Seneca Surrender (Berkley Sensation)

by Gen Bailey

  “Aye, you could be right.”

  “He has been under house arrest since he made that confession, and I daresay he’ll remain that way until his trial, and ’tis Albany’s own constable who be here with him tonight.”

  “The constable is here?”

  “Aye, that he is.”

  “But Miss Marisa is not?”

  “No. She left with that Indian gent who saved her.”

  “Is she truly well? She is not harmed?”

  “The last time I saw the girl, she was well . . . and happy.”

  “And Thompson? You say that Black Eagle killed him? ”

  “Aye, lass. He was kilt dead, right here in this very house. He tried to kill Miss Marisa. But her Indian lad took care of Mr. Thompson, and like ye, I say, good riddance.”

  Sarah nodded. “He did deserve it, Mrs. Stanton. He tried to kill Miss Marisa while we were en route to New Hampshire. Had it not been for that same Indian gentleman, she might not have survived. Me neither.”

  Mrs. Stanton nodded. “’Tis true, what ye say. But come now, ye look like ye’ve been through the gates of hell and back. Ye and yer friend are welcome here in me kitchen for as long as ye wish to stay. Sit. Eat.”

  Sarah did as ordered. Indeed, she didn’t think she could have stood to her feet at the moment had she tried. It was as though she had been delivered one shock after another.

  True, she had suspected that Rathburn was responsible for the deaths of her parents. But it was one thing to suspect it, another to be confronted with the reality of it.

  Still, good manners came to the fore, and with all the well-said thank-yous, Sarah picked up a spoon and forced herself to eat.

  In due time, however, noticing that Mrs. Stanton was hovering near her, Sarah asked, “Did Miss Marisa say where she was going?”

  “Nay, lass, she dinna.”

  “I suppose I’ll have to see Mr. Rathburn so as to obtain his approval to go and find her, since she is still in my charge.”

  “Lass, dinna ye hear?”

  “Hear what?”

  “When Miss Marisa made that evil man write a confession sayin’ how he’d destroyed that Dutch colony, she also forced him to confess that he had no right to keep you in servitude. Before she left, she not only told me so, she showed me the confession.”

  “She did what?”Sarah came up out of her chair.

  “Yer free, lass. Yer free of him.”

  With a clatter, Sarah dropped her spoon onto the floor. She stood dumbfounded. She was free? As easy as that? There would be no court of law to pronounce her a fugitive from justice? No master to appease? It was over?

  Turning her glance onto Mrs. Stanton, she asked, “You’re certain, Mrs. Stanton?”

  “I be certain. But don’t ye take me own word fer it. Constable Phelps is here. Go and ask him yerself.”

  “I will, Mrs. Stanton. I will. But not tonight. For now, I need to sit and try to assimilate all that you’ve told me. For much has changed since I was last here.”

  “That it has, lass. That it has.”

  Since Marisa wasn’t in residence at the Rathburn estate at present, and Sarah was apparently her own free person now, there seemed to be no reason for her and White Thunder to stay. Eventually they bid Mrs. Stanton farewell, and stepped back into the darkness of the night.

  Sarah barely knew what to do with herself. For fifteen years, she had lived under the yoke of servitude. It had become a way of life for her. Now what was she to do?

  She must have asked the question aloud, for White Thunder suggested, “Stay with me. Become my wife.”

  “Yes,” she said, although her attention seemed scattered. She simply didn’t know how to take it all in.

  “Then you will become my wife? Stay with me? Live with me?”

  “Yes,” said Sarah, this time with more passion. “I would like that very much.”

  White Thunder smiled at her before he turned away to take the lead. Happily, they made their way back into the woods.

  Twenty-five

  “He is here.”

  It was Wild Mint. She stood before them in physical form, blocking their path, although Sarah had to admit that Wild Mint’s body substance was weak and filmy, as though one could easily put their hand through her . . . if they dared.

  “The man who killed me as well as our child, is here.”

  “Who is he?” asked White Thunder, looking and acting as if seeing Wild Mint in this way were most common and ordinary.

  “John Rathburn. I would recognize him anywhere. It is he, the one you have been searching for all these years. I thank you, Miss Sarah, for bringing my husband here, and I thank you for all you have done to help him. But now justice must be done.”

  No, it couldn’t be. How could this happen when everything seemed so right only moments ago?

  Sarah despaired. There for a while, her world had been a happy, wonderful place. But no more.

  “I will kill him,” said White Thunder, and no sooner had he said it than he turned to retrace his steps to the Rathburn residence.

  However, coming out of her temporary distraughtness, Sarah caught up with him. She said, “And if you do that, you will be hanged, Mr. Thunder. I realize ’tis not an easy thing to give up, seeing that you have searched for this man for fifteen years. But if you kill him now—tonight, and in cold blood—the townspeople will hang you.”

  “Interfere no longer,” said Wild Mint.

  “You do not rule my life,” said Sarah, “and you do not rule White Thunder’s either.”

  “He is my husband.”

  “No more,” said Sarah. “You are no longer alive.”

  But their argument was for naught. White Thunder was already striding back toward the residence, and Cook’s door.

  He didn’t even knock. He simply let himself in easily enough, for Cook hadn’t locked the door. Sarah followed, running to catch up with him.

  As soon as she could, she stopped him by plopping herself down in front of his path. Arms held akimbo, she said, “Please, White Thunder, be reasonable. If you kill Rathburn now and in cold blood, you will hang. But if you let justice have its way, he will hang at the end of a rope instead of you, and you will live to have the pleasure of seeing him dead without having to risk your own life.”

  He stopped perfectly still in front of her. He asked, “You would have me be a coward?”

  “I would have you be alive, sir.”

  From out of nowhere Mrs. Stanton came hurrying toward them, adding to the confusion and shouting, “Be there something wrong?”

  “Aye, Mrs. Stanton, there is.” Sarah turned to welcome the woman. “Apparently Mr. Rathburn killed another woman, long ago—fifteen years ago. This man, White Thunder, has sworn to kill the man who destroyed that woman, who was his wife.”

  “Oh, no.”

  What neither Sarah nor Cook had realized, however, was that while they’d been carrying on their conversation, White Thunder had darted away. He was now almost out of sight. Quickly, they caught up to him.

  As soon as they reached him, White Thunder turned toward Mrs. Stanton and asked, “Which room is Rathburn in?”

  Mrs. Stanton didn’t answer. Indeed, Sarah watched as Mrs. Stanton cowered back, away from White Thunder. When it became evident that no answer would be forthcoming, White Thunder addressed Sarah.

  “Do you know which room he is in?”

  “I . . . I don’t.”

  “It is his study,” said Wild Mint, her voice floating above them. “This way.”

  Sarah took note that Mrs. Stanton didn’t even bother to ask who had spoken. Perhaps Mrs. Stanton couldn’t hear her. It made sense, because when White Thunder paced forward to follow Wild Mint, with Sarah running after him, Mrs. Stanton still noticed nothing out of the ordinary.

  At last all three reached the study. But they halted when White Thunder indicated that they should stop and remain perfectly quiet. Tiptoeing forward, Sarah listened at the door,

  “I te
ll ye, she forced me to write the confession at gun-point.”

  “She is but a woman, John. Are you telling me you couldn’t overpower a woman?”

  “Ye saw the Indian with her. He would have kilt me, too, if I hadn’t written it. As it was, ye saw that he kilt Thompson.”

  “It was self-defense.” This was Constable Phelps speaking. “The first moment you stepped into my office, you said this was so yourself. And it’s in the confession.”

  There was a heavy pause. Somewhere in the room, a log from a fire crackled. “I’ll give ye ten thousand pounds if ye’ll look the other way.”

  “Are you trying to bribe me, John?”

  “Nay, never a bribe. Jest an exchange ’tween businessmen.”

  Silence. Sarah couldn’t hear Mr. Phelps reply. But it mattered not at all. White Thunder had learned enough.

  Breaking through the door, he burst into the room. In an overpowering voice, he said, “You, John Rathburn, I accuse you of being the cause of the death of my wife, Wild Mint.”

  Whatever Constable Phelps had been about to say came at once to a close.

  “Who is this Indian and what is he doing in my home? Guards!” Slowly, Rathburn backed up toward his desk.

  But Rathburn had made a mistake. He’d forgotten that he was under house arrest. There were no guards to come to his defense.

  White Thunder stepped closer to Rathburn and said, “Many seasons ago, you dressed yourself as a Huron Indian and invaded a Mohawk village of Onnontogen, where my wife was visiting relatives. There you raped her, cut her child from her belly and then you killed her. For all these seasons I have searched for you. I have dedicated my life to finding you to kill you. Now you will die.”

  “Ye are insane!”

  But White Thunder held his position and commanded, “Why did you do it?”

  “I don’t have to answer any questions from a species so low as an Indian.”

  Both Sarah and Mrs. Stanton gasped.

  White Thunder, however, had planted his feet firmly, and he demanded, “Is that why you did it? You think Indians aren’t human?”

  “I know they are not human. What does it matter who lives and who dies? Indians feel nothing. Besides, they were on me own land.”

  “The Indians who lived there had been on that land for hundreds of years.”

  “’Tis mine, I tell ye. I wanted it. ’Twas mine. A man must do whatever needs being done to make others fear him and drive the squatters off his land, now, doesn’t he? Guards!”

  Again Rathburn seemed to have forgotten the circumstances of his arrest, and sadly the only guards available were the constable and White Thunder himself.

  “Please, White Thunder, no! Can’t you see he’s insane?” It was Sarah speaking.

  “I am not insane!”

  But Sarah ignored him. “Don’t you see, White Thunder? You must let the constable deal with John Rathburn and treat him for the murderer he is. You must understand that if you kill Rathburn now, there are too many witnesses. You will hang. But if you leave it for Mr. Phelps to do, Rathburn will be the one to hang and you will live.”

  “Hush, girl!” shouted Rathburn. “It’s not your place to talk.”

  Sarah, however, continued to ignore him. She said, “Please, White Thunder . . . ”

  It seemed, however, that all she had accomplished with her entreaty was to give White Thunder time to take aim. But Rathburn was nothing if not clever, and he suddenly burst across the room and grabbed hold of Sarah, pulling her in front of him. Worse, he held a pistol in his hand, pointed at her.

  Rathburn said, “Go ahead and shoot, Indian! Yer shot will go through her to me. Do it if you dare.”

  Sarah struggled in Rathburn’s hold. She bit his arm, gaining a yelp from him; she stomped down hard on Rathburn’s foot, but she was wearing only moccasins and she did little damage beyond making him wince.

  Taking aim at her head, he said, “Be still, girl.”

  But Sarah was no coward. If what Rathburn wanted was for her to be still, that was the last thing she would do. Wiggling again, she bit down on his hand and stomped once again on his foot. But still he held her firm, with the gun pointed directly at her.

  Meanwhile, White Thunder had lowered his weapon.

  “If ye don’t be still, girl, I promise ye, I’ll kill ye along with the Indian.”

  But even as he said it, Rathburn had suddenly changed his aim and pointed his pistol at White Thunder.

  BOOM!

  Rathburn’s aim was quick and sure. Plus, it was a small room and they were standing at close range. However, if he’d been intending to put a ball through White Thunder’s head, he missed. The shot caught White Thunder in the shoulder instead.

  For an instant only, Rathburn settled Sarah to one side of him so that he could check the accuracy of his shot.

  Without warning, White Thunder jumped to the right flank of the room, his motion so swift it looked as if he were in two places at once. BOOM! The second shot seemed to come from mid-air.

  There was an instant explosion and smoke was everywhere. John Rathburn’s hold on her tightened, then unexpectedly, he let go. He fell to the floor. White Thunder rushed toward her. Pushing Rathburn out of the way, he took her in his arms.

  Slowly, Constable Phelps paced toward Rathburn’s body, where he nudged it with the toe of his boot.

  “Are you all right?”White Thunder asked.

  Was she all right? Looking down at herself, Sarah saw that she was covered in blood. Plus, the love of her life had just shot a man and would probably hang for it, even though it was in self-defense. And he asked if she was all right?

  Sarah didn’t answer. She simply shut her eyes and moaned.

  “Miss Sarah. Miss Sarah.” It was Mrs. Stanton, who had come up behind her. “Did ye catch part of the shot also?”

  “No, Mrs. Stanton, I’m fine.”

  “Forgive me, Miss Sarah.” It was Constable Phelps speaking. “I was aiming for Rathburn only, and it took me a great bit of courage to pull that trigger when he was holding you. But if I shot you, too, I’ll never forgive myself . . .”

  Sarah pushed herself out and away from White Thunder’s embrace. Addressing the constable, she said, “You? You shot him?”

  Constable Phelps nodded. “I’m afraid I did.”

  “Then White Thunder didn’t?”

  “Check his rifle, Miss Sarah. I think you’ll find ’tis cold.”

  She did. But the musket was far from cold. In fact, it burned her hand, confirming that White Thunder had, indeed, been the one to pull the trigger.

  She glanced up at White Thunder, who was shaking his head. Then she looked at the constable, who winked at her. Amazingly, Mr. Phelps said, “I’m sorry you had to witness my shooting your employer, Miss Sarah, but there seemed no other way. I couldn’t very well let him kill you, could I? So sorry.”

  Sarah hardly knew what to say. However, at last, she managed to speak, and although her voice shook, she said, “There is no need to apologize. I . . . I thank you, Constable Phelps.”

  Constable Phelps bobbed his head once. “Now, if you don’t mind me giving advice, I’d say that the two of you should leave here at once.”

  Sarah stepped completely out of White Thunder’s embrace, then, and coming up to Constable Phelps, she placed a kiss on his cheek.

  “We will do that, Mr. Phelps. As soon as I see to Mr. Thunder’s wounds. Come,” she addressed White Thunder. “Let’s go to the kitchen, where I’m certain we’ll find plenty of bandages.”

  White Thunder didn’t object in the least.

  It was a pleasure to leave that room. It would be an even greater pleasure, indeed, thought Sarah, to leave the house entirely.

  And so it was that a reign of malevolence had come to an end.

  Perhaps it is true that one cannot victimize one’s fellows in this life without becoming himself the victim. Perhaps karma will win out after all.

  One circumstance was apparent, however. In all th
e days and weeks to come, no one mourned the passing of John Rathburn. Alas, the opposite was true. Perhaps he had, after all, lied to and cheated too many people.

  Twenty-six

  White Thunder and Sarah finally caught up with Black Eagle and Marisa in the Seneca town of Geneseo. Geneseo was another Iroquois village that had been built so that the people could live in beauty. Indeed, the entire town had been recently relocated in an area that the Iroquois called Neahga.

  The two women could hardly believe their luck at finding one another again. They hugged and hugged one another until they almost had to be pried apart.

  The two men, however, though obviously watching their women in open appreciation, knew that their finding one another was no accident. White Thunder had sent inquiries to all the Iroquois tribes, and runners had told him exactly where the couple was to be found.

  In truth, White Thunder had discovered that Black Eagle had delayed going farther west only so that the two women could be reunited.

  “We looked for you, Sarah,” said Marisa. “I think I died a little when you let go of my hand that day.”

  “I, too,” said Sarah. “But it turned out well, has it not? I was found, and by White Thunder.”

  “He is quite handsome, and he seems devoted to you, Sarah. I’m happy for you.”

  “And I’m happy for you.”

  The two couples had left the village to walk through the deserted corn, bean and squash fields. There, privately, the two women could reacquaint themselves with one another, the two men accompanying them to act as protection.

  There was some danger, because the French had set up a fort close by. But on this day, it was doubtful that the French would attack the town of Geneseo. Apparently they were being engaged elsewhere.

  “What are you planning to do?” asked Marisa. “You know that Black Eagle and I would like for you to come west with us. There, I think we’ll find comfort in the fact that no one will look with disfavor upon each of our unions. Won’t you come with us?”

  “I would like nothing better,” said Sarah.