MacFarlane's Ridge (35 page)

Cam toyed with a quill pen on the desk, dipping it into the inkwell experimentally.

“Quit that, you’ll get ink all over the place,” ordered Wanda.

Obediently, Cam put the quill back in the pot. She looked up at Wanda. “So tell me about this prison ship.”

Aboard the Frigate
Lord Savernack

At Anchor on the Delaware River

The man called Alexander MacFarland shifted on his narrow pallet. It was two feet wide, and six feet long. He was forced to lie curled up or with his feet dangling off the end to accommodate his size. He stared in the dim light at the bottom of the upper pallet, just twelve inches from the end of his nose.

He felt something crawling on him, and reached down to scratch, but the heavy fetters prevented him from reaching the culprit. He shivered with revulsion. In all his years he had never had lice or any other sort of infestation, and now here he was in a dark hull that was simply crawling with foul creatures. The lice weren’t quite as bad as the rats, but then again, he reflected, you couldn’t eat a louse. The rats, at least, could be useful.

He could tell by the slivers of gray light shining through the grate above his head that the sun was coming up soon, and he looked forward to the daylight desperately. During the day, his captors allowed him and the others to have their chains taken off, and they were permitted to roam about the ship freely – as freely as one could in a hold stuffed with over a hundred men. Twice a day, they were taken up on deck so the hold could be flushed out with water from the bilges. Twice a day was not nearly enough to get rid of the stench.

Alexander’s clothes were threadbare and filthy. He could smell himself, had been able to for weeks now. There were worse odors than his own body, though. The man below him had died the other night, after a few days of the bloody flux, and the sour aroma was nearly overpowering. The hold smelled of vomit and urine and every other foul thing imaginable.

He had lost weight since being here, but was not yet weak. Once every few days his captors would throw down some moldy fruit in addition to the slop the prisoners were served daily. Although many of the men with him turned up their noses at it, he eagerly ate any that came his way, and occasionally traded a chunk of weevil-infested bread for the fruit. His years on ships had taught him well, and he was one of the few prisoners who still had all of his teeth; many, some half his age, had none at all.

Since his ship was taken, he and the other men in here, all charged with acts of piracy, had been treated most inhumanely. He had been whipped on three occasions for refusing to turn evidence against the others.

He had seen younger, weaker men die from the brutality. He actually looked forward to the day the British came to take him to the gallows. If they couldn’t kill him on the Lord Savernack, they’d hang him on land, at the garrison.

He didn’t care.

He had lived a decent life, and although it had not turned out quite the way he once planned, he would die in peace. Of course, he would die wondering what had happened to her. He wondered if she was alive, wondered if she was happy.

He could remember every detail of her face, of her dark blonde hair, and those gray eyes that had bored into the depths of his soul. The way she smelled came back to him, and he groaned in frustration. The memories were all he had of her now.

The grate above his head was flung open.

“Get up, you bloody treasonous buggers!” shouted a thick English voice.

“All o’ you that ain’t dead yet,” hooted another. There was much laughter and catcalling on the decks above, and Alexander shifted once more so that the chains could be removed from his shackles, along with the other men in his row of pallets.

Once released, he slid from his shelf, and stretched to his full height, the top of his head brushing the low ceiling. The sun beat down into the hold, and he squinted.

Yes, today might not be a bad day to die.

Northern New Jersey

June 1777

The small party had been traveling west for several days now, and Cam had gotten her body re-acquainted with the mechanics of traveling on horseback. At first, her rear end hurt and her legs were a little stiff, but after the first two days she was feeling better, unused muscles getting back into the routine of things. Wanda had been uncharacteristically quiet on the ride so far, so Cam got the chance to make the acquaintance of the men traveling with them.

She had caught Gavin O’Toole, who was only fifteen, leering at her occasionally. He had large tobacco-stained teeth and bad breath, and sometimes contrived ways to brush up against her. Cam ruled all this to overactive teenage male hormones, and tried to ignore O’Toole as much as she could.

She revised her opinion of Peyton Basham who, for all his pro-slavery tendencies, was actually a decent sort. He was intelligent and well-read, and Cam found herself discussing literature with him as they rode. They had a lengthy discussion about his favorite novel, Robinson Crusoe. He told her he enjoyed the book in part because he suffered from horrible seasickness and would never in his life set foot on a ship, given a choice in the matter. She got the feeling, however, that he didn’t entirely trust her, as he made occasional reference to her unscheduled appearance in Ringwood.

His brother-in-law, Ambrose Meador, was just the opposite. He was a silent bear of a man, and occasionally disappeared off into the woods so quietly she didn’t even know he’d left, and then returned just as inaudibly carrying a rabbit or pheasant he had killed. She never heard a shot, and suspected that Meador was capable of just sneaking up on his prey and killing it with his bare hands.

They camped that night in a small clearing ringed by wild berry plants and feasted on a turkey that Meador had collected during the afternoon. Wanda threw together some corn biscuits, and Cam munched away happily.

“So,” she said through a mouthful of turkey. “How is Angus?”

Wanda shook her head. “I don’t know. When I left he was still kind of mad at me. I told him you might show up in Morristown, and that’s why he couldn’t come with me to Pennsylvania.”

Cam’s eyes widened. “I thought about going to Morristown, to tell you the truth. But then I found Basham’s letter, and Ringwood just seemed a lot easier.” She shivered at the memory of her black, turbulent passage. “It made more sense to come through the mine and catch you there in Ringwood, instead of traveling all the way to Morristown by myself.”

Wanda eyed her. “You blend very well. Did you use the patterns I left you?”

“Sort of. There was a college student who came into Granny’s Goodies periodically to buy old clothes, and I asked her for some tips on building re-enactment costumes.” Cam paused slightly. “I didn’t realize how authentic some people get. I had to sew myself a couple of pairs of linen drawers.”

Wanda grinned. “Yeah, well, no Victoria’s Secret stuff here. I see you drew the line at wearing a corset, though.”

Cam blushed furiously. “Well, I didn’t know where to get one, and it seemed kind of hard to sew one myself.”

“That’s okay. I don’t wear one either. It’s not like the corset police are going to nab you or anything.”

They both laughed at that, and Cam finished her dinner. The turkey had made her drowsy. She laid out her bedroll beside Wanda, and soon was fast asleep.

She woke abruptly in the middle of the night, panting, from a somewhat disturbing dream. She had been hunting for Rob, and before she could find him Wayne Sinclair appeared, laughing and lunging towards her. Every time she thought she caught a glimpse of Rob, Wayne jumped in front of her, grabbing at her.

Cam shook her head to erase the memory. The moon was full and bright, and she took the opportunity to tiptoe behind a large tree to relieve herself. As she put her skirts back in place, there was a soft noise behind her, and Cam spun around instantly.

Gavin O’Toole stepped from around a thick tree, his rifle held casually across his chest.

Cam exhaled sharply. “Geez, Gavin. Don’t sneak up on people like that,” she hissed.

He spit a gob of tobacco juice at the ground. “Sorry. I just wanted to talk to you a bit,” he grinned, and Cam suddenly had the feeling he had been lurking behind the tree for a while, waiting for her.

“Well, Gavin, it’s the middle of the night, and I’m tired. We can talk tomorrow, during the day, if you like,” she said abruptly, turning on her heel.

She felt a hand on her shoulder, gripping her hard. “I just thought we could get to know each other a little better,” he said determinedly.

She looked back at him, and the look in O’Toole’s eyes told her that he was not, as she had initially assumed, merely some lovestruck teenage boy. This was a grown man, a man who, according to Basham, had already killed others in the name of patriotism, and was clearly not to be trifled with.

“Get your hand off me,” she said firmly.

“You’re pretty,” he offered, licking his lips.

“O’Toole, take your hand off me,” she repeated.

The woods were silent now, even the crickets had stopped chirping. There was no sound at all from the camp, just twenty or so yards away.

“Is it ‘cause I’m younger than you?” O’Toole asked, a slight whine to his voice. “I don’t care about you bein’ old, you know, ‘cause you’re real pretty,” he panted. “And it ain’t like I haven’t had women before.” He raised a dirty hand and squeezed Cam’s breast.

She yelped and almost without thinking, swung her knee up into his groin as hard as she could, catching him off guard. She whirled around to run, but her skirts tangled around her feet and she toppled to the ground face first.

Suddenly, large hands were grabbing her and pulling her to her feet. She opened her mouth to scream at the top of her lungs, and one of the hands clamped over her mouth.

“Shh,” said Ambrose Meador softly. The crucifix around his neck glinted in the moonlight, and she thought of grabbing it and twisting, hard. “You got to be quiet, miss.”

Paralyzed with fear, Cam could only nod her head. Dear God, they are going to rape me together, she thought in horror. Trying not to let the panic rule her, she wondered if she could bite his hand and then yell for Wanda and Basham before Meador could grab her again.

And then, to her utter amazement, he brushed a stray hair out of her face. “You go on back to the camp now,” he said. Meador looked at Gavin O’Toole, who was still clutching his testicles and making a squeaking sound. “Ah’ll take care of things here,” Meador said pleasantly. He patted her on the shoulder and pushed her back towards the camp. “You go on now, miss.”

Startled by this unexpected turn of events, Cam did as she was told, and stumbled back into the clearing, where Basham was still asleep and Wanda was snoring daintily on her bedroll. Cam sat, shaking, for a moment. When she had finally calmed down a little, she strained her ears to hear what might have been going on in the woods. There was no sound at all, and eventually, from sheer exhaustion, she slept.

When she opened her eyes once again, the sun was out, and Wanda had made coffee over the fire. She was picking handfuls of Queen Anne’s Lace and tucking them into her pouch. The men were nowhere to be seen.

“Where is everyone?” she croaked. “And what are you doing with those leaves?”

Wanda glanced up. “They’re off getting the lay of the land, I guess. Sleep well?”

“Um… yeah. What do you mean, the lay of the land?” asked Cam.

Wanda looked troubled. “Well, nobody’s asked me for my opinion, so I kept it to myself, but I think we might be a little bit lost.”

“Lost?” Cam sat bolt upright, and looked around. “That’s not a good thing. Are you sure?”

“Well, not a hundred percent. Just a feeling I’ve got. I think we’re too far north.”

“How far?”

“Mm. New York, would be my guess.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” snapped Cam, leaping to her feet, and rolling up her blankets. She began to pull on her boots, which were a little roomy because they were technically Wanda’s. “You could have told someone!”

Wanda poured herself a cup of hot coffee, and offered one to Cam, who took it gratefully. “I could have, yes, but I didn’t. Peyton Basham doesn’t exactly trust me, and to be honest, your turning up in the middle of nowhere makes him trust me even less.” She closed her eyes for a moment, basking in a ray of sunlight. “He only tolerates me because his boss says he has to.”

“George Washington,” said Cam, just to make sure she had it right.

“Yep. Basham knows I get my information from a redcoat soldier, and I am sure he has wondered on more than one occasion what I have done in return for it,” she said softly. “He knows I’m valuable, though, so all he can do is keep an eye on me.” She shrugged. “I figured if I said anything, he’d think I was trying to lead him into a trap of some sort. Besides, Ambrose is supposed to be an expert at finding his way through the woods. I decided it was their problem, not mine.”

Cam stared at her. “We have to get to Philadelphia, Wanda. That’s south of here, if we’re in New York.”

“We will.” She nodded. “I am supremely confident of that. Finished with your coffee?”

“What? Yes.”

“Good,” said Wanda, fingering her crystal absently, and staring at a point somewhere past Cam’s shoulder. “Because I think it’s time for us to go.”

Cam turned slowly, wondering who or what was behind her.

There were eight of them, tall, painted and looking quite fierce. Cam felt her mouth drop open. She felt, not for the first time, that she had been thrown into the pages of some sweeping historical epic.

In which our Plucky Heroine encounters a Band of Noble Savages, she thought fleetingly. One of the men shouted something at her that she didn’t understand, and she put her hands up as a reflex, to show she was unarmed.

Wanda drifted over to stand beside her. “Mohawks,” she said softly.

“Okay,” murmured Cam, not knowing what else to do or say.

The man who had shouted at her approached her again, and she saw that he was carrying a large club with a spike embedded in the end. He brandished in menacingly, and pointed at her, yelling at her again.

“I don’t… I don’t understand you,” she whispered, terrified, keeping her eyes on the horrible club. It had dark, rust-colored stains on it.

Frustrated, he grabbed her wrists roughly. “Down hands,” he growled.

Obediently, she lowered them, and he whipped a thong from a pouch and lashed her wrists together. Another Mohawk did the same to Wanda, although he seemed to be a bit intimidated by her, and they were shoved forward, stumbling into one another.

As they set off through the woods, Cam tried to get a good look at her captors. Not like I’ll ever have to pick them out of a police lineup, she realized. The one who had shouted at her, whom she had mentally named Pointy Club, appeared to be the leader. He towered over Wanda’s six feet, and didn’t appear to have an ounce of fat on his body. The sides of his bronze head had been plucked bald, and down the center a strip of glossy black hair remained. He was shirtless, and wearing a pair of what looked like doeskin leggings with a loose breechclout over the top. He was also heavily armed. In addition to the club, he wore a long rifle across his back, a powder horn tied around his waist.

They’ve been armed by white men, she thought suddenly, and it was a bit disturbing to her. Here I was thinking I was seeing real, honest-to-God natives, unspoiled by the decadence and greed of Europeans…

The other men were similar in height and build, their scalps plucked the same way. Cam noticed that while they essentially ignored her, except to poke at her occasionally with sticks and shout at her to move faster, they were all keeping an eye on Wanda, and particularly her purple stone. Nobody poked Wanda with a stick. Cam was struck by a horrible thought.

What if they’ve never seen a redhead before? Are they going to scalp us? Maybe they think Wanda’s hair would look nice hanging over some chief’s mantel…

She shivered, and pushed the thought from her mind. They walked all day, and in the middle of the afternoon, arrived at a small stream. Cam’s throat was dry and parched, and she eyed the water longingly.

Pointy Club caught her eye, and frowned at her. “Drink?” he asked.

“Please,” she nodded, holding up her hands so they could be untied.

Wanda shook her head furiously. “No, Cam, don’t,” she hissed.

Pointy Club said something to one of the younger braves, who strode over to Cam with a smile. He pushed her hands down, and led her to the bank of the stream.

Cam was totally unprepared for what happened next. The young man grabbed Cam by her hair and shoved her face in the water. She gasped and flailed her arms, trying to bring her head back up out of the stream. Finally, he pulled her back out, and she gagged, trying to breathe.

“Drink?” he asked softly.

Cam stared at him. He was no more than a boy, really, and she thought she something in his eyes, some hint…

“No thank you,” she shook her head.

He smiled at her and pulled her to her feet, dragging her back to Wanda’s side, where she stood panting and coughing.