With the threat of Greene’s gun gone, Kirsten looked at the women and children and then assumed command of them. “Rachel—gather the children and their mothers.” She fumbled on the floor for Greene’s pistol; she had to back away several times to avoid being struck by the fighting men. Finally, she got a hold of the pistol’s handle. “Keep them inside the house and shoot anyone who dares to threaten them,” she said, giving Rachel the gun.
Rachel nodded with confidence. “What will you do?”
Kirsten never had a chance to answer. The husbands and sons of the captives came through the open front entrance, their loud voices filled with joy at the sight of their loved ones, their weapons raised against any enemy who might cross their path.
“Stay inside the room!” one man bellowed. Mrs. Banta nodded and shouted to her husband to be careful.
The militiamen scattered to all parts of the house in search of their Tory enemies. Kirsten heard shots fired but not many. The house was alive with the sounds of battle as militiamen fought hand-to-hand to rescue their beloved families. The Van Voorhees’ house, Kirsten thought, eyeing the destruction, the spatters of blood that stained the floor and furniture, will never be the same.
She left the parlor in search of her parents. She found her mother first, in the kitchen. The poor woman had been left bound and gagged on a chair near the hearth. With a horrified cry, Kirsten hurried to untie her. Such gratitude, she thought, for the one who offered to cook for you.
“Your vader,” Agnes said after her daughter had removed her gag. “He and George Zabriskie are in the cellar outside. I heard Duntey—”
Kirsten nodded. “You’ll be all right?” Her mother was rubbing. her wrists, but she assured her that she would be fine and urged her to find James. Kirsten ran outside to locate the storage cellar.
Unlike at the Van Atta home where the root cellar was beneath the house, the Van Voorhees’ stores were kept in a separate cellar built underground. It had a door set into the side of a hill. “Vader!” she called, pulling at the iron door lock.
“Kirsten,” came the familiar voice, “daughter, is that you?”
She felt a burst of joy at knowing that he was all right. “Yes, Vader . . .”
“Open the door, girl.”
“I’m trying, Vader.”
An explosive noise sounded nearby, a gunshot.
“Good God!” James Van Atta exclaimed, his voice muffled through the heavy wood. “What’s happening out there?”
“We’re being rescued!”
“Thank God,” he said. “Hurry, Kirsten, so we can help.”
But Kirsten was having no luck; the lock wouldn’t budge.
“Get away from that door.”
Kirsten froze and slowly turned. William Randolph stood a few yards away, his pistol in hand and his eyes glittering.
“You’ll never win,” she said. “I told you.”
Randolph cocked the flintlock. “I’ll win over you. I’m going to kill you. At least I’ll have that satisfaction.”
“Kirsten!” her father cried from inside the cellar. “Kirsten! What’s going on? What’s happening out there?”
Her uncle smiled. “And then I’m going to shoot your father . . .”
“No!” The cry came from behind Randolph.
“Miles!” Kirsten gasped, stunned to see her cousin.
“Boy,” Randolph said with a grin at his son, “I’m glad you’re here.”
Miles raised his rifle. “No, Father, I won’t let you do it.” His lips firmed; his hands were steady.
Randolph seemed taken aback. “This is my affair, son!”
“Don’t call me son!” Miles lifted the gun higher. “And it is my affair. She’s my cousin.”
“No,” his father said. “Don’t you see? She’s one of them. A Patriot. A damn rebel! They’re ruining this land, boy. They’re ruining everything!”
“Drop your pistol, Father.”
“You won’t harm me; I’m your father.”
Miles sneered. “Like you wouldn’t hurt me because I’m your son?” He shifted his grip on the rifle, grimacing as the fabric of his shirt stretched across the muscles of his back.
Randolph flushed. “I didn’t mean to whip you that hard, son. But I had to discipline you—it was for your own good.”
“And Mother?” Miles’s face contorted with hate. “You had to discipline her, too?” He heard Kirsten’s gasp, but he went on. “For God’s sake, she didn’t do anything wrong! She loves you.” His voice became hoarse. “. . . Loved you.” He spoke as if his mother had changed her mind.
The barrel of the rifle wavered slightly. “I should kill you now, you bastard, for all you’ve done to Mother . . . to me.”
“No, boy!” William Randolph was visibly alarmed.
“Kirsten,” Miles said softly, “take his gun.”
The older man’s mouth drew into a straight line, and Kirsten hesitated. Her uncle was unstable; she didn’t trust him.
“Go ahead, Kirsten. He won’t hurt you. He knows I’d kill him first.”
Kirsten edged closer.
“And get the key to the cellar door. It’s in his coat pocket.” Miles moved a step nearer. “You see, my dear father”—he spoke with loathing—“is the mastermind here.”
Kirsten reached for the gun and gasped as Randolph spun and discharged his pistol. Two shots rang out as both father’s and son’s guns went off. William Randolph was unhurt, but Miles fell to the ground, wounded. Thomas Banta arrived seconds later. Aghast, his face white, Randolph took one look at his injured son and then stared at Banta a moment before he fled.
“Get him, Tom!” Kirsten cried. “He shot Miles! He shot his own son!” She crouched beside her bleeding cousin.
Chapter Twenty-three
Miles was dead. Somewhere deep inside, Kirsten sensed it, but the horror of it numbed her brain. Her vision blurred until she was oblivious to everything around her. Even Miles’s face. Yet, she could smell her cousin’s blood, could feel it on her hands. Sobbing, she raised his head and cradled it in her lap.
“Live, Miles,” she begged, stroking his forehead. “Live, please, live!”
But when her eyes cleared, she saw that Miles had been hit in the heart, killed instantly, and she knew she’d never again be the same. The war, for her, would never again hold the same meaning. Freedom be damned! It’s time to stop this senseless killing! she thought.
Richard had been frantically searching everywhere for Kirsten. The Tories had been subdued; a few had escaped, but many had been taken. Their leader, Elias Greene, had been killed by Thomas Banta.
Richard ran from one room to the next of the Van Voorhees’ house, searching for Kirsten, his heart pounding with dread when he couldn’t find her. No one had seen her for some while. Finally, when he’d checked all the chambers, he went outside to check the outbuildings and the yard. Greene and his men had locked them in an outbuilding before . . . perhaps Kirsten was in the Van Voorhees’ smokehouse.
His spirits fell when he didn’t find her there. She wasn’t in the barn or the stables either. Dear God, where was she?
He heard a fierce heavy pounding as he rounded another outbuilding—the summer kitchen. He saw the cellar then, built into hill and knew that someone was trapped inside.
“Kirsten,” he breathed with hope. “Kirsten!” he shouted, hurrying toward the door.
And that was when he saw her. Outside. On the grass. She wasn’t trapped within the cellar, but someone else was. She was so quiet, he’d almost missed her. She sat on the damp ground, crying. Her face wet with tears, she was the image of torment.
Richard ignored the thundering on the cellar door to go to her. He felt pain twisting his gut. What did you do to her, you bastards!
As he came closer to her, his gaze dropped to her lap, and his heart lurched.
Dear God, it’s Miles. Miles, Kirsten’s beloved cousin, was injured. No, dead.
Richard wanted to take her into his arms and comfort
her, but the hammering on the wooden door continued, and he could not ignore it. He hurried to the lock and began struggling with the iron. “Who’s inside?”
“James Van Atta,” someone said.
“And George Zabriskie!” another added.
Richard stopped his struggles to hear better those trapped within. There was a quiet pause. “Are you friend or foe?” asked the one who’d spoken first.
“James Van Atta?” Richard said, his gaze straying to Kirsten. Her lifeless behavior scared him. “Kirsten’s kin?”
“Her father.”
“I’m a friend, although when you see me you may not believe it.” Richard renewed his efforts with the lock. “I’ve traveled with the Tories, but I’ve come with your militia. I tell the truth when I say I’m not a Loyalist—a King’s man—but a Patriot like you.” The iron lock squeaked under his fingers, but wouldn’t come free.
“Damn,” Richard cursed. “Do you know where they keep the key?” A silly question, he thought, eyeing the lock with frustration.
A muffled voice came from behind the door. “William has it, I think.”
A second voice—Richard thought it belonged to Kirsten’s father—said, “He was here and so was Kirsten.” He hesitated. “We heard gunfire. Is she all right?”
Richard stared at his beloved. “She is unharmed, but Miles is not.”
“My God!”
“This William—is it Randolph of whom you speak?” Richard asked.
“Yes. Is he there?”
“No. No sign of him, I’m afraid.”
There was a prolonged moment of silence.
“Check for a spare key,” one of the men inside suggested. “Are there any rocks nearby? Perhaps Samuel keeps one hidden.”
Richard searched the area and found nothing. “It’s no use.”
Thomas Banta returned from the chase. “Randolph’s escaped,” he gasped, out of breath from running. “Damn! The bastard got away!”
Richard nodded, understanding the man’s frustration. “We’ll have to break down this door. Van Atta and Zabriskie are inside.”
Banta agreed. “I’ll get help.” He left and returned shortly afterward with two men.
Richard had gone to Kirsten’s side while he waited. When help arrived and he rose to assist, one of the men—Martin Hoppe—took one look at the situation and waved him back to Kirsten’s side.
Grateful, Richard did as he was bid and drew Kirsten against him. She didn’t yield easily, but remained stiff, ignorant of his presence. He feared for her state of mind.
He stroked her hair and murmured to her softly. Soon, her expression changed ever so slightly, and Richard was relieved.
“Kirsten . . .”
Her tears fell in earnest now. “Richard?” she asked in a trembly voice.
“Yes, love.”
“He’s dead.” A gasping sob. “Miles is dead.”
“I’m so sorry.” He ached for her. He helped her to set Miles gently on the ground. Removing his jacket, he pillowed the dead youth’s head.
“Oh, God, Richard!” Kirsten turned to him then, and he inhaled sharply at the stark pain in her expression. “His own father killed him.”
“Lord have mercy!”
“No!” she cried. “Not on his soul. Not on William Randolph’s vile soul!”
Richard’s eyes stung as he shared her grief. “His mother . . .”
“Oh, dear God in heaven!” she wailed. “Aunt Catherine!” She stood. “I have to find her. He’s hurt her before, too. He’s a madman. He may kill her!”
“Easy, love,” Richard said softly. “I’ll send someone to get her. You mustn’t go yourself.”
He left her to approach the men at the cellar entrance. They had managed to break in the door, and now Martin Hoppe, Thomas Banta, and John Ackerman stood back as Kirsten’s father and George Zabriskie came out from the dark storage place.
Richard quickly explained the situation to them.
“I’ll go,” James said, and two others offered to accompany him. Richard had known James Van Atta would volunteer first, because the man resembled the woman he loved. He had the same silver hair . . . the same eyes.
James’s concerned gaze went to his daughter. He approached her and touched her arm. “Kirsten dear, are you all right?”
She blinked. “I’m fine, Vader, but Aunt Catherine . . .”
“I know, daughter. I’m to get her.”
“But, Vader, Uncle William . . .”
“I’ll not go alone. Martin and Thomas will be with me.”
Kirsten nodded and then sat down, exhausted, beside her dead cousin on the damp, cool ground. She began to stroke Miles’s cooling brow. Her father frowned.
Richard came back to her. “I’ll take care of her,” he assured James.
Kirsten’s father looked as if he would protest, but then he nodded instead, appearing relieved. “Thank you,” he said and left with the other men.
“Love, come. He’s gone,” Richard said, hunkering down at Kirsten’s side. “Miles is at peace now.” Her hands were covered in Miles’s blood. He coaxed her gently toward the well a few yards away. After pulling up a bucket of cool water, he washed away the blood.
Kirsten appeared to be in a stupor. Her lashes feathered against her cheeks, before she raised her eyes. “Peace?” she echoed. He nodded, and she smiled. “That’s what he always wanted, peace . . . He hated the war, saw no sense in it.”
Richard was beginning to feel the same way. “He’s at rest now,” he said. “No one will hurt him again.” He kissed each of Kirsten’s cleansed hands, and then he returned to where Miles lay. He bent and lifted the youth’s lifeless body in his strong arms. Cradling it against his chest, he waited for Kirsten to follow him. He noted that she seemed composed.
“Peace,” she murmured. “Yes, Miles dear. You’re at peace. You’re happy now.”
Captain Jonathan Hopper came out of the house and took Miles’s body from Richard’s arms. The men exchanged a few words before Hopper carried Miles inside.
“Where are they taking him?” Kirsten said. She did not appear to be alarmed that someone had taken Miles away.
Unsure of her mental state, Richard frowned down at her, concerned. “Inside, love. His mother will want to see him.”
Kirsten’s eyes filled with tears. “Poor Miles. Poor Aunt Catherine.”
Richard placed an arm about her shoulders. “Come, love. You must be exhausted. I’ll see you home.”
She stopped short. “Moeder. Where is my moeder?”
“According to Captain Hopper, she’s fine,” he told her. “She’s already been taken home.”
Kirsten sighed. “All right then. Let’s go home.”
He thought she must be anxious to get away from this place of destruction. A few families were still here. It would be some time before all could leave, for every available wagon had been utilized to take the first of the former captives home. Richard took Kirsten with him as he checked the stables.
“Oh, look,” she cried. “There’s Hilga. She’s our mare.” Her father must have taken the wagon and gelding to the Randolphs’ to get Aunt Catherine.
Richard saddled Hilga. Thinking of Kirsten’s upset state, he decided that they would ride together.
With the immediate threat of the Tories gone, Richard and Kirsten took their time on their journey to the Van Atta farm. The day was clear, but the November bite to the air made Kirsten shiver and burrow closer to Richard’s chest. She rode sideways before him, her arm about his waist, her head against his chest. She could feel the movement of his arms as he held the reins. He was warm and strong, and she felt safe within his arms.
“What of Greene and the other Loyalists?” she asked after a time of companionable silence.
“Elias Greene’s dead. Godwin and Dunley have been taken prisoner along with a few others.” Richard paused. “Your uncle escaped.”
Kirsten tensed and then lifted her head. “May justice be served on him soon,”
she said.
Agnes Van Atta was overjoyed to see her daughter safe. They hugged and tears ran down both their faces as they released each other. Richard had stood by and watched the happy reunion in silence. He felt a sudden longing for the warmth of his own family, a warmth he’d never experience again, for his family was dead.
Their greetings accomplished, Agnes suddenly became aware of the strange man with her daughter. She looked at Richard, clearly puzzled by his presence. But she was smiling, for she was glad to see any man who’d returned her daughter safely to her.
Kirsten came alive, grabbing Richard’s hand. As she drew him forward, the intimacy between them did not go unnoticed by Kirsten’s mother. “Moeder, this is Richard. Richard Maddox. He helped rescue us.”
Agnes smiled and held out her hand. “Thank you, Mr. Maddox. I’m ever in your debt.”
“I can’t take the credit, madame. It was your Captain Hopper and his men . . .”
She shook her head. “You are too humble, Mr. Maddox.”
“Richard,” he invited.
Kirsten stared at him with surprise. Why, Richard could be most charming!
“You must be hungry,” Agnes said to her daughter.
“A bit, Moeder.”
“And you, Mr.—Richard,” Kirsten’s mother amended with a soft smile.
“Yes, I most certainly am,” he confessed without embarrassment.
“Come in then.”
Kirsten and Richard sat at the tableboard while Agnes Van Atta roamed about the kitchen, preparing food.
Kirsten grew sad again. Miles was dead. A part of her was gone . . . they’d been so close. How was she to go on without him?
“Moeder,” she said, her voice flat, “Miles is dead.”
Agnes froze in the act of placing olijkoecks on a plate. “Dead,” she murmured, and then continued working as if she hadn’t heard.
Kirsten, watching her, was appalled by her mother’s lack of emotional response. “Moeder, didn’t you hear me? Miles is dead. Dead!”
“Kirsten”—Richard placed a hand on her arm—“I’m sure . . .”
She gave him a look that cut into him.
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