Rapture's Betrayal

by McCarthy, Candace

  William glanced back over his shoulder. “Oh, you think not?” His thin lips curved upward. “I think I shall . . . with your help. We shall see. We shall see . . .”

  The group headed toward the Van Voorhees’ farm. Kirsten rubbed her smarting cheek. What was to become of them? she wondered.

  Richard and Martin were surprised at their conversation when John Ackerman and several members of the local militia burst into the common room of the inn.

  “What?” The innkeeper started to rise. “What’s wrong, John? Has something happened?”

  John nodded. “I’m afraid so, Martin.” He stopped as he noticed who sat with his friend.

  Richard stood, feeling the sudden tension in the room. He eyed the Patriot group warily, for he knew the men did not know he was one of them. They thought him a Tory. The enemy.

  “The bloody Tories!” John spat out, staring at Richard. “Their leader Greene—that red-haired bastard—and his men have taken the Van Voorhees’ place.”

  “What!” Richard exclaimed. He stiffened with rage. “When? How?” My God, he thought, Kirsten’s there. And now Greene!

  “Over an hour ago. Perhaps longer. Sometime in the night,” Ackerman said, his eyes narrowing. He addressed Martin. “We’d stopped at Vandervelt’s on the way there.” He gestured toward Garret Vandervelt, the klapperman. “After that fire the last time, he wanted to check his house. We knew our families were safe . . .” His voice trailed off. “At least, we’d thought them safe.”

  “Damn!” Martin knocked back a chair as he moved from the table. “Margaretha’s there. Like you, I’d thought she’d be safe. I planned to bring her home later.”

  “And my moeder is there,” John Ackerman said.

  Several men spoke of their loved ones who’d been sheltered at the Van Voorhees’ farm and who were now in the hands of the enemy.

  “Kirsten,” Richard murmured, and Martin met his gaze, sharing his concern.

  “There’s ammunition in the cellar,” Martin said. “Load up. We’re going to need it.”

  Many of the men followed him from the common room to the workroom and the cellar stairs, but a few of the militiamen hung back. One was staring at Richard; Richard could tell from the man’s angry expression that he was in for a bad time.

  “Tory,” the man growled. “You’re one of them. Thomas! John, don’t let him go free! He’s the enemy. He was with Greene!”

  With Martin gone, Richard lacked the support of the only man who knew his true identity, so he was unable to stop those who grabbed him roughly and shackled him.

  “All right, Canfield, what are their plans? What are you doing here?”

  “I don’t know their pl—” Richard’s words were cut off when someone struck him across the mouth. His head snapped back under the force of the blow, and his lip split, spurting blood.

  “The truth, Canfield! Tell us the truth!”

  “I tell you, I don’t know!”

  The man raised his fist.

  “He’s telling the truth, Banta. Put down your fist and release him. He’s one of us.”

  The men turned at Martin’s entry. “But, Hoppe—”

  “I said, let him go. He’s a Patriot working for Washington. We’d just been discussing his work when you came in.” He raised an eyebrow. “Why do you think he was here—alone? We were having a calm and pleasant discussion of his mission, of why he was with the Tory troops.”

  “You believe Canfield?”

  “His name’s not Canfield. It’s Maddox. Richard Maddox.”

  “The Mad Ox,” one of the men said. “I’ve heard the name.” He stared at Richard. “Yours?”

  Richard nodded, feeling relieved as John Ackerman undid his shackles and he was able to stand and rub his wrists. His flesh was tender there for he’d been bound twice in the past twenty-four hours. He bent to soothe his sore ankles.

  “What do we do now? How do we know how best to handle them?”

  “Richard?” Martin asked.

  “Greene is a madman. We’ll have to move cautiously. I don’t trust him at all.”

  There were various muffled comments from the group.

  “Can we do it?” Garret Vandervelt said. “Can we free our families?”

  Richard studied each of the men. “Will you trust me to help? Do you believe in my loyalty?”

  The men became quiet as each thought on his words and tried to decide.

  “I trust him.” Martin was the first to speak up, and Richard grinned at him, pleased. Martin didn’t return his grin, but looked at the others grimly, waiting for each individual’s answer.

  “I don’t know,” Jonathan Hopper said. He was the commander of the militia, so his opinion held a lot of weight. He eyed his cousin. “You believe him?” he asked Martin, who nodded. “I shall trust him also.”

  Richard sighed with relief as each of the men followed their commander’s lead.

  “Arm yourselves,” he said after the men had looked to him for direction. “We’ll travel together to the Van Voorhees’ farm. There we’ll split up into two groups, one to approach from the front of the house, one to attack from the back. We can break into four groups if necessary.” He picked up a knife from the table, the one Martin had used to cut the bread. “Bring knives as well as guns. You may need them. The Tories are a cunning lot. Get your weapons and return here quickly.”

  “Hurry!” Martin encouraged.

  And the men left to equip themselves.

  Kirsten and her mother were separated from Kirsten’s father and thrust into the parlor of the Van Voorhees’s house, where the Tories had imprisoned a number of women and children. The chamber was a fairly good-sized one, but even so, it was too small for the number of occupants. Every available chair was taken. Kirsten and Agnes were forced to sit on the floor near the fireplace. Since it was November and the weather was cool, there was a fire burning brightly. As her mother went to sit down, Kirsten made sure she was a safe distance away from the threat of escaping sparks.

  To Kirsten’s relief, the men hadn’t tied them, having felt there was no need to. Perhaps they thought women and children too weak and vulnerable to be capable of escaping under any circumstances. Whatever their reasoning, Kirsten was grateful. Her wrists and ankles still pained from being bound earlier.

  She studied her mother with concern. Agnes had nearly gone out of her mind when James had been dragged from her side. She looked haggard. Her eyes were dull, their expression lifeless.

  “They’ll kill him!” Agnes wailed. “I know they will.”

  “You don’t know that, Moeder,” Kirsten responded, stroking her parent’s arm.

  “They will if William has a say about it! You heard him—William never liked James!”

  That explained some of those strained moments, Kirsten realized, when the two families had picnicked together during Kirsten’s early childhood. She recalled a time or two when a happy outing had been destroyed by an argument between the two men. Probably over something minor. She didn’t remember exactly. In fact, until now, she’d not thought of the angry exchanges at all.

  It had grown chilly outside with the coming of the new day, and Kirsten was grateful for the warmth of the fire behind her . . . the crowded room.

  Rachel Banta sat across from her. Their gazes met, and Kirsten saw the concern in Rachel’s eyes, the fear.

  “We’ll be all right,” she said.

  Rachel nodded, but looked unconvinced.

  A guard had been posted near the door, and now another man brushed by him and headed to the fire, his arms loaded with wood. Kirsten saw his face and gasped. Purposely, she turned her head away and silently prayed the man hadn’t seen her, that he wouldn’t recognize her.

  It was the man with the disfigured features. The man who had tried to murder Richard.

  The women and children had become silent when he’d entered the room. Whether from the horror of seeing such a terrifying visage or the sense of danger the fellow brought with him, Kirst
en didn’t know. Her heart pounded so hard she was afraid the killer would hear it, that it would draw his attention to her.

  Thankfully, her mother had calmed down. Now Agnes was resigned to the fact that her sobs would neither save James nor rescue her from these men. All she could do was wait and pray.

  Sensing her mother’s fear, Kirsten squeezed Agnes’ arm. She herself relaxed slightly in doing so. The strange-looking man had risen after throwing a log onto the fire. As he moved toward the door, Kirsten felt his gaze on her. She bent her head, pretending to check her shoes, trying to be nonchalant about it.

  “You!” the man said, and Kirsten gasped and raised her eyes slowly. Had he recognized her in her shirt and breeches? She released her breath in relief when she saw that she was not the object of the disfigured man’s attention; it was Anna Terhune, poor girl.

  “Come with me,” he ordered.

  The room grew loud with the murmurs of protest.

  “What do you want her for?” someone asked, daring to be bold. Kirsten recognized Martin’s sister.

  No, Margaretha, Kirsten thought, don’t draw attention to yourself!

  The man seemed to stare right through Margaretha. “The men are hungry. We will not have to worry about this wench eating our food.” He pointed toward the skinny Anna. Then he cocked his head and regarded Kirsten’s cousin thoughtfully. “How about you? Can you prepare food?”

  Margaretha shook her head. “My brother does all the cooking,” she lied. “I was a sickly child and never learned. ”

  He scowled as if he didn’t believe her.

  “I can cook!” someone said, and Kirsten was startled to realize that the words had come from her own mother.

  “Moeder—no!”

  Agnes rose, her face free of tears, her expression purposeful. “I’m William Randolph’s sister. I’ll be happy to cook for you.”

  There was a buzz of anger from the occupants of the room as the man nodded and Agnes followed him from the parlor. The others turned to stare at Kirsten accusingly.

  “I don’t know what she’s planning,” Kirsten said, feeling her face flush. “She’s terrified of her brother, but she’s worried about Vader. Perhaps she hopes that by cooperating she’ll gain the Loyalists’ confidence, and she’ll be able to see Vader.”

  Rachel inclined her head and then spoke to those in the room. “She saved poor Anna here, didn’t she? Let us be thankful for Anna’s sake. I, for one, believe in Agnes’ loyalty. For God’s sake, her husband and daughter are here.”

  “What if she hopes to free them and not us?” someone asked.

  “I’d not leave you behind!” Kirsten said sharply, stung by the remark.

  “And if you’ve no choice?” The comment came from directly beside her, from Sarah Van Voorhees, the woman of the house.

  “Then I’ll get help from our men and return to free you,” Kirsten said, the look in her eyes daring anyone to argue with her.

  The members of the militia met back at the inn as Richard had requested. Armed with guns and swords and small knives, they were ready to rescue their loved ones.

  “These Loyalists have little guns; they’re experts in small arms,” Richard told them. “Be prepared to use those knives—anything you can get your hands on. Such weapons could be your only hope.” He paused and studied each man. “Do you know how to use those knives?”

  They all murmured that they did.

  “Good. Let’s go then.”

  The men traveled by cart until they were about a half-mile from the Van Voorhees’ farm. Then Captain Jonathan Hopper ordered everyone to alight and proceed on foot.

  “We can’t afford to be discovered, men,” Hopper explained. “As I’m sure you’ll agree, we’ve too much at stake here.” As it was, they had no cover of darkness to shield their approach. The sun had risen in a cloudless sky as if to mock their efforts.

  The Van Voorhees’ house appeared deserted, but Richard knew better. He told Hopper and his men of Greene’s fighting tactics. The Tories, he explained, would be inside, still, playing a game of bait and wait.

  Crouched in the bushes at the edge of the woods bordering the Van Voorhees’ property, Richard glanced at the man next to him. Jonathan Hopper, a good, able man, looked Richard’s way and nodded.

  “They’re there all right,” Richard mouthed. “I’d stake a month’s pay on it.”

  A fierce light entered the captain’s eyes, and then he rose from his crouch and raised his sword high in the signal to move forward.

  Richard gripped his gun hard as he joined the advance. He hoped he wouldn’t have to use the rifle, for he was afraid those trapped in the house would get caught in the gunfire. Spying an outbuilding, he ran to it for cover, offering up a silent prayer that the members of the militia had sense enough to keep their heads and stay out of sight. He was afraid that concern for their loved ones would affect their judgment. Richard understood what the men were feeling. Kirsten was inside with the captives. His sweet, spirited Kirsten.

  Was she safe? Had she done something to antagonize her captors? He thought of Elias Greene, and a cold shiver of fear coiled in his belly. Damn! I’ll kill the bastard myself if he has so much as touched Kirsten!

  Chapter Twenty-two

  The disfigured man’s name was Phelps. Kirsten learned that when she heard one of his cohorts call out to him as he entered the parlor for the second time that morning. Her stomach lurched as memories of the man poised over Richard in the flash and fire of the storm came to her. It was all she could do to control a gasp as she recalled the fight, the moment when she’d witnessed the downward thrust of Phelps’s bayonet.

  She shuddered, reexperiencing the utter helplessness, the horror of watching one man purposely take the life of another. Only Richard didn’t die. He might have if not for her, but thank God he’d made it.

  Kirsten thought of their captors—her uncle William, Elias Greene, Phelps and the others. They were all cruel men. God help us, she thought. We’re at their mercy.

  She studied the women in the room with her. Despite their fear, a few had dozed off with children on their laps, too exhausted from the night’s ordeal to do otherwise.

  Where was Moeder? Kirsten wondered. She heard a burst of laughter from the next room, and she cringed, envisioning the reason for such merriment. Oh, God, please let Moeder be all right and not the object of their sport.

  Phelps was moving about the room, staring at each woman. Instinctively, Kirsten moved closer to the person beside her, afraid that he’d spy her. She felt Sarah Van Voorhees press toward her, and the two women leaned against each other, clutching each other’s hand.

  Kirsten swallowed hard. The disfigured man paused over Anna Terhune, who had fallen asleep, her head propped against another woman’s shoulder.

  “Wake her up,” Phelps growled at Rachel.

  Kirsten wanted to say something, but wisely kept her tongue.

  When Rachel Banta hesitated, the man got angry. “I says, wake her up!” He gave her a smirk. “Or are ya offering to take her place?”

  Eyes widening with fear, Rachel shook the girl as ordered. Phelps grinned as Anna jolted awake, her face mirroring horror and fear as she realized whose attention she held.

  The man reached down and hauled her up by the arm. “Come, wench!” he said. “You come with me.”

  Kirsten shifted uneasily as Anna grimaced, no doubt from the bruising grip on her arm and the vile odor of the man’s breath.

  “No, please,” Anna begged.

  “Leave her alone. She’s not bothering anyone.” Kirsten started to rise.

  As Phelps looked at her Kirsten tensed in fear at having drawn his glance. He squinted his eyes as he studied her. His gaze dropping from her face to her breeches, he murmured in disgust. The air became fraught with tension as Kirsten wondered if she’d just signed her own death warrant.

  Phelps had seen her that night. Did he recognize her? She was dressed as she’d been then, like a boy. Would it occur to
him that she and the boy in the woods were actually one and the same person? She saw that he had difficulty seeing. Perhaps he didn’t recognize her!

  “Are you offering to take her place?” He sneered, confirming her last thought. “Such generosity among you rebel women. First the old one offers to cook for her and now you’re willing to . . .” With his misshapen mouth, his smile appeared more of grimace. He released Anna and came to Kirsten.

  “I’m not offering anything,” Kirsten replied, relieved that he’d made no connection between her and that stormy night. If she got out of this alive, she’d have to remember him, his name. Richard would surely want to know it.

  Suddenly, she heard a gunshot. When Phelps turned from her to hurry from the room, Kirsten went to the window, and her heart raced as she caught sight of several members of the Hoppertown militia.

  “They’re surrounding the house!” she cried. “Our militia is surrounding the house! Rachel, I see Thomas and your father. Mrs. Bogert, your brother is there with your son!”

  The women began talking and laughing, their hope renewed, certain now of rescue. In the excitement of the attack, the guards had left their posts for defense points. Kirsten ran to the door, thinking of escape, and found her way blocked by Elias Greene.

  “So!” he said. “Just you and me . . . finally.”

  Kirsten laughed harshly as she glanced back at the other women. “Hardly, Greene.” Rachel Banta, Anna Terhune, and Sarah Van Voorhees came up to stand behind her in support.

  Eyes narrowing, Greene raised his pistol, pointed it at Kirsten’s chest. “Move away, ladies, or I’ll shoot her here and now.”

  “You’ll not get out of this alive if you kill me, Greene,” Kirsten said.

  They were in the front hall. The outside entrance door burst inward as Thomas Banta shouldered his way inside the house.

  “Thomas,” Rachel called to her brother. She pointed toward the Tory leader’s gun. “Get Greene!”

  A flicker of emotion crossed Thomas’ face as he quickly took in the situation. And then he rushed at the man. Greene cursed as Thomas managed to knock the pistol from his grip. The two men fought in deadly earnest.