“I’ve been thinking about it—and there’s one way. They’ll be watching the front like hawks, but nobody will be watching the bluff because nobody’s ever climbed it—that I know of.”
“But—can you climb it?”
Adam clamped his lips shut and shrugged his heavy shoulders. “I don’t know.”
Charles licked his lips, then asked nervously, “You don’t know if you can even get to the house?”
“No.” Adam suddenly smiled, and added, “And I can’t carry a musket with me. Just a knife. Even if I could take a rifle, I wouldn’t dare use it. It’d wake everybody up, and we’d never get away.”
“You don’t know where Molly is,” Charles protested. “But even if you can find her, how’ll you get out? They’ll be watching the gate, won’t they?”
“Sure. We’ll have to come back the same way I go up—down the bluff.”
“Why, you can’t climb down a thing like that in the dark! And even if you could, Molly couldn’t!”
“We’ll jump for it—it’s the only way.” Adam smiled grimly at Charles’s expression, then said, “Here’s the way we’ll do it: I’ll climb up the bluff after dark, find Molly, bring her to the bluff. We’ll signal and jump for it. You’ll be waiting there with the horses, and we get away as quick as we can.”
“It’s insane!”
“There’s no other way, but if you want out, I won’t fault you for it, Charles.” Adam shrugged and said, “Even if I get Molly out of there, those Indians are going to be on our trail—and you know what they’ll do to us if they catch us!”
A soft breeze lifted Charles’s fair hair. The fear lurking in his face gripped him as he sat there contemplating their chances. Adam said no more, but he could sense that inside his brother there was a war. Charles had never been a coward, but the odds for success in this case were small. Both of them knew that, and while Adam was set like flint, Charles was struggling against a lifetime of selfish indulgence. He yearned to get on a horse and ride away, and for a moment, Adam expected him to do just that.
“All right, Adam—I’ll do it!” he exploded in despair. “But if you get me killed, I’ll never forgive you for it!”
Adam laughed and got to his feet. “Thanks, Charles,” he said gratefully; then he put his hand out awkwardly, and when his brother took it, he stated matter-of-factly, “We Winslows are a pretty tough breed, brother—and although God’s on our side, we’ve got one little asset that might make a difference.”
He stepped to one of the horses, pulled a rifle from the pack, then fished a leather pouch out of a pocket. Returning to Charles’s side he said, “This is our secret weapon. I want you to learn how to use it.”
Charles watched as Adam took out a handful of paper cylinders, then asked, “What are those?”
“Cartridges for these rifles,” Adam answered. He held a rifle up, moved a lever and put one of the cylinders into the breech of the rifle, then pulled a plate over it. “Ready to fire,” he announced with a smile at the expression on his brother’s face. “It’s what you’ve been after me to make for years—a breech-loading rifle.”
Charles took it, staring admiringly at the new type of mechanism, and listening carefully as Adam pointed out how it worked. “How long does it take to load up?” he asked.
“Maybe five or ten seconds.”
Charles stared at him, then looked down at the weapon. “Why, we’ll be rich!”
“If we’re not dead,” Adam replied with a shrug. “There’s just one thing—I haven’t got it all perfected. Usually it works, but sometimes it fails. But even when it does, it’s quicker to throw a faulty cartridge out and re-load than to load down the muzzle with powder and ball.”
Charles looked at the weapon, then up at Adam, respect in his eyes. “Well, it’s plain that I’m not the smart Winslow!”
“We’ll argue about that when we get back to Virginia. Now, let me drill you in how to load this thing. If we get rushed, I want you to load and let me shoot.”
Charles learned quickly, for the process was simple. Then he lay down and just before he dropped off to sleep he asked aloud, “I wonder how much we can get for a Winslow rifle?”
* * *
“Lord Stirling, he say you come now!”
The speaker was a statuesque Indian woman, not more than twenty-five years old. She was wearing an expensive dress made in a London shop, and the delicate bows and ribbons set off her primitive beauty. Molly knew her by the name of Alice, and though she had tried, she had been unable to break through the woman’s reserve. She had been introduced by Stirling with a smirk as his “housekeeper,” but Molly had discerned instantly that she had been his Indian “wife.” Such things were common enough on the frontier, and trappers sometimes married such women legally.
Stirling, of course, had no thoughts of doing that but Alice had no way of knowing this; it accounted for the sharp glint of hatred in her ebony eyes as she stared at Molly, saying again, “Lord Stirling say you come!”
Molly tried again to talk to the woman, for Alice was her only hope of escape. “Alice—remember what we talked about yesterday?”
Momentarily hope glowed in the woman’s face, then faded as she said with a fatalistic shrug, “You no get away from this place. When he tired of you—then you go.”
“But you could get me a horse—I could get away after dark—”
“You think you outride one of my people? No. You stay here.”
“Alice, you could hire one of your braves to take me home! He’d be well paid, and then you’d have Lord Stirling all to yourself.”
A flash of hatred ran across Alice’s face, but the stolid look fell over her features. “You come now.”
Molly suppressed an urge to beg and plead with the Indian, but knowing it would be useless, she followed her down the hall to the dining room.
“Ah—just in time for supper!” Henry Stirling came from the window that looked out across the river and put his hands on Molly’s shoulders. She tried not to show fear, but he saw it in her face, and it made him laugh. He turned to the woman, saying, “Alice, bring the food in—and you can go to bed early tonight.”
Alice shot a quick glance at Molly, hatred in her agate eyes, but she merely nodded and left the room.
Molly walked quickly to the window, looking out in the falling darkness. The view was magnificent, for the dining room projected over the bluff. The river far below was barely visible, catching the last gleams of the dying sun, and throwing up myriad points of light. The land fell away, the valley green and lush, running to the low-lying hills far to the south.
She had no eye for the beauty, however, and the fear that had been her constant companion since Stirling had brought her to this place rose in her throat. As he came to stand behind her, she forced herself to stand very still, for she had learned that any sign of fear not only pleased him, but aroused him to passion as well.
When he had first brought her into the house, he had said, “You’ll have your own room, Molly, and I’ll give you a little time before we get better acquainted.”
He had, in some sort, been faithful to that, not so much as a matter of courtesy, but because he had been away on some sort of business—to look at land, she learned later. She had slept little, staying awake and trying vainly to think of some way of escape, but there was none. The Indian woman, Alice, had been her one hope, but it had become apparent that she knew all too well what Stirling would do to her if she helped arrange an escape.
As the days went by, Stirling returned—to begin a heavy-handed courtship of Molly. He was a vain man, accustomed to easy conquests, and it seemed to be something of a shock to him when Molly failed to respond to his advances. He even went so far as to hint of marriage, but this ploy was so absurd that Molly could not hide her disdain.
On one occasion, after a dinner such as was planned for this evening, he had drunk several bottles of wine, and in a drunken stupor had come after her. She had fought clear of him, and was s
aved only because he had fallen down drunk.
As Molly stared blindly out of the window, her mind was racing, for there was something in his manner that caused fear to mount and grip her heart. This night was different. Her hands were trembling; as she turned to face him, she saw the intent in his eyes.
“Now, let’s have a nice meal, and then we’ll have time for some good talk, my dear!” Stirling said. He turned to the table, pulled out a chair, and when she was seated, took his own seat. A bottle of wine was on the table, and he poured two full glasses, handed one to her and urged, “Drink up, Molly.” When she hesitated, he commanded with a trace of anger, “Drink it, I say!”
She sipped the wine, and as the meal was served by Alice and a black servant, she realized that he was trying to get her drunk—not the first time he’d attempted such a thing.
The meal went on for a long time. Candles were lit as darkness fell, and there were many courses. Stirling had brought his cook from England, and he pointed out the virtues of the various dishes. As Molly picked at her food, sick with fear, he told her tales of his life in England.
Finally the dishes were all taken away, and Stirling said to the housekeeper, “Alice, you may go to bed—and tell the rest of the servants they won’t be needed tonight.”
“Yes, Lord Stirling.”
As the door closed behind Alice, and Stirling turned to her, Molly was possessed with such a fear that she wanted to run to the door and flee, but she knew that such a course would only give him a warped pleasure.
She could see in his eyes the hunger for her that he did not bother to conceal, and when he came over and put his hands on her under the pretense of guiding her to the sofa beside the wall, she did what she had done ever since she had been made captive: she prayed to God for deliverance.
For the next two hours she did little but try to think of God’s promises—and she found that the many scriptures she’d heard Jonathan Edwards quote both in his pulpit and in his home to his own family came to her mind. One especially was so clear that she seemed to hear it spoken in his clear, high voice: I looked on my right hand, and beheld, but there was no man that would know me: refuge failed me; no man cared for my soul. I cried unto thee, O Lord: I said, Thou art my portion in the land of the living. Attend unto my cry; for I am brought very low: deliver me from my persecutors, for they are stronger than I. Bring my soul out of prison, that I may praise thy name.
She held on to the verse, repeating it with all her heart; soon it was obvious that, indeed, only God could help, for after several crude attempts at flattery, he cast away all decency and began to paw at her.
“Please!—don’t do that!” she begged, but he merely laughed and pulled her closer.
Molly pulled free, leaped to her feet, and made a blind dash for the door, but he caught her and held her fast. Then holding her with one arm, he took her face with his other hand and kissed her again and again.
Struggling helplessly, Molly’s mind was paralyzed with fear, and when he lifted his face to smile at her, she cried out, “God, save me!”
“No, God isn’t going to save you, Molly,” he laughed. “I’ve waited long enough—and nobody’s going to save you—so you might as well be nice to me!”
“Turn her loose, Stirling!”
The voice came so unexpectedly that Stirling uttered a cry of shock and alarm. He loosed his hold on Molly, whirling to see Adam Winslow standing in the doorway!
“What . . .!” Stirling tried to speak, but his mind was not able to comprehend the situation. He had felt so secure with the guards fanned out across the front of his house that the last thing in the world he expected to see was his enemy facing him in such a manner.
“How did you get in here?” he demanded, and took one step to the side toward the wall where a brace of pistols were mounted.
Adam leaped forward like a tiger, a knife suddenly in his right hand. He fell on Stirling, driving the larger man back against the wall. With one hand grabbing a fistful of hair, he pulled Stirling’s head back and laid the keen edge of the knife against it. “You make one sound, Stirling, and I’ll cut your throat out!”
“Adam!” Molly stood there staring at him, her eyes large with shock. Then she suddenly smiled and said, “I knew you’d come!”
Stirling risked saying, “You’ll never get away from here, Winslow! There are twenty braves out there!”
Adam made his mistake then, for he turned to look at Molly, to speak to her, and as he did, Stirling moved suddenly with a speed surprising in a big man. He knocked Adam’s knife hand away with one arm, then struck Adam in the chest with a powerful right—a blow that drove the smaller man back across the room.
Stirling wheeled, and in one smooth motion, ripped one of the pistols off the wall. He aimed it and fired at Adam point blank!
Molly screamed, but the shot narrowly missed, clipping a lock from Adam’s hair as he drove forward, and in that split second he could have driven the knife into Stirling’s heart—but something made him reverse the weapon and he struck the Englishman in the temple with the weighted handle.
Stirling went down in a crumpled heap, and Adam wheeled and caught Molly’s hand. “Let’s get out of here!”
He did not go to the door, but pulled her to the window. Throwing it open, he said, “We’re going to have to jump for the river, Molly!”
He leaped to the ground, reached up his arms and caught her, then in two steps they were standing on the brink of the bluff. It was a dark night, and neither of them could see more than a few feet. He swiftly turned to her, put his arms around her, and asked, “Molly, will you trust me? It’s a leap in the dark—but God will be with us.”
“I—I’ll always trust you, Adam,” she murmured, pulling his face down to kiss him. When she drew back, she said, “I can’t swim, Adam.”
He took her hand and said quietly, “Hang on to me, Molly!”
Then together, they leaped off into the darkness, plummeting toward the water far below, and as they fell, Molly cried out, “Lord, Thou art my refuge!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
DEATH IN THE AFTERNOON
Charles had never considered himself a coward, but the long wait in the darkness beside the river had drawn his nerves tight. For the first thirty minutes after Adam had waded into the river and disappeared in the inky darkness of the night, he had strained his ears for any noise coming from the house high above, but there was no sound save the gurgle of the water. As another fifteen minutes had passed, he had stared up, craning his neck to see the dim, yellow lights that glowed from the windows.
Suddenly there was a splashing to his left, and fear struck him like a blow! He whirled and almost fired the rifle, but loosed his finger when he saw a large buck come out of the river and disappear into the thickets downstream from where he stood.
“Devil take it!” he swore, relaxing his cramped fingers and rubbing his stiff neck. He rolled his head, forcing himself to relax, then moved back from the stream to check the horses. Coming back to the shelving bank of the Mohawk, he thought again of what would happen if the Iroquois caught them—scalped alive, burning splinters under the fingernails, gunpowder in raw wounds set on fire . . .!
“Why doesn’t he hurry up!” he muttered under his breath—then realized that Adam was taking the most dangerous end of the business. He forced himself to stand still, listening to the river and dreading to hear the sound of shots above. I must be crazy, he thought—risking my scalp like this! Here I am, the Winslow who’s always looked out for his own—and now I’m risking my life for a girl I hardly know. He wiped the cold sweat off his brow, moved back a few feet to get a better view of the lights above, and suddenly smiled in the darkness. Maybe I’m getting religion—that’d make Adam happy, I guess. But he knew himself too well for that, and being a man not given to introspection, he finally gave up and stood there waiting for Adam’s return.
Ten minutes later he heard a sound that brought his heart up into his throat—a single mu
ffled explosion that came from high up the bluff, so low he barely caught it. “Oh, Lord! He’s caught!” he thought with agonizing fear, and he almost ran for the horses—but forced himself to wait. Five minutes! I’ll wait that long!
But it was less than two minutes later when he heard the sound of a loud splash, and he ran forward to the edge of the water, straining his eyes in the darkness. “Adam! Adam!” he cried out quickly. “Is that you?”
He held his rifle ready, but almost instantly he heard Adam call out, “Charles—here we are!”
Charles waded knee-deep into the water, and out of the darkness Adam appeared, supporting Molly with one hand. They stumbled to the bank and Molly said, “Thank God!”
“Amen to that!” Adam said huskily. “Are you all right?”
“I—swallowed some water, but—”
“Let’s get out of here!” Charles interrupted. “What was that shot? Never mind—it woke up everybody in the place, no doubt!”
“You’re right about that,” Adam said. “We’ve got a mighty short lead, Charles—they’ll be down on us in minutes.”
He ran to the horses, and as he helped Molly mount a bay mare, he said, “They won’t have their horses. They’ll scramble down the bluff somehow, and then they’ll have to go back and get mounted. We’ve got to put as much distance as we can between us and here before they get that done.”
The two men swung into the saddle, and Adam turned his horse toward the river, saying, “We’ll make it a little harder on them. Make sure your horses don’t touch the bank!”
The river was shallow at the edge and he led them for over a mile, then pulled his horse to a halt. “I know this old trail—and I guess they do, too. But maybe it’ll take them a few hours to think of it.”
“I can’t see a thing, Adam!” Charles complained fretfully.
“You don’t have to. Molly, your horse will follow mine, and Charles, you stay in the rear. There’re some low branches, so keep your head down. By dawn, I want to be far away from this spot.”
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