by Henke, Shirl
Speaking in English for the benefit of a few British soldiers who happened by, the Indians discussed their upcoming search for the renegade McGilvey. When no one was nearby, they used Muskogee to set up a plan for freeing Quintin.
“The wooden house where he is held is filled with soldiers—too many for us to overcome. But there is another way for us to free the prisoner,” Tall Crane said.
“I do not like going against our allies and aiding an enemy,” one of the younger men said, looking at Devon with undisguised anger.
“Look around at your allies. They prepare to desert us and give over this land to the settlers. We would do well to have one such as Quintin Blackthorne as our friend,” Tall Crane interjected.
Devon stepped forward and faced the malcontent. “You have been a good warrior, Walks the River,” he said in English. “If you do not wish to follow me on this mission, I will understand.”
Walks the River looked at Tall Crane and the others, then back to Devon. ”I will follow you.”
“Good.” He studied each face, then looked to Tall Crane. “What is your plan?”
“Soon it will be dinnertime and the men will return here to eat. The barracks are not far from a large stockpile of powder in the armory…
* * **
Quintin sat in the musty, windowless little room, furnished only with a bare cot, a battered old wooden cabinet with a cracked pitcher full of rancid water on it,and a noisome slop jar in the far corner. The evening heat was as oppressive as a mud-soaked wool blanket, cocooning him in sticky misery.
He stared at the cracked chink in the wall but did not see it. He saw only Madelyne's tear-streaked face, heard her imploring voice begging Montgomery Caruthers not to arrest him, then begging his captors to let her see him. He had overheard her dispute with his jailors through the locked pine door. She had been here twice that first day, then again the second. Today she had not come. Had she given up?
At daybreak tomorrow he would be hanged. The military trial had been brief, thorough and very legal in spite of the British army's preparations for evacuation. Major Caruthers was a man who apparently held a grudge—and had influence in the highest military circles of Savannah. Quintin had been a member of the Royal Militia, caught in the traitorous act of freeing a rebel prisoner. He was a spy. His execution would be perfectly legal.
But the legalities of his impending death bothered Quint far less than the reason he had been apprehended. Had Madelyne sent word to Caruthers? Then why did she repeatedly return here begging to see him? And why did he hope against hope that her protestations of innocence were true?
“I'm a fool,” he muttered to himself as he stood and began to pace in the small, stuffy room.
He was interrupted by the guard with his evening meal, no doubt another bowl of that unidentifiable grayish meat, with sour wine to wash it down. Just as the armed sergeant unlatched the door to admit an enlisted man with a tray, a roaring blast of noise filled the air.
”Gor, what was that! Them rebels blowin' up the whole bloody city?” the soldier asked as the tray clattered to the floor, splashing food and splintering crockery across the room.
The sergeant cursed and prodded his underling with the butt of his musket. “Clean up that mess, you imbecile!”
Pig Sticker moved behind the sergeant with silent swiftness and struck a blow to his head with a warclub. Before the hapless private could rise from his knees, he too was rendered unconscious in the same manner and fell ungracefully into a puddle of congealing grease.
Quint looked at Pig Sticker and smiled uncertainly, then saw the gold of Dev's hair in the dim light. ”Dev! You're the last man alive I’d expect to rescue me—or have you come to beat the hangman to his job?”
“No time to talk. Blowing the armory powder kegs will only keep the soldiers busy for a short while.” They made their way from the room into another larger one, where two more soldiers lay sprawled. ”I hope when they wake up they won't be able to identify any of us,” Dev said as the Muskogee warriors filed out of the small building and vanished into the twilight. Then he grimaced. “Of course, in a short while it won't matter. They'll all be gone.”
He looked at the chaos outside as smoke billowed in black plumes from the wooden building at the end of the sandy road. Soldiers and civilians raced to see what had happened. Dev motioned for Quint to follow him. “Horses tied behind the building,” he said as they slipped outdoors and circled the squat edifice.
“Domino! How the devil—”
Dev swung onto Firebrand and said with a smile, “I owed Monty Caruthers some payment. You're not the only one he's harmed. I figured stealing his new prize was as fair a way as any to even the score. Let's ride and hope the sentries at the bridge are occupied with the explosion.”
As Devon had wished, the whole area was in complete disarray. They passed the last sentry checkpoint without being stopped, but just as both men began to relax, a challenge rang out.
“Captain Blackthorne, what are you doing with that prisoner?” A short, thickset man with a face like a bulldog's stepped into their path with his Pennsylvania rifle raised. He wore the uniform of the Royal Militia, the same as Dev.
“This man is no prisoner, Captain Kirker,” Dev replied, measuring the distance between them.
Kirker spat. “The devil you say, you lyin' half-caste. It's your cousin, the one to be executed as a spy. I'd know that arrogant face anywhere.” He drew a bead on Devon.
”A pity for you, old chap,” Quint said as he leaped from Domino and landed on the captain, knocking the rifle from his hands before it could discharge. The two men rolled in the sand for a couple of turns; then Quint came up on top and landed a solid blow to Kirker's jaw. The captain went limp as Quint leaped to his feet, then looked questioningly at Dev. “He can identify you.”
Dev shrugged. “As I said, in a few weeks the British will be gone. And so will I, but I owe you my life. Kirker always hated me because of my Muskogee blood. He'd have shot me before you.”
Quint smiled broadly. “Then we're even. That noose would have made short work of me come daybreak.”
“No, as a matter of fact, one way or the other you'd have been freed. The women in our lives have seen to that.”
As they rode from the city, Dev explained about Barbara's bargain with her brother and Weymouth to secure Quint's freedom. “If I hadn't agreed to break you out, she'd have married the viscount and you'd have been let go by his men while the guards looked the other way.”
“Madelyne came to you, asking you to betray king and country for me—and you did it?”
“First she went to my brother.” At Quint's snort of disgust, Dev nodded, then went on to detail what Madelyne had learned about Andrew and his involvement with McGilvey. “So you see, she couldn't get help from Andrew and she couldn't let Barbara wed a man she didn't love. That left only me.”
Quint's face split in a lopsided grin. “Does your being here mean you've forgiven me?”
Dev returned the smile, but his eyes were haunted. “Yes, I've forgiven you. The things I've seen in this war...it's senseless and barbaric, yet you rebels believe in your cause just as honestly as we loyalists believe in ours. I only wish it could've been settled without all these years of blood and death.”
“I've often thought the same. I've ridden with Marion the past two years. Skirmishing in the back country, you see a lot of things—brutal ugly things done by both sides. Marion controlled his men but, I've heard stories about Clarke and Sumpter...”
Dev sighed. “They're no worse than Brown or Tarleton, God knows. I'm only glad it's over, even if we did lose.”
“You plan to live with the Muskogee, but you don't have to, Dev. Andrew will pay for what he's done and once he does, his land and property will go to you. After all, I can vouch for the reformed man you've become.”
Both men reined in their horses on the bluff above the city. It was dark now and time for them to part. Devon appeared to consider Quintin's words.
His mouth was a grim slash as he said, “Andrew's not been brought to justice yet.”
“He will be. I’ll see to it.”
“No. He's my brother, Quint. I'll see to him. This has been brewing ever since we were children.”
“You can't go back to the city now. That Captain Kirker will have a hue and cry raised against you,” Quint protested.
Dev's expression lightened. “Neither can you. I'll think of some way to deal with him. I'm to meet with Tall Crane and his men in an hour. Go home to your wife, Quint. She's risked her life to save you. She loves you.”
“I've been pondering that.... Mayhap it was Andrew all along, playing us both for fools. I've treated her abominably, Dev. She ought to hate me.”
“Instead she's given you a splendid son and all the devotion a man could ask. Go to her now.”
Quint rubbed his beard-stubbled chin. ”I guess the reckoning between us is long overdue. Lie low with the Muskogee for now, Dev. We can both deal with Andrew after the British evacuate. He'll have nowhere to hide then.”
Dev shrugged. “Maybe I'll have Pig Sticker and my other Muskogee cousins do some checking on this connection between Andrew and McGilvey.” He paused, then extended his hand to Quintin. “Good luck at the Hill.”
Quint clasped his hand and replied, “Take care, Dev, until I hear from you—and thank you.”
As they rode their separate ways, their eyes were glazed with tears. The war was over, at least for two men.
* * * *
Blackthorne Hill
“You must be mad if you believe you'll succeed in this,” Madelyne said to Andrew as she knelt protectively over James's cradle where the child fussed. Of all nights for me to have allowed Gulliver to go hunting with Obediah!
“Just pick the child up and come with me.” He waved the boxlock pistol in his hand toward the small bed.
“You'll waken Nell. How did you get into the nursery without the servants questioning you?”
Andrew's thin face was wreathed in smiles. “Why, I'm your beloved cousin Andrew. When I said you had sent for me, no one dreamed of questioning me. I sent them all back to bed. Tis late, but not too late for us to take a stroll with little James here down to the orchard. Tis a warm night with a full moon. And, grieving, soon-to-be widow that you are, who'd think it strange that you want my moral support at such a time?”
Her eyes narrowed. “All right, I'll come, but there's no reason to bring James.”
“Bring him.” All traces of his smile were erased.
“Why did I never see beyond your mask before?” Madelyne asked, more of herself than of him. His pale brown eyes were as cold as a viper's, and his face bore the stamp of vicious cruelty. What was he capable of? “You mean to harm my son,” she said, standing up and placing herself between him and the cradle.
Andrew swore in disgust. “You spoiled little chit. You could have wed me once Quintin was executed. How long I've waited and planned for that.”
“You were the one who betrayed him as an American spy, but how—”
“That pea-brained Phoebe was quite a talented eavesdropper for all she was such a stupid cow.”
“You killed her.” Madelyne shuddered with the realization. He's going to kill me and James, too!
”I could scarcely have her about saying I'd turned in my own cousin. That would have quite ruined my chances with you.”
“You never had a chance with me. I thought of you only as a friend, more fool I.”
“And you adored that arrogant swine, Quintin, worshipped the ground he walked on no matter how badly he treated you. He and Dev—always the pretty faces to charm women—you're fools, all of you, and you'll pay. I'd planned to create a tragic accident in the orchard, but you leave me no choice. I'll end it here.”
He raised the pistol's broad butt and swept it toward her head to knock her senseless, but Madelyne threw herself at him, using the disparity in their heights to her advantage, knocking him oft balance. She cried out as Andrew's strong, bony fingers clawed at her throat.
Quint had heard the low murmur of voices as he climbed the stairs and followed them toward their source, the nursery. Standing outside the door, he overheard the exchange between Madelyne and his cousin. The enormity of his folly and Andrew's perfidy held him rooted to the hall floor until Madelyne screamed. When he kicked in the door, Andrew was kneeling over Madelyne, choking her.
“You bloody cur,” Quint growled as he launched himself at his cousin, tearing Andrew's grip from Madelyne's neck.
She rolled free, coughing and gasping for air, then crawled to James's cradle and laid her body across it. Horror-filled, she saw the two men struggle, even as her eyes frantically scanned the room for the pistol Andrew had dropped when he began choking her. It had been kicked across the floor by the two men who now rained punches at each other in a savage fight for survival.
Andrew was unaccustomed to the rough life of a soldier, but desperation lent his tall, rangy body incredible strength. Still, Quint's war-toughened reflexes dodged or absorbed every punch, while he pummeled Andrew mercilessly. Knowing that his only hope was in using the pistol, Andrew maneuvered toward it, then dropped to his knees as if reeling from a blow while he bent over and reached for the weapon.
“Quint, watch him! His pistol's on the floor,” Madelyne screamed.
The two men closed and then a shot reverberated through the small room. Slowly Quint rose and the pistol clattered to the floor. During the struggle, the gun had twisted so that it discharged into Andrew's abdomen, ripping upward to his heart. A look of incredulous disbelief spread across Andrew's features as he felt his life's blood gush over his waistcoat, covering his body. He toppled forward onto the floor, dead.
Madelyne ran to Quint's side, frantically running her hands over him to see if he had been hurt. He gently took her small hands in his and kissed them each in turn.
“You're all right. He didn't shoot you! Oh, Quint, thank God, thank God.” She buried her face against his chest as he held her tightly.
“I heard your scream from outside the door. I heard a great deal else, as well. Thank God you sent Dev to free me, or Andrew would have murdered you and our son in cold blood.”
“Dev and his Muskogee work very efficiently,” she hiccupped, still holding on to him fiercely.
“He told me everything about Andrew and that renegade, and about how you risked your life trying to raise funds to save me. I've been a fool, Madelyne. I—”
James's loud, fear-filled bellow erupted when his softer whimpering cries yielded no response. Madelyne smiled and reached up to caress Quint's face. “Come, see your son,” she said softly, leading him by the hand across the room. She knelt and plucked the little boy from his bed and lifted him in her arms, offering him to his father.
Quint looked at the thick cap of inky hair and round, deep-green eyes of James Quintin Blackthorne, his son. When he took the boy in his arms, he felt his chest tighten. “I doubted you,” he said hoarsely, “I was always afraid to trust you. That's why I refused to see James when I came home. If my father couldn't recognize his own son, could I?”
Madelyne read the naked anguish in his face and saw again the small boy, brutalized and castigated by Robert Blackthorne.
Before she could reply, Toby appeared, brandishing one of Robert's old swords. Delphine with a rolling pin and Nell with a pressing iron stood behind him. All three were dressed in nightclothes, round-eyed with amazement as they took in the scene.
“Toby, be so kind as to see that my cousin's body is taken to the root cellar for the duration of the night. We'll see about a burial tomorrow,” Quintin instructed as he held James in one arm and draped the other protectively about his wife.
“Lawd above, never did like dat man,” Delphine said. “Mastah Quintin, you look fair onto starved. I's goin' ta start cookin' right now!”
As she waddled back downstairs, everyone burst into laughter.
* * * *
The Georgia Back Countr
y
Devon sat with Quint's letter in his hand, staring into the campfire. The site was well into a swampy area where neither British nor American patrols ventured. His brother was dead. Dev felt no grief, only relief that Madelyne and little James had not been harmed by Andrew's insane greed. He was happy for his cousin and his family, but distressed by the rest of Quintin's message.
His cousin wanted him to come forward after the British evacuated and claim Andrew's share of the Blackthorne inheritance. He was no longer a Crown agent, but with hard work he could become a prosperous merchant trading with the Muskogee. Without Barbara, I don't want that life.
Devon's troubled reverie was interrupted when two warriors approached him. They had obviously come from a lengthy reconnaissance in the back country.
“The one you seek has been seen with six men, far to the west of here. They travel with guns and whiskey from the English Father, meant for us but destined for sale to the French.”
“How many days? Show me,” he commanded.
The warrior who had remained silent knelt and began to draw a map in the dust using the point of his knife. “They cross the Altamaha so, head west, so.”
“Right for New Orleans. How quickly can you ready horses and men enough to journey after them? I would kill George McGilvey and you may have his stolen prize.”
“We will have all in readiness by nightfall, Golden Eagle.”
Dev folded Quint's letter and tucked it inside his buckskin rifle shirt. He no longer wore his green ranger's uniform. The war was over and he had chosen to remain in Georgia, for better or worse. But before he faced any future, he had to settle things with McGilvey. He owed the loyalists and the rebels that much for all the agony and destruction the marauder had wrought. Devon Blackthorne owed it to himself, too.
Blackthorne Hill