Kiss of a Traitor (52 page)

They waited and watched, reloading the guns while Jwana tended to Plato’s flesh wound. The men did not return and, after some time, it became clear they would not. Three bodies lay in the yard near the house and barn, the fourth one in the meadow along the tree line. A loaded pistol in one hand and another tucked into his belt, Richard walked from one corpse to another. Turning them over, he ripped the masks from their faces. Willa strode beside him, feeling the need to look upon the features of her enemies.

“None are Marion’s men,” Richard said after examining the last body. “This one I recognize.” He kicked the man in the side. “He was a guard at the garrison, a private if I’m not mistaken.”

“Their leader escaped,” Willa said, not seeing among the dead the large man who had ordered her to give up her children. A moment passed before she processed what Richard had said. “The garrison? Then they are British?”

“Or Tories, or deserters,” he replied as he peered back at the barn. Willa looked in the same direction. An inferno consumed one entire side and the roof. Fortunately the wind was blowing in from the east and sent the cinders and sparks into a plowed field instead of the house. The roar of the flames nearly deafened them. “The barn is a loss,” he said, “but the stock escaped safely. Your boy, Joshua, had already opened the stalls and shooed the animals out into the aisle by the time we reached them.”

A sword of guilt stabbed Willa. In her concern for Cherokee, she had completely forgotten about Joshua.

Richard broke into her thoughts. “When it becomes light, we shall round up the livestock and put them in the corral. I wager your visitors will not return tonight.”

“The barn is of no consequence,” Willa said pensively. “We can easily rebuild.” Questions that begged for answers caught her up in a labyrinth. At the foremost, why would the British want her children? Only one answer came to mind—to draw in Brendan Ford. Were that true, then Digby must have some hand in this attack.

Richard retrieved Willa’s hunting knife and took one last look at the man with the throwing knife in his back. Walking over to him, Richard pulled out the blade and wiped it on the man’s coat. He tossed the weapon to Willa. “Nice knife work,” he said in a dry voice as he made his way back to the house. “Remind me not to ruffle your feathers.”

A week later, a Tory patrol came upon the body of a man floating facedown in a half-filled ditch of water alongside the Georgetown road. His death came not from drowning; someone had sliced his throat from ear to ear.

In November, when Francis Marion received word of Cornwallis’s surrender at Yorktown, he dismissed his brigade, retaining only his core group of officers. The people of St. John’s Parish, Berkeley County, had elected Marion to the state senate in September, and as 1781 gave way to 1782, he made plans to leave and attend the assembly in Jacksonboro to fulfill his duties. He turned over the brigade command to Colonel Peter Horry and promoted Captain Brendan Ford to the rank of major.

Ford’s farm lay on the James River, not far from Yorktown. Word of fierce fighting in Virginia took its toll on his temper and imagination as he envisioned his farm in ruins. He was worn out, becoming quarrelsome, and snapped at subordinates as he strode about the camp in a continual black distemper.

Marion called Ford to his tent before riding out, and Ford slumped into the camp chair in front of the general’s desk. This longing for home and lack of enthusiasm for any further involvement in the fate of South Carolina made him feel like a traitor to Marion. He loved the general and believed in the cause, but he was sick … sick of the killing and constant fighting. And he was not the only officer to feel that way. Constant bickering among men who had fought side by side for near eighteen months wore on his nerves. He felt his life draining away as time passed. A wife, children, the farm, it all became a distant mirage that seem to fade farther into the distance each day.

“You are weary, Major,” Marion said as he poured a measure of panther’s breath into a tin mug and held it out to Ford. “And you are of little use to me in your current dyspeptic disposition.”

Ford leaned forward and took the drink. He sipped and grimaced. Liquor in any form had been a rare commodity for a long time. Straightening his back, he faced Marion.

“We waged a lengthy and bloody struggle,” Marion said, “and the costs have been enormous with scant glory.”

Ford allowed his attention to drift. He had no desire to listen to a rallying cry. When Marion slapped a hand on the desk, Ford jumped. He swiveled his eyes back to his commander.

“The end is in sight, Major. We shall win. Now is not the time to fall into depression. Time after time, you stayed by my side when my militiamen deserted me. While others fought amongst themselves, you remained steadfastly clearheaded. I give thanks for your loyalty and bravery.”

In light of his recent state of mind, the general’s praise brought a rush of heat to Ford’s cheeks. Unsure of how to respond, he sipped his drink instead.

Marion rose from the chair and walked about the tent, making Ford turn in his seat to follow the general’s movements. “And now ‘tis your turn to leave me.”

Ford stilled. “I beg your pardon, sir?”

Marion stopped, his hands clasped behind his back, and locked eyes with Ford. “I am ordering you to take some time off. I shall leave for Jacksonboro soon. I know you have personal business you have a yen to pursue. Colonel Horry will handle what is left of the brigade for the while. Go to Virginia. See how your people and land have fared in this war. Get your affairs in order, and then come back to me. The war is not over yet, and I may still have need of your loyalty.”

This was what Ford needed, some small respite to sort out his life. The situation in South Carolina had grown relatively quiet, but the fighting continued. The British still occupied Charles Town, and Tories raided patriot farms. Marion’s family home had recently been razed. Ford would have little time to see to the farm before Marion required him again. “Thank you, sir,” he responded. “I shall leave tomorrow.” He made a move to stand.

Marion had one more word for him. “During this sabbatical, you may consider what you wish to do in regard to Miss Bellingham. With the death of her father, she is alone and in need of a husband.”

Sensing the words left unsaid, Ford grinned and stood to shake Marion’s hand. “I have plans for Miss Bellingham,” he told Marion. “But first I must get my own house in order. Should I have nothing to offer her, she may not want me.”

He saluted and walked from the tent.

“I very much doubt that, Major,” Marion said under his breath.

General Cornwallis had joined with the traitor, Benedict Arnold, now an officer in the British army, in bringing devastation to Virginia, yet Ford was unprepared for the havoc the British wreaked on the state. As he rode along the banks of the James River, he viewed with ever increasing despair the burned plantation houses and ravaged tobacco fields. Acres devoted to corn and vegetables reduced to mud. Orchards and woodlots naught but stumps, in some cases, the timber left rotting on the ground.

His farm lay west of Barwell, between Lyons Creek and the Warrasqueak Bay. He grew some tobacco for a cash crop, but maintained most of his acreage in rich meadow for breeding some of the finest horseflesh in Virginia. Dancer came from his prize stud at Ford’s Folly. The farm’s name came about from the reactions of his neighbors when he eschewed the use of slave labor, relying instead on tenant farmers, and raised more horses than tobacco.

And the neighbors were right. The first years proved backbreaking and, even later, while the nearby plantations grew rich off the sweat of slaves and tobacco crops, Ford barely managed to keep the bank from taking his land. His horses became renowned in the colonies, but the cash he reaped from his stud hardly exceeded the output.

Even so, he was content, certain his gamble would be worth the effort he expended. His horses thrived on sweet, virgin meadow with abundant water and a clement climate. His stock grew strong, sleek and clean of limb, faster than any other animals on four feet, and racing supplemented his income. At times it was the only factor preventing him from falling into ruin.

As he wandered along the river track, winter cold settling on his shoulders and leaching into his bones, his thoughts turned to England. For the first time, he grasped what his inheritance truly meant. Had his brother and the crooked solicitor not run through the assets, he could have access to wealth that would help transform his stud into a paying venture. And Mr. Brooke had given him no reason to believe the estate was destitute.

Ford had pushed the implications of his inheritance from his mind during the months following his meeting with Hiram L. Brooke, Esquire. At the time, he had wanted nothing to do with England or the title. Now he pondered how he could use what his father left him—import horses and improve his line, raise the standard of living for his tenants, purchase more land … marry in good conscience.

Marriage. Marriage and Willa. He laughed. She haunted him like a graveyard ghost. He had looked at no other women since they crossed paths, though in a wartime countryside, he received a goodly number of offers. Lusty widows who celebrated rather than mourned the loss of their husbands. Debutants who saw all the young beaus dying and despaired of ever marrying. And town girls who pounced on the relaxed morals the war engendered, using it as an opportunity to explore their sexuality without condemnation.

He bypassed them all, wanting only Willa, his stubborn, reckless little wildcat. With Willa’s vision before him, Ford’s mood lifted, the depredations of the ruined countryside no longer quelling his spirits. He could reap all he ever yearned for if he were to claim his inheritance. As he forded Lyons Creek and turned Dancer toward home, he determined to do just that.

January days were short, and dusk soon overran the afternoon sunshine. Ford’s earlier feeling of hope and salvation for his budding enterprise waned as he drew nearer his land and saw destruction more devastating with hardly a structure left standing. “We are nearly home,” he said to Dancer. He could have saved his words. The horse had developed an eagerness in his gait miles back.

Ford peered through the gloaming and finally caught a glimpse of the chimneys at Ford’s Folly, and his heart sank to his stomach when he topped a rise and looked out over his home.

Ford’s Folly was gone, the house and stables no more than piles of charred timbers, the chimneys the only objects standing above ground level. He subdued Dancer’s impatience to gallop down the slope and halted the horse at the crest of the hill. Acid bitterness rose in his throat. All was destroyed. No horses frolicked in the fields, and even the fences were torn down, piled in pyres and burned.

In the waning light, a lone figure walked through the rubble. Leaning forward, Ford gave the horse its head, and they flew down the hill. The person looked up at the pounding of hooves and, spinning about, took off, running hard.

A skirt swirled and dark braids bobbed on the fugitive’s shoulders. “Juliet!” Ford shouted. “Don’t run; ‘tis Ford.”

The girl stopped and turned. She dropped the basket hooked over one arm, and when he halted beside her, she clutched his booted foot.

“Mister Ford,” she gasped. “You gave me such a start. I thought you were a redcoat.” Juliet, a pretty girl of fourteen with a big heart and a generous disposition, was the daughter of one of his tenant farmers. A wide smile softened her features. “You’ve come back. I can hardly believe it, after all this time. Now everything will be fine. Wait until I tell Pa.”

Juliet’s naïve belief in his ability to make everything “fine” produced a hollow feeling in Ford’s gut. He pointed to her basket. “I see you discovered the gold and silver I hid from the redcoats,” he teased.

Juliet blushed and looked down at her feet. “I was gathering charcoal for the fire. They cut all the woodlots, and we have nothing for winter.” When she looked back up, a stricken expression suffused her face. “I pray you don’t mind. I mean, the charcoal belongs to you, not us. I can put it back.”

Ford felt sick with the misery the British inflicted on his farmers. “Nonsense, Juliet. Don’t be a bacon-brain. You are welcome to all the charcoal you can find. Now pick up your basket, and I shall give you a ride home. You should not be out this close to dark.”

“I became distracted,” she explained as she retrieved the basket. He bent over, took the basket, and offered her his hand. With her small palm grasped in his larger one, he pulled her up behind him. “A fox with kits made a den in the side of the bluff,” she said and gestured to the high ground overlooking the river. “I stopped to watch them and lost track of time.”

Ford smiled. Juliet had an affinity with animals. Some called her fey or even a witch. She talked to creatures, and a few locals vowed the beasts understood the girl. Those who truly knew her saw Juliet’s connection with nature as stemming from a deep empathy and keen curiosity. She was unique and deserved a better, more secure life. But how could he give any of his people a better life, or even the life they enjoyed before the war, now that the British had destroyed everything he owned? He again brought to mind the barony, doubting even that illusive wealth could replace what he had lost.