Rapture's Betrayal

by McCarthy, Candace

  The man nodded. She saw him relax and close his eyes.

  Studying him, Kirsten bit her lip. “Can you walk?” she asked softly. There was movement, a barely perceptible negative shake of his head. “Then, I shall have to leave you for a while. To get a wagon.” His dark eyes opened with alarm, and Kirsten patted his hand. “Relax. I promise I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  She searched the area for a place to hide him. “We had better get you into the bushes. That man”—she shuddered—“he may come back.”

  The soldier tried to sit up, and Kirsten moved to help him. He howled in pain, groping for his right leg. To her horror, she saw a second wound. Blood was spurting from his thigh.

  “My God!” she breathed.

  No wonder he can’t walk, she thought. If he attempted it in his condition, he’d bleed to death. She’d have to leave him until she could return with the wagon.

  But first she had to stop the flow of blood; he’d never survive until her return if she didn’t. Kirsten tore two strips from the hem of her shirt, stopping once to breathe deeply. The sight of so much blood made her woozy. She brushed her hair back with shaking fingers. Then, using both hands, she pinched the edges of the leg wound closed and bore down with a steady pressure. His warm red blood drained between her fingers, filling her with alarm.

  Finally, the stream slowed and then stopped. Kirsten breathed easier.

  She’d done it! She’d stopped the bleeding! She bound the limb above the wound and then bandaged the gash itself. Please God, she prayed silently, let him live!

  The soldier seemed to be resting quietly now. A good sign, she thought. Hopefully, in passing out, he had escaped the worst of the pain.

  Kirsten felt shaky. She’d never had to hurt anyone before; it brought little comfort to her to know that doing so had been necessary.

  “I hate to leave you here, but I have no choice. You must save your strength.” She spoke aloud, thinking that somehow, even though unconscious, the man would understand. “When I get back, we’ll get you in the wagon. I don’t know how we’ll manage, but we will.”

  Kirsten was soothed by her own words as she made light of the upcoming struggle. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to hurt you, but I had to . . .” She went to the river and rinsed her hands.

  The soldier needed her; she wouldn’t let him down. “You are going to live,” she vowed as she returned to his side.

  She looked for a place to hide him, then decided she’d cover him up and leave him where he lay. She found several suitable branches with leaves intact, and shielded him with the leafy foliage.

  After a last peek at the wounded man, Kirsten felt satisfied. She headed for home, her pace hastened by concern.

  “Three o’clock and all’s well!” The klapperman’s voice rang out in the silence of the rain-washed night. Kirsten was on the Ackermans’ farm when she heard the familiar sound. She quickly hid behind the barn. The last thing she needed was to be discovered by the man making his rounds. Garret Vandervelt was a friend of her father’s and would no doubt see that she got home—and that her father knew of her escapade.

  Vandervelt carried his lighted lantern and a timepiece—a brass hourglass. Kirsten watched him set his hourglass on the Ackerman’s stoep before he pulled out his rattle, or klapper, from his coat pocket.

  He shook the klapper once, before putting it away. Vandervelt then proceeded to the neighboring farm, where he’d repeat the ritual. The sound of his voice would be heard at each home in Hoppertown every hour until dawn, Kirsten knew, and she was relieved to see him go none the wiser as to her presence. His deep cry was reassuring to the Hoppertown villagers, for it warned all, housekeepers and convicts alike, that he was on the watch to keep everyone safe.

  Once the rattle-watch was out of sight, Kirsten left her hiding place. Moments later, she was home and inside her father’s barn.

  “Pieter?” Her voice was but a whisper in the dark interior of the stable. There was no sign of the groom.

  A horse nickered from the nearest stall, and Kirsten smiled and slipped inside the cubicle to stroke the mare’s neck. “Easy, girl. It’s only me.”

  The sleek hair of the horse felt smooth against her palm. The mare snorted in pleasure at the young woman’s touch, and Kirsten laughed softly, her spirits rising.

  But dawn was fast approaching, and she realized that she had much to do before daybreak. The smile left her face as she gave the horse one more pat. “Sorry, girl, not this time.”

  The mare nudged Kirsten with her nose as she turned to leave. She studied the bay gelding snorting restlessly in the opposite stall, and then she glanced at the mare, whose big eyes seemed to plead with her.

  “But you understand, Hilga, don’t you?” she murmured to the mare. “If I let you come, you have to be quiet.” She found the halter and slipped it over Hilga’s head. “I’m depending on you now. Don’t let me down. The man’s life is at stake.”

  Closing her eyes, Kirsten rested her head against the horse’s side. “He deserves to live, girl. No one deserves to die that way.” She sighed and lifted her head, stroking the mare’s chestnut coat. “He needs us, Hilga. It’s up to us girls to see that he makes it.”

  The moon broke through the clouds as the wagon wheels creaked over the muddy road. Kirsten gripped the reins fiercely. It had been a hair-raising experience, hitching up the wagon and escaping the farm without sound. But we did it! she thought smiling at the horse.

  The worst of it hadn’t ended there, though. Twice the wagon had become stuck in the mud on the journey through the woods. Kirsten was glad she’d chosen Hilga; the mare’s docile nature had made things easier. Both times, the young woman had climbed down from the wooden seat and had urged the horse on with soft words and a hard tug on the reins. Each time the cart had rolled free of the mire, Kirsten had made a silent vow to reward the animal.

  The wind stirred the treetops, sending a cascade of cold water down upon woman and horse. Kirsten had no idea how much time had elapsed since she had left the Continental soldier. The treacherous condition of the turnpike forced her to a slow, steady pace, which made the journey nerve-wracking. She was anxious to get to him.

  Was he all right?

  Kirsten pulled the wagon off the road and onto the narrow path, silently praying that the cart would fit past the trees and bushes. She’d have to drag the soldier several yards if it didn’t. She swallowed hard. Perhaps he wouldn’t survive that ordeal.

  The cart fit through the thicket easily. Kirsten halted the vehicle under a tree and jumped down to secure the mare. Moving toward the mound of branches she had left, she was shocked to find that they’d been disturbed. Her blood ran cold when she spied a trench in the mud leading to a coppice.

  Had the attacker come back to finish off his victim? That thought was just too terrible, too awful for her to take in. Kirsten’s stomach heaved. Trembling, she advanced, parting the bushes to peer inside.

  “Thank God!” A quick check told her the man was still alive. He must have dragged himself through the mud. Her relief was short-lived when she noted fresh blood on his pantleg. His thigh was bleeding again; the crimson stain appeared black against the muslin bindings.

  “You fool,” she scolded. She wasn’t angry; she was too happy and relieved to find her patient alive. The wind had been fierce; no doubt it had disturbed his makeshift cover. The poor man must have awakened and sought refuge elsewhere.

  Tearing a fresh strip from her shirt’s hem, Kirsten rebound the wound. She didn’t know how she’d explain the ruined garment, but she’d think of something. If not, she could always bury the shirt in the woods.

  How was she going to move the soldier, though? Unconscious, he was dead weight. If she could wake him, she could help him to his feet. She tried rousing him with a light shake and then shook him harder when he didn’t move. When she again failed to rouse him, Kirsten stood, tears of frustration coming to her eyes. What am I going to do?

  There was a rope
in the wagon. It could be slipped under his arms and tied so he could be hoisted onto the wooden platform. It just might work! She had to try; there was no other choice. Kirsten returned to the wagon and untied the horse.

  She was so cold! The wind had died down, but she was soaked to the skin. She glanced at the man lying senseless. If she was cold, what about him? She shivered. There was no time to lose—he could be dying.

  She sprang into action. Guiding the mare through the mud to the small copse and then crouching beside the injured man, she again tried to wake him. This time he moaned. There would be no help from that quarter, she realized. It was entirely up to her to save him.

  “Mynheer? It’s me—Kirsten. I’m back. I brought the wagon just as I promised. See?” The man blinked once and then his eyes closed. Kirsten rose, retrieving the rope. After directing a few gentle words to the faithful mare, she returned to him. His eyes were open.

  “I have a rope,” she explained, “and I’m going to tie it around your chest.” The man struggled to sit up. Suddenly overwhelmed with a feeling of warmth, Kirsten continued. “I don’t want to hurt you, but I’m afraid I have to. When I get you to the barn, I’ll see to your wounds and you’ll feel better.” She paused. “Can you lift up this arm? That’s it!”

  Murmuring words of encouragement, she looped the piece of hemp about his body. She flinched when he groaned, but hardened herself against his body’s protest. Finally the rope was secure. Kirsten’s brow furrowed as she pondered what to do next.

  She tugged on the rope. I have to get my arms under his! She cried out at first, staggering under his dead weight. When she tried again, however, her burden felt lighter. Utilizing his last ounce of strength, the man rose to his feet. Then, exhausted by the effort, he passed out.

  He fell against the wooden platform with a thud. Kirsten inhaled sharply as she fought to keep him from sliding to the ground.

  It was like a game of tug of war as Kirsten battled with the inert form of the Continental. Finally, she was able to push him halfway onto the wagon. Grabbing hold of the rope, she then moved to the front end of the vehicle, slipped the piece of hemp under the seat, and pulled it to her over the top. She heaved until her efforts warmed her.

  There was a loud scraping noise as the man slid across the wooden platform. Kirsten felt faint with relief at her success. Time was precious; she had to hurry before the sun rose and the townspeople woke. She grabbed the reins, hopped up onto the wagon seat, and clicked her tongue. Hilga shifted and then obeyed the command. Soon the wagon was rolling along the road back to the Van Atta homestead. Fortunately, the wheels ran smoothly through the mud on the return trip.

  Kirsten maneuvered the wagon beside a thicket near the edge of the Van Atta property. After a quick check to see how the man had fared, she jumped down and ran toward the barn. No one moved within its dark depths, save the horses inside their stalls. Soon, the groom Pieter would be rising, and the barn would be stirring with life.

  She couldn’t bring him here! A barn was not safe from the British, who often appropriated the horses and cattle of Hoppertown residents. And she couldn’t risk endangering her parents.

  On the far side of her father’s land were the remains of the old Van Atta mill. It had been abandoned when Kirsten’s grandfather had built one closer to the village. The ruin held fond memories for Kirsten. She and cousin Miles had played there often as young children. But that was before the war, before the bloodshed . . . Those days were forever gone.

  I’ll take him to the mill’s cellar. Hurrying to the wagon, Kirsten then headed for the safety of the deserted mill.

  The man, wrapped in several blankets, was sleeping peacefully on the dirt floor of the cellar when Kirsten made for home. He’d be safe until morning, shielded from the weather by the wooden floor of the room above.

  His wounds would need more doctoring, though. Tomorrow she’d bring a bread-and-milk poultice.

  It was near daybreak, with the birds chirping their morning song, when Kirsten crept past the room in which her parents’ still slept and slid tiredly onto the soft feather tick of her bed.

  Chapter Three

  “Kirsten? Kirsten! Get up, you lazy daughter. There are chores to be done!”

  Groaning, Kirsten sat up and yawned. She brushed back a tumble of platinum blond hair and blinked to clear the sleep from her eyes.

  “Kirsten! Did you hear me?” Her mother’s voice was sharp, even through the closed doors of the alcove bed.

  “Yes, Moeder. I’m getting up.”

  “Well, be quick about it. Your vader has been up for over an hour.” The door closed with a click; Agnes Van Atta had left the room.

  Kirsten stretched and wondered why she was so tired. Her eyes widened as the memory of the injured soldier came to her. Was he all right? She hoped he was comfortable and that he hadn’t somehow stumbled from the sanctuary of the mill.

  He’ll need the poultice . . . and something to eat. Kirsten began making a mental list of supplies for her patient. Then she gasped, remembering that she’d left her mud-encrusted shoes to dry on the front stoop. There would be an awful scene if her mother discovered that she’d been out last night.

  “Kir-sten!” Her mother’s high-pitched shrill made Kirsten flinch.

  Drat. It was too late; her mother must have found the footwear. “I’m coming, Moeder.”

  Kirsten opened the alcove doors and peered out cautiously. As she’d feared, her scowling mother stood not far from the bed, a damp shoe in each hand.

  “Good morning!” The young woman beamed at her mother. “A wonderful day, isn’t it?”

  “Don’t you good morning me, young woman! Not when you can see what I’m holding!”

  “You mean my shoes?”

  Agnes Van Atta’s lips twitched with annoyance. “Of course, your shoes!”

  “Are you upset?” Kirsten padded in her bare feet across the cold floor to the kast, the wardrobe, from which she took out the day’s clothes. She laid these garments carefully on the bed before she pulled off her nightgown.

  “Of course, I’m upset!” her mother said. “You were out during the night again!”

  “There was a storm.” Kirsten sat on a chair to put on her stockings.

  “What were you doing?” Her mother looked concerned. “Your vader will not like this.”

  “What are you going to tell him?” Kirsten blinked in pretended innocence. “That he should be angry because I saw to the animals? That I finished the milking before you rose from your bed?” She turned from her mother as she slipped on a second striped petticoat. Next, she donned a dress of blue calico.

  “You’ve finished the milking?” Agnes asked, sounding surprised. Kirsten nodded as she slipped on her apron and tied the strings.

  “And the chickens—they are fed?” her mother asked.

  “Of course, Moeder. That reminds me—I must tell Vader that we need more feed.” Kirsten straightened her bedding and closed the alcove doors. She could sense that her mother’s anger had cooled as she put away her nightgown and shut the kast. The spring nights were cool, and the need for warmth made quilted bedcovers and light flannel gowns customary.

  There had been no need for her lie. She had seen to the animals before going to bed so that she could sleep later in the morning. But Kirsten would have fabricated an excuse if necessary. A man’s life was at stake.

  She braided her hair and then pinned up her silver blond plaits. When she was done with her toilet, she grabbed a broom from the corner of the room and proceeded to sweep the bedchamber floor.

  “And just what do you think you’re doing?” her mother asked. She had not yet left the room.

  Kirsten sighed as she met her mother’s gaze. She was tired of being treated like a child. Her parents meant well—she knew they feared for her safety—but . . . “I’m doing my chores, Moeder.”

  “What about your shoes?” Wrinkling her nose with distaste, Agnes raised the muddy footwear. “Really, Kirsten, you should
take better care of your belongings.”

  “I’ll clean them.” Flushing, Kirsten reached for her shoes.

  Her mother shook her head. “Never mind, daughter. Go ahead with your sweeping. I’ll put them outside—you can clean them later.” She moved toward the door. “When you’re done sweeping, you had best clean the hearth. You’ll need a clean feather. I noticed yesterday that the last one mysteriously disappeared.” And then, gesturing for Kirsten to continue with the broom, Agnes Van Atta left her daughter’s bedchamber.

  Kirsten thought the day would never end. As she worked quickly to finish her chores, she found her mind wandering to the wounded soldier.

  What if he was bleeding again! She churned the butter with vicious pumps. He could be dying! She had to see him; she had to know.

  When the butter was ready, Kirsten placed the store in the coolest section of the pantry. Later the firkin—the vessel that held the butter—would join others in the cellar under the house. Kirsten was outside picking early greens for her mother when she saw her father wave to her on his way to the sawmill. Smiling, she called out a greeting. She was climbing the steps with the basket of peas when the top section of the Dutch door opened.

  Agnes glanced at her daughter’s full basket. Her face softened as she met Kirsten’s gaze. “There’s suppawn on the table,” she said gruffly. “You best come and eat while it’s still warm.”

  “But, Vader—”

  Her mother frowned. “Your vader is too busy to eat right now.”

  Kirsten stifled her disappointment as she sat down at the table board. She looked forward each evening to the family meal. By this hour her chores were done and she could relax and enjoy her father’s attention.

  She saw a plate of olijkoecks at the other end of the table, and her spirits rose. She’d pilfer an extra share for her patient! If awake, he’d surely enjoy the fruit-sweetened fried batter cakes.

  Her heartbeat quickened. The man had to be alive—he had to! Night and the freedom to escape to check on her patient seemed a long way off.