Once a Rebel

by Mary Jo Putney

  “Not only did you take my property, but you treated my father’s whore like she was a white woman!” he raged. “Neither of you were fit to touch my mother’s skirt, yet there you were, cozening my father and plotting against me!”

  “I treated your father with respect and affection, and I never plotted against you.” Another step closer. The pistol was almost within reach, but in the instant it would take her to grab it, cock, and aim, he could shoot her since his pistol was already aimed and ready to fire. Misfires weren’t uncommon, but she didn’t want to bet her life on one.

  “You gave ideas to the other slaves!” he added furiously. “After you left, several of my best field hands escaped from the plantation and joined the free Maroons in the hills. You took them from me!”

  “Enough of that!” Hoyle, the fired overseer, said impatiently. “You promised us girls as part of this. That black girl over there? She looks ripe for it!”

  “She’s worth more as a virgin, if she is one. I can make a small fortune if I sell her in New Orleans. You can have that one, my father’s widow, after I’m done with her.” Henry waved the pistol toward Callie, then at Sarah. “The old one is a good cook and will fetch a fine price, too. Where’s the boy?”

  “My brother joined the militia to fight the British,” Molly said fiercely. “He’s out of your reach!” She also inched toward the invaders, a dangerous light in her eyes.

  “I shouldn’t have waited until the men left, but that blond fellow looked dangerous.” Henry swore, his brow furrowed as he considered what to do next. “The boy may be out of my reach, but the old man is a good carpenter and worth something. We wait here till they get back.” His gaze burned over Callie again. “We can amuse ourselves with the women, then ambush the men when they return. Who’s the blond man, stepmama dear? Your lover?”

  “Just an old friend from England,” she said mildly. “No one you’d know.”

  “So I shoot him and tie up all my slaves and leave your bodies for the warehouse manager to find.” He laughed. “Or what’s left of you.”

  Goat, whose gaze had been flicking from one woman to another, swaggered toward the kitchen. “I don’t wanna wait till you’re done with the redhead. The old woman ain’t bad lookin’. I’m willin’ to give her a try while Hoyle stands guard.” Leering, he reached for Sarah.

  “Don’t touch me, you swine!” Sarah flung a ladleful of boiling soup into Goat’s ugly face. He screamed and leaped back, clawing at his eyes.

  While he was off balance, Sarah shoved him furiously into the nearest tobacco barrel. It lay on its side, aimed toward the door. Goat’s head hit the heavy barrel with an ugly crack, propelling it toward Hoyle.

  “Watch the hell what you’re doing!” the overseer barked as he dodged back out of the path of the barrel and collided with Henry.

  “You clumsy oafs!” Henry roared as he stumbled and swung around to see what was going on behind his back.

  In the instant he was distracted, Callie snatched her pistol from behind the rag basket, cocked the weapon, and held it with both hands as she took grim aim.

  “You wanted justice, Henry? I’ll give it to you!” In Washington she’d been unable to pull the trigger, but this time she didn’t hesitate. She squeezed the trigger slowly so her aim would be true, and fired a pistol ball into Henry’s black heart.

  A deafening blast of sound and a cloud of eye-stinging smoke saturated the room when the kick of the pistol rocked her back. As blood sprayed out from the wound, she fought back her nausea. She felt sick—but not sorry.

  “What . . . ?” His expression disbelieving, Henry slowly folded over, staring at her as blood gushed from his chest. With his last breath, he hissed, “Bitch . . . !”

  Callie clutched the table as Henry fell, his pistol dropping from his hand. Fearing the cocked weapon might fire, she instinctively ducked back.

  The weapon blasted more numbing sound and stinging smoke, and Goat shrieked. When Callie straightened, she saw blood blooming from the man’s temple. He made a strangled sound as he fell into an ungainly sprawl and spoke no more.

  Callie was frantically reloading when Hoyle wrenched the pistol from her hand and threw it aside. “You bloody hellcat! You’ll pay for that!”

  He grabbed her neck with both hands and dragged her toward him. Gasping for breath, she fumbled to pull her skirt up so she could reach the knife sheath on her left thigh. Molly had carefully sharpened both knives, and if she could just reach hers . . .

  Molly screamed, “Let her go!” She scooped up Henry’s empty pistol and hurled it into Hoyle’s face, crunching viciously into his nose and cheeks. Then she reached for her own knife, fury in her eyes.

  While Hoyle swore and clutched his nose, Callie managed to yank her knife from its sheath. She slashed at the overseer, cutting the right side of his face. He swung at her wildly, but missed her knife hand.

  More by instinct than design, she ripped the knife sideways with all her strength. The razor-sharp blade sliced across his throat and released a scarlet fountain of warm blood. He was so close that it splashed over her as he collapsed.

  She gagged and almost fell herself, but Molly caught her arm and kept her upright. “It’s all right now,” Molly said wildly. “It’s all right!”

  From the time Goat had gone after Sarah to the death of Hoyle couldn’t have been much more than a minute.

  Callie stared at the blood and bodies. The loft looked like a battlefield. She began to shake, her eyes stinging viciously from the smoke. Then she heard heavy footsteps pounding up the stairwell. Blindly she raised the knife and steeled herself to face this new threat.

  “Callie!” Richard’s voice. “Callie!”

  He blasted through the broken door, summed up the scene in one swift, horrified glance. “My God!”

  “Henry attacked us,” Molly said starkly through her tears. “It was my thrice-damned brother.”

  Richard reached Callie in half a dozen swift steps and enfolded her in his arms before she had fully realized that he was there. “Callie, are you all right?”

  Her body recognized his before her mind did. She sagged into his chest and clung with biting fingers as the fear and anguish of the last minutes rushed through her. She began to sob uncontrollably.

  Josh barreled through the door, older than Richard but not much slower. “Sarah, Molly!” He stopped and stared down at Henry Newell’s body. “Dear God, that brute came all the way here?”

  “Grandpa!” Molly ran sobbing into his arms.

  Sarah followed at a more moderate pace. Coolly she said, “That devil man came to rape and kill Miss Callista and take the rest of us back into slavery.” She reached her husband and slid an arm around his waist, leaning into his solid strength since his arms were occupied by Molly. “Miss Callista killed him and Hoyle like the swine they were,” she said with fierce satisfaction. “Fought like a tigress. Molly too.” She gestured at Goat. “Henry’s last shot killed that one and no loss.”

  Josh swore with words Callie had never heard him use before. Not releasing his womenfolk, he moved forward and kicked Henry in the head. “I wish I’d been here to do the killing!”

  “I wish you had, too.” Callie’s voice was so thin she could barely hear it herself. “But he waited until you and Richard were well away because it would be harder to break into the loft with you here.”

  Richard smoothed her hair back with one large, gentle hand. “Come sit down, Catkin. You look ready to collapse.”

  Numbly she folded limply into the nearest chair. “Where is Trey?”

  Richard knelt in front of her and took hold of her hands, his gaze searching. “He’s down in the cart with Peter Carroll. Not badly injured, but weak. We were just pulling up to the warehouse door when we heard gunshots and a scream from in here. Josh and I left Peter in charge while we ran up as fast as we could.” His smile was as warm as his hands. “But you didn’t need us, Catkin. My warrior woman.”

  “I was terrified,” she whisp
ered.

  “Of course you were,” he said briskly. “Any sensible person would be. A hero does what needs to be done despite being terrified. You’re a hero, Callie.”

  “I don’t feel like one.”

  “But you are.” His brow furrowed. “I need to go down and help bring Trey up here. Will you be all right for a few minutes?”

  She summoned the remnants of her strength and resolve. “I’m fine.” She squeezed Richard’s hands, then released them. “Bring Trey up. After Sarah treats him”—she glanced at the bodies on the floor, then looked away—“we can decide what to do next.”

  Chapter 24

  It was full dark now. Gordon left Josh to deal with the bodies and headed down to the cart, his heart still pounding from the panic that had consumed him at the sound of the gunshots. He barely remembered telling Peter to look after Trey as he bolted from the cart, unlocked the door, and raced up the stairway, Josh half a dozen steps behind him. The shattered door signaled that disaster had struck.

  When he’d entered and seen Callie covered with blood, he’d felt his heart die inside him. He’d never forget the overwhelming relief of finding that she was unhurt, but her devastated shock was bad enough. Her hands had been icy when he sat her down and tried to warm them.

  She’d rallied when he said he needed to help Trey, but she was deeply shaken. She would always do what was needed, but she had the soul of a nurturer, not a killer.

  When he reached the street, Trey was struggling against Peter’s attempts to keep him in the cart. “What happened?” he asked frantically. “Is my family all right?”

  “Everyone’s safe.” He glanced at Peter, wondering how much he should say in front of someone who wasn’t family.

  Guessing his thoughts, Peter said in a low, very adult voice, “I am a Carroll of Carrollton and I will do anything to protect Molly and Trey. If there are secrets, they are safe with me.”

  Gordon gave a short nod of acknowledgment. “Trey, your half brother, Henry, broke in with two thugs. Callie, Molly, and Sarah fought them off.”

  Trey blinked uncertainly. “Fought them off . . . ?”

  “All three are dead,” Gordon said bluntly. To Peter, he said, “You’re part of this now. Tether the horses and we’ll take Trey upstairs. You can learn the whole story there.”

  Peter nodded and secured cart and horses after Gordon helped Trey out. Though Peter kept his injured arm in the sling most of the time, he was able to do some things when necessary, such as bring up the two rifles. A good lad.

  Since Trey could barely walk, Gordon locked an arm around his waist and half carried him up the narrow stairwell. The boy gasped from the pain when his injured leg was jostled, but he kept moving upward, hauling some of his weight by using the railing.

  Finally they reached the living quarters, which were bright with lantern light and welcome. Sarah had already made up the bed in the men’s dormitory for her grandson, and she ordered, “Bring my boy here!” when they entered the sitting room.

  Trey almost wept with gratitude when he was lowered onto the mattress and could roll into Sarah’s soft, welcoming arms. She silently shooed everyone else out and rocked Trey as if he were an infant, crooning words of comfort as she stroked his back.

  Gordon and Peter wearily returned to the main room and found that Josh had dragged the bodies against a wall and covered them with a blanket. Molly was setting the dining table with food and drink, but she turned and came straight into Peter’s arms. “Thank you for saving my brother!”

  “I’m glad I was there to help him.” He hugged her back and it was a mutual embrace of much more than gratitude.

  Gordon had suspected that there was a strong attraction between the two, and that was now confirmed. They were both young, but if they developed a lasting attachment, it would establish Molly for life; Gordon had been in Baltimore long enough to know that the Carrolls were one of the first families of Maryland. Charles Carroll—Peter’s grandfather, perhaps?—was a signer of the American Declaration of Independence and said to be the richest man in America.

  Wealth usually married wealth, but Molly was beautiful, kind, intelligent—and the death of Henry Newell changed her financial situation dramatically. Now she and her brother would be heirs to the Newell estate. Given Gordon’s skill at forgery, he’d make sure of that. Molly would be an heiress.

  Since when had Gordon started thinking like a matchmaking mother?

  Tactfully overlooking the embrace, he said, “Thanks for bringing out the bottle of good brandy I bought a couple of days ago, Molly. I think we all could use some.”

  “I certainly can.” Callie emerged from the women’s bedroom looking pale and shaky but under control. She’d washed off the blood and changed her dress and seemed almost normal, unless one looked at her eyes.

  With difficulty, he refrained from embracing her since that might undermine her fragile control. “How are you managing?”

  Her smile was crooked but genuine. “We’re all alive and unhurt, and Henry and his brutes are dead. I consider that the best possible outcome.” Her gaze went to the covered pile of bodies and she swallowed hard. “Now we must decide what to do with the . . . the remains.”

  “I have some ideas for that, but first, nerve tonic.” Gordon poured brandy into the half dozen small glasses Molly produced. He tossed his off in one gulp and poured another. If the bottle were big enough, he’d have crawled inside and drunk it dry. Callie didn’t drink quite as quickly, but was ready for a refill rather soon.

  Molly choked a little on hers, but the spirits seemed to steady her. She said, “Now we eat. We’ll think more clearly then.”

  Josh smiled fondly. “You’re just like your grandma.”

  She gave a shy smile of thanks and brought in a serving platter of sliced ham and cheeses, then a pot of steaming soup with bowls, a large loaf of bread, and a pitcher of her lemonade. Gordon realized he was ravenous, and so were Josh and Peter. Callie and Molly tucked into the food also and Callie started to look less pale.

  Sarah joined them a few minutes later. “Trey is sleeping. He’ll be fine, I think.” She sank wearily into the chair next to her husband and he efficiently filled a plate for her.

  This was what family should be, Gordon realized. This sharing and consideration were nothing like the tense, miserable meals of his own childhood.

  Molly finished first, then talked Peter out of his uniform jacket. While the men had been retrieving Trey, she’d washed the blood from the right sleeve, which had been taken off and turned into an improvised sling. Now that man, jacket, and sleeve were all in the same place, she started neatly reattaching the sleeve. Peter stared as if he’d never get enough of watching her.

  When everyone was done eating, Callie asked baldly, “What do we do with the bodies?”

  “I saw the Royal Navy masts out in the Patapsco River earlier,” Peter said. “Within the next few hours, they’ll start bombarding Fort McHenry. I don’t know how long the fort will hold, but my guess is that quietly putting some bodies in the harbor within the next few hours will not draw much attention.”

  After a startled silence, Callie asked, “Are lawyers allowed to suggest such things?”

  “The aim of the law is justice,” he said in a steely voice that hinted at the man he would someday become. “Those three men broke in here to destroy three innocent women. Their deaths are just.”

  “That’s very pragmatic,” she said. “I admit that I’d rather not try to explain what happened here, especially not with a battle about to begin.”

  “Henry’s two bruisers can be disposed of that way, but Henry’s death must be officially confirmed,” Gordon said. “If Henry died unmarried, Molly and Trey are heirs to the Newell estate.”

  Callie gave him a sharp glance. “He said in as many words that he would marry only after he’d dealt with me.”

  Gordon wished he could kill Henry all over again. “In that case, the codicil to the will goes into effect and the estate go
es to Molly and Trey, apart from your jointure and some individual bequests. As you probably recall, you’re their legal guardian until they come of age.”

  Callie knew he was bluffing about a codicil to the will, but she must have had faith in his forgery skills. “I’m glad he chose me as their guardian, but does that mean I must take them back to Jamaica to run the plantation?”

  “No!” The hoarse voice was Trey’s. He’d risen from his bed and was now clinging to the door frame of his bedroom. “I won’t go back there. Not ever!”

  As Josh stood to help Trey to the table, Molly said in a voice quieter but no less emphatic, “Nor will I. Papa doted on us, but not enough to free us. We were slaves there. I will never, ever return!”

  “I understand and agree. I don’t want to go back, either.” Callie frowned. “But that means the plantation will have to be put in the hands of a manager, which is often problematic for absentee owners, or it must be sold.”

  “We can’t sell the plantation with its slaves,” Molly said flatly. “They’re our friends and they must be freed.”

  “Molly’s right. I don’t want things to go on as they were before,” Trey said. Watching his grandmother warily, he poured a small amount of brandy into his glass of lemonade. Sarah didn’t object, but her expression said that was all he was going to get.

  “There’s another possibility,” Gordon said. “Callie, didn’t you tell me that a neighboring plantation was owned by the Quakers and worked by free blacks? You could free the Newell slaves and sell the plantation to the Quakers with the provision that they keep on anyone who wanted to continue working there at a fair wage. It will greatly reduce the value of your inheritance, though.”

  Molly and Trey exchanged a long glance, then nodded. “Let’s do that,” Molly said. “We don’t need to be rich, but we need to do the right thing.”