Scarlet RIbbons

by Judith E. French

  Forest nodded. "You tell the captain he'd better pick a man with a good memory."

  "Yeah." John Comegys set his boot into the stirrup and swung up into the saddle. "You'll get word if Howe lands on the Chesapeake. When you get the message, come runnin'. We'll need every fightin' man we can lay our hands on." He paused. "Oh, your mother bade me let her know if you were eatin' right." He looked Forest up and down and grinned. "Don't seem like you're wastin' away."

  "Give her my love. And you watch your back, Uncle John."

  "Don't worry, I will. I've got an unnatural fondness for it."

  ~~~

  The following day passed without incident, but the next afternoon a group of horsemen galloped up the dirt road and reined up in front of the inn. Sarah and Forest were airing the bedding on the second floor when they heard the sound of horses' hooves. Sarah glanced out the window and then turned quickly toward Forest.

  "It's my husband's brother Isaac and some of his friends," she warned him in a hushed tone. "If he tells you to do something—do it. Otherwise, stay out of his way. He's a dangerous man." She dropped the armful of sheets onto the nearest bed and hurried down the steps.

  Isaac Turner stood in the center of the public room with several men. Two more men were coming in the open door. "Sarah!" Isaac shouted. "Sarah—oh, there ye be! Ale, and be quick about it! We're dry as beached whales." Isaac pulled out a chair, turned it around, and sat down, straddling it backwards. "Any word from my brother?"

  "Not since his last letter—the one where he talked about stealing the sheep. I told you about that." Sarah circled around him and went into the kitchen.

  Isaac laughed crudely. "Aye, so ye did." he motioned to his friends. "Obediah always was a sheep lover." The others joined in his laughter. Isaac noticed Forest standing in the doorway. "Who might ye be?" he bellowed.

  "Miz Turner's hired man," Forest replied meekly. "Abe Forest."

  "I didn't hear Sary had herself a man," Isaac said. "How long ye been here?"

  Forest scratched his beard. "Three . . . four—"

  Sarah pushed open the kitchen door. "Abe! Get out here."

  Forest limped across the room, missing nothing. There were seven men inside and at least another two outside with the horses. Isaac Turner was a mountain of a man with bulging arms and thighs and feet the size of shovels. A scar on his right lower lip pulled his mouth into a perpetual scowl. His eyes were a muddy brown, peering pig-like over a pocked, twisted nose. If Isaac Turner's manners were no better than his appearance, Forest decided he probably wouldn't care for him.

  "Abe!" Sarah's voice was shrill.

  "Yes'm. I'm comin'." Forest had seen the man by the fireplace before, in Annapolis. Reynolds . . . that was his name . . . a tanner by trade and an outspoken Loyalist. Forest didn't think there was much chance that Reynolds would recognize him, especially not with the full beard and the eye patch.

  "Tell that woman to fetch us some bread and meat!" Turner ordered. "And be quick with that ale."

  Forest mumbled something in his beard and stepped into the kitchen. "They want—"

  "I heard them," Sarah said. She hesitated and pointed to the back door. "In the barn. There's a trapdoor in the harness room. Climb down in the hole and bring me that keg of ale. There's a big smoked ham there, too. You can't carry both at once, but bring the stuff up and cover the trap." She pushed a pot over the glowing coals on the hearth. "If you see Joshua, tell him his uncle is here."

  "You want the boy?"

  "Want him? If he knows Isaac is on the place, he'll hightail it for Martha's. He's scared to death of Isaac." When Forest was gone, Sarah pulled a handful of leather jacks from a shelf and began to pour out what ale she had. Damn Isaac to hell. Why did he have to bring his motley crew here? He was nothing but trouble, and she couldn't throw him out of the inn as she did other riffraff.

  Isaac was a part owner in King's Landing, even if he was too lazy to work. Part of her profits went to him, and Obediah had left his brother everything in his will. If Obediah didn't come back from the war, Isaac could take control of the inn and of Joshua. In a fit of anger, Obediah had named Isaac Joshua's guardian. Obediah knew his brother for a godless, brutal man, and he had put his young son in his care just the same. If there was a hell, Sarah hoped it was hot, because she knew Obediah and Isaac were both bound there, sooner or later.

  Sarah pushed open the door into the public room with her tray of drinks.

  "About time, " Isaac growled. He got to his feet and grabbed two mugs from the tray. He tipped up the first jack and began to guzzle the ale in great noisy gulps.

  Ignoring him, Sarah passed out the rest of her mugs. "The rest of you will have yours directly," she promised.

  Isaac slammed the empty mug on the table and started on the second. He stopped long enough to belch and then drained the leather cup. "Piss-poor stuff yer givin' yer customers, Sary," he grumbled. He threw an arm around her as she tried to pass. "Give us a kiss, sister," he coaxed. "We got reason to celebrate. Howe has dropped anchor off Worton Creek. You'll be servin' the king's regulars here by this time next week."

  "Take your hands off me, Isaac," Sarah said.

  Isaac brought his splotchy face close to hers. "Just a kiss between kin," he said, to the amusement of the crowd.

  Sarah stiffened. His breath stank of garlic and salt pork. "Obediah will skin you alive and serve you up for breakfast," she said quietly.

  Isaac wound his fingers in her hair and tilted Sarah's head up. She let out a stifled cry and struck out at him with her fists as he pressed his thick, wet lips against her mouth.

  "Let go of her!" a voice called from behind them.

  Isaac pushed Sarah roughly away and turned with a curse toward the intruder.

  Chapter Four

  A Familiar Menace

  "You're not going to hurt my mama again!" Joshua's small hands trembled as he aimed the heavy flintlock pistol at his uncle. "I'll kill you if you do," he said. Tears ran down the child's flushed cheeks, but his wide gray eyes held the glint of polished steel.

  "Joshua!" Sarah cried.

  "You little bastard." Isaac lunged bearlike toward the boy and then froze as the child used one hand to force back the hammer of the old-fashioned flintlock. The ominous click of the pistol brought a hushed silence to the tavern as Isaac's bulging Adam's apple quivered and his mouth hung open in stunned amazement.

  "Joshua." Sarah's voice was strained. "Put the gun down." Slowly, she took a step in her son's direction. "It's all right," she soothed. "Just lay the pistol on the floor."

  The boy shook his head stubbornly. "No." The barrel of the flintlock wavered slightly. "Uncle Isaac's a bad man. He hurt you."

  Isaac's growl was more animal-like than human. "Drop it," he warned. "I'll whip the tar out'a you."

  A man coughed and Joshua flinched. The boy's breath came in heaving sobs as the tears flowed harder. "Not . . . not if . . . I pull this . . . trigger you won't. You . . . you won't hurt my mama . . . and . . . and you won't hit me no more."

  Sarah's breath lodged in her throat as Joshua's words registered. Time seemed to stop, and one by one her senses became acutely aware of the smell of spilled ale and men's sweaty bodies, the metallic taste of fear in her mouth, and the feel of the baking August heat against her skin. Sarah's legs seemed to be made of lead as she willed them to move . . . forced herself to take one step at a time toward Joshua. Her mouth was dry; her tongue felt swollen twice its size. "Don't be afraid," she whispered hoarsely. "Put the gun down." Her vision blurred with moisture, distorting her son's small, frightened face. "Joshua . . . please."

  In the blink of an eye, Forest's solid form appeared in the doorway behind the child. In a single fluid movement, the man's strong arms closed about Joshua and his steady hands took possession of the deadly pistol. Before Sarah could draw a breath, Joshua flung himself against her and clung to her skirts, sobbing. Forest planted himself, legs apart and shoulders squared, between them and Isaac.


  "Give me that little bastard!" Isaac roared. "I'll—"

  "Damn fool kid," Forest agreed, dangling the pistol carelessly in front of him. His finger remained locked on the trigger, and the muzzle hovered alarmingly close to Isaac's crotch. "I'd take thet young'n t' the barn and wale the dicken's out'a him, was I you, missus."

  Sarah gathered Joshua in her arms, trying to still the tremors of his small body. He buried his face in her neck and continued to weep.

  Forest shot a meaningful glance at Sarah. "Good whipping is what he needs fer certain," he repeated loudly. "Needs to show respect fer his elders. Leather quirt hanging in the tack room, Miz Sarah. I kin thrash him fer ye if ye want. A woman's hand is too soft fer raisin' young'ns, my pa always said."

  "No." Sarah's eyes caught the gleam of mischief in Forest's. "I'll do it. He's my boy, and I'll learn him his manners." She moved toward the kitchen door with Joshua. "Tend to these gentlemen, Abe."

  "By damn—" Isaac began. The flintlock brushed the cloth of his stained durant breeches, and Isaac snatched the gun from Forest's hand. "This is Obediah's pistol," Isaac snapped. "Didn't he take this pistol with him when he went north to fight the rebels?"

  Sarah stopped with her hand on the door. "No!"

  "No, hell! It's Obediah's pistol all right," Isaac insisted. "See this crack in the butt?" He scowled. "How did the brat get hold of it?"

  "Of course it's Obediah's gun," Sarah said, stalling. "But . . . " Her mind raced frantically for a believable lie. "He—"

  "Sometimes they gives out regulation muskets, so I hear tell," Forest interjected. "Maybe Master Turner figured t' get a new pistol, too."

  Sarah rushed to agree. "That's what he told me. He said this flintlock had misfired on him too many times. I might as well keep this one here at the inn. Josh must have seen where I kept the gun hid in the flour barrel." She gave the boy a shake. "I'll teach you to touch what's not yours," she threatened harshly as she hurried him from the room.

  Forest grinned disarmingly. "You gen'l'men will be wantin' somethin' to quench yer thirst. I'll fetch thet brew from the kitchen."

  "You're damn right ye will," Isaac threatened.

  "Ye look like ye could use something stronger than ale." Reynolds guffawed and slapped the table in unconcealed glee. "Yer face was white as a two-day corpse when thet kid had the pistol pointed at yer gut, Isaac." The others joined in his laughter.

  "God rot your greedy bowels!" Isaac slammed the pistol down. "If Sary doesn't stripe the little bastard like a skunk, I will."

  Forest scooped the flintlock off the table and ducked back into the kitchen. From outside, he could hear the sounds of Joshua screaming, and he grinned, thinking, I'll bet the profits of an island's run with my new schooner that she isn't within arm's length of the boy with that quirt.

  Quickly, he set about filling clean jacks with ale. There was silence from the backyard, and then he heard Sarah's footsteps on the porch. "Give that young'n a proper hiding?" he asked innocently.

  Sarah set her lips in a hard line and nodded.

  "Taught him a good lesson?"

  "Yes," she lied softly.

  "Hope ye told him to make hisself scarce 'round here."

  "I sent him to Martha's." Sarah laid a hand on Forest's forearm. "Thank you," she whispered. "For what you did in there. I . . . "

  "No need to carry on, Miz Turner." He winked at her and motioned with his head toward the public room. "Ye know I got a soft spot fer Josh. I couldn't let nothin' happen to the boy."

  Sarah's chin quivered and she bit her bottom lip. "It was wrong of him to take the gun."

  "I know Josh. He wouldn't have done it without good reason. Whatever Isaac did, I'll try and make certain he doesn't do it again."

  "No." Sarah shook her head. "Stay clear of him, Forest. I can handle Isaac; I always have."

  "Maybe so, but you couldn't have been doing too good a job managing him or that boy wouldn't have felt the need to take on a man's job."

  Sarah felt her face flush. "You listen to me, or you'll be sorry. Isaac is a dangerous man."

  "Ale, damn it!" a male voice roared from beyond the door. "Do we have to come out there and pour it ourselves?"

  "Coming," Sarah replied. Taking a deep breath, she pushed open the public room door.

  For the next two hours Sarah and Forest were kept busy preparing and serving food and drink for Isaac and his men. Forest was able to catch only snatches of the Tories' conversation, but he was certain he heard the name Simon Gist and references to a hidden "fort" in the forest.

  Evening came without any sign that Isaac intended to ride on. The men grew rowdier as they consumed all the wine Sarah set out and drained the bottom of the ale keg. Forest had just entered the public room with a platter of fried catfish when the hounds set up a wild baying at the dock. A few minutes later, three more hard-faced men sauntered into the tavern and were greeted by shouts of welcome from those already there.

  "Geordie! Is it true?" Isaac shouted above the din. "Is the British fleet at Head of Elk?"

  The stocky man seized a mug of cider from Sarah's tray. "Aye. I saw Howe's ships with my own eyes." He threw back his head and drank deeply, wiping the foam from his beard with a dirty sleeve.

  "How many ships?" Reynolds asked.

  "More'n you can count," replied another of the newcomers, a small, dark-complexioned man with protruding front teeth. "Have you no rum, woman?" the man complained. "This horse sweat's not fit for suckling babes."

  "You heard the man, Sary," Isaac bellowed. "Bring us some of that Haitian rum you got hid back for fancy folk."

  Sarah threw her brother-in-law a look of pure loathing. "It's gone, Isaac. You drank the last of it weeks ago."

  "Lying' bitch," Isaac growled. "She plays this game with me all the time. Bring out the rum, Sary, afore we have to hunt for it."

  Forest's shoulders tensed as white-hot anger surged through him. Unconsciously, his lean hands clenched an empty pewter mug until the handle twisted under the pressure. Shocked by his own display of emotion, which should have remained hidden, Forest stared down at the ruined mug in dismay.

  Unaware of Forest's blunder, Sarah pushed a strand of hair away from her damp face and shrugged. "Hunt all you like. You'll find nothing unless you can make wine from water."

  Against his will, Forest fixed his sympathetic gaze on Sarah. She was bone-weary; it showed in the tightness about her mouth and the dark shadows beneath her huge, expressive eyes. Sarah had cooked and fetched and carried for this ungrateful band of crude backwoodsmen for hours, and the only thanks she'd gotten were insults and curses.

  Forest hid the damaged mug beneath the others he picked up off the table and forced himself to appear unconcerned, as he seethed within. Sarah might be the wife of an enemy of the cause—hell, she might be his enemy—but it went against his grain to see any woman treated so rudely. For now, he was powerless to do anything in her defense without breaking his cover, but he carefully studied the faces of the worst offenders, retaining every line of each man's face and mannerism of speech. Forest had a long memory. If and when the right time came, he would make certain Isaac Turner and his henchmen paid a high price for abusing a helpless female.

  The thought that his concern for Sarah might be more personal crossed Forest's mind, and he pushed it ruthlessly away. He'd always been quick to come to the defense of women in trouble. Why, once he and his brother, Chad, had come across . . . Pain knifed through Forest's gut as it did whenever he remembered his brother. The hurt of Chad's death was too raw.

  He drew in a deep, aching breath. Remembering Chad was what he needed. He must remember his brother and remember why and how he died. He could tolerate the pain . . . could learn to live with it. He had to.

  Forest wiped an ale-soaked rag across the uneven table and grinned stupidly at the beaver-toothed man. "Seen the king's ships wit' yer own eyes, did ye?" he urged. "Must 'ave been a sight. How many of them redcoats do ye reckon there was?"

&n
bsp; ~~~

  Hours later, Sarah stood in the kitchen doorway and listened with relief as the last of the horses galloped away down the dirt road. The men in the sloop had departed with the rest, taking the boat back downriver. Only she and Forest remained at King's Landing. When Forest offered to finish cleaning up the public room, Sarah had gratefully accepted. Daylight was only a few hours away, and if she didn't get some sleep soon, she'd fall flat on her face.

  "What of the boy?" Forest asked, coming into the kitchen with an armload of dirty dishes. "Shall I fetch him home from Martha's in the morning?"

  "No!" Sarah's head snapped around. "No. I'll go for him. You stay clear of Martha Green's plantation." She wiped her face with her apron. "Martha's my friend, but she's a dyed-in-the-wool rebel. There's no one left on her place but Martha and her sixteen-year-old. Johnny was kicked in the head by a cow when he was Joshua's age, and he's not right. The boy's slow, but there's nothing wrong with his aim. Martha's rightfully nervous with all the raiding going on around here. She's told Johnny to shoot at the first sign of a stranger. If you want to keep breathing, you'll stay away from Martha's."

  She crumpled her apron into a ball and dropped it onto the wooden bench. "You look like you could use some sleep yourself. Leave the ready'n' up until tomorrow."

  Forest wrapped a pad of leather around the iron handle of a kettle of boiling water and carried the pot to the table. "I'll finish washing these mugs first and then use the water to clean up the tables. If I leave it, the inn will smell like a dockside tavern."