Simon gritted his back teeth so hard that he felt the corner of one molar crumble. “Praise God,” he said. “It is my sweet Rebecca, come home from the shores of hell.”
Chapter 24
“Sit over there and don’t open your mouth.”
Simon shoved Rebecca roughly toward the lumpy bed under the eaves of the attic room.
Keeping her eyes averted, she did as she was told. She hadn’t spoken a word to him since she’d first seen him in the street and called his name. She’d watched in silence as Simon had given Ernst Byler ten pounds and thanked him for returning his wife. Then, she’d followed her husband meekly through the streets of Philadelphia to the modest inn near the Delaware River.
“Where’s the boy?” he demanded.
“I don’t know.” If she looked at him, her shock at his appearance might show. When she’d last seen Simon, his features were considered by many to be handsome. Now, the pox had ravished his skin and left angry red craters and puckered scars extending up into his thinning hair. Simon had aged ten years in the past five months. “Colin was taken prisoner,” she continued. “I haven’t seen him since the day the farm was—”
“Since the day yer red lover burned my house and barn? The boy’s dead. Make yer mind up to that.”
She kept her head down and made no reply. Colin was alive. Nothing Simon could say would change that.
“All the while ye were spreadin’ your legs for that Injun, he had yer brother’s scalp on his belt.”
She shifted, uneasy. There was something different about her husband besides his looks. He’d always been a hard man . . . but now, here alone with him, she was suddenly afraid.
“How does that make ye feel? Knowin’ ye took pleasure from his thick, dirty cock—”
A loud rap at the door cut off Simon’s tirade. With a scowl, he flung open the door. “Yes, what is it?” he demanded of the plump maid standing there.
“Man t’ see ye. In the public room. Simon Brandt, he said. Said it was very important business, sir. To do with a land grant.”
He glanced back at Rebecca. “Ye stay here and cause no trouble. And talk to no one.”
He closed the door behind him, and the tension in the chamber dissipated. She stretched out full length on the bed and pulled a coverlet over her. The patched quilt smelled of mold and stale beer, but she didn’t care. She lay and stared at the raw beams and cedar shingles overhead, wondering why it made her so nervous to be alone with a man she’d been married to since she was fourteen.
Later, the maid returned with a round of bread, a slice of cheese, a chicken leg, and a pint of ale. “Mistress said ye needin’ feedin’, since ye’ve been a prisoner of the Indians so long. Mistress said ye need to put some meat on yore bones.” The girl eyed her curiously. “I’m Betty, do ye need somethin’.”
“Did my husband order this meal for me?” Rebecca asked. It was past the dinner hour. Even when he was angry with her, Simon had never been miserly about food before.
“No’m. My mistress. T’was her idee. Mistress Joan is a good sort, always feedin’ stray cats an’ such.” Her blue eyes grew large in the ruddy face. “Not that yore a cat or nothin’. Just that—”
“Thank Mistress Joan for me, Betty. She is very kind.”
The girl bobbed a curtsy and left.
Rebecca took a few sips of the ale and nibbled absently on the bread. It was fresh, but she still had little appetite. Simon was behaving strangely for a man whose wife had just returned from the dead . . . It was almost as though he didn’t want her back.
She didn’t bother to light a candle, but returned to the bed when darkness seeped across the braided rag rug. Sometime in the night Simon came in smelling of rum and tobacco. She came instantly awake, but she forced herself to lie still, pretending to be asleep. Feathers of icy fear brushed her spine as he climbed into the bed.
Don’t touch me, she begged silently. If he laid a single finger on her, she didn’t know what she’d do. She only knew she couldn’t bear the thought of his hands on her . . . his mouth pressed against hers. But to her relief, he turned his back and fell into a deep sleep.
She lay awake until the first stirrings of the morning routine began in the inn below. Then she crept cautiously out of bed, put on her shoes, and started for the door.
“Where the hell ye think yore goin’?”
She stiffened. “To the necessary.”
“Be quick about it. I’ve a surprise for ye this mornin’ and I’ll not be late.”
“Yes, Simon.”
“I can see the red nigras taught ye some manners. Too little, too late.”
“Yes, Simon.” She didn’t wait for his dismissal. Heart pounding, she hurried downstairs and out into the back courtyard.
Dew covered the patches of grass that weren’t worn thin by the coming and going of inn patrons. A tan and black spit dog pranced out of the stable with a dead rat clenched firmly in his sharp, white teeth, his stumpy tail wagging excitedly. From inside the barn, Rebecca heard the neigh of a horse and the restless pawing of an iron-clad hoof against a stall door.
The small structure she was looking for stood beyond the dovecote. As she was coming back toward the inn, she passed the red-cheeked Betty going out with a basket of scraps for the pigs.
“They’s a special room for bathin’ off the kitchen,” the girl informed her. “Mistress Joan usually charges twopence, but she says yore welcome to wash free. On account of—”
“Being with the Indians,” Rebecca finished. She almost smiled, remembering that the Shawnee were far cleaner than the German settlers, or even Simon for that matter. “I would like to bathe very much.” Memories flashed across her mind . . . Talon throwing her into the stream and then laughing . . . Talon standing in hip-deep running water and scrubbing his lean body with sand until it glowed.
“Hurry then,” Betty advised. “Be ye first, the water ain’t scummy. They’s yellow soap and towels.”
“I’ll go right away,” Rebecca assured her. “And thank you.”
Twenty minutes later, hair damp and skin tingling from the hasty scrub, Rebecca gathered her courage and entered the attic room.
“Where the hell have ye been?” Simon shouted.
She stared at the toes of his moccasins and prayed he wouldn’t hear her heart banging against her chest. “Bathing.”
“Thanks to yer disobedience we’ll neither of us get any breakfast.” He reached for her arm.
Trembling, she took a step back. He looked at her as though she was something foul rotting in a drainage ditch. Every instinct bade her get out of this room and away from him.
“Come on,” he ordered. “I’ve something special for ye to witness this mornin’.”
Puzzled, she followed him back down the stairs and out into the street. She felt better once they were out in the open air. Nothing will convince me to go back in that chamber with him, she thought.
As they rounded the corner and were sheltered from view of the inn by a clump of bushes, Simon grabbed a handful of her hair and twisted until tears welled up in her eyes.
“See that ye don’t shame me further this mornin’,” he threatened. “Keep your mouth closed and try to look decent.” He shook her once more and released his grip.
I’m a free woman, she thought. I don’t have to take this from anyone. She smiled at him sweetly. “I’m leaving you, Simon,” she said softly.
“What?”
“I said, I’m leaving you. I’ll not be beaten like your horse or kicked like a hound. I’m going my own way. You can divorce me if you like.”
He stared at her as if she’d suddenly sprouted horns. “Ye ungrateful jade,” he said, raising a clenched fist. “Ye Shawnee swivin’ bitch. Who are ye to tell me that yer leavin’?”
A carriage turned the corner and came down the street toward them. Rebecca watched the approaching vehicle with relief. He might strike her, but Simon wouldn’t do anything really violent in front of witnesses. As long as sh
e was in public view, she felt almost safe. “I don’t love you. I’ve never loved you,” she continued frankly. “It’s best for us both if we part.”
“Ye’ll go nowhere I don’t give ye leave,” he retorted. “I bought yer indenture. Ye belong to me—bought and paid fer.”
She scoffed. “I think not. Best you remember what I know. There are many people who’d love to hear talk that the great Indian fighter, Simon Brandt, is less than . . . shall we say heroic?” she taunted him quietly. “Less than heroic in his wife’s bed.”
He would have struck her then, but the driver of the carriage chose that instant to rein in his team. The door of the vehicle swung open, and the same Quaker Rebecca had seen the day before with her husband leaned out.
“Friend Simon,” he called. “I was sent to bring thee to the square. The sentence of public whipping is about to be carried out. Get in. I’ll drive the both of thee.”
Simon’s mouth tightened to a thin ivory line. He threw her a warning glance, but he lowered his fist and pushed her toward the carriage. “I’d appreciate that, Mister Flanders,” Simon said, “but I wonder what your interest is in all this.”
“I’m merely a merchant who wishes peace on the frontier. And Jonathan will do. We plain folk do not use titles.”
Still shaken, Rebecca climbed up and sat next to the far window.
The Quaker glanced at her. “Good day to thee,” he said mildly.
She mumbled a reply and looked around. It had been many years since she’d ridden in a carriage, but her father’s had been far more luxurious.
Simon seated himself opposite Flanders. “Ye must be more than that,” he said, “if ye take so much interest in my affairs.”
“Not so, friend. I am a member of the town council and a man of commerce.”
“Flanders,” Simon mused. “Thomas Edgewater who came to see me last night mentioned yer name. Ye own half the land between here and the mountains.”
The Quaker dismissed his wealth with a motion of his soft hand. “It is in the interest of all God-fearing men that the Indians be driven out of Penn’s Woods.”
“My feelin’s exactly,” Simon said.
Rebecca stared out the open window as the carriage rattled over the streets. Quakers preached the equality of mankind. They were supposed to stand firm for peace and understanding between cultures. But Jonathan Flanders—for all his religion—was no different from Simon. He wanted the Indians’ land, and he didn’t care what happened to them in the process.
The city was rapidly coming alive. Milk sellers and fish vendors were noisily advertising their wares. Sailors jostled with apprentices to avoid the muddy spots in the road. Dogs barked, and cart wheels squeaked. Gray-shawled housewives shouted orders to their servants. Here a maid in a white linen cap was busy scrubbing the front steps of a brick house; there a blackamoor shooed a bleating goat as he led a saddle horse to a mounting block for his master.
Rebecca was struck by the smells of the town. Smoke from hundreds of fireplaces, tar and rotting fish from the dock, the sour stench of refuse piled beside a public eating house. Even the Quaker’s wool clothing, which showed the effects of many years of wear without benefit of cleaning, gave off an offensive aroma. She sighed, finding herself wishing for the clean scent of pine and the quiet of the primeval forest.
The driver crossed through an intersection and reined the team to a halt. Up ahead, Rebecca saw a throng gathering around a knot of uniformed soldiers. Climbing down from his seat on top of the carriage, the servant opened the door. Simon and the Quaker got out, and Simon looked back at her.
“Let’s go. What are ye waitin’ fer, woman?”
She jumped down and followed the two men across the open square toward the center of activity. Stern-faced king’s soldiers in red coats, white gaiters, and cocked hats stood rigid at attention, Brown Bess muskets gripped in their hands. Beyond the soldiers, several elaborately bewigged civilian authorities surveyed the assembly with bored expressions from the isolation of their sedan chairs.
“Pork pies,” cried a wrinkled old woman carrying a basket of steaming pastries. “Hot pork pies! Ha’ penny each.”
Simon caught hold of Rebecca’s arm and forced her to quicken her step to match his longer stride. “Look there,” he said, pointing. “I believe ye are well acquainted with the condemned.”
Two burly soldiers dragged forth an Indian.
“There’s the savage!” someone shouted. “There’s the red devil hisself!”
A skinny boy uttered a poor imitation of a war whoop. He and a companion had bedecked themselves with chicken feathers and streaked their faces with ashes. Now they jumped up and down and howled with laughter at their own jest.
“God in heaven,” a woman in a wide-brimmed straw hat shrieked. “He’s not wearing any clothes.”
A soldier carrying a coiled leather whip marched stiffly in front of the guards restraining the Indian captive. Just behind them came two additional privates with muskets.
Rebecca’s breath caught in her throat. There was something achingly familiar about the nearly naked prisoner. His body was battered and bloody, his filthy loincloth so dirty that its original color was lost. Long black matted hair, tangled beyond belief, hung below the leather hood that obscured his features.
For a heartbeat, she dared to imagine that it might be Talon, but cold logic drenched her hope. The man she loved was long dead, his bones scattered by wind and rain. This was only another poor soul, trapped by the king’s justice, held to account for something that—
The soldier with the whip snatched the hood off the prisoner. The Indian’s head snapped up, and her knees turned to jelly. If Simon hadn’t supported her weight, she would have fallen. A single glimpse of those defiant black eyes was all it took; she uttered a strangled sound of rejoicing, and her husband’s fingers dug into her flesh.
Talon. Sweet Jesus, it was Talon. He was alive.
“Mind yourself, woman,” Simon hissed in her ear.
He might have been a pile of cow dung for all the heed she paid him. Tears streamed down her cheeks. Talon hadn’t died with his sister and the others. He was alive.
“Rebecca!” Simon shook her.
Talon’s gaze found her and the familiar lightning bolt seared her to the core. “Ki-te-hi!” she cried.
The flat of Simon’s hand stung her cheek, but she didn’t feel the pain. Talon was alive. She was alive. Nothing else mattered. Not Simon, not the soldiers, not the king of England himself.
“Friend Simon,” Flanders cautioned. “Chastise thy wife in private if thee wish, but not here. Such public display of—”
“Mind yer own business,” Simon retorted.
“N’tschutti, ili kleheleche?” Talon shouted.
What was he saying? Rebecca struggled to understand the Indian words. N’tschutti . . . dearly beloved. Her heart leaped in her breast. Ili kleheleche. That was the Delaware greeting. Dearly beloved, do you draw breath yet?
What was the traditional reply? “N’leheleche,” she called to him. Yes, I do exist.
“K’dahole!” His eyes held hers as the soldiers bound him to a raw oak post, newly set into the ground, and secured his manacled wrists to a spike set high above his head.
I love you. She smiled through her tears. He’d said he loved her. “K’dahole!” she shouted back.
People began to notice her and Simon. They pointed and whispered, some recognizing the famous Indian fighter.
“She’s talking to him in that Injun gobble-de-gook,” a sailor said loudly.
“Who is she?” demanded his comrade.
“Shameless.” A woman with a dirty child in tow pushed between two merchants to get a better view of Rebecca.
She heard them all, but nothing they could say was important. Rebecca’s eyes and her thoughts were on Talon as an officer stepped forward and began to read from the parchment held in his hands.
“. . . guilty of the heinous crimes of murder, horse theft, kidnapping,
anarchy, and high treason. It is the sentence of this court that the Indian, known as Fire Talon, alias John Talon, shall suffer twenty lashes on the streets of Philadelphia. Furthermore, the said Fire Talon shall be transported to London. There, at his majesty’s pleasure, he shall suffer another twenty lashes before being conveyed to Tyburn gallows where he shall be hanged by the neck until dead. His body shall be taken down and cut into four equal pieces, his head severed and placed on public display so that all good folk may know the folly of sin. It is further the sentence of this court that each quarter of the condemned shall be . . .”
Rebecca knew that a Shawnee woman would listen to the terrible words without showing emotion. But she was a daughter of Ireland, and her grief would not be contained. “No!” she screamed as the soldiers raised the cat-o’-nine-tails to deliver the first blow. “No!”
Simon tried to hold her, but she twisted free and darted through the crowd. She was beyond reason, beyond thought. All she knew was that Talon was helpless and he needed her.
She had nearly reached him when they caught her. Her cries of rage did not block out the crack of the whip and the awful sound of leather striking flesh.
For weeks she hadn’t had the strength to take a single step or even lift her head. Now, two soldiers couldn’t subdue her. Sobbing wildly, she kicked and punched and nearly wrested a flintlock pistol from an officer before they pinned her to the ground.
“Seven!” The whip hissed again. Talon uttered not a sound, but she had known he wouldn’t.
Then she heard Simon’s voice.
“. . . out of her mind . . . a captive of the Indians.”
“She needs a physician’s care,” Flanders said.
“Be still or I’ll knock ye senseless,” Simon whispered in her ear.
She continued to struggle as they enveloped her in a man’s wool coat and carried her off the square to Flanders’ carriage. As they tried to push her through the door, she freed a hand and hit Simon full on the nose. He struck her alongside the head and shoved her inside. There, the two men pressed her to the floor, nearly suffocating her with the heavy coat. Her lungs burned from lack of air. She kicked and tried to get the cloth away from her face, then lost consciousness.
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