“Yes, sir!” Johnny said, grinning. Clambering aboard the mare by way of the stirrup leathers, with a little help from Annabelle to keep him from kicking her, he was ready in mere moments.
Charles kept one eye on the mare and the other on the kitchen door while Annabelle slipped her feet into the stirrups and arranged her skirts for modesty.
As he turned to mount the other horse he froze. Heard a distant shout. Then another.
The hair prickled at his nape, his instincts keen.
“Go!” he shouted to her and the boy. “Now!”
Johnny was expertly wheeling the mare to face the stable exit. The normally docile animal had apparently sensed everyone’s high anxiety because she was prancing and side stepping.
Angry-sounding raised voices came closer and closer.
“Kick her,” Charles commanded, hoping Annabelle would understand because the boy’s heels were hanging too high to have much effect through the saddle leather.
Doors banged. Shadows loomed closer. Man-size shadows.
Charles was out of options. Shouting, “Hang on!” he slapped the mare on the rump with the ends of his own reins. She leaped forward and cleared the doorway before breaking into a canter.
At first, he feared the horse’s rapid acceleration might unseat Annabelle but she leaned forward to successfully make the transition to a breakneck pace. Arching over Johnny she looked far more capable than she had until then.
Charles barely had time to thank the good Lord before he heard a shot and ducked.
There was no time to flee. The crowd was nearly upon him.
* * *
Frantic, Annabelle clung to the child and hoped to shield him with her own body if need be. She didn’t know where they were headed, nor did she care, except for the fact that Charles had not followed.
“We have to wait for your uncle,” she yelled to Johnny.
“He will come.”
She had serious doubts, particularly because she had caught a glimpse of the mob approaching the carriage house. John Eaton’s valet, Adams, led a pack of armed men who were in a clearly agitated state. That made them dangerous. So did being part of a cadre with a single goal—to thwart their escape. How could Charles, or any man, hope to prevail against such numbers?
“No!” Annabelle insisted. “We have to help him.”
Still, Johnny did not rein the horse in or make any attempt to turn it. Annabelle was at a loss as to what was best. If she tried to wrest the reins from the boy they might both be unseated.
As it was, she kept bouncing from one side of the slick saddle to the other. Her feet in the stirrups were the only things that kept her from slipping all the way off.
That, and Johnny’s uncanny balance. He had no foothold, no handhold, yet he was in such unity with the galloping animal they moved as one.
Finally, still on the south side of the Capitol complex, he allowed the mare to slow to a walk, much to Annabelle’s relief. She straightened, stretched cautiously and felt the taut muscles of her back spasm.
“Thank you for slowing down,” she said with a sigh. “I didn’t know how much longer I could hang on.”
“We rest the horse. She will need her strength.”
“How do you know? Where are we going? How will your uncle find us?” If she’d had a handkerchief in hand she would have worried it.
“He has told me what to do. Take you across the river.”
“How? The Potomac is deep and wide. This horse can’t possibly swim that far with both of us on her back.”
“I know.”
His replies were so stoic and brief she wanted to scream in frustration.
“Then we should wait for Charles.”
“He will come.”
“Don’t keep saying that. No one but God can see the future.”
“I know Tsali. He will come.”
“Charlie? Charles? Is that how it sounds in Cherokee?”
The boy nodded. Turning down a side street that led south he slowed the mare even more.
Many of the houses they were now passing were tiny shacks, clustered on dirt lots overgrown with grass and weeds. Little smoke rose from morning cooking fires and the windows were nothing but gaps in the walls rather than being glassed the way the Eaton homes had always been.
Cur dogs yapped as she and the child rode past. If someone had asked her to describe the city before today, she would have told them that such poverty did not exist in Washington.
One thing, however, was familiar—the smell of the river and its environs. They must be getting near a section of the Potomac. Therefore, they were also close to being trapped between whoever might come after them and the cold, rushing waters.
Annabelle shivered at the thought. Patting the bag of coins to make sure it was still deep in her skirt pocket, she felt bereft.
What good was a sack full of money if the person you cherished the most in all the world was lost to you?
Chapter Nine
The first man who had lunged at Charles fell with a blow to his chin. Adams kept yelling instructions to the others, trying to make himself heard above the cacophony of shouting, while John Eaton lagged behind and kept his distance, obviously willing to let others fight his battles for him.
Charles had been in challenging altercations and had triumphed handily. This time was different. He was outnumbered six or seven to one. His situation was not impossible but success was far from guaranteed.
One at a time. Easy does it, he told himself. As long as they came at him singly or even in twos he figured he’d be able to hold his own.
Suddenly, the sleeve of his coat was slashed, the knife wielded by a small, wiry man he had not noticed before the cut.
Charles could have countered with the blade he had taken from the dead man at the river but chose not to. If no one else died here, there was less chance that he and his little group would be pursued as avidly. Above all, he must see that no harm came to John Eaton if he hoped to keep President Jackson from being drawn into the conflict more than he already was.
Adams raised a silver-headed cane and brought it down across the forearm of the knife-wielder with a crack. The man shrieked. The weapon fell to the straw-strewn ground.
Astonished, Charles hesitated. Met the valet’s hard gaze. Saw...what? Compassion?
“There will be no killing today,” Adams said, his voice pitched so low it was almost inaudible. He eyed the remaining saddled horse. “Go. Keep her safe.”
Charles needed no engraved invitation. Nor was he too surprised to hear the elderly valet allude to Annabelle. She might not think she had friends within the Eaton household but she obviously had at least one besides the cook.
Without bothering to foot a stirrup, the Cherokee swung aboard the sturdy chestnut gelding and gave it a hard kick.
Men scattered. Yelled. Menaced. The horse never faltered. It charged out the open doorway and down the drive, its shod hooves clattering on gravel.
Another shot echoed.
Charles ducked, clinging close to the horse’s neck, but not enough to keep a bullet from clipping his hat and sending it flying as he reached New York Avenue.
Shouting blended into an undecipherable din behind him.
In the street, freight wagon teamsters fought to control mules frightened by the melee.
Cabbies laid whips to their horses’ backs and sped away, out of danger.
Charles became one with his galloping mount. He knew Johnny would do his best to get Annabelle to the river and find a way across, as he’d instructed. He just wondered how long it was going to take him to track them down and how much time he’d have to search before Eaton organized a real posse and started in pursuit.
In his mind he could still see Annabelle as she rode away. Ben
eath the ethereal beauty that had originally caught his eye lay a heart of pure courage. Of kindness and gentleness supported with the solid strength of an oak. No matter how many times she was disappointed she rose to her feet and stood tall.
In missionary school he had been taught to know and love a Christian God, as did Annabelle. Their childhoods and customs had differed, yet their faith provided a tie that was unbreakable. She might not have an earthly father. Neither did he. But they shared a heavenly one.
Charles prayed continually as he rode out of the city. And while he was at it, he realized he needed to thank God for turning a terrible situation into a chance to save an innocent young woman. Might there be more to the seemingly divine plan? Perhaps. Time would tell. First, he had to find her again.
* * *
The sun was rising, casting light on the moving river water and making it shimmer.
“I don’t understand,” Annabelle said as she leaned forward to whisper to the boy who shared the saddle. “What are we doing down here with all these farm animals?”
A raised hand signal was all the reply she got before he pulled a coin from his breeches pocket and urged the horse forward.
Annabelle did not care for the party they were approaching, nor was she certain doing so was wise. If Johnny had not seemed so sure of himself she might have put up an argument.
Johnny displayed the coin prominently. “This. To cross with you,” he said to a burly, nearly toothless man who was standing beside a ramp leading to a moored transport barge.
The riverman guffawed. “Now why would a lovely lady want to keep company with the likes of these critters?” He gestured toward a small herd of cattle milling nervously on the barge’s rear deck.
“Do we cross with you or do we find another boat?” Johnny asked flatly.
Annabelle’s mouth was dry, her palms damp. The Indian child sounded so competent and so in charge, she was awed.
“Eh, I guess you can come aboard,” the man agreed with a shrug. “But you’re on yer own with them cows. If they shove yer horse into the water, I ain’t fishin’ nobody out.”
“Agreed.” Johnny tossed the coin and the boatman caught it deftly. “How soon do we leave?”
“Soon as my men get that last muley cow to take the ramp. You can follow her on. Don’t be slow or we’ll cast off without ya.”
Annabelle could barely speak. She cupped her hand to mute words meant only for the boy’s ears. “We’re going across on that contraption? Why don’t we just stay here and wait for your uncle?”
“Because he told me to do this,” Johnny countered.
“To take this boat?” She was incredulous.
“No. Join a large party and cross quickly. He will meet us in Virginia.”
“But how will he find us? Where will we go?” The momentary look of confusion and indecision on the Indian boy’s face was fleeting. But she had seen it. That was not a good sign.
“You haven’t really talked about this with Charles, have you?”
Johnny’s nod was sure. “He said to go north, then stay near the river. When I saw a party about to cross with livestock, I was to join it.”
“He told you to ride a cattle boat?”
“If you were the law, where would you look for a runaway lady like you?”
“On a passenger ferry. You’re absolutely right.” Sighing, she scooted back in preparation for dismounting.
“You stay on the horse, Miss Annabelle,” Johnny said. “I will lead it up the ramp. You will be safe with me.”
“I believe you,” she said. “I just wish...”
“You wish to see my uncle again. You will. Soon. He will come to us.”
“How can you be so positive?”
“Because he gave his word,” the child said with a quirk of a smile as he swung a leg over the mare’s mane and slid effortlessly from the saddle. “He is Cherokee. He will come.”
* * *
Charles wasn’t sure how difficult it would be for Eaton to muster a cadre of troops and give chase but he didn’t imagine it would take long.
He slowed Eaton’s big chestnut gelding to an easy lope and left New York Avenue. Johnny was a good rider and an even better student. All Charles had to do was follow his own instructions and he’d overtake Annabelle and the boy soon.
Worries about success became another fervent prayer. “Father in Heaven, help me find them? Guide and direct me? Please?”
There was regular boat traffic across the east branch of the Potomac. The best place to hide an animal the size of a horse was among other large animals, he’d reasoned, which was why he had instructed the boy to cross on a flatboat that was also transporting livestock.
Given those parameters, choices were thankfully limited. Smaller craft were anchored to the riverbanks by stout ropes while white, brown and black laborers unloaded all manner of supplies intended for the growing city.
Charles shaded his eyes, scanning the bank and bobbing boats, then checking behind him to make sure he had not been followed. Helping Annabelle get away would be for naught if he led the authorities straight to her.
Yes, she was innocent. And, yes, she should have been able to remain in Washington and eventually obtain justice, as should he. But they could trust no one. More factions than they dreamed of were probably at play behind the scenes. Margaret Eaton was simply the only one they had unmasked, thus far.
Ahead, near a bend in the river, a large flatboat was leaving the shore. Its side sweeps were extended like oars and there were two stout figures manning the rear tiller to counter the sideways push of the current.
Charles stood in his stirrups. Eaton’s gray mare was aboard! He wanted to wave and shout and celebrate but held his emotions in check.
“God’s speed, dear lady,” he whispered. “Are you watching? Can you see me?”
As if answering, the slim rider aboard the mare raised an arm and waved.
In seconds, Johnny was clambering up onto the low rail that enclosed the milling herd and waving both arms. The actions were so wildly exuberant they almost caused the boy to tumble overboard.
Laughing to himself and praising the Lord, Charles reined his horse and started to follow along the bank. Now that he knew they were safe, he could take his time finding his own way across the river.
And in the meantime, he’d watch their crossing and continue to give thanks.
* * *
“We need to go back,” Annabelle told the oarsman they had paid for transport.
His cynical chuckle was not comforting in the least. “You must be daft, woman. Once the boat is in the current there’s only one way she can go.”
“Then how do you get back across?” It seemed like a sensible question so she was dumbfounded when he guffawed even louder.
“We drag her upstream and start from there,” he explained. “Now go back where you belong and let me do my job so’s I don’t get in trouble with the boss. I don’t wanna fling you in the drink to shut you up but I will if I have to.”
Annabelle believed him. Passing beneath a narrow staircase that led to the roof of the cabin in the center of the rectangular barge, she returned to Johnny.
He was holding the mare’s reins and comforting it.
“Is she still trembling?” Annabelle asked.
“Not so much now. I told her that a boat is nothing to be scared of.” He began to grin. “I said a horse like her should be braver than any old waga.”
“I take it that means cow?”
He nodded with obvious delight. “You speak Cherokee.”
“I’m just a good guesser.” Annabelle grinned. Now that they had seen Charles was alive and well—and knew they were safely on their way to Virginia—she felt a lot more like smiling.
“The man won’t turn back?�
� the boy asked.
“No.” Annabelle sobered. “He says they can’t.”
“Did you offer a bribe?”
“I never even thought of it,” she admitted ruefully. “It wouldn’t have done any good. He told me they have to start farther up river to get back to the place where we saw your uncle.”
Johnny laid his small hand on hers. “It will be fine, Miss Annabelle. Tsali will cross and meet us.”
She peered back at the last place she had seen the handsome Cherokee, hoping for one final moment of connection.
Instead, she saw a group of mounted men sweeping along the grassy banks at full gallop.
Their progress led her gaze to the right. To the evident object of their mad dash.
Charles was at least seventy-five yards ahead of them, bending low in the saddle and whipping the gelding with the ends of the reins, asking it for more speed.
The others were not gaining on him. Not yet, anyway. But how long could the horse keep up such a feverish pace? And how could Charles hope to find a way across the river to join them when he was running for his life?
* * *
He had seen the first riders top the ridge and pause there. That hesitation had given him a head start. Unfortunately, his rapid departure had also made him stand out from the rest of the individuals doing business along the river and had marked him as their quarry.
Shouts of “There he goes. Get him!” rose above the normal din.
No one had taken a shot at him yet but he had no doubt they soon would, even though the chances of hitting anything at that distance, particularly from astride a galloping horse, were slim.
He considered abandoning the stalwart gelding, and might have done so already, if Annabelle’s possessions had not been tied to its saddle. She must value her personal belongings or she would not have bothered to pack them.
His eyes caught an anomaly in the terrain and his heart leaped. “Aha. Thank the Lord!”
Veering suddenly onto a barely discernible trail, he disappeared into a copse of trees.
Her Cherokee Groom Page 9