Elizabeth Meyette (27 page)

“There, there, Grace. Mama is right here with you, my love.” Emily’s voice was soft and low.

Grace turned her head at the sound of her voice and began rooting; she found the nipple and began to suck heartily. Emily thought her breast was being sucked right through her toes and she fought the urge to call out. Grace’s tummy shuddered twice from the exertion of her crying, and then she settled down in contentment.

Emily closed her eyes and let the tears fall silently down her cheeks. She felt Joanna wipe them with a cool cloth, and she opened her eyes and smiled weakly at her sister-in-law. The waves of fear that had consumed her were waning, and she looked down at her baby who nursed happily, her tiny fist pressed against Emily’s breast. Emily stroked the downy, dark hair that curled around Grace’s head, damp from her crying. As if on cue, Grace looked up into her eyes and Emily felt as if she had just glimpsed eternity.

“Her eyes and hair are dark like her father’s,” Emily said.

“Yes, though they could lighten as she grows,” Joanna answered.

“No, I believe she will look like her father.” Emily’s eyes again filled with tears as she thought about Jonathon. Looking at Joanna, she saw that she was crying, too.

“Joanna, what can we do?”

“Pray, Em. Pray.”

• • •

Jonathon leaned his back against the tree and watched the soldiers. He noticed how their eyes met across the fire, and then slid across to look at Captain Walters, a silent exchange that seemed to indicate their dislike of the officer. While riding with them this morning, he had noticed the respect and loyalty they had for Michael, evident in their voices and mannerisms. Even while they billeted at Brentwood Manor, their posture and gestures spoke of admiration for their commander. Their commander whom Captain Walters had killed in cold blood.

Walters ambled over to Jonathon and squatted down before him.

“Hungry, Brentwood? Have some stew.” He placed a pewter bowl a foot away from Jonathon, just beyond his grasp. Hands and feet still tied, Jonathon would have to crawl to reach the bowl. He stared at the officer.

“Come on, now, Brentwood, get your food. Here boy, here you go!” He whistled and gestured to the bowl as if to a dog. “Now do not be a bad boy. Come get your food. Come on!” He laughed and pulled out his pistol, pointing it at Jonathon’s head. “Get your food, Brentwood, or I shall blow off your mouth so you cannot eat it.”

Jonathon continued to stare at him. Perhaps dying right here with a quick bullet would be preferable to death by hanging.

Walters cocked the gun. Jonathon braced himself hoping that the shot would be clean and deadly. The other soldiers froze watching the bizarre spectacle, not breathing. Walters laughed, uncocked the gun, and replaced it in his belt. He pushed the bowl to Jonathon with the toe of his boot.

“You are a brave one, Brentwood. I give you that.” He laughed and went over to a tree and relieved himself. The soldiers relaxed and eased back into their activities. One of the soldiers sitting nearby scooted over to him and gave him a spoon, lifting the bowl so Jonathon could hold it in his bound hands.

“Thank you,” he murmured to the soldier. The soldier nodded, looked at Walters, and spat on the ground.

The night sounds surrounded him, and Jonathon thought they had never sounded sweeter. He heard the far off hoot of an owl, the chirping of crickets, and the rustling of underbrush as forest creatures settled in for the night. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He wondered what Emily was doing right then. Was she feeding Grace? Was she sleeping after such a busy night and emotional day? He longed to be with her, to hold her in his arms and assure her that everything would be all right. That he would never leave her again. He longed to hold Grace and kiss her silken hair and soft cheeks. His arms ached for Emily, to see the desire that deepened her eyes to violet. He would carry the image of her lying naked beside him, her skin luminous in the candlelight to his grave.

Walters approached him again.

“Stand up, Brentwood,” he ordered.

Jonathon glared at him. Walters took out his pistol and whipped it across Jonathon’s face, and then he pulled out his knife, held it in front of Jonathon’s face, malevolent shadows dancing across his face in the light of the campfire. In one swift move, he lowered the knife and cut the ropes that held Jonathon’s feet.

“Stand up! Now!”

Slowly, Jonathon rose to his feet. Dreading what might happen next, he distributed his weight evenly on both legs to stop his knees’ trembling. He believed he would not see morning.

“Walk over there.” Walters indicated a stand of trees just beyond the light of the campfire.

Jonathon turned and walked in the direction he had indicated. As he passed him, one of the soldiers stood up.

“Captain Walters, sir, we have orders to bring Captain Brentwood in alive.”

Walters thrust his face into the soldier’s. “Are you giving me orders, soldier?”

“No, sir. I am just relaying to you what our captain — ,”

“Your captain seems to have had a serious accident, son. I am now your captain, and you will follow my orders. Do you understand, soldier?” While he shouted these words, spit from Walter’s mouth spewed into the soldier’s face. He stood at attention not blinking or wiping it from his face.

“I understand, sir.”

Walters looked around the rest of the group, daring them to oppose him. Jonathon saw them shifting uncomfortably and looking away. He did not blame the soldiers; they were under Walters’s command now; he held their lives in his hands, and that was a precarious place to be.

Walters shoved Jonathon forward, and together they walked into the dark woods. Jonathon felt the cold steel against his back. His one thought: Emily.

• • •

Clouds covered the half-moon lending little light along the road. Andrew estimated that they had traveled an hour since leaving Stephen Alcott’s home. Stephen had insisted on lending them rifles and feeding them before they traveled on. Andrew had to admit that having a full stomach made it easier to think. Stephen would enlist the aid of neighbors and send one of his workers into Williamsburg to get more help. But both of them knew that it might not be in time.

He and Jenny trotted along the road taking care that their horses not stumble on rocks or tree roots. They came to a crossroads, and Andrew reined Neptune in; Jenny rode up beside him on Shadow.

“What is it, Andrew?”

“There are two ways they could have gone. One way is faster, but the other is a better road. Would Michael want speed or ease of travel?” He looked down each road searching for any evidence of his choice. With so little light, it was difficult to see any sign of their passage.

“Which way would — ,” Jenny stopped speaking as Andrew held up his hand, gesturing to her. They hurried their mounts into the woods on the side of the road. He was certain that he had heard hoof beats. Straining his ears, he listened to the night sounds. Nothing out of the ordinary was within earshot. Jenny cocked her head, intent on listening, too, and a lock of hair fell into her eyes. He clenched his fist at his side in an effort to not brush it aside. She looked at him, and he slowly raised his hand and gently pushed the tress back into place. Their eyes met, and Jenny’s gaze turned to fear. Suddenly Andrew heard the cock of a pistol near his head.

“Do not move,” a deep voice said close to his ear.

Andrew raised his hands to indicate his lack of weapon.

“Step out into the road.”

They led their horses to the road, confused by the sound of a soft chuckle.

“And what do you think you are doing in these parts, Andrew?”

“Randy!”

Andrew was grateful to be mounted, for his legs had turned to rubber.

“And Jenny — you would follow this rascal to the woods at night? Are ya’ mad, girl?”

“Randy, they have Jonathon!” Andrew’s relief was quickly replaced with urgency.

“Aye, I know, lad. I have been tracking that scoundrel Walters since Jonathon went to Brentwood Manor. He is a slippery one, though. I thought I had lost him until he came across the other British unit and fired his gun. I followed the sound and discovered their camp. The brute killed Michael Dennings.”

“What?” Andrew shouted rising up in the saddle. Randy held a finger to his lips, and Andrew eased back down. He felt as though he had been punched in the gut, and sorrow gripped him. Michael had been a good friend despite his loyalty to the king. Andrew knew that if Jonathon had any chance of humane treatment, it would have been because of Michael’s intervention. Now all hope for Jonathon was lost. Despair filled him at his apprehension for Jonathon, and at the thought of losing his childhood friend.

“We must do something,” he said, his voice low.

Informing Randy of their visit to Stephen Alcott’s and the plans they had made, Andrew began to formulate a plan of his own. He knew the chances of reinforcements finding them, let alone arriving in time, were slim. Somehow the three of them would have to defeat the entire troop of British soldiers.

• • •

“Emily, Andrew and Jenny are gone.”

Emily looked up at Joanna and noticed the furrow between her brows. Joanna sat beside her on the bed. Still reeling from the events of the morning, Emily tried to focus her muddled mind on Joanna’s words — and why they seemed to upset her.

“What do you mean they are gone?” Emily took a deep breath and tried to concentrate.

“I did not say anything earlier this afternoon thinking that perhaps they had just gone for a ride together, but … well, since they have not been getting on lately, I doubted that was the case. We held supper awaiting their return, but still they have not arrived.”

“When did they leave?” Emily asked, a cold fear starting to grip her.

“Immediately after Jonathon and the British,” Joanna said.

Emily’s mind cleared as the ramifications of Joanna’s words sank in.

“Oh my God. They are going to try to rescue Jonathon,” she whispered. Goose flesh broke out on her skin despite the smothering August heat. She closed her eyes and breathed a prayer, “Please, God, do not let me lose my brother as well.” The trembling started at her shoulders and flowed through her body. “What shall we do, Joanna? What shall we do?”

Joanna took her hands.

“I do not believe there is anything we can do, Em.”

• • •

Walters prodded Jonathon’s back with his pistol. Jonathon wrestled with the ropes that bound his hands. Seeing this, Walters slammed his pistol across the back of Jonathon’s head causing him to lurch forward and, unable to balance with his hands bound, fall to the ground. His head spun momentarily from the blow, and he shook his head to clear his vision. Walters grabbed him by the left arm and hauled him up to standing. The image of Michael Dennings lying on the ground, still and lifeless, came to his mind. In a few minutes it would all be over. Jonathon had been in many precarious situations before and had saved himself through cunning and strength, but he was at a loss for ideas as the stinging blow made his head reel. The forest sounds surrounded them; an owl hooted nearby, once, twice, three times. Twigs crackled beneath their feet. Jonathon’s ears fixed on the sounds.

“So you will shoot me in the back, like a coward would, Walters?” he taunted.

“What does it matter, Brentwood? No one will find you out here.”

“Perhaps it should matter to you, Walters. Perhaps you should experience some sense of integrity in how you kill people, though I have seen no evidence of it as yet.”

Walters jammed the pistol into his back and cocked the trigger. Jonathon waited.

“Perhaps you are right, Brentwood. There is no sport in simply shooting you. It would be much more pleasurable if I were to see you suffer a bit.”

“Why not release my hands and provide some sport to your game?” Jonathon said as he turned to face him.

“Oh, no, Brentwood. I am not a fool. Your hands will remain bound.”

Rustling emanated from the trees behind Walters; he turned to look. Again an owl hooted, much closer this time. Jonathon cocked his head, listening.

“I told you soldiers to stay back,” Walters yelled in the direction of the camp.

No one appeared. Jonathon took a step back toward a tree as Walters turned to him.

“Thinking of escaping, Brentwood?” he laughed. “You will not run far with a bullet in your leg.” He raised his gun, but the rustling behind him was closer and he spun about in that direction. Keeping his pistol pointed at Jonathon, he stepped over to check the trees behind him. Nothing. Now the owl hooted in the tree just behind Jonathon and he edged toward it, his eyes never leaving Walters. Jonathon felt the hard metal of a pistol being tucked into his hands, and then saw Randy melt into the shadow of the tree. Walters returned his gaze to Jonathon who watched as an evil grin spread across the captain’s face.

“I have waited a long time for this moment,” he sneered.

“As have I,” Jonathon said. Raising his arms in front of him, he pointed the pistol at Walters. Both fired at once, sounding as a single shot. Jonathon felt a searing pain in his thigh, and he collapsed onto his other knee. Lying a few yards in front of him, contorted like a twisted tree branch, was the body of Captain Arthur Walters. Blood oozed out of the bullet hole between his eyes.

Looking behind him, Jonathon saw Randy step out from behind the tree. He half-laughed, half gasped for breath at the sight of the six-foot-four frame of his best friend. He felt the sturdy clap of Randy’s arm around his back as his friend helped him to stand. Drained, he stood on his good leg while fire surged through his wounded thigh.

“Your timing was impeccable, Randy.”

“I think it was a mite late, Jonathon.” Randy looked ruefully at Jonathon’s leg.

Hearing the rustling again, Jonathon scanned the woods in that direction.

“Who assisted you?” he asked looking around. He felt his jaw drop when Andrew and Jenny crept out of the forest. “How the devil did you get here?” His smile struggled with the wince caused by his pain.