by Pamela Clare
The results were predictable. The Delaware poured out of the forest, and though a few were killed, shot by retreating soldiers, they managed to capture one of the militia, James Thompson, whom they killed and scalped within sight of the walls.
This provoked outrage from the entire garrison. Soldiers and militia gathered on the ramparts to curse the Delaware. Only when the air sang with arrows was it clear that Thompson’s killing had been a distraction, one that enabled warriors to creep in the shadows of the riverbanks and surround the fort.
Écuyer told his men not to fire, afraid they would not be able to hit the Indians, who still lurked in the shelter of the steep riverbanks. Instead, he ordered several rounds to be fired from the howitzers and the cannon. Within two hours, the attack was over.
But no one celebrated. Looking out over the landscape, it was now perfectly clear.
Fort Pitt was under siege.
* * *
For two days, nothing happened. Indians were spotted prowling around the fort, checking the walls for weaknesses, reconnoitering. On the third day, just after midnight, two Delaware leaders approached the fort, pleaded to speak with Ken-lee. A guard was sent to wake Nicholas, who quickly dressed and hurried to meet the Indians outside the gates.
As Nicholas left the safety of the fort again, Bethie knelt beside her bed and prayed.
* * *
“They want to meet to discuss our situation,” Nicholas explained to Écuyer, who sat at his desk drinking tea as the sun peeked over the horizon. Nicholas had misgivings about helping the arrogant bastard and trusted Shingiss far more than he trusted Écuyer. But Bethie’s survival and that of every other man, woman, and child inside the fort depended upon a British victory.
“Are they sincere, or is this just another ruse, another attempt to provoke us?”
“I would guess the latter. They are desperate. They will use any means at their disposal to win.”
Écuyer took another sip of tea. “So must we. Tell them they may approach the fort safely. You and I will meet with them and hear what they have to say. We will give them gifts, of course, some small token of our regard. And we shall see.”
* * *
“Why does it have to be you, Nicholas? Why? Is there no one else in this bloody garrison who can speak their tongue?” She felt his strong arms surround her, turned to face him, resting her hands on his shoulders.
“They have asked that I be present, and the captain has commanded it. I have no choice, Bethie.”
Bethie laid her head against his chest, listened to the strong rhythm of his heart. He was so alive, so strong. “Promise me you’ll no’ take foolish risks! I couldna bear it if you should be hurt, Nicholas.”
She heard his deep chuckle, felt his fingers in her hair. The sun was barely up, and she’d not had time to braid it.
“There is still time before I must go, and Belle is still asleep.” The husky tone of his voice told her just how he thought they ought to spend that time.
* * *
Richard watched from the shadows of the soldiers’ barracks as his dear stepsister’s man left their quarters and strode off toward the main gate. The big trapper would be tied up for at least an hour, talking with the heathen, interpreting their words for the captain. Richard needed less than half that time.
But first he had to get past Private Fitchie. The boy had become Bethie’s lapdog. Richard had seen the shy, adoring glances he’d tossed her way. She had seduced him, too, had probably taken him to her bed when that husband of hers was out acting the hero.
Richard watched, smiled when Fitchie clutched his belly. So the doctor’s cures did work. Richard had gone to him, complaining that his belly had turned to stone. The doctor had given him a tincture to make his bowels move—and Richard had poured all of it into Fitchie’s coffee this morning.
Within minutes, Fitchie had doubled over, and soon he seemed to be dancing.
“You’ll have to choose, lad. Is it to be duty or a trip to the privy house?”
Even as Richard spoke the words, Private Fitchie grabbed his breeches and ran.
* * *
Bethie sat down in the chair, opened her shift, lifted a fussy Belle to her breast, tried to reassure herself that Nicholas would be fine. This was not to be a battle, after all, but an exchange of words and gifts. There would be no gunfire, no warriors with war clubs, no arrows flying through the air. And if anything went wrong, he’d be well within reach of the marksmen on the ramparts.
But that wasn’t the only thing troubling her.
Nicholas had told her this morning that if this parlay led to peace, they would be free to leave the fort and continue on their way to Paxton. “You might even be home before the first leaves turn,” he’d said. “Don’t worry.”
But how could she not worry? She knew what awaited her in Paxton.
An image of the face she’d seen the other day leapt into her mind. She shuddered. Whoever it was had looked so much like Richard. But it couldn’t be him. It couldn’t be. Not here. Not so far from Paxton. Not in a British uniform.
She had not told Nicholas yet, but she wasn’t going to Paxton. She would stay here with Annie, if Annie and Charlie would take her in. She could work as hard as any other woman, help them run the trading post. Just the other day Annie had said she was getting too old to handle it all herself. And if Annie and Charlie turned her away, she would plead with Nicholas to take her to Ligonier or farther on to Lancaster, where she could surely find a position as a seamstress or day maid. Now that she could read some and write her name, it would surely be easier to find work.
But just as terrible as the fear of facing her stepfather and his vile son again was the knowledge that Nicholas still intended to leave her. She’d thought perhaps that their time together would change his mind, that his desire for her might turn to affection. Living here in the fort, where everyone believed she was his wife, had made anything seem possible.
She knew he cared for her, or at least she hoped he did. Why else would he get so angry with her? Why protect her, provide for her, risk his life for her? Why make such tender love to her? Never once had he pushed her further than she’d been willing to go. Never once had he taken her as a man takes a woman. Did that not show he truly cared for her?
And yet he spoke of leaving her in Paxton as if it were a trifle, merely the next stop on his journey. His voice sounded in her imagination. “Farewell, Bethie. It’s been good to know you. Take care of Belle.”
Could it truly be that easy for him? Did she mean so little to him?
She didn’t realize she was crying until her vision blurred. And then she knew the terrible truth: She had fallen in love with him. She had fallen in love with Nicholas.
“Nay, Bethie.” She stood abruptly, carried Belle to her cradle, began to dress. “Dinnae be silly! He doesna love you.”
She had her back to the door when she heard it open.
“Little Bethie Stewart.”
She whirled about at the sound of his voice. Terror exploded in her breast. “Richard!”
“Good morning, sister.” He stroked the bulge in his breeches. “’Tis time you and I got to know each other again.”
Chapter 23
Even as he rendered the words into English, Nicholas knew Turtle’s Heart was lying.
“He says Ligonier has been destroyed and that the Ottawa and Ojibwa are advancing many hundreds strong toward us from the north. He says that, out of caring for us, they have persuaded the Six Nations to hold back their attack so that we might evacuate the fort and take our women and children east over the mountains. If we do not leave now, the Six Nations will come and destroy us.”
Écuyer smiled, seemed almost to be enjoying himself. “Tell Turtle’s Heart that I thank him for his kind warning, but the garrison at Fort Pitt is well equipped to defend itself. Tell him that three great armies are on their way here to punish those who have taken up arms against the Crown. Six thousand are on their way to Fort Pitt as we spea
k. Three thousand more have been sent north to punish the Ottawa and Ojibwa. A third is coming up from the south to destroy the Delaware and Shawnee. Tell him they should protect their women and children, for I fear for their safety.”
Nicholas translated those lies, as well, wondered if Turtle’s Heart understood the concept of a thousand. Wars among Indian nations rarely measured in hundreds.
Turtle’s Heart watched Écuyer through inscrutable brown eyes as the silence stretched. Finally, he spoke. “Tell him we will take his words to Shingiss and will consider all that has been spoken.”
Nicholas repeated Turtle’s Heart’s words in English.
Écuyer nodded, motioned two young soldiers forward. “Tell them we appreciate their warning and concern for our safety. Out of our regard for them, we offer these blankets and handkerchiefs as tokens.”
As Nicholas interpreted, the soldiers placed a neatly folded woolen blanket and small, linen handkerchief into each of the two Delaware warrior’s arms, looks of terror on their young faces as if they expected to be killed at any moment.
Turtle’s Heart nodded. “Thank him for these gifts and tell him that Turtle’s Heart holds fast the chain of friendship with the English.”
Then Turtle’s Heart and his companion turned and walked down the Monongahela bank toward the forest, where Shingiss was no doubt waiting.
As a drummer began a retreating beat and Écuyer’s escort disappeared behind the glacis and back toward the drawbridge, Nicholas watched the warriors walk away, feeling vaguely uneasy, then turned and followed Écuyer.
Ahead of him, Trent and Écuyer were talking in low tones.
Écuyer chuckled. “Within a month we could be rid of them all without having fired a shot.”
“Let us hope the blankets have the desired effect. What of the two privates?”
“Both have already survived smallpox, and the doctor assures me they cannot contract the disease again. Still, we’re taking no chances. Their uniforms will be burned, and they shall be quarantined for a fortnight.”
Nicholas stopped in his tracks, stared at the two officers’ backs, almost unable to believe what he’d heard. “You gave them blankets infected with smallpox?”
Écuyer turned to face him, a smile on his arrogant face. “Aye. Rather ingenious, don’t you think, Master Kenleigh? My idea, you know. Given that the savages cannot withstand the disease, this simple act could mean the saving of Fort Pitt.”
“And it could mean the horrible deaths of countless innocent Delaware and Shawnee!” A spectacle of horror unfolded in Nicholas’s mind—women, children, elders convulsing with fever, dying by the hundreds, their bodies covered with pustules.
Écuyer fussed with the lace at his wrists. “Really, Master Kenleigh. Is there such a thing as an ‘innocent’ Indian? I should think you more than most understand their savagery.”
Nicholas turned, started after the Indians, was immediately restrained by two soldiers, who dragged him back inside the fort at gunpoint. He glared at Écuyer. “Who’s the savage now?”
Écuyer’s face reddened. “You forget yourself, Master Kenleigh.”
“And you’ve just made me an unwitting accomplice to murder!”
“Step outside the gate without authorization, and I’ll have you shot for treason.”
“Go to hell!” Fists clenched, Nicholas shoved away the soldiers who restrained him and pushed past Écuyer, ignoring Trent’s shocked gasp.
With no way to warn Shingiss, Nicholas strode off in a rage toward the ramparts, determined to pick up a shovel and slam it into dirt before he slammed his fists into Écuyer’s arrogant face.
* * *
“It was you!” Bethie’s legs turned to water, her heartbeat a roar in her ears, panic like ice in her veins.
This could not be happening!
“Aye. I thought you saw me. I’ve had my eyes on you since the mornin’ you arrived, watchin’, waitin’. Now lie down on the bed and spread your thighs for me like a good little whore.” He strode toward her with the confidence of a predator, that familiar lewd smile on his freckled face.
Terror choked her, blurred her vision. The years melted away, and she suddenly found herself back in her stepfather’s cabin, in her bed in the loft—afraid and alone. She could feel Richard’s hands groping her, feel his fingers thrusting inside her, hurting her.
He’d come to her almost every night, touched her, hurt her, rubbed himself against her. He was ten years older and so much stronger. She had tried long ago to fight him, knowing she could not win, knowing he would only hurt her worse if she tried. If she’d cried out, Malcolm would have come with his leather strap and beat her again, and her mother would have known her shame. She’d bitten back her screams, tried not to feel it, waited until he was done to let the tears come.
“P-please, Richard! P-please dinnae do this!”
“You’re afraid. Good. I always liked that. Lie down, little one, unless you want me to tup you on the floor.”
A baby cried.
Belle!
Bethie blinked, woke from her living nightmare. She was not in her bed. She was not in the loft. She was in Fort Pitt in the quarters she shared with Nicholas. Nicholas, who had taught her to read. Nicholas, who had saved her life. Nicholas, who had made love to her, who’d brought her bliss.
She hardened her heart against Belle’s weeping, hoped Richard wouldn’t notice her daughter, and walked forward on trembling legs until she stood between him and the cradle. “N-nay, Richard! I—I am n-no’ a frightened little girl, but a woman. Get out!”
His step faltered. His smile became a look of mild disgust. “Aye, ’tis true. You are no’ the bonny wee lass you once were—all yellow hair, big eyes, and long legs, thin and wary like a wild rabbit. I remember when you started to grow paps. Small and sweet they were, but no’ now. Still, a woman or no’, I want to finish what we started.”
At his words, tendrils of nausea snaked through her belly, and bile rose in her throat. She swallowed hard, her mind racing for some way out of this. “H-he’ll kill you! If you touch me, he’ll kill you!”
He reached out as if in defiance, grabbed her arms, his fingers digging painfully into her flesh as he dragged her against him. He looked down at her through flat brown eyes. “And how is he goin’ to hear of it? Do you want him to share in our family secrets?”
And in one terrifying instant, she saw the awful choice before her. She could submit, suffer Richard’s touch, and keep her taint hidden. Or she could fight him, knowing full well he would hurt her, knowing that her bruises would betray her disgrace to Nicholas, to the whole world.
The breath left her lungs in a single sob, and she closed her eyes against her fear, her dread, her grief.
Nicholas!
Chuckling to himself, Richard forced her step-by-step backward toward the bed, his fingers biting into her arms, his voice slick with lust. “Go ahead and weep, lass. I like it.”
Her reaction came so swiftly, it surprised even her. Fueled by white-hot rage, Bethie drove her knee into his groin with all the force in her body.
Richard grunted, crumpled, lay writhing on the floor.
She dashed past him, grabbed the poker from the cold hearth, ran back, placed herself between her baby and the man who had all but ruined her life. “Get out, Richard! Crawl out like the animal you are! So help me God, you will no’ touch me again!”
Ashen-faced and trembling, Richard slowly got to his feet. Still bent double, he turned as if to go. Then he spun about, lunged for her.
Bethie swung the poker, aimed for his head.
But he caught it, wrenched it from her grasp, threw it to the floor.
Before she could take a single step, he grabbed her by the hair, hauled her up against him, forced her to meet his gaze. “Bitch! If you’ve unmanned me, I’ll kill you!”
She ignored the pain in her scalp, glared at him. “You were never a man, Richard!”
Pain exploded in her skull as his fist connected w
ith her cheek, sent her sprawling across the bed. A flash of lights. Swirling gray. The taste of blood.
Driven by equal parts of fear and fury, she fought her way back to consciousness, saw him unbuttoning his breeches, tried to roll away, to reach the other side of the bed.
Rough hands clawed at her, pulled her back. “You’re no’ goin’ anywhere until I’ve finished wi’ you, Bethie Stewart—Englishman’s whore!”
“You will no’ touch me! No’ again!” Desperate, she screamed, kicked, scratched, struggled with all her strength. Her nails tore skin from his face, left four bright streaks of red.
He howled in outrage, hit her again and again, left her spinning on the edge of pain and forgetfulness.
From far away, she could hear Belle crying.
And then he was upon her, his legs forcing hers apart, his body holding hers helpless against the bed.
She heard herself whimper, felt the wet slide of tears down her cheeks, struggled to speak. “Nay!”
Richard laughed. “This is goin’ to be good!”
The creak of the door on its hinges. Richard’s surprised gasp.
“Get the hell away from her!”
Nicholas!
Bethie’s last thought as darkness pulled her under was that he knew.
Now Nicholas knew.
* * *
Nicholas took it all in at once—Bethie lying beaten and unconscious on the bed, the soldier holding her down, his breeches unbuttoned, Belle’s terrified wailing.
Primal rage surged from his gut. He looked into the soldier’s shocked eyes, saw a dead man. “Get the hell away from her!”
Before the soldier could button his breeches, Nicholas rounded the bed, drove his fist into the soldier’s face, knocked him to the floor. “You like to beat women? You like to hurt them? Try me instead.”
The soldier cowered, tried to scoot away. “I-it’s no’ like that! Please, sir! You cannae kill me!”
Nicholas grabbed him by his collar, jerked him to his feet. “No? And why not?”
“I—I’m Bethie’s brother!”