This Fierce Loving

by French, Judith E.

  When she became aware of what was happening again, she was content to lie still. Exhausted and sore, she forced herself to remain limp as Simon picked her up. She didn’t open her eyes, but she knew he’d taken her into a house. She didn’t think it was the inn, because there were none of the usual sounds of patrons in the public room or odors of mutton and ale.

  He walked up a flight of steps, followed a hall, and then put her down on a featherbed. She could hear him talking to someone, but he’d moved back, too far away for her to understand what he’d said.

  “What is this?” asked a cultured feminine voice. “Jonathan? Who is this young woman?”

  Rebecca opened her eyes a crack and tried to see who was speaking. She saw only the satin drapes of embroidered bed hangings overhead.

  “. . . hysterical outburst at the public lashing of the Indian murderer.”

  That was Jonathan Flanders. Could this be his home? Was the woman a member of his household? Rebecca wondered.

  “She’s lost her wits,” Simon said. “I didn’t want to bring her here, but your husband—”

  “Stuff and nonsense,” the woman replied. “Jonathan was right. All Philadelphia is abuzz with word of your poor wife’s ordeal and her rescue from the savages. What woman would not be hysterical at the sight of the savage who caused her . . .”

  Mistress Flanders, then. And much younger than her husband, Rebecca reasoned, if she was any judge of tone. They had brought her to Flanders’ house. And Simon was trying to convince them to let him take her back to the inn.

  “. . . ain’t right to put this burden on yer wife,” Simon said. “I can fetch a doctor—”

  “We won’t hear of it, will we, Jonathan?”

  “Now, Rachel,” Flanders put in. “If Friend Simon wishes—”

  “Double stuff and nonsense,” Rachel replied. “Friend Simon is welcome to stay with us as well. You are a hero to us all. It would be an honor to have you.”

  “. . . the Hebrew physician, Saul—”

  Rachel cut off her husband’s suggestion. “The poor thing has had enough. She needs sleep and good care. Can you not see how thin she is? She will remain here in this house until she is better.”

  “But if she needs doctorin’,” Simon began, “then—”

  “The Lord is the best physician, Friend,” Rachel said. “And my cook, Lil, is well versed in medicinal practices. Out, out, both of you. Oh, you did not tell me her Christian name.”

  “Rebecca,” Simon said.

  “Rebecca. We shall get her into more comfortable clothes and give her something to make her sleep. She shall be better tomorrow, Friend Simon. You shall see. I’m right, aren’t I, Jonathan? Who would know about a woman’s ills better than another woman?”

  Rebecca heard the sound of footfalls and then a lighter step approaching the bed. Cautiously, she fluttered her lashes and let out a delicate groan.

  “Dear Rebecca,” Rachel said. “You are safe here.” A pink and white porcelain face with wide-spaced china blue eyes appeared at her side. Her cap was of the finest lace, her silk ribbon wide and sparkling white. Mistress Flanders’ dress was a subdued gray-blue, but elegantly cut and sewn in the finest silk. A few golden curls escaped from her cap to frame the cupid features. Rachel’s nose was tiny and upturned, her bee-stung lips as red and rosy as spring strawberries.

  No wonder she has her way in this household, Rebecca thought. She opened her eyes a little more and gave what she hoped was a look of fright. “Where . . . where am I?” she whispered feebly.

  “You are safe, dear friend. This is the home of Jonathan Flanders, and I am his wife in God, Rachel. You have . . . you have had a nervous—”

  “Oh.” Rebecca covered her face with her hands. “Oh. What have I done?” she cried.

  “There, there. It will be all right. You’ve had a terrible strain.”

  “But the Indian,” Rebecca whispered hoarsely. “The Indian. I saw him. Don’t let him get me. Please, don’t let him—”

  “Never fear. The rascal is tied to the whipping post, where he shall remain until he is taken on board the vessel Endeavor tomorrow. You are safe in this house. No one will hurt you here.”

  “No one?” Rebecca let her voice quaver, just a bit.

  “No one. Your husband has left you in my care. He will be back to see you tomorrow. For now, you have only to rest.”

  “Oh, thank you, thank you, dear Rachel,” she murmured. “I am . . . so . . . so very tired.” She let her eyes drift shut.

  “Then I will let you sleep. There is a bell on the table beside the bed. You have only to ring it and a servant will come.” Still chattering platitudes, Rachel swept out of the room, closing the door behind her.

  Rebecca gave a sigh of relief. She had all of today and the night to come up with a plan to save Talon. She must. She had lost him once, and she never intended to lose him again . . . no matter the cost.

  Chapter 25

  Rebecca pushed aside the cup of chocolate and lay back against the bed pillows. “No, thank you,” she said weakly. Mistress Flanders had tried to administer laudanum to her earlier in the evening, and Rebecca was suspicious of the hot drink. “I’d rather sleep, if you don’t mind, Rachel.” She put two fingers over her lips in pretended distress. “I hope I’m not troubled by dreams of that savage. Is he far away?”

  “Far enough for you not to worry,” Rachel soothed. “We are quite a few blocks from the river.”

  “He’s at the river still . . . where they . . .”

  “Yes. Jonathan told me that he will remain under close guard. They will leave him tied to the stake tonight as an example to other wrongdoers.”

  Rebecca looked around her as though she expected an Indian attack at any moment. “Which way is that? The river?”

  Rachel pointed toward the side windows. “Down there, but you need have no fear. There will be soldiers to watch him tonight, and at dawn they carry him aboard ship to sail for England.” She offered the chocolate again. “Just take a little,” she begged. “You’ve not eaten enough to keep a bird alive today. Chocolate always helps me to sleep.” The corners of her pouty mouth turned up in a forced smile. Then she sipped daintily from her own cup.

  “Perhaps later,” Rebecca hedged.

  “My slave girl, Faith, will sit with you tonight. Your husband was afraid you would be left alone, but I assured him we will take good care of you.”

  And give me no chance to escape, Rebecca thought.

  Rachel finished her chocolate and a sweet biscuit and rose to leave. “I will expect you to come down for breakfast in the morning, dear.”

  “I’m sure I will feel up to it,” she answered.

  Rachel murmured a few more words and left the room. As soon as she did, Rebecca switched the Quaker woman’s empty cup for her full one.

  Seconds later, the door opened, and a tall, willow thin maid entered the bedchamber. “I’m to sit wi’ ye, lady,” she said. “I’m Faith.” She was no more than sixteen and garbed all in black with a white apron and cap. The toes of her black shoes were scuffed and worn and her stockings patched. She came close to the bed and stood wringing her hands as if she were not sure what to do.

  Rebecca noticed that the hem of the maid’s skirt and her sleeves were inches too short for propriety. Faith is still a growing girl, she decided, and probably has a healthy appetite. Perhaps the charity of this good Quaker household doesn’t extend to feeding their servants well.

  “You may sit there,” Rebecca said. She waved to the chair Rachel had just vacated, the chair next to the bedside table containing the chocolate and the plate of tea biscuits. “Have some chocolate and a sweet if you like,” Rebecca said softly. “They’re very good.”

  An hour later, Faith was dozing in the bed and Rebecca was hastily dressing. She slipped down the back stairs of the Flanders home, sneaked through the kitchen past the snoring cook on her pallet, and went out the back door. She took nothing with her but her own clothing, a few biscuits,
and a man’s cloak and hat she found hanging on pegs in the hall.

  It was a cloudy night with no moon, and black as the inside of the devil’s boot. She wasn’t certain she could find the place where Talon was still held captive using Rachel’s vague directions, but she knew she had to try. Getting him loose once she found him would be another problem. She hadn’t bothered to look for a weapon. In a Quaker household, she didn’t suppose she’d find a gun.

  Behind the house were several smaller structures, a smoke house, and a stable. She slipped into the barn and used her nose and ears to find the nearest horse. Finding a bridle and saddle in the darkness of a strange tack room was even harder. But saddling the animal was easy once she’d fed it the biscuits.

  Rebecca couldn’t help smiling as she thought about Rachel’s plan to drug her with the laudanum. Wouldn’t she be surprised in the morning when she found the maid asleep instead of Rebecca.

  She patted the horse’s neck and whispered to him as she led him out through a back gate and along an alley. She hoped she wouldn’t be seen, or that she wouldn’t lose complete sense of the direction. Once she was several houses away from the grand Flanders’ mansion, she coaxed the gelding over to a mounting block and scrambled up into the saddle, riding astride, despite the disarray of her skirts and petticoats.

  Following the street, she rode past large town houses that gradually gave way to smaller dwellings and then what she thought might be places of business. The road ended near the water, but not in the place she wanted to be. Her choice was to turn left or right. She chose right and followed the river for a short ways, then reversed her path when she saw that buildings were farther and farther apart and she seemed to be riding into a marsh.

  She had no idea how long it had taken her to come this far, but she couldn’t quit now. She was a horse thief, and if they caught her, she’d be tried and hanged. She had to free Talon and they had to make their escape before dawn. If he couldn’t ride because of the whipping, she vowed she’d find a way to tie him on the horse.

  The cobwebs that had clouded her mind since Siipu had fallen with the musket ball in her back were gone. Her body was still weak, but it didn’t matter. She and Talon were both alive, and God willing, they’d both survive to reach the Ohio country again. She wished Simon no harm, but she never wanted to lay eyes on his face again.

  The sound of raucous male laughter and breaking glass alerted her to the drinking establishment ahead. Immediately, she dismounted and led the horse into another alley and tied it to the wheel of a large wagon. Keeping in the shadows, she crept close. As she’d suspected, the noise was coming from a waterfront tavern. What better place to find a weapon, she thought, than in a den of rascals?

  She crouched next to an adjoining building clutching a barrel stave for the better part of an hour, while sailors and townfolk wandered in and out of the tavern. Some moved with a firm step, others seemed to have lost their sense of balance. But none seemed drunk enough for her purpose.

  Finally, a smartly dressed gentleman staggered from the door. When he lifted his arm to bid farewell to a companion inside, Rebecca caught sight of a brace of pistols at his waist.

  Come this way. Come this way, she pleaded silently. Why hadn’t she listened more carefully to her father’s tales of highwaymen? She didn’t know what she was going to do, but she didn’t intend to let this prize escape. Judging from the cut of his coat and the shine on his boots, he could afford the loss of a pistol.

  Sweet Saint Katherine forgive me, she thought. First a horse thief, now a robber. She waited, heart thudding, as the man turned first one way and then the other. She couldn’t resist a tiny moan of relief when he began to amble in her direction.

  She felt sick to her stomach. If she didn’t get a gun, how would she have any chance of saving Talon? But to get the pistol, she’d have to hit an innocent man over the head. Oh, well, she decided. In for a penny, in for a pound. With trembling hands, she lifted the piece of wood.

  At that instant, a second figure moved out of darkness not three yards away. “Your money or your life!” he snarled.

  Instead of handing over his money, the drunk put up a struggle. Both men fell cursing to the gutter in a tangle of arms and legs. The attacker punched and the victim beat him around the head with one of his pistols. Someone inside the tavern shouted, and two men burst out of the doorway. The thief got to his feet, ran a few steps, stumbled, and fell flat on his face. More men poured out into the street, and someone fired a shot. The drunk got up, fell down, and got up again, all the while yelling for all he was worth. And somewhere in the confusion, a painted whore in a scandalous red gown screamed and a pistol landed at Rebecca’s feet.

  “Thank you, God,” she murmured. She dropped the board, scooped up the flintlock, and ran like the hounds of hell were on her heels. The angry crowd pursued the footpad in the opposite direction down the street. Rebecca arrived at the spot where she’d tied the horse with only a few bruises from bumping into walls in the darkness. She threw her arms around the gelding’s neck in relief and managed to get into the saddle on the third try.

  She rode away from the river and circled around, turning back toward the docks several streets over. This time, she found the open square. The green seemed deserted except for the slumped figure still tied to the post and a single sentry sitting beside a campfire.

  Leaving the horse tied to a tree, she tucked the pistol under her cape and strolled to the edge of the firelight. As soon as he caught sight of her, the redcoat leaped to his feet and pointed his musket at her.

  “Halt!” he cried. “Who goes there?”

  “‘Tis only Molly McCarthy,” she said, in her broadest Irish accent. “Don’t shoot me, sir, I beg o’ ye. I only wanted to see the red man fer meself.” She flashed him her biggest smile. “Sure’n a brawny captain, such as yerself, can’t be afraid of a defenseless colleen.”

  “I’m hardly a captain,” he corrected. “There was a sergeant here, but he went to wet his whistle and left me with the prisoner.” He looked around. “Are you alone, woman?”

  She laughed. “Not now, I’m hopin’.”

  He relaxed and lowered his musket. “What are you doing wandering the streets at night?” He scowled at her. “You look too pretty to be a tavern slut, and that’s a fact.”

  “I should hope I’m not. I’m a good girl, I am. I just works nights is all. Me da is a fish dealer. We have to get up early. Folks want their fish at daybreak.”

  “Come closer, fish girl, and let me get a look at you.”

  “After what you called me?”

  “Want to see the Indian, do you?”

  “Aye.” She let her skirts sway, just a little. “I do.” it

  “He’s a cannibal, they say.”

  “Do tell.” She gave him a long, meaningful look.

  “When they caught him, he’d murdered twenty men single handed. They say he ate their livers and made a jacket of their scalps.”

  “No . . .” Rebecca shivered.

  “Come on, have a glance then. He’s harmless enough now.”

  “Is he dead?”

  “Save the king a bucket of coin if he was, but a healthy man don’t die of no twenty lashes. Fifty now, that’s a different tune. I saw a sergeant . . .”

  Rebecca ignored his rambling. All she could think of was Talon. She tried to keep from trembling as she followed the soldier away from the firelight toward the whipping post. The March night was damp; fingers of mist crept in from the waterfront laden with the smells of ships and foreign cargo. From somewhere off across the water came the shrill note of a boatswain’s pipe.

  Four paces away from the stake, Rebecca could stand the tension no longer. She whipped the heavy flintlock pistol out from under her cape and used both hands to ease the hammer back. The ominous click was impossible to mistake.

  “What the hell—” the sentry cried.

  She jammed the muzzle against his spine. “Not a sound,” she said. “Not unless you wa
nt to spend the rest of your life crawling on your belly. Untie the prisoner.”

  “I can’t—”

  She jabbed him harder. “I mean it, English. I’m an Irish rebel who’s already killed more redcoats than Willy Brennan. I’ll shoot as quick as I would a rat. I swear, I will.”

  “Woman . . . don’t do this. That red man’s dangerous. If I—”

  “One more word out of you and they’ll send both halves of you back to England in a pickle barrel,” she threatened. “Talon?”

  “Yuho.”

  Yes. She was breathless with fear, but the sound of his voice made her want to shout with joy. He was hurt badly, she could tell. But he was strong enough to do what had to be done. “Can you walk if this soldier unties you?” she whispered.

  “If you cut the rope, this one can walk on water.”

  “I don’t think we want to cut it,” she said. “We’ll find better use for it.” She dug the pistol into the soldier’s back again. “Untie the prisoner. Don’t make a sound and you may live through this.”

  “I’ll be court-martialed.”

  “Better that than claiming six feet of Pennsylvania graveyard. Do it!”

  Talon groaned and nearly fell to his knees when the ropes came loose. She wanted to catch him, but she didn’t dare take the pistol away from the redcoat’s back.

  “Talon?”

  “My muscles are just stiff,” he replied hoarsely.

  She bit her lower lip as she watched him pull himself erect and step away from the post. After so many hours with his arms over his head, she could imagine the effort it cost him to keep from screaming with pain.

  “Tie him in my place,” Talon said.

  “Get over there,” she ordered the sentry. He obeyed without another word.

  Talon’s wrists were still manacled, but working together, they managed to tie the soldier to the stake. She handed the pistol to Talon and tore off a section of the soldier’s shirt to gag him.

  Taking his musket, powder horn, and cartridge pouch, Rebecca led the way through the darkness to the spot where she’d left the gelding. “I have only one horse for us both,” she said. “Two would have been better, but I was—”