by Susan Wiggs
Roarke stiffened and felt an icy prickle at the base of his spine. He'd been in the wilderness long enough to distinguish the call of the turkey from an Indian's imitation. The sound he'd just heard was definitely human.
As he picked up his rifle and primed it, Roarke's blood pumped hard in anticipation. His every sense felt sharp and clean, and his muscles rippled with strength. But it wasn't a pleasurable sensation. It was merely his instinct for survival.
The sound of yipping issued from the forest. Coomes was already aiming his rifle. "Here's your chance, Beelzebub," he told the weapon gamely. The yipping grew louder, and Calvin shot Roarke a questioning look.
"Blackfish," Roarke said darkly. "He's back."
Roarke dropped to one knee with a curse. His gun belched flame and acrid smoke. In the distance a brave let out an unearthly squeal of agony and did a curious macabre death dance, clawing at the eruption of blood and flesh that spread across his middle. Roarke gritted his teeth and swore again. He despised killing. He hated it even more than he hated the Shawnee.
"Let's go," he said to Calvin and Will. The three of them scaled the palisades and dropped into the stockade to brace themselves for another of Blackfish's unholy assaults.
The first American victim was a man named Hank, who'd brought his family down from Logan's Fort. Two braves dragged him into the clearing in front of the fort, screaming wildly as they sliced the living flesh from his body and lifted his scalp, waving the bloody mass in fierce defiance.
"Murdering devils," Roarke muttered, reloading. Behind him a cry went up from Hank's widow, and livestock scurried frantically through the mud. Roarke hunkered down at the ramparts, trying as the others were to lure Blackfish from the protective woods. The war chief wheeled his dark horse to and fro, never stopping, never letting his eyes leave the fort. He'd be a hard one to bring down, too cunning to endanger himself. And his braves were too loyal to allow it.
Above the thunder of battle, Roarke heard his name being called in a dreadful, high-pitched voice he remembered from the previous day. He looked down to see the yellow feather's youth pointing at him and dancing in agitation.
Roarke glanced over at Will, who was stationed nearby. Coomes's face had gone pale.
"Mighty bloodthirsty for a young'un," Coomes said.
"What's he yelling about?" Roarke asked.
"Calls himself Muga—Black Bear. And he's vowing on you the most unholy kind of death I ever did hear tell of. He won't be a boy for long, Roarke, especially since the redcoats are arming the Indians to the teeth."
"Man's got no business buying me such things," Mimsy Greenleaf grumbled. But her eyes shone as she fitted a spindle onto the new spinning wheel Joshua had come home with. That, together with the broadloom he'd given her to celebrate the Christmas of 1777, were the first hints of Joshua's growing prosperity. Although Mimsy scolded his extravagance, she adored his gifts.
Genevieve watched in fascination as Mimsy's foot worked the treadle and the mass of combed wool in her hands became, inch by inch, a long strand of thread.
"First thing I'm going to make," Mimsy declared, "is a decent shawl for you, Genevieve."
"Mimsy, you don't have to do that."
"No, but I will. That old rag you've been wearing has seen better days. We're not paupers anymore, Genevieve. No reason to live like 'em."
"I'm touched, Mimsy. I would've bought myself a shawl in York the last time I was there, but—" She broke off, not wanting to worry Mimsy.
She'd already said enough to arouse Mimsy's ire. "It's that man Piggot again, isn't it? The one who bought the Parker farm. He's still after you for Culpeper's debts."
Genevieve nodded glumly.
"When's he going to quit hounding you? Can't anything be done?"
"I've tried, Mimsy. Even Digby Firth has looked into the matter. But Cornelius Culpeper died owing Mr. Piggot a great deal of money. Even the change in government doesn't eradicate that."
"Well, it ain't right. You been working like a plow horse for nigh on four years, and every time you make a little money, you got to give it to that man."
"But every time I do, it brings me closer to independence."
Mimsy shook her head and agitated the treadle more vigorously, plucking from her bundle of wool with an expert hand. "You're too independent, Genevieve. Independent and hardheaded."
"Is that so bad, Mimsy?"
"I don't know. I shouldn't judge, but—"
"But what, Mimsy?"
The older woman set aside her spinning and cupped Genevieve's chin in her warm hand. "Look at you, girl. You're twenty-one years old, at a time in your life when you should be having a little fun. I haven't seen you so much as smile at a man since Roarke Adair left over a year ago."
Genevieve flushed. "I like my life, Mimsy," she insisted. "I like farming, and being with you and your family."
"What about a family of your own?"
"I've got enough to keep me busy, Mimsy. Especially now. General Washington sent out a plea for tobacco from Valley Forge last winter, and I mean to give what I can. He's sent Dr. Franklin to France to negotiate loans using Virginia tobacco as collateral. My hands are full; I don't need a man. I think I've proven that."
But Mimsy only shook her head again, unconvinced. She felt a little guilty being so happy and fulfilled with her family, while every night Genevieve closed the door to her little house and sat by the fire beneath the clock, spectacles perched on her nose, alone with her borrowed books and silent dreams and private yearnings.
Chapter Ten
The trading post in Dancer's Meadow swarmed with people. These days Luther Quaid's arrival was always a thing of note; the citizens were hungry for news of the war, which was entering its fourth year. But this time the clamoring wasn't for news. The stir was created by a passenger. Genevieve moved closer to see, pressing in among the women.
"Brazen as brass, she is," Mrs. Carstairs was whispering. She drew little Janie into the protective folds of her skirts.
"Who in heaven is she, anyway?" asked Sally Hinton.
Genevieve stood on tiptoe and spied a nimbus of bright yellow hair peeping from a grand-looking hat. The brim of the hat lifted, and Genevieve found herself, frozen in amazement, staring at Nell Wingfield's wide, brash smile.
"God blind me," she breathed. She'd never thought to see the woman again, but here she was, looking as if she owned the world. Stepping closer, Genevieve realized Nell wasn't quite as grand as she'd initially appeared. Her clothes were as flamboyant as her manners, yet they were shabby, too, made of cheap cloth and fraying in spots.
The years had hardly left a mark on Nell. Perhaps her mouth was a little harder, her body a bit less firm. But she was the same Nell who had brazened her way to Virginia aboard the Blessing five years earlier.
Nell's gaze swept over the curious villagers and rested on Genevieve.
"Little Genevieve Culpeper," Nell mocked, her gaze moving pointedly over Genevieve's faded linsey-woolsey frock. "You look positively rustic." Nell's speech had changed. The sharp dockside edges of her words had softened to a somewhat counterfeit gentility. But her eyes were the same, Genevieve noted. There was a dangerous glitter in them that told her clearly that they were still enemies.
When Mrs. Carstairs realized Genevieve was acquainted with Nell, she stepped forward, avidly curious. "Who is she?"
There was a great irony in introducing Nell to the minister's wife. Genevieve forced a smile. "Nell Wingfield and I made the crossing together on the Blessing."
"I am here as the guest of Mr. Henry Piggot," Nell explained grandly. Genevieve's smile fled, and silence fell over the crowd.
That name was known to most of Dancer's Meadow, and no one thought any better of Piggot than Genevieve did. He'd become a champion of Tory interests in Virginia, scouting out likely farms to raid, betraying caches of food and gunpowder to the British army. Piggot seemed to have an uncanny sense for subterfuge and betrayal. A sense that was well rewarded.
Nell smiled smugly. "I can see my benefactor's reputation precedes him."
"We're patriots here, Nell," Genevieve said.
"I'm not here to fight a battle," Nell sniffed. "Mr. Piggot has sent me to take possession of the Parker farm, which he bought some time ago."
The ensuing silence was tense. Like all the townspeople, Genevieve was filled with distaste that the Parkers' misfortune should benefit Nell.
But Nell didn't notice. She gestured grandly at a mound of trunks and bags. "My servants won't be able to manage all my things. Would anyone care to help?" She patted the fat reticule at her waist. "Good, hard currency; not those worthless Continental dollars you see these days." She pursed her lips. "Now, can someone show me my new home?"
No one moved. Finally, the tension grew so thick that Genevieve stepped forward, risking the town's displeasure but unwilling to cut Nell dead her first day here. "I'll show you, Nell," she said quietly. She glanced over her shoulder at Joshua Greenleaf. "Perhaps when you and the boys are through at the wharves you could help."
"A mite civil to your slaves," Nell suggested as they walked away.
Genevieve bristled. "They're not anyone's slaves, Nell. Joshua is my friend and business partner, and he's a free man."
Nell pursed her lips in disapproval as she motioned to her own servants: a mulatto boy of about twelve and three maids who looked similar enough to be sisters. They walked to the western end of the street and turned onto an overgrown path that led up to the abandoned farm. The cabin, vacant for nearly four years, looked forlorn and weather-beaten. Vines grew up the charred walls, and the chimney had crumbled at the top.
There was a poignant melancholy about Amy's flower garden. She'd been so proud of it. Now the plot was choked with weeds; the bedraggled tops of a few marigolds gone to seed were the only remaining evidence of Amy's care. The weeding stool Seth had made was slowly rotting.
"Looks like a bloody wasteland," Nell grumbled.
"It used to be a home," Genevieve said softly, remembering the sight of Amy seated in the dooryard, crooning to her baby while tending her flowers and herbs. Briefly, she told Nell what had happened to the Parkers.
"I always knew she'd come to a bad end," Nell stated. "Never did have much of a spine." She placed her hands on her hips. "I'll do better than our little Amy, to be sure. Henry's doing business in Williamsburg now, but he'll be sending crews to help with the spring planting. He means to grow corn for whiskey." Nell's eyes gleamed with pride. "I've four more niggers in addition to these."
"Congratulations," Genevieve said wryly. The sarcasm in her voice completely eluded Nell.
"You should think about owning slaves yourself," Nell suggested.
Genevieve felt her eyebrows gather into a frown. "I would no more own another person than I'd try to possess the moon or the stars."
Nell shook her head. "You never did put much store in convention, Genevieve." She poked around the yard, peeked briefly into the cabin, and then turned back to Genevieve.
"It'll be a while before this place is fit for me to set foot in," Nell declared, "so you might as well tell me about yourself, Genevieve. Last time I saw you, Henry was trying to find a husband for you in York.
"There were no takers, as I recall," she added cattily.
"I haven't suffered for that," Genevieve said hotly. "I'm growing tobacco on my own."
Nell shrugged, clearly unimpressed. "And what of dear Prudence?"
Genevieve swallowed. Even now the memory of her troubled friend brought the ache of tears to her eyes.
"Prudence died in childbirth over four years ago."
Nell took a moment to digest this. "Such a pity," she murmured, but her voice was so bright that Genevieve suspected her sincerity. "Surely Roarke Adair has remarried? He was such a great, strapping young man."
"Roarke lives alone with his son. There's a woman named Mimi Lightfoot who takes care of the boy for him."
"His son?" Nell said. "Surely, he's not that much of a dupe."
Genevieve recalled with chilling clarity that Nell had guessed Prudence's secret on the Blessing. Drawing herself up, she faced Nell squarely.
"You wouldn't dare have the bad taste to insinuate that Hance is anything but Roarke's own," she said hotly, doubling her fists. "Not ever, Nell."
Nell regarded the small, hard fists and seemed to be re-membering their scuffle on the Blessing. She turned the subject quickly, loath to tangle with Genevieve.
"Well, I'm alone until Henry returns, and Roarke is no doubt in need of company. I must pay him a call."
"He's off fighting in Kentucky, Nell. For the patriots."
"Then he'll be back before long," Nell said confidently. "The rebels have been driven completely from every stronghold on the coast. General Cornwallis has the entire South firmly in hand."
Genevieve threw back her head. "Not for long, Nell. We've the French with us now."
Nell smiled maliciously at Genevieve's vehemence. "My, but you've become quite the little patriot, haven't you? Doesn't it matter at all that you were born an Englishwoman?"
"I was born in the meanest slum in London. Our 'mother country' never gave me anything but an empty belly and every disease that poverty could spawn. How can you expect me to be loyal to England?"
Roarke tried to think of anything but the cold. He found that he couldn't. Lord God, but it was inhumanly cold. There was no getting away from it. For nineteen days the company had slogged through icy marshes and frigid streams, sometimes so deep in winter floods that rifles and powder had to be held for hours above the head by arms trembling with weakness.
Even the signal, bloodless victories at Kaskaskia and Cahokia had failed to sustain Colonel Clark's men through these two hundred Godforsaken miles to the Wabash.
Fort Sackville, at Vincennes, was their destination. Colonel Clark was determined to wrest the stronghold from General Hamilton, Britain's legendary scalp buyer.
Rafts had been built to ferry the patriots across the Wabash. Roarke was on the first raft, along with Calvin Green-leaf and Bard Tinsley, to find a good landing site on the other side of the churning yellow river. They battled the current until their limbs shook and then came ashore amid brush and barren trees and sodden river grass.
"Ah, deliverance!" Tinsley exclaimed, unstopping a flask of grog.
The drink never reached his lips. The river had delivered them into the hands of a Shawnee war party.
Only Calvin made it back to the raft. He threw himself aboard, clutching at a branch and calling desperately for Roarke and Bard to join him.
But the Indians had placed themselves in the way, leering from their red-and-black painted faces.
"Go on with you, Cal," Roarke shouted. "Go!" He had the momentary satisfaction of watching Calvin drift to safety on the swift current. Then a nearby movement caught his eye.
"Roarke Adair."
Roarke stared. There was only one Indian who knew his name, who spoke it like the vilest of curses. Black Bear. The lad had grown taller and fiercer in the two years since the clash at Harrodsburg. But the hatred in his eyes was as fresh as if the killing had happened yesterday. And the other Indians with Black Bear—a half dozen of them—clearly shared the brave's blood lust. They beat their chests and rattled their bear-claw necklaces and shrieked with savage triumph.
Bard Tinsley, great, grizzled Indian fighter that he was, sank sobbing to the ground.
There was some talk among the braves, and Roarke felt their eyes on him, assessing him. The muscles of his legs tensed, and then he hurled himself at the tallest brave, knocking him aside to plunge into the woods.
But the days of the starving march had weakened him, slowed him. Four of the braves threw themselves on him in a pile of greased limbs and brandished tomahawks. Roarke tried to fight, but even the effort of drawing air into his lungs was too great. In minutes the Indians had stripped him of his knapsack and knife and bound his wrists behind his back. He and Bard Tinsley were half dragged, half mar
ched, up an overgrown trace, prodded by spears and jabbing fingers, taunted by braves who burned with hatred.
The sound of ragged sobs awakened Roarke. For a moment his mind, cobwebbed by pain and hunger and cold, worked sluggishly as he looked at his surroundings. Then the sting of a hissing rain brought him fully conscious, and he remembered.
He remembered the four-day march to the Shawnee camp, the vicious glee of his captors. He remembered that he was going to die, and not kindly.
"Stop that infernal weeping, Bard," he snapped. "Do you think it'll help anything?"
"B-by the Almighty, but I'm scared, Roarke," Tinsley said. "They mean to butcher us like a pair of bucks. These redskins ain't got a shred of human decency in 'em."
Roarke turned away. Tinsley was a fine one to talk of decency. Back in Harrodsburg the man had bragged incessantly about his part in the Greathouse massacre. He'd chuckled over raping a pregnant squaw and then carving the unborn child from her belly with his knife.
Firelight flickered from the center of the small camp. A few of the Indians idled near the bound prisoners, jeering in their gutteral, aspirate tongue. While Tinsley hid his face, Roarke stared at them. There were families here, he realized. Families that had undoubtedly lost members to the white man.
A woman wandered nearby. At first all Roarke could discern was a smudged face and a ragged-looking dress. Then the woman stepped back, and her face was illuminated by orange firelight. Roarke felt a faint prickle of recognition taunting his sluggish mind.
"By God almighty," he breathed, stretching out his bound hands. "Amy Parker! Amy, it's me, Roarke Adair!"
She made a small sound and shrank away, looking over her shoulder. Then she edged forward slowly, cautiously. She was about to speak when a brave barked an order and jerked her by the arm. As she was dragged away, Roarke heard a faint thud on the earth beside him.
His hands snaked out and captured the small knife Amy had dropped. He thrust it quickly between his knees to conceal it while he worked away at the leather that bound him.