She wondered if she could adjust to village life if she truly tried. The work wasn't so bad and she enjoyed the hours spent in front of the community campfire hearing the tales of Mohawk ancestors past.
She didn't care for the way the women of the village were treated, but the reality of the matter was that it was no different from life in Gifford's circle of friends in Philadelphia. Just as the Mohawk men retired to the ceremonial longhouse to talk of politics, Gifford and his friends retired to a nearby alehouse to talk of whatever men talk about when they're alone. Rachael would no more have walked into that tavern than she would ever walk into the ceremonial longhouse.
Yet Storm Dancer seemed to treat her differently from how Gifford had. Though Storm expected her to behave in the proper manner in public, those mores seemed to fall away once they were in the privacy of their own lodge, or on a fishing trip, or just sitting alone on the streambank talking of the weather. Storm Dancer had an underlying regard for who she was.
When they were alone he seemed to respect her for her opinions. He even asked her for advice on occasion. When had Gifford ever asked her her opinion on any matter? For a year he had been building that great big monstrosity of a house for her on the Delaware River and yet not once had he asked for her counsel. This was supposed to be his wedding gift to her and yet she hadn't even picked out a single sheet of wallpaper or a stick of furniture.
Storm Dancer held back a thorny branch so that she might step by without being scratched.
And Storm is a gentleman, she thought. Certainly Gifford could be a gentleman, but only when it suited him. Only when it looked good and then it was for his own benefit, not hers or anyone else's.
How can I be comparing the Viscount Gifford Langston to a naked savage? she asked herself. How could I think for even a moment that I could stay with Storm? He's a heathen savage, I'm the daughter of an earl. I belong on a country estate with servants to bring me tea, not in the forest, foraging for berries to save for winter!
But do I?
Storm Dancer suddenly squatted, bringing his finger to his lips and snatching Rachael out of her reverie.
Rachael immediately imitated him, thankful for the short leather skirt that enabled her to move quickly and quietly. In the first days that she had worn the Mohawk clothing she had been embarrassed by the revealing leather skirt and bodice, but she quickly learned to appreciate the advantages. Not only was her movement unrestricted but for the first time in her life she was cool on a summer day.
"Manake."
Men. Rachael breathed evenly, watching in the direction Storm Dancer pointed. Not a moment later she heard footsteps. Soldiers, she thought. She could hear the squeak of their leather boots as they marched.
"French or English?" Rachael kept her voice as low as possible.
"French I fear. Rouville's men. I think they seek my brother."
"How much further is the mission?" Rachael laid her hand on his bare arm to steady herself.
"Not more than a few miles." He looked at her with his dark eyes. "I know a place you could wait. A place where you would be safe and if I should be—"
She pressed her finger to his lips. "I came to help you and help you I will. I am not afraid."
He brushed the back of his hand against her cheek, his dark eyes searching hers. "You truly are not, are you, Rachael-wife?"
Rachael liked this feeling between them. Not just the physical response but the sense of oneness that came of having the same goal. It excited her. "They've passed," she whispered. "Let's go."
He took her hand and raised her to her feet. "Keep down and walk as a shadow in the trees. We must not be seen until we are inside the mission."
She fell into place beside him. "Why?"
"Because there may be French inside the mission who would betray us. I must get to Father Drake without anyone knowing we have come."
Rachael walked at Storm Dancer's side, trying to concentrate on each step she took. She admired Storm Dancer's ability to walk through the dark forest in complete silence, and now that she understood the need for that ability she wanted to imitate him. As she walked she became more aware of her surroundings. Each step she took, she felt with the souls of her feet, allowing the leather moccasin to protect her but not hinder that ability to feel the earth beneath her.
When the outline of the mission came into view an hour later, Storm Dancer stopped and pointed to the high log wall. The mission looked much like a wilderness fort jutting from a clearing in the middle of the forest, its log walls built high, and guarded by wooden palisades, its gates closed tightly against intruders.
"It looks like a fort."
"At times Father Drake has thought it such. It was built to keep the savages out."
"But I thought you said Father Drake always welcomed the People of the Seven Nations."
He smiled in the darkness, amusement in his voice. "Only invited savages may go beyond the palisaded walls. Those who wish to come and study, to hear the word of the Lord are welcome. Those who wish to thieve and murder are not."
"The walls look so high, how will we get in?"
"We do not."
Moonlight fell to the clearing in a wide beam that illuminated Storm Dancer's handsome face. "What do you mean?" she challenged.
"I mean, Wife, that you stay here. When all is safe, I will come for you and bring you through the gate."
She shook her head. "No. I won't do it. I won't stand out here in the dark and wait for Rouville or Broken Horn to find me."
"I would not leave you if I did not think it was safe. It will be hours before my brother attacks. I know his ways well. He is like the lazy brown bear. He cannot change his habits even in the face of battle. At this moment his men are drinking French whiskey, gathering their war clubs and painting their faces in bloodpaint."
Rachael dropped her hands to her hips. "I've come this far. I'm going with you."
Storm Dancer's onyx eyes narrowed with irritation. "I should have left you home, where a woman belongs."
"But you didn't." She suppressed a smile of conquest. "And I'm going with you."
"Over that wall?"
He was trying to scare her. She looked at the log fortress and its formidable wooden spikes jutting along the top meant to impale the man who tried to scale the wall. You can't get over that! "Yes. I can do it, Storm. Just don't leave me here."
With an indignant sigh he removed a length of rope from the knapsack on her back. Attached to the end of the rope was a peace of wood fashioned into a straight-edged hook. "Once I am over, you must come quickly, Rachael."
She nodded. He was already heading for the log wall. She prayed as she neared the wall, asking for the courage to carry through her attempt to scale it.
Storm Dancer threw the wooden hook high in the air. On his first attempt it caught and held tight. He looked over his shoulder. "You could wait for me."
"I'll see you on the other side." She tried to sound confident, though her insides were quaking with fear.
Rachael watched as Storm Dancer climbed up the rope, his movements agile and swift. He reached the top in a few moments and lifted himself cautiously over the wooden spikes. A moment later he appeared again, waving to her. Apparently he'd not been seen anyone.
Taking a deep breath, Rachael grasped the rope and lifted herself up. Five feet off the ground, she wished she'd remained in the forest as Storm had suggested.
I'll never make it to the top, she thought, sweat beading on her forehead. Her palms burned from the rough rope and she felt like she weighed half a ton.
"Hurry, ki-ti-hi," Storm Dancer whispered from above.
She-Who-Weeps had told Rachael that ki-ti-hi meant my heart in Lenni Lenape, her people's language. Rachael lifted hand over hand and hauled herself up another body's length.
"You are almost there, warrior-woman," he teased. "Hurry."
Rachael grunted and pulled up again, using her feet wrapped around the rope to propel her. She was panting heavily no
w. She looked down at the dark ground below. It would be so easy to let go. She probably wouldn't even break a bone falling.
"Rachael."
Her arms felt as if they were being ripped out of their sockets. She could see the stain of her own blood on the rope. But the sound of Storm Dancer's voice drew her. She took a deep breath, squeezed her eyes shut, and with every ounce of strength she could muster, she strained, lifting her body up the rope.
The next time she raised a hand, she felt Storm Dancer's grip. Her fingers wrapped tightly around his and he pulled her up and over the wall, the sharpened spikes covered by his quilled vest.
Rachael struggled to catch her breath as she felt her feet touch the wooden slats of some sort of flooring. When she opened her eyes she saw that she stood above the wall looking down into the inner courtyard of roughly hewn log buildings.
Storm Dancer gathered up the rope and crouched, bringing her down with him. He grabbed his vest and slipped into it, leaving the leather ties unbound. "There is the chapel." He pointed to a log building with a crude wooden cross rising from its peaked roof. "Behind is the rectory where Father Drake sleeps."
She nodded. "Are there guards?"
"Two, but one sleeps. He pointed below.
At first Rachael saw nothing, but then as she concentrated, a dark shadow formed. A man sat on a rain barrel, his head propped against the wall of the church, his musket balanced in his lap. "The other?"
"He walks the perimeter."
"You saw him?"
"He passed as you climbed up."
"And he didn't see you?"
Storm Dancer smiled. "I am like a ghost seen by some, but not by others."
Rachael thought to laugh at such nonsense, but somehow coming from his mouth, the words didn't seem so irrational. "And where is he now?"
"He has stopped to take his man's relief. There."
Rachael squinted to see, then felt herself blush at the sight of the stream arcing from the shadow's body.
Storm Dancer chuckled, patting her knee. "Come let us hurry, Wife. I want you to meet Father Drake. You will like him, I think."
Storm Dancer led Rachael to a ladder and she shimmied down after him. Creeping in the shadows they crossed the compound to the rectory. Outside the door a mangy dog growled and lifted its head to bark, but with a smooth signal of his hand, Storm Dancer silenced the animal. He crouched to pat the dog's head and waved for Rachael to follow. Rachael passed the dog, glancing over her shoulder at him. "How did you do that?" she whispered.
"Shhh." He offered his hand and she accepted it, finding comfort in its warmth.
When they reached a door, he lifted the latch. The door squeaked and scraped on its leather hinges. The dog whined and wagged his tail, but did not move or bark to warn the humans in the mission of the intruders.
In total darkness, Storm Dancer led Rachael down a narrow corridor that smelled of green wood shavings and must. Their footsteps barely sounded on the hard-packed dirt floor.
Storm Dancer slipped into a room to the right, lifting the door as he pushed it open so that it made no noise. He closed the door behind them and leaned Rachael gently against it. There was a slit of a window hewn in the wall through which moonlight filtered in. In the shadows of gray and black Rachael could make out the bare outlines of a few meager sticks of furniture. The room smelled of fresh pine needles and some sort of medicinal tonic. On the far side of the room Rachael spotted a bed with a sleeping form.
Father Drake, she guessed.
Storm Dancer walked to the bed and stood. The form stirred, and from the sound of the man's altered breathing, Rachael could tell the father had awakened.
There was a second or two of silence when Rachael feared the priest might raise a pistol and shoot Storm Dancer, but he made no move. The two men remained perfectly still, regarding each other.
Then Father Drake chuckled. His voice was harsh and rich with age. "Dancer of Storms. I wondered where you had disappeared to. It's been months."
Rachael's French was a little rusty, but she could understand the father.
Father Drake slid his feet over the side of the bed in painful jerky movements. He reached to the bedside and lit an ill-smelling tallow candle. It spit and sputtered until dim yellow light flared, illuminating the old man's crusty face.
Father Drake appeared to be nearly seventy. His cheeks were gaunt, his skin wrinkled and leathery. He had a thatch of milk white hair that stuck up in spikes on his head. He was an odd-looking man, but there was a sparkle in his dark eyes that Rachael immediately recognized. Father Drake was a friend.
"I am sorry it has been so long, Father," Storm Dancer spoke easily in French as he knelt on one knee and allowed the old priest to lay his withered hand on his head.
"Just the same, it is good to see you."
Storm Dancer rose. "This is my wife, Rachael."
"I wondered who it was you hid in the darkness." Father Drake smoothed his wrinkled nightshirt. "Come, come, child. Let an old man see you." He opened his hand to Storm Dancer. "My spectacles. Do you see my spectacles?"
Rachael approached the bed. Storm Dancer handed Father Drake his spectacles and the old man perched them on the end of his nose. He squinted. "Holy, Virgin Mary!" He looked back at Storm Dancer. "A white woman?"
Storm Dancer couldn't resist a smile. "The Lord works in mysterious ways, does he not, Father?"
Rachael nodded. "It's good to meet you, sir," she treaded awkwardly in French. "Storm Dancer has told me much about you. I'm glad that I could meet you for myself."
He nodded, still regarding her. "You must be an extraordinary woman to catch the eye of this brave."
Her cheeks colored. She saw no need to go into the explanation of how she became his wife by default. It felt good to pretend that they had chosen this union rather than been forced into it.
Father Drake looked back at Storm Dancer. "But you have not come to introduce your new wife, have you, son?"
"No, Father." Storm Dancer's voice turned grave. "I have come to warn you. My brother and perhaps some of Rouville's men will attack your mission at dawn."
The priest swore beneath his breath. "Your brother was the work of the fallen angel, I always said." He stood with Storm Dancer's help and ran a hand over his matted white hair. "Even when he was a child, I saw malady in the boy's eyes."
"You must hurry, Father. Is there anyone inside the walls who might be a part of my brother's scheme?"
Father Drake shook his head. "We are few. Children. A half-wit man, Boswick, who sleeps on guard and his brother, a deaf-mute. Two women who escaped Rouville's whorehouse up river. Then there is one other priest who sleeps in the next room."
"How many in all, Father?"
He shrugged, reaching for his robes. "Twenty-seven of God's creatures, one worthless dog that refuses to bark when you approach."
Rachael went to turn away so that the father could dress, but all he did was pull his black priest robes over his blue-striped tick nightshirt.
"There is a Huron boy who is sick. Rot of the legs. I thought I would have to amputate, but he is better. I don't know that he can be moved."
"He must be." Storm Dancer began to gather a few of Father Drake's possessions. He dropped a few leather-bound books, a shaving kit, and a gold crucifix from the wall into a flour sack. "I would guess my brother will not be happy unless he sets a torch to your walls. You must take anything you wish to keep."
The old priest shook his head as he reached beneath the thin mattress and brought out a loaded pistol. "My possessions are few. What matters are my students." He looked up at Storm Dancer. "Why? Why would Broken Horn want to come here? Why would he want to murder us in our sleep?" He tied a rope around his waist and slipped the musket into the belt.
"In his own sick mind he sees you as a threat. He sees you trying to help our people to live beside the white men."
Father Drake shuffled toward the door. "I will pray for your brother's soul, but if I get the chance,"
he turned back to Storm Dancer, "I will kill him."
Rachael couldn't suppress a small gasp.
Father Drake turned toward her. "Please do not think ill of me, Rachael." He smiled. "My mother's name was Rachael." He went on. "You must understand that the ways are different here than anywhere else my feet have tread."
"My husband has taught me not to judge. People are not always what they appear."
"None of us are." He waved her on. "Now come and help me with my children. I know a place where we can flee to." He gave a chuckle. "If only I could be here to see Broken Horn's face when he finds no one here." He slapped his knee, his gruff laughter echoing in the tiny log room. "What a sight to miss. One almost worth dying for."
Storm Dancer followed behind them. "You cannot stay, Father. The children will need you."
"I know, I know. Just an old man's wishful thinking." He stopped in the dark hallway and touched Storm Dancer's arm. "You will not wait to face him?"
He shook his head. "The time approaches. I feel it. But tonight is not the night. I have Rachael to think of."
"Wise man." He patted Storm Dancers' arm. "Now come along, Dancer of Storms and help me to save my children."
For the next hour Rachael and Storm Dancer worked side by side to gather the Indian and half-breed children of the mission and lead them safely through the walls of the fortress and out of danger. When the rag-tag group of priests and children had been assembled, they started north toward an old English fort where Father Drake thought they would be safe. Storm Dancer had fashioned a litter for the sick Huron boy which the Boswick brothers carried. With some food on their backs, and a few blankets, the priests led the way, praying for their own safe deliverance.
Storm Dancer and Rachael accompanied the group for two miles, but then Father Drake insisted they turn back. "You have done enough," the old man said. "I thank you. Now go."
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