Broken Pledge

by Marti Talbott

  “Who’s there?” Rodes shouted, his eyes wide and his candle threatening to fall out of the holder. The tinkling stopped, but no one answered. With a pounding heart, he cautiously stepped back out of the foyer. He checked to be sure the door to the ballroom was locked. It was. So was the door on the other side, which led to a large sitting room. Finally convinced the ringing had come from somewhere above, he carefully crept back up the first flight of stairs.

  At the first landing, he turned right. The door to the gallery was still closed. Nevertheless, he slowly turned the knob, eased the creaking door open and held the candle up. The room smelled of dust, and the paintings on the walls were askew. Tables and chairs were overturned, and the stuffing from slashed cushions remained strewn across the carpet just as before. But no new footprints had disturbed the years of dust.

  Suddenly, in the music room across the landing, someone played the lowest note on the piano. Instantly, Rodes scurried up the remaining flights of stairs, burst into his bedchamber and started to close the door. Then his heart stopped.

  “Hello, Thomas,” Gideon said. He held a loaded musket with his finger heavy on the trigger, and the barrel was aimed squarely at Rodes’ chest.

  “Gideon?”

  From behind the door, John stepped out and quickly relieved Rodes of his pistol. “I’ll have that,” he said.

  His eyes glued to Gideon’s, Rodes did not resist. Instead, he stood motionless with one empty hand out as if still holding the gun and the other yet holding the candle.

  “I’ve come to kill you, Thomas,” said Gideon.

  John casually walked to the bed, leaned down and slid the pistol across the floor under the frame. “Nonsense, an easy death is too good for the man. Besides, he’s not yet had a fair hearing. Perhaps he can explain selling a friend into slavery.”

  “I doubt that,” Gideon said, his thunderous voice filling the long, unkempt room. Articles of clothing lay haphazardly across chairs, a half-eaten meal sat rotting on a table, and newspapers in careless piles cluttered the floor.

  “I tend to agree,” John said, taking the candlestick out of Rodes’ trembling hand and then using it to light two candelabra on the wall near the bed. “Still, we should give the man a chance. Perhaps it was merely a joke.”

  John crossed the room, walked out the door and handed the candle to someone Thomas couldn’t see. “How many of you are there?” Rodes asked, his voice trembling.

  “More than enough,” John answered, glancing down at his captive’s bare legs. “I say, Thomas, you’re turning blue. You’d best return to the warmth of your bed.”

  Rodes did not move. “Who are you?”

  “I’ve come to represent you,” John answered, moving one, then another well-worn chair closer to the bed. “At times such as these, wise counsel can be invaluable. Come, come, Thomas, into bed with you. We’ve a long night ahead.”

  KENTUCKY

  He hadn’t moved for so long, snow had accumulated on his hair. His feet were becoming numb and his fingertips felt painful. Still, Laughing Rain did not leave the tree stump where he sat, or take his eyes from the faint smoke coming from the Lewis chimney. His mind churned with childhood memories of a smallpox epidemic. With too many dead for a proper Cherokee burial, bodies of aunts, uncles, cousins, and siblings, had been burned. It was a cruel, horrifying end to vibrant, happy lives.

  Then something jarred his mind. Behind him, he could hear the sound of footsteps packing the snow. “Spots,” Laughing Rain said, not bothering to turn around.

  Jacque La Rue instantly stopped. “But monsieur, I must warn the others.” He quickly backed away, turned and ran up the lane. Muttering in French, he mounted his waiting horse and set out for Harrodstown.

  “Did you find Polly?” Laughing Rain shouted. But La Rue had already gone.

  ENGLAND

  “I say we kill him and be done with it,” Gideon said, refusing to take a seat even after Thomas climbed back into bed.

  “For pity sakes, Gideon, we’ve yet to hear his explanation. Perhaps he has seen the error of his treachery and thinks to compensate you,” John added a log to the fire in the hearth and then he paused for a moment to run his finger over the magnificent hand-carved stone mantel.

  “I have not come for compensation, I’ve come for revenge,” Gideon shot back. “I will cut out his cold heart, blind his unseeing eyes, and impale his lying tongue.”

  “Must you be so vivid? Shoot the man yes, but impale his tongue? Do calm yourself, Gideon, and sit down. I want to hear what the man has to say.” John waited until Gideon reluctantly took a seat next to the bed.

  “There. Now, where shall we begin?” he went on, sitting down in the other chair. “I’ve got it. Tell Thomas what became of you after he sold you into slavery. And please, leave nothing out.”

  URIAH HAD TAKEN THE candle John handed him outside Thomas’ bedchamber and led MacGreagor back down the stairs to the gallery. The dark, musty room covered the full length of the house, and the candle cast spooky shadows against the dirty walls. Hurriedly at first, Uriah made his way through the carnage until he found the empty wall where the portrait of Elizabeth’s father had been. Beside it hung the one of Mary and Elizabeth’s mother. He nodded slightly, and then moved on. Slowing his pace, he stepped around the rubbish until he came to the next painting. He paused, lifted the candle and shook his head. Three portraits later, he came to an abrupt halt.

  “What the bloody hell?”

  “What?” MacGreagor asked, nearly bumping into him.

  “It’s gone. He’s taken away the one of my father,” Uriah answered, holding the candle higher. Drawing in a long breath, he slowly turned to face the opposite direction. As if expecting him, Mahala’s eyes were kind and her smile was warm. “Mama,” Uriah whispered.

  MacGreagor shoved an overturned chair out of the way and moved closer. “She’ll not fit in the carriage.”

  “We’ll make her fit. I’ll carry her on my back, if need be, but Mahala goes home with us.”

  EVEN WITH A STRONG fire in the hearth, drab furniture, and rotting drapes in Thomas Rodes’ bedchamber, made the place feel cold and dank. For nearly an hour, John watched his captive’s face as Gideon recounted the horrors of being held captive aboard a tall ship, and then enslaved in America. Thomas Rodes exhibited no hint of dread, no wince of horror and no flicker of remorse. Greatly disturbed, John walked to a window and stared into the night. Not until Gideon finished did John look back and notice that Rodes was watching him.

  “I should kill you myself,” John said.

  “THERE, YOU SEE, IT fit perfectly,” Uriah said, closing the door on his side of the carriage.

  “Aye, as long as the streets be wide enough,” MacGreagor grumbled and then followed Uriah back to the house. Behind him, Mahala’s portrait protruded a full two feet out the other side.

  JOHN’S ARMS WERE FOLDED and his tone was accusing. “Well, what do you have to say for yourself, Thomas?”

  At length, Rodes wrinkled his brow. “Are you Christopher?” Then he thoughtfully looked down. “No, that cannot be, Christopher is older than I am.”

  Disgusted, John turned back to once more gaze out the window. “I hear you’ve dug up the place. Tell me, have you found the treasure?” He waited, but Rodes did not answer. “Do you know, Thomas, how they laugh at you in Shrewsbury? They say you’ve gone mad, that your wits lie in the bottom of a bottle and that the treasure you dig for is only in your mind.”

  Thomas Rodes wasn’t listening. He stared instead beyond John—at something on the far wall.

  “But they are wrong,” John went on.

  At last, Rodes came alert. Returning his gaze to John, his eyes brightened and his pursed lips parted. “They are?”

  “Aye. It has been said that a man standing tall in this very window can easily see the hiding place. And what I see, Thomas, is the carriage house. Tell me, did you think to look beneath the cobblestones in the carriage house?”

  Somewhere d
ownstairs, the service bell sounded again. Without another word, John and Gideon walked to the door and left the room.

  “Wait!” Thomas shouted. He started to throw back the covers, and then hesitated. He listened to the sounds of multiple footsteps going down the stone stairs, heard the front door open and then felt the shutter of the house as it slammed shut. He continued to listen as a team of horses pulled a carriage away from the house and waited still longer until there was nothing left but the sound of his own breathing.

  Thomas Rodes was alone. Slowly, he lifted his eyes and looked beyond the tired chest of drawers, the tattered books in the bookcase, and the closet filled with rotting clothes. There, on the far wall of the master bedchamber, hung the portrait of Sir Jonathan Samuel Rodes, Uriah’s father.

  IT WAS NEARLY DAWN before Thomas lifted the covers, slipped out of bed and dressed. With the rising sun illuminating his way, he went to the study for pen and paper. Then he walked from room to room, noted the objects taken, examined the footprints in the dust, and thoughtfully rubbed his chin. Then he set the pen and paper down and headed to the carriage house.

  The warped, double doors stood wide open. He walked inside, paused near the back of the old, dilapidated carriage, and slowly lifted his eyes upward. There, near the center of a rafter, hung the frayed end of a hangman’s noose. Forcing himself to look away, he scanned the remainder of the room until he found what he was looking for. Just beyond a pile of saddles and bridles, cobblestones had been removed and someone had dug a hole. The hole was empty.

  NEAR MIDNIGHT, AND as soon as MacGreagor and the others returned, the seamen raised the sails allowing the wind to snap them taut. They quietly steered the tall ship out of the bay and headed away from the coast of Great Britain. By noon, the land mass had become small, and it would soon sink beneath the horizon.

  “...therefore, you are a free man,” John was saying to Gideon, who sat across from him at the round table in MacGreagor’s cabin.

  “But Massah, I’s not wanna be free.”

  “Too late,” John said, holding his plate steady against the rocking of the ship. “You have set foot on British soil, and by law, you are free. And I’ll thank you to stop calling me Master.”

  Gideon flashed a childish grin as he broke off half a loaf of bread, then handed the basket to Uriah. “But Massah, I’s like be’n a Carson slave.”

  “Only because you eat so well,” John said.

  “And who’d be blame’n a man for that.” MacGreagor put in, helping himself to an apple and a chunk of cheese.

  “Gideon, Hester would want you to stay in England. Don’t you desire a peaceful life?”

  “There can be no peace for me until my people are free. How can I sip wine while Africans wear chains, enjoy a warm bath while they feel the whip, or hold a woman in my arms while their wives and children are sold away? In the end, I would hate myself.”

  “But what do you think to do? You are only one man,” John asked.

  “True, but daily our numbers increase. By their own hand, they multiply us. How long can it be until we are thirty, forty, or fifty to one?”

  “My good man, you cannot mean rebellion. The Africans are unarmed,” John said. “And even if they had proper weapons, the Empire is too vast. The whites would rise up and slaughter the Africans.”

  Gideon took a bite of bread and stared at his plate. “You’re right, of course. Still, there must be something I can do.”

  “Best eat hearty, gents,” MacGreagor said. “Fresh food lasts but a short time at sea.”

  John watched the torment on Gideon’s face and then turned to look at his father. “Papa, you are uncommonly quiet. Have you no complaints...or are you unwell?”

  “I simply can make no sense of it,” Uriah answered, setting his fork down and folding his arms.

  “Of what?”

  “He’s not changed a thing in forty years. Nothing is missing, leastwise nothing I can think of. True, he turned the place over in search of the jewels, but...”

  “Do you mean everything is just as you remember it?” John interrupted.

  “Aye.” Uriah stood up and walked to the window in the stern of the ship. Slowly, he turned back. “My father’s riding boots, his gaming cards, and all his books, are just as he left them. His spectacles are yet on his desk in the study. My mother’s ball gowns still hang in her closet. Her perfume is on her dressing table, her jewels remain in their box and...”

  “Yes, go on.”

  “Her hair is yet in her comb,” Uriah’s words hung in the air for a long moment. “And there is more. In the bedchamber I shared with Caleb, Thomas piled everything on the bed. Yet he’s discarded nothing. And throughout the house, there are cups ungathered, beds unmade, and a thickness of dust it must have taken the whole forty years to collect. And more astounding still, there is one room he’s not even searched.”

  “Which?” John asked.

  “Mary and Elizabeth’s bedchamber. Elizabeth’s doll is face down in the chair just as I remembered it.”

  “But why?” John asked. “Why not search their room?”

  “Why indeed? Gideon, did not you say the man was impoverished?”

  “So he claimed,” answered Gideon.

  “Why then, has he sold nothing? There are silver candlesticks in every room, pearls, rubies and diamonds in my mother’s jewelry box, and fine works of art hanging everywhere.”

  “He’s lost his wits,” MacGreagor muttered.

  Uriah calmly returned to his seat. “And both his parents before him? No, there is something more. MacGreagor, turn the ship.”

  “Aye,” MacGreagor answered, starting to get up.

  “Papa, you cannot mean that. We cannot go back.”

  “And why not?”

  “Because we have breached a man’s house, threatened his life, and stolen his property,” Gideon answered.

  Uriah narrowed his eyes and glared at his son. “Might I remind you, it is my house and my property!"

  “Not according to British law,” John reminded him.

  “He’s right,” MacGreagor said, sitting back down.

  “Just sail away, you mean? Go to my death without understanding this madness?”

  John snickered and shook his head. “Papa, I hardly think you’ll go to your death anytime soon.”

  “Are ye not a wee bit curious, though?” MacGreagor asked.

  “Of course,” said John. “But we simply cannot go back. By now the man’s alerted every sheriff in a hundred miles.”

  Gideon swallowed his last bite of bread and reached for more. “Can you not simply ask him, in a post I mean? He already knows where you reside.”

  “Aye, but would he give an honest answer?” John asked.

  Uriah brought a hand up and thoughtfully rubbed his brow. “I’ve got it, I’ll pay the taxes on the property.”

  “Whatever for?” John asked.

  “To free up his allowance,” Uriah answered, a slow grin crossing his face.

  Gideon began to smile as well, “So he’ll come to us in America?”

  “Precisely. After all, he thinks we’ve taken his jewels.”

  “Oh, splendid,” John said. “We invite a madman to meet the family. Suppose he is dangerous?”

  It was Gideon who spoke up, “Thomas Rodes is a coward and anything but dangerous. Besides, he will not risk annoying me.”

  “I’m not so sure,” John put in. “He did not seem to care if he lived or died.”

  “Aye, but that was before he knew the jewels truly existed,” Gideon said. “If I know Thomas Rodes, he’ll be more than pleased to trade jewels for answers—and truthful ones at that.”

  KENTUCKY

  Ten-year old Jesse Lewis sat down on the bed and gently touched her father’s arm. “Please wake up,” she said softly. But Ezekiel did not stir. She leaned closer and raised her pleading voice. “Please wake up. Laughing Rain stayed nearly a week, but he left and we need thee.”

  His spots fading, his fev
er gone and his mind at last clearing, Ezekiel slowly forced his eyes open. Just behind Jesse, five-year old Melba and fourteen-year old Israel stood watching. At length, he took his eyes off the children and looked around. A warm fire burned in the hearth, dishes were washed, beds were made, and soup simmered in the Dutch oven.

  “How many?” Ezekiel asked finally.

  Israel bowed his head. “All but we,” he answered.

  Ezekiel’s eyes suddenly filled with tears. He turned away and began to weep.

  “Israel found the cow,” Melba said, climbing on the bed, and then throwing her little arms around her father.

  “And five chickens,” Israel added.

  “Mister La Rue came,” Jesse said. “The cow went dry so he left milk, fresh butter, salt, and flour. Don’t cry, Papa, please don’t cry.”

  THE SNOW HAD MELTED and the March air was almost tolerable when Laughing Rain made his way through the dense forest. He found the place where the warrior’s path crossed the Kentucky River, gathered wood and then built a fire on a large sandbar. Unloading his supplies, he set his horse free, gathered more wood and made a warm bed near the fire. Next, he filled a whiskey jug with water and carved a notch in a nearby tree so he could keep track of the days. Then he stripped off his trapper clothing, waded into the frigid river, took a deep breath, and submerged. For several long, agonizing moments, he held his head under until at last, he raced back to the warm fire, quickly dressed, and wrapped himself in a blanket. After a while, Laughing Rain drew a second blanket around him, folded his arms, and began the long wait for the spots.

  VIRGINIA, 1786

  Home at last, John grabbed a wicker basket and followed Rose into Mahala’s garden. “...and we encountered three storms of such greatness, even MacGreagor confessed to a retching stomach. In calm seas, MacGreagor played cards with us and shamelessly won nearly every hand. Gideon found it challenging and tried the entire voyage to beat him, but he and I always lost, and Papa only outwitted him twice.”