"Our Father who art in heaven," the reverend began to murmur as he went down on his knees on the carriage floorboards, "hallowed be Thy name . . . "
"Gifford!" Rachael screamed.
But Gifford was shaking so hard that all he could do was clutch his silver-tipped walking cane, his face terror-stricken.
She pressed her face to the window just in time to see one of the loin-clothed heathens leap into the air. The carriage lurched beneath the added weight of the man and quickly began to slow down.
Indians! Rachael's mind raced. She knew she should pray, humbly preparing herself for the hereafter, but no words came to mind. White-hot anger bubbled inside her. Attacked by Indians so near to Philadelphia! Impossible! Only two days ago Gifford had been telling friends how safe Philadelphia was despite the trouble with the French and the Indians.
"Lead us not into temptation . . . " Reverend James went on.
When the carriage jerked to a halt, Rachael swallowed against her immobilizing fear. She wasn't ready to die. Not yet. There were too many things left to do in life. She wanted to marry. To love. To cradle a child in her arms. She didn't want to die, and certainly not at the hands of brutal savages.
" . . . For thine is the kingdom and the power and the glory forever. Amen."
The door slammed open and a hideous face painted in black and white thrust through the doorway. Gifford cringed. Reverend James clasped his hands and bowed his head in prayer. Rachael defiantly lifted her lashes to meet the red devil's gaze. If she was going to die at this redskin's hands she wanted to see his face.
The savage shouted in a gruff voice, his words monosyllables and utterly foreign to Rachael's ears. The redskin grabbed Reverend James by the collar of his coat and hauled him out of the carriage.
"Please! Please!" Gifford cried. "Don't hurt us! We've money. A great deal of money! You can have it! Have it all!" His hands trembled as he jerked a coin purse from his belt and jingled it.
A moment later the redskin reached for Gifford. He tried to retreat, but in the tiny carriage there was no where to go. Gifford tripped on Rachael's skirts and fell, striking his forehead on the window sill. Rachael watched, horror-stricken as the savage dragged the unconscious Gifford from the carriage and threw his motionless body to the ground below.
Rachael knew she was next. Thrusting out her jaw, she rose as the heathen grasped her ankle. "I can walk," she spit.
The redskin barked something as he took her by her forearm twisting it unmercifully. Rachael nearly tripped as she leaped down out of the carriage. "What do you want?" she demanded. "We've done you no harm! You must free us at once! You have no right!"
The painted-faced man slapped her hard across the face and Rachael felt a drop of blood trickle from the corner of her mouth. A sob escaped her lips as she wiped her mouth with the sleeve of her new ivory damask gown, staining it crimson.
"Yo ra se," the painted man said, reaching out to stroke her cheek.
Rachael recoiled. "Don't touch me!" she shouted in his face. "Kill me, but don't touch me, you filthy creature!"
There was a cackle of laughter from two other savages standing nearby, but the painted man made no attempt to touch her again. Rachael's gaze darted from Gifford's crumpled body to the small clearing where the carriage had come to a halt. For God's sake, where was Reverend James?
At the sound of more guttural speech, she turned toward the horses that were being unhitched by a savage wearing a beaten cocked hat. The reverend was on his knees, his hands clasped, tears running down his cheeks as two redskins attempted to rip his clothing from his back.
"Stop that! Stop it at once," she screamed running toward Gifford's cousin.
"Run!" John James shouted. "Run for your life, Lady Rachael."
"No!" she cried, grasping John's quaking shoulders. "We try to run and they'll kill us!" A redskin pulled free his black frock coat as another tugged at his heeled shoes. "They're going to kill us anyway," John moaned.
"No! No! Stop it!" Rachael sobbed. She turned to the nearest redskin and pummeled his bare back with her balled fists.
Reverend James took that moment to leap to his feet and run.
"No, John!" Rachael screamed as she tried to twist from her capture's grasp. "Don't run, John!"
But as the words slipped from her mouth, so did the arrow from the Iroquois bow. The arrow cut through the morning air with a swish striking the Reverend James square in the back.
Rachael screamed as she brought her gloved hands to her face to shield her eyes from the sight, knowing the Reverend John James was dead before his body hit the ground. As she lowered her hands she saw his life's blood flowing onto the soft carpet of green moss. "No! No, you can't do this," she begged. "We've done nothing to you!"
"Nothing?" A strangely accented voice came from behind.
Rachael whirled around, expecting to see a white man, shocked to see a savage uttering the English words. He was an ugly man with a bald head save for a thatch of black hair that sprouted from the center and fell over one ear in a scalplock. He had a scar that ran across his cheek to a terribly disfigured ear. Rachael's lower lip trembled. The savage's onyx eyes were filled with hate . . . hate of her.
"You say you have done nothing," he snarled. "You killed my three sons. You raped and tortured my wife leaving her in pieces so that she could not rise into the heavens. You call that nothing!"
Rachael stumbled backward. "I did nothing! I've never laid eyes on a red man until this moment!"
Broken Horn gestured toward Gifford who still lay unconscious on the ground. "Your men. Your people." He spat on the ground. "Someone must be responsible. Someone must pay."
"Pay? I can pay. I have money." She brushed away a piece of hair that had fallen across her bruised cheek. "Let me go back to Philadelphia and I'll bring you coin."
"Coin?" Broken Horn sneered. "You white men, you think coin can right the wrongs of a hundred years!"
When he swept out his hand to catch her, Rachael darted left, but he snagged the sleeve of her damask gown. A sinister smile crept across Broken Horn's scarred face. "You are pretty, white woman." He nodded. "And brave. I think I should not kill you."
Relief flooded her face. "No. Don't kill me. Let me go." She glanced sideways at the men who were leading away the carriage horses. Someone was inside the carriage ripping up the seat with a knife, in search of valuables no doubt. "Take the horse. My fiancé and I . . . we'll walk back into Philadelphia."
Broken Horn's gaze shifted to Gifford's limp form and then back to Rachael. "Let you go?" He gave a little laugh. "No. You will come with me."
"No!" Rachael cried trying to tear from his grip. "You can't. That's kidnapping!"
"That is life. More than he has," as he indicated the Reverend James, "eh?"
Rachael squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, trying to think. Should she run? They would only shoot her down as they had the reverend. Was it better to die quickly than to wonder when the arrow would come? Her eyes fluttered open. If she ran now, there was no chance of survival, but if she waited . . . perhaps that chance would come.
Broken Horn waved a broad hand signaling his men to hurry. He still held Rachael by the sleeve of her gown.
"Where are you taking me?" she demanded. "If it's ransom you want—"
"Shut up before I shut you up," Broken Horn snapped. "I have had enough of your words. Keep quiet and do as I say and perhaps you will live until we reach the Watashia River."
Rachael opened her mouth to speak again, but the look on the redskin's face warned her to keep silent. A savage approached Gifford and whipped out a jagged-edged knife.
"What is he doing?" she murmured more to herself than her captor. Suddenly realizing that the savage meant to cut Gifford's throat she bolted, tearing from Broken Horn's grasp. "No! Don't touch him! Let him be!" She reached Gifford's body and grabbed the savage's bare forearm. She looked back toward Broken Horn. "Please don't kill him."
"He is your husband?" Broken Horn
asked.
She lowered her head. "Husband to be . . . he was, I mean."
Broken Horn contemplated his choices. The girl he could trade for muskets and whiskey. The man . . . ransom perhaps. Then of course a white captive was always a good diversion for the Mohawks. "He cannot walk," Broken Horn scoffed. "We must travel fast."
Rachael fell to her knees, grasping Gifford's face. His forehead was split open where he'd hit the window sill. The blood had congealed but his forehead was already turning purple with bruising. "He can travel. I swear he can! Please don't kill him!" She patted Gifford's pale cheek. "Gifford, Gifford, wake up!" she insisted in a half whisper. "Gifford if you don't wake up, love, they're going to kill you."
He groaned, his eyelids fluttering. "That's right," she urged. "Wake up." She patted his cheek harder.
"Kill him!" Broken Horn barked.
"No!" She turned back to Gifford slapping him hard across the cheek. "Gifford, if you don't wake up, damn you, they're going to kill you!"
The sharp slap in the face made Gifford open his eyes. "Rachael . . . " he mumbled groggily.
"Gifford, get up!" she insisted, rising to her feet, trying to drag him up with her. "They're going to kill you if you don't get up."
"Kill me?" Slowly Gifford's eyes focused. The realization of where he was and what had happened quickly washed over his face. "Rachael!" He wrapped his arms around her, leaning heavily on her shoulders. "John?"
"Dead." She brushed his cheek with her hand. "They're not going to kill us, not yet at least, but you have to walk. Do you understand what I'm saying, Gifford?" She grasped his chin, forcing him to look into her eyes.
Broken Horn shouted another command and the savage standing closest to Rachael gave her a shove forward.
"Gifford, we have to go with them. You have to walk now," she said, forcing him to stumble forward. " . . . Or we'll never live until sunset."
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