to have such a fine choice.”
“In that, I wouldn’t argue with you.” Sumner gave a short laugh. Holding his drink in hand, he sauntered over to where his dinner lay. “It makes it easier to face most of what life throws at you on a full stomach!”
* * * *
A full moon hung low in the sky. Jane Kilmer stood at the window and stared out over the moonlit landscape. With nary a breeze to relieve the sweltering heat, she had found little sleep this night.
The weeping willow cast eerie shadows over the path that led to the house. A quiet stillness laid claim to the scene. Grateful she wasn’t prone to being scared. She gave thanks to her brother, Troy, for taunting her as children if she feigned any sign of fear.
“Ain’t nothin’ that scares you, Jane,” Troy finally conceded.
But he had been wrong. She did have fear. Moreover, she had faced her fear several times over the last few months.
Could death become an acquaintance? She had seen it many times...too many times in her twenty years.
Jane caught herself. She didn’t want to think of the past because it only conjured up the hurt. She had no desire to feel anything or to think. She heard it said that time heals everything. What did anyone know of time? For now, she only existed in a lonely world.
She dabbed the perspiration with a wet handkerchief. Even with the translucent gown she wore, the heat was oppressive. It wasn’t even her gown. She found it within the wardrobe on her arrival. She had known of Beltcher and found it strange. He had no wife.
The nightgown wasn’t the only piece of clothing she found within the trunks in the back room. There were also garments made of the softest, most luxurious material. The thought crossed her mind that the woman who owned these had a man to impress or perhaps it had been the man who wanted to impress the lady with gifts?
She supposed the clothing mattered little. While she hid from the world, she had no fear of anyone seeing her in such a nightgown. But even so, she did not dare wear them other than at night.
Jane turned and walked away from the window. She had been fortunate to hide here for the last three months without being detected. She had known Beltcher before his death and knew the house was empty.
When the need arose for her immediate disappearance, this quaint house came to mind. It was not large, but sufficient for her needs. The garden Beltcher had laid produced enough food for her needs. Her horse, boarded in the barn, grazed in the pasture.
Soon, though, she had to make a decision. She needed to make other arrangements when the season changed. The comfort the house provided wouldn’t last the through the winter.
Suddenly, her senses alerted to a danger. Something was amiss. With her heart pounding , she raced back to the window. Her eyes strained, but her ears heard the horse long before she saw it. The figure of a horse and rider silhouetted in the moonlight moved through the shadows, up the path to the house.
Her mind raced. Where have I left the pistol? By the bedside. How foolish to let my guard down after all this time.
To her horror, she watched the horse head to the stables. Was there only one horse? A single rider? Could he have only sent one after her? She didn’t have much time. Soon the rider would learn of her existence with the inevitable discovery of the horse.
Rushing into the bedroom, she grabbed the pistol and eased out the window. She would get only one chance to catch the intruder by surprise.
She knew the countryside well enough, but she needed the horse to get far away...as far as she could. She didn’t have a plan, only the instinct to survive another day.
Stepping lightly, she made her way across the lawn to the barn door and slid through the opening into darkness. Slowly, her eyes adjusted as she raised her pistol. She saw a saddled horse tied to a railing, but the animal saw her as well and nickered.
Lord save her! Where was the intruder? She glanced side to side with e
ach deliberate step. Suddenly, she heard footsteps behind her. Too late, she turned.
Abruptly, someone grabbed her arm and whirled her around against the stable door. Her pistol fell harmlessly behind the horse, but the impact sent her reeling to the floor.
Oh, Mother of all things good! What was she to do? Frantically, she crawled to her knees and regained her footing. Bolting out the barn, she ran, but her assailant was quicker. He lunged for her, catching her feet. She fell headfirst against an unforgiving ground with such force it took her breath away.
She couldn’t breathe; her head hurt. She tried to stand, but lost her balance. Her eyes wouldn’t focus. Though, she could make out a face and eyes...such handsome eyes. She knew nothing else as she descended into darkness.
Chapter 2
Riding out to the farm, Sumner began to question the wisdom of arriving in the dead of night at an abandoned home. The thought of a squatter already being there had crossed his mind. At one point, he almost turned back, but exhaustion set in. He wanted only to find a bed. Never did he expect to find a strange woman in his house. What the bloody hell was she doing out here alone?
Carrying the unconscious woman into the house, he laid her down in the front bedroom and studied her for a moment. She certainly didn’t look like a homeless vagrant.
From the look of the room, she had been here awhile. A dress hung over the back of a cushion chair; slippers sat under the bed. His gaze fell back upon the woman. Running his hand through his hair, he sighed. What was he supposed to do with her now?
Tackling her to the ground, she had taken a hard hit. Leaning down, he felt the bump on the side of her head.
Moaning at his touch, she began to mutter unintelligible words. At least, he hadn’t killed the poor thing. The little fool was lucky in that regard. He didn’t know what to expect when he entered the barn and saw the stabled horse. It caught him by surprise.
Riding up to the house, there was no indication of life. No light or noise, but seeing the horse put him on immediate alert. The sound of cracking twigs and dried leaves when he dismounted prepared Sumner for an assault.